Sebastian Hoyle – Stories

            Some people say learning starts taking place after you are a few months old inside your mother.  Others, I would imagine, say that learning takes place after birth.  Personally, I’ve never thought much about the first time I learned.  I don’t know when it was anyway.  However, when I’m stuck at a problem in life, I think a lot about the first time I remember learning.

            I don’t know how old I was at the time, young I would assume.  I remember that I was at about butt height to adults when I walked around.  I also remember that when I reached for the knob to open the door, I had to reach up, not down.  Would that be three years old?  It doesn’t really matter anyway I suppose.  I was young, times were good, and my parents still took me to the park to play on the weekends.  Why is it at a certain age going to the park becomes less of a weekly occurrence?  Seems to me like a swing doesn’t have an age restriction and a see saw works just as well for anyone so long as they can find someone equally heavy.  Again, that doesn’t really matter either I suppose.

            One day, when I was about the height that is required to reach up to grab the door knob, my parents took me to the park.  They talked and did parent stuff, while I played and did kid stuff.  The swings were fun, but they were fast and scared me a bit.  The see saw was fun too.  I even found another kid to see saw with me.  After an hour though, even a park can get kind of boring, so I started looking around for something new to do.  That’s when I saw the tastiest looking tree I had ever seen.  A giant oak tree with brown bark.  I know, oak trees don’t usually look like they would taste good, but this one did.  So, I went over to have a taste.  Before I was able to get a good lick though, I got caught by my dad.

            “Sebastian, don’t eat the tree!  Go play on the swing.”  A few moments passed, and, just like any other small child, his words passed out of my mind.  I was back at the tree again.

“Hm,” I thought, “What’s this, a tasty looking tree, I think I’ll give it a try.”  Again, before I could get a taste, my dad caught me.

“Sebastian, don’t eat the tree.  Come over here.”  I walked over, still confused about why I couldn’t just have a small taste of the obviously tasty looking tree.  “Sebastian,” he said, “trees are bad for you.  Don’t eat the tree.  People are not supposed to eat trees”.  That’s when Mom jumped in with a coup.  She whispered something to him I couldn’t hear.  He pulled away, and said to my mother, “The point is, he shouldn’t be eating the tree.”

“But Bill,” she replied, “what’s it going to hurt?”  Mom to the rescue.  Obviously she could see how tasty the tree looked.

“Fine,”  my dad said to me, “Go lick the tree if you want to.”  So off I went.  I walked all along the tree looking for the best tasting spot.  The green moss didn’t look like it would taste too good, and the vines were too high up.  So I thought I would give the bark a try.  I reached out my tongue, and licked the bark.

“Ahhhhh, trees taste bad!”  I went running back to my mom, still holding out my tongue.  “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom….”  When I got back to my parents, they were laughing hysterically.

“So,” my mom asked, “How did it taste?”

“Trees taste bad!”

“So, are you going to eat another tree?”

“No” I said, still holding out my tongue.

“Good,” she said, “I’m glad to hear it.”

            Jump forward now to when I am 14 years old.  This time though, I’m not at the park, my parents aren’t in love anymore, and my sister was off at college in another state.  Like many children in America, for good or bad, I was living with just my mom.  My mom and I were sitting in our new apartment’s kitchen, eating dinner.  It’s the first sit down dinner we’d had in weeks.  We weren’t really talking at all, just eating.

            “Mom,” I said, putting down my fork, “I’m really angry.”

            “What are you angry at?” she asked.  I at sat there quietly and thought about it.  In all honesty I really didn’t know why I was mad.  So, that’s what I told her.

            “I don’t know why I’m mad.  I just feel like I want to punch something, or throw something”

            “Then why don’t you?” she asked.

            “Because, people aren’t supposed to throw things.”

            “Well,” she relied, “it’s just the two of us here.  If you want to throw something just to try it out, you’re welcome to.  I won’t mind.”  It seemed kind of stupid, but I was willing to give it a try.

            “What can I throw?” I asked.

            “It’s not up to me, it’s up to you.  What do you want to throw?”  I looked around the table.  What did I want to throw?  I picked up my glass, and looked at my mom.

            “Is this ok to throw?”

