Twenty-First Century Coping

The Forum finds fiction to be an entertaining way of relaying real life issues












TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY COPING


Defined as a feeling of happiness, confidence and well-being, merely saying the word euphoria elicits thoughts of Shangri La, that haven of beauty and tranquility, an imaginary paradise. The exotic flow of the word so much smoother than other recently acquired vocabulary like calculate, inadequate and advisable.
Being dyslexic means attending a school that teaches someone with my different brain set-up the skills necessary to learn. Contrary to stereotypical belief dyslexia isn’t a condition causing me to transpose letters and/or numbers, but a difference in brain function. A language processing disorder, my brain layout resembles a file cabinet that been tossed around resulting in loss of alphabetical order. Looking for a file based upon the generally accepted lettered system doesn’t work. The information is there but must be accessed in a matter appropriate for the layout. My school teaches me how to do that while teaching me everyday academics. We had euphoria just this past Friday.
And I am…euphoric that is. My every molecule resonates just as lights illuminate the darkness of a cloudy night. Cradled in an emotional cocoon of confidence I glide past a wealth of displayed merchandise. Black cast iron tea pots, blue pagodas decorating white ceramic plates, jewelry of gold and silver, colorful gemstones. Why haven’t I done this before? Nothing, no one can deflate me now. Adrenalin flows, serotonin, that natural hormonal mood enhancer, rules. I am King.
Continuing past racks of candles brown, red, gold and blue wafting forth scents of vanilla, ylang ylang, lavender, rose, citrus and cinnamon, I remember how she’d said, “I love scented candles, especially lit, around my bathtub. I soak in steamy, bubbly water imagining I’m rich!” Her voice dreamy and happy had drawn me into her inner world of pleasurable fantasies.
At that moment what had excited me the most? Not the thought of her taking a bath, but her presence with me on our first date, sharing intimate secrets surely not shared with just anyone. But she had shared them with me, Josh, the “learning disabled” dyslexic. I still treasure every moment of that day two weeks ago.
“OK” enough reminiscing, “I’ll pick up some candles and maybe a funky candleholder or two.” Giving presents to Mom always got my father out of the doghouse. I want more magical times with Sharon, but she is SSOOO mad at me!
“I’ll never speak to you again!! I thought you were different but you’re just like every other guy I’ve ever gone out with.” Her words had pelted like bullets, “ I HATE you….how could you forget our date?!?”
I hadn’t forgotten and had spent the longest night of my life wanting to drown myself in the booze my parents regularly used to fend off the harshness of their world. That afternoon my mother had taken all my cash. Too drunk to drive she’d ordered Scotch delivered and the delivery person wouldn’t accept payment by check, only cash. Mortified by my mother I hadn’t been able to bring myself to call Sharon to tell her I couldn’t take her out. How would I have explained my lack of funds?
Knowing the truth about my parents would surely drive Sharon away. None of my friend’s have parents like mine, always striving for emotional highs using materialistic means to muffle undesired feelings.
I know I’ll never again experience the feeling of security my mother’s hand stroking my hair created in me when I was small. My father hasn’t touched a bat or baseball since I was 5, his ‘business’ overtaking all else on the scale of what’s really important. The short periods he’s at home he never relaxes, instead treating being there like another unpleasant “duty” to be suffered through. Does he know, or care, that Butler carries
Mom, comatose, upstairs every night? Talk about environmental pollution! There’s many aspects of “environment” and “pollution”.
My mother, in one of her more cognitive moments, once mentioned reading an article that discussed mental and emotional anguish, the causes and resulting coping strategies .According to this article one common method my generation uses to ease such anguish is shoplifting. Unfortunately her clarity hadn’t lasted long, she’d had another drink. People adept at criticizing others never see the identical faults in themselves.
“Hey, you!” A hand broke through the layers of cocoon and grasped my shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?” Curbed one step beyond the shop’s door I plummet back to earth. Phaethon’s flight ended in a swelter of flame. I felt like that mythic son who’d been brought to task because embedded in fantasy’s cocoon, he’d exhibited poor judgment and paid the price. The son of the ancient Greek god Helios, Phaethon flew up to the sun, borrowed its chariot and driving too close to Earth, faced the wrath of Zeus, who struck him down to save the world.
My chariot run thwarted by the security guard for this New Age store, I find myself placed in one of the back rooms. This room delineated from the public by bold black letters emblazoned on a white, background-EMPLOEES ONLY, the sign was all of 12” by 6” but it screamed taboo!
Sharon’s favorite scent, sandalwood, distinctively familiar among the frankincense, cedar, jasmine, floral and other scents of incense the store offers for sale, pierces my soul. Perched on the edge of a metal folding chair I’m surrounded by rainbow hued crystals,
batticked Indian sarongs of orange, blue, green and violet, and CD’s waiting their turn on the retail shelf. In this back storeroom the merchandise reminds me of orphans waiting their turn to promenade before prospective parents.
“Everybody has a price, you can buy anything if you have enough to give the suckers.” My father’s voice pronounces within my stunned mind. Does everybody live with uninvited, dismembered parental vocalizations? I’ve never found the courage to ask anyone, afraid they’d say it was an “incurable” mental aberration caused by my having dyslexia.
“I’ve earned the respect of Mr. and don’t ever forget what it takes to make it in this world. You have to beat everybody else at their game, be better, be smarter, beat them into the ground.” My father’s credo reverberates in my head.
“Hey man, I’ll pay for them. I’ve got the money right here.” Pulling cash from the back pocket of my blue jeans I’m met with cold, expressionless grey-green eyes descending from the tall, well-muscled man blocking the doorway. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
“Come on let me pay for it. What’s the big deal. I need that stuff to give to my girlfriend, I messed up.” Surely he would understand.
“Save it for the police.”
The eternity of waiting stretched. What would happen to me in jail? Holding cells are filled with drunks, prostitutes, murderers, thieves and the general dredges of society. And what if I had to use the bathroom? No way was I going with all those people
watching! My friend John’s parents had left him in jail overnight to teach him a lesson. According to him, being sentenced to probation, on the stipulation that he see a psychiatrist for two years, was a cake walk compared to being in the holding tank. I hope they come get me out tonight.
The housekeeper brought me home from the police station. Later, safely in my room, I realize something... I’d copied them! Substituting shoplifting for alcohol to “feel better”, be “in control”. And that great short term high wasn’t going to help deal with the looming long term repercussions.