            “Like I said,” she replied, “throw whatever you want if you think it’ll make you feel better.”  So I picked up the glass and threw it across the room.  Water went everywhere, so did the glass.  It shattered into about a million pieces.  I have to admit, it was kind of neat to watch.  I’d never seem a glass thrown up against a wall before.

            “Do you feel any better?” my mother asked, still as calm as before I threw the glass.  I stopped looking at the glass and water on the floor and thought about her question.  While I was thinking, my mother got up from her chair and walked down the hallway to get the broom and mop.

            “No!” I yelled down the hallway to her from my chair, “actually I don’t feel any better!”

            “Well than,” she answered, walking back into the kitchen still as calm as before, “now you know that’s not the way to deal with anger.”

            “O’yeah, I guess not” I replied.  My mom started sweeping up the glass and kept talking to me.

            “What you’ll come to find is that people don’t just have the answers in a book somewhere.  And even if they had discovered their answers, they wouldn’t be your answers.  You’re got to figure out your own answers, and what makes sense for you.  The best way to do that is to just keep working it out for yourself, and sometimes, through trial and error.”

            “But what if I make a bad decision?”

            “As long as you’ve thought it out calmly, and made what you honestly in your heart believed was the best decision, I’ll still love you.  I may not agree with you, and I might be mad at you, but I’ll still love you.”  Her words sat heavy on my mind.  Sitting their, thinking about what she said, I realized something else as well.  I realized I wasn’t actually angry anymore anyway.

            “Thanks Mom,” I replied, “I’d still love you too.”

* * *

            In every high school around America, it seems like there’s always one teacher that the students are a bit unsure about.  The one that children whisper about.  The teacher that, rumor has it, is gay.  Usually, I would imagine, it’s the gym teacher that people speculate about; in my school it was my Economics’ teacher.  She had all the criteria that school children need to label a female teacher as gay.  She was unmarried, she never wore dresses, had short hair, and drove a truck.  I know, that’s a harsh way to judge if someone’s gay or not, but nobody ever said high school kids were fair or kind, did they?

            In college I had a male advisor who fit the unfairly defined criteria for what made a man gay.  He was unmarried and never talked about dating.  Again, rumors abounded.  I knew it was all kind of stupid, but I still got a bit nervous whenever we were in a room alone together.

            That same year, I started dating a girl who lived in the girl’s dormitory.  The rooms in the girl’s dormitory were one room, with two beds.  So, two girls to a room, with a sort of shelf divider in-between the beds.  The divider blocked your view, but it didn’t extend the ceiling.

            One night the four of us stayed up to watch a movie.  It was me, the girl I was dating, her roommate, and her roommate’s friend from down the hall.  As the movie ended I started to get a bit nervous about my future prospects.  Would I be asked to walk home or did I get to spend the night?  I thought I could improve my odds of getting invited to stay over by some preemptive talking.

            “Goodness, it’s late.  Man do I hate walking home at night,” I said in the most non-hinting way a blatant hint could sound.

            “If you want, you’re welcome to stay over” my girlfriend type answered.  Score, it worked.  As we prepared for bed, one fact became more and more clear though.  Her roommate’s friend was getting ready to spend the night too.  Even as I climbed into bed, it still hadn’t clicked in.  It was 10 minutes after the lights went off that it really occurred to me.  Her roommates friend wasn’t going home, she was staying over as well!  Her roommate was a real, live, honest to goodness gay person!  As the night progressed, things went well between my girlfriend and I.  From what I could gather from the sounds coming over the divider, things went well for her roommate too.  Needless to say, I slept the sleep of the happy male man.

            The next day, I was more confused than ever though.  They all seemed, well, so normal.  The next day I was talking to a friend of mine who lived down the hall from me.

            “Dude, I stayed last night with my girlfriend.”

            “Good for you”.  He didn’t seem interested yet.  Time to spring the big news on him.

            “And,” I continued, “her roommate had a girl spend the night with her too!”.  Now that was bound to surprise him.

            “Cool.”  Ok, that wasn’t what I was expecting.  I needed to drag the conversation on a bit more.

            “I just don’t get it though.  My girlfriend’s straight and her roommates gay.  That would weird me out to have a gay roommate.  Like with our school advisor, what’s up with him?  He gives me the creeps.”

            “You’d have to ask him” my friend responded and walked off.  Hey wait, that was a hint.  He knew something about our school advisor I didn’t.  Why am I always the last one to learn all the interesting stuff.  Damn it, I’d just go ask him.  That’s what I’ll do.  I’ll flat out ask my advisor if he’s gay.  Later that day, I went to talk to my advisor.

            “Sir, I have a question to ask you.”  I was stumbling for the words.

            “Ok, what do you want to know?”  he asked.  He seemed very calm.

            “Well, it’s kind of a serious question?”

            “Ok,” he said, still unfazed, “what do you want to know?”

            “Well,” I stuttered, “don’t take this the wrong way, but, um, are you gay?”

            “As a matter of fact, yes I am.”  WHAT?!?.  Where did all these gay people come from?  How did they get that way?  How many more gay people did I know that hadn’t told me?  So many questions.  “Sebastian,” he looked at me seriously, “do you have some questions for me?”

            “No”, I responded, and quickly walked out of the room.  Time to call Mom again.

            “Mom,” I said, “I know two gay people.”

            “You probably know more than that.”

            “Good point.  I know of two people who are gay.  So, what’s up with that?  Why would a guy like hairy guys?”

            “Why do you like hairless girls?” she asked.

            “Because they’re cool.”

            “Well, gay men think hairy guys are cool.”

            “But,” I continued, “doesn’t it seem kind of unnatural?”

            “In what way?” my Mom asked.

            “Well, it’s not like they could really be making babies.”

            “I don’t think they’re trying to make babies.”

            “Yeah,” I responded, “I guess that’s true.”

            “Listen Sebastian, there are really two reasons to have sex, to make babies or to enjoy yourself.  And I should tell you right now young man, if you are having sex to make babies at your age, you and I need to have a serious talk.”

            “Don’t worry Mom, I’m not.”

            “Good.  Then if you’re having sex to enjoy yourself, just do whatever it is you enjoy.  So long as the other person you’re with wants to do it too, and it’s safe.”

            “And that includes having sex with people of the same sex?”

            “Yeah, it includes people of the same sex.”  What she was saying made good sense to me.  As long as your just having sex to enjoy it, I supposed it would be ok to do whatever fit under that category.  More or less.  “Sebastian,” my mother continued, “now I have a serious question for you.  Are you gay?”

            “NO!  No way I’m gay!” I yelled into the phone, “that’s gross!”

            “Because if you are, you can tell me.”

            “Mother, I am so not gay!”

            “It’s ok, I’ll still love you if you are.”

            “Mom, I promise, I am really not gay in every possible not gay kind of way!”

            “You can talk to me about these things, I’ll understand….”

            Get away camps.  I don’t care what the excuse is for them, they’re loads of fun.  When you’re young, you have flashlight wars; even though in the end you argue about who got who first.  When you’re a teenager, you sneak out of your cabin to go talk to the girls, only to get shot down at an attempt for a first kiss.  Later, naturally, you brag and lie about how well things went.  As an adult things don’t change, you go on “Team Building Retreats”, and more times than not, you have flashlight wars again; only to argue over who shot who first.  That’s where this story begins, after the flashlight wars.

            So it’s 1am, and six of us were sitting around the living room of our cabin talking about life, feeling the happiness of the beer and our friendship when Dave turned the conversation to a more serious note.

            “Hey, here’s a question for everyone I’ve been thinking about, ‘What makes you, you?’”

            “What do you mean?  Like what makes us who we are?” asked Sherri, as confused as the rest of us about why this was even a topic we needed to discuss.

            “Yeah, what is it that makes each of us unique, how do we know what defines us.  Like what defines me, for example?”

            “Right now,” Sherri said, giving Dave a poke in the stomach, “By volume, I think alcohol defines about 3% of you.”

            “Very funny, but really, what makes us who we are?”

The question stuck and ended up being the topic of beer logic conversation for the next few hours.  It seems like whenever you have conversations of this kind, everybody has something to say.  At least once, in every conversation about life, somebody has to say, “You were just born how you are”, and somebody has to reply, “I think genetics have nothing to do with it”.  Then somebody else has to say, “I think it’s alittle of both.”

I don’t know why those ideas are standard issue for every “life type” of conversation, but they are; and if you can fit in something about low self esteem, then you’re nearly qualified to sit in the crowd at a TV talk show.  As the muck of discussion got longer, the desire to come up with an all encompassing, conversation ending statement became more and more desirable.  Sherri was the one to come up with it.

            “You are whatever gets your rocks off.  Like whatever gives you a hard on about life.  If it’s books, or music, or a boyfriend or girlfriend, or a job or whatever, people are whatever gets them pumped about life day in and day out.  That thing they do that they love so much that it defines you as a person.”  That was the definitive answer we were looking for.  “People are whatever gives them a hard on for life.”  I doubt that will ever be in a philosophy textbook, but it made sense to us.  Sadly that didn’t mean we were off to bed, instead it spawned a follow up question.  “What gave each of us a hard on for life?”  So, that question went around the room until it came to me.  It was my turn to answer.

            “Movies.”

            “What?  Movies are your reason for living?”, Dave asked as he briefly came out of his drunken sleep.  I was still trying to think of a deep and meaningful answer to match everyone else’s in the group.  Sadly, I couldn’t think of anything.  So, I figured, best to make a joke of it until I could think of something good to say.

            “Hell yeah”, I continued in my best southern preacher voice, “Have you ever seen a really good, classic kind of movie?  Like that one Christmas movie, about the guy who loses everything?”

            “Do you mean ‘Miracle on 34^th Street?’”

            “That’s the one, and then at the end he gets everything he lost back and he goes running though the streets in the snow like an idiot yelling ‘Zuzu’s Pedal’s, Zuzu’s Pedal’s’.  I tell you when I see that, Niagara Falls, every time.”  I stopped talking and looked around the room.  I had them fooled.  With any luck, I wouldn’t even have to come up with a real answer.  Then Dave woke up again.

            “You lying fuck!  I see the way you work at the office, you love that shit.  And the way you hang all over that girl of yours.  That’s you’re life you fucking liar.  That job and that girl.”  Ok, so I had nearly everyone fooled.  Secretly I knew he was right, but he was drunk and nobody was listening to him, so I stuck to my movie answer for another half hour until everyone went to bed.  I could have told the truth, but who wants to tell people their reason for living is their job and their girlfriend, in that order?

            Odd place I worked, lots of jobs to do, all about the same level of pay, with very different levels of responsibility.  You ever watch a company run by democracy?  I really wouldn’t suggest it.  Today was the day we gave our little speeches, and everyone voted by secret ballot what jobs people would get for the next fiscal quarter.  Like I said, it’s a stupid idea and I wouldn’t suggest it.  My speech was intended to do no more or less than help me to stay the 3^rd man on the pecking order.  Dave was right, I loved my job, and I didn’t want a promotion.  I wanted to stay right where I was.

            “On the overhead I’ve made here you’ll see a list of my accomplishments for the quarter.  I created a high circulation newsletter, and expanded our video distribution channels” My speech went on for about 10 minutes.   I’d done more in 3 months than the last 5 people had done in 15 months.  I knew it, everyone in the room knew it.  All I had to do was point it out.  Just show everyone this thing that I loved so much it defined who I was as a person.  After the speech, I waited in the hallway for the votes to be tallied.

            After a few minutes my boss came out into the hallway to find me.  He had very long face like a father who was about to tell their child the family dog has died.   “I’m sorry Sebastian, you didn’t retain your position, instead you’ll be working training the new hires this quarter”

I couldn’t believe it.  I had seen in those old movies in Victorian times how the  women would sometimes get flushed and faint when they had a big shock, but I never believed it actually ever happened.  I’d even seen some really freaky things in my life, and I never once got flush.  This time I did, and like a sappy Victorian girl, I fainted.  By a vote of 16 to 15, I had lost ½ of the entire thing that defined me.  That night I lost the other half.  I got the break up speech. 

            “Sebastian, I’ve met someone else, and I’ve been sleeping with him for the last 3 weeks.  It’s the guy I play softball with.  I’m sorry, it just wasn’t working between us anymore.”  Blah, blah, blah.  The words don’t really matter in a situation like that.  The actual words could be taken out a rolodex of break up speeches.  This one might be indexed under “I’ve Met Someone Else”, Variation #3.  It didn’t really matter.  The point was, in 24 hours I’d lost everything that defined me as a person.

A model airplane collection and a good dog.  That’s what a person really needs.  They’re things that are reasonably fun and won’t leave you.  Needless to say, I was crushed.  So, I went to talk to Pat, the quiet friend again.  I didn’t think he would have any great insight into life, but he didn’t talk very much, so that made him a good listener at times like this.

            “By one vote, I lost my job by one vote.  And do you know why?  I asked people ‘why’ after the meeting.  They said they didn’t vote for me because I didn’t say I was sorry for my mistakes I’d made.  Not that they minded the mistakes, they just wanted me to say I was sorry.  How messed up is that?”  I was rambling, I knew I was rambling, but who cares, I was in pain.  I’m allowed to ramble.

            “That’s not right man.” Pat replied.  Ok, so he wasn’t too comforting in his words, but it was a start.  I went on.

            “You said it, that’s not right.  And on top of that she left me, after almost a year, she left me for a stupid, fat, softball slug.  Some stupid fat bastard.  I really loved her.  Hell, I had already starting saving money for a wedding ring.  But now you know what I’m going to do?  I’m going to go spend that money on beer!”  As I talked, Pat rolled up his shirt sleeve to his shoulder to show me something.  A tattoo that said “Atlas Jevadi”.

“What’s that?”, I asked.

            “It’s a tattoo.”

            “I can see that.  But what’s an ‘Atlas Jevadi’ knucklehead?”

            “It’s not a what, it’s a who.  ‘Atlas Jevadi’ was my first love, and she screwed me over.  So, after the break-up, I got this tattoo to remind me of her.  To remind me to never let it happen again.”

            “You got that after you broke up?”  I exclaimed.  “You got a girls name tattooed on you after you broke up?  Damn, that’s pretty hard core.”

            “She was everything to me, just like your girl was to you.  Now let’s go get an ice cream”.

“Just hold on for minute here.  You show me the name of a girl you’ve tattooed on your arm, and all you want to do it go get an ice cream?  You got to be kidding me.  You don’t just show someone a tattoo of an ex-girlfriend and invite them to ice cream.  Tell me something here, like that you’re sorry you did it.  I mean because eventually, you get over it right, and than you’ve still got the tattoo.”

            “Your girl and your job, they were your life right?”  Pat asked.

            “Yeah, they defined who I was as a person.  From when I got in the morning until I went to sleep at night.”

            “Exactly, and do you really think you’ll bounce back from something like that?”

            “No, it doesn’t feel like I ever will.”

            “And you shouldn’t,” Pat replied, “things like that, if they really are as big and important as you say they are, you don’t get over.”

That was Pat’s answer?  I’d heard it, but it didn’t make much sense. There had to be a muttered point in all this somewhere, and I was going to find it out. “So, what do you do?”  I asked. 

            “You go for ice cream,” he replied.

            “And that’s it.  That’s the moral of your story.  ‘You don’t get over things like this, so go for ice cream?’”

            “Yep, that’s the moral of the story.”

I still didn’t know what he meant and I was desperate for answers.  “Sorry man, I still don’t get it.  It’s like a bad riddle.  I don’t understand how the tattoo on your arm and going for ice cream are related items.”

            “It’s like this; some things, like those two or three really big things that happen in your life, you don’t bounce back from.  You don’t get over.  You just have to wait until you become a different person who wants different things out of life.  At those times the feelings you have aren’t meant to be ‘gotten over’.  It’s not like one day you just forget your life was shattered.”

            “That sounds like it takes along time.”

            “It does.” Pat continued, “So in the meantime, you go for ice cream. So, do you want an ice cream or not?”

“Yeah, I could go for an ice cream.”

            “Glad to hear it.  I’ll buy.”

When I was about 14 years old my dad decided he wanted to build a new banister for the stairs.  Not that he had ever really been a fix-it kind of guy at all.  Mostly he watched TV and played tennis.  I learned years later, even adults get a wild hair up their butt from time to time.  At any rate, before I knew it he’d bought all of the tools and went right to work.

            The first week was spent tearing down the perfectly good metal banister that I liked to slide down so much.  I was bummed to be losing it honestly.  Sure, sliding down the banister put holes in the seat of my pants, but who cares?  When you like something, you stick with it.  Now, it was gone.  Ok, this wasn’t some fad he was going though, we had stairs with no banister.  He had my full attention.  I was going to have to get a better look at exactly what he was doing.

            At 14 years old work tools are about the neatest thing in the world, next to cars that turn into people, and what I found out is that watching my dad work was really kind of fun.  Sure, I would be losing a slideable banister, but I would be gaining knowledge about how to use power tools to cut stuff in half.

For weeks this went on.  Sawing, hammering, the whole nine yards.  The general dad is a workman and not a computer programmer feeling was abounding.  As the banister started to take shape, I have to say, I was really beginning to take pride in having a handy, manly kind of dad.  I mean really, who’s going to brag to the local kids that their dad the computer programmer?  Nobody.  However, everyone with half an ear that was within walking distance was going to hear me chatter on about my dad building a banister.  That was neat stuff.

            As I got more wrapped up in the process and proud of my father, I found that wanted in on a piece of the action, and I was about ready to take it.  Around 10am on a Saturday my dad was out in the garage working away on the ban saw cutting word.  He would cut a piece of wood, then check things over in the house, then go back out and cut another piece of wood.  This went on for hours at a time on Saturday’s.  Well, on this particular Saturday, I decided I wanted to see what the flat side of a spinning ban saw felt like.  I’m no idiot, I knew better than to find out what the top of a spinning ban saw felt like.  I knew that would feel like a few fingers on the ground.  But what did the smooth, shiny side part of it feel like?  So, when my dad was in the house, I touched the flat side of the ban saw as it was spinning to a stop.

            Naturally, I got caught.  Children have a knack for always getting caught doing the very dumbest things imaginable, and I was no different.  Man did I get yelled at.  I thought he was going to kill me.  It wasn’t one of those general “you idiot!” yellings.  It wasn’t even one of those “I’m very disappointed in you” yellings.  It was far worse.  It was the kind that puts you in tears and makes you wonder how you could ever have been born so stupid.  As I recall, it also had strong overtones of “I wish I didn’t even have to interact with my son sometimes” as a part of it as well.  I’m not saying that’s the way he meant it, I’m just saying that’s the feeling I got from it.  It hurt in the way that can only be inflicted by words coming from someone who you respect and really want to have like you.  Those are the ones that really sting.

            Before I knew it, I was up in my room crying, when my Mom came to console me.  Mom’s are good like that.  They love you no matter how stupid you are.

            “Sebastian,” she said, “you have to understand that he only yelled at you because he was worried about you.”

“Hm,” I thought, “that could kind of make sense in the screwed up logic of an adult brain I suppose.”

            “Do you think that’s really it Mom?” I asked.

            “Yes, that’s it.  I’m sure of it.  He was just afraid you’d get hurt, and that scared him.  I bet if you went down and apologized, he’d let you help him.”  Mom’s are so cool, they have all the answers.

I knew she was right, but I was really scared all the same.  I tried to stop crying, which naturally gave me the hiccups.    Hiccups I could deal with.  The bigger problem was that I had to swallow my pride by admitting I was wrong, which I knew I wasn’t.  I knew better then to cut my fingers off.  It was my father who thought I was an idiot.  I had to apologize to him for underestimating my intelligence?  O’well.  For fatherly attention, some times you’ve got to do stupid, pride swallowing things.

            My mom walked me down the stairs to where my father was working.  With a wet face from crying, the hiccups from recently forcing myself to stop, and a complete lack of pride for apologizing for something that I actually knew better than to do, I said,  “Dad, I’m sorry.  Can I help you?”

            “No, you can’t help me,” he replied.  “Some things you can’t apologize for.  You just have to do them right the first time.”  With those short words, he went back to his work.  I looked at my mom.  She seemed to understand my dad’s point better than I did, but was confused herself.  She looked at my father and he gave her a look as if to say, “Now is not the time”.  So that was it, the discussion was over.  I went back to my room with nothing.  Not even my 14 year old pride.