The Misfit Confessions of Telegraph Hill: Part I

This is the first installment of a short story that I wrote three years ago.

Composition #4 December 16, 1957

Blinking is something I do far too much of. Clumsy blinking. The kind of fragmented blinking that attracts attention to itself

and because of that, it is sometimes termed pretentious. Clearly unintentional, but nonetheless, an irritating trait that

I have stumbled into. I didn’t care about blinking. I can never wink. That’s what I want to do. Why is that? What is that

about people? They can always succeed at something that means nothing to them and never at what they want the most.

The thing is…I want to be able to wink. Winking is confidence. Winking means you know who you are and more importantly that you know what you want. What attracts me to being able to do it is that if you do it effortlessly, you can do anything. You not only know who you are, but you knew every little intricacy, every little flaw about yourself. But then you have to ask

yourself, is knowing your flaws another flaw in and of itself or perhaps a small step toward a new life full of unknown

confidence and traits yet to be fulfilled, yet to be labeled as either a defect or a strength? Perhaps I’ve gotten too

pretentious. Maybe the blinking hasn’t mislabeled me. I know you’re not going to ask yourself about your flaws. Your type

don’t do questions. That’s deep and you’re still in the wading pool. Is it lonely back there? It’s lonely here, but at least I

know and I can say I’m not in the shallow end. Are you happy now? I wrote my fucking composition. You probably aren’t even reading this…but if you are, fuck you. I think you know why I have to leave now. Time 11:03AM. Fuck you.

Composition #5 December 17, 1957

You said we had to tell you the story of the worst day of our lives and conveniently enough for you, mine was yesterday.

Which I guess is convenient for me, too. I’ll be able to remember everything clearly. We’ll see. Yesterday, I came to school and I had to write a composition that I didn’t feel like writing and I had to go to a class I didn’t want to go to. Then I got picked up in a car I didn’t want to ride in wearing an outfit I didn’t want to wear. The outfit is ruined now. Do you want to know why? I don’t care if you want to know. You’re making me do this, so you’re going to listen to me when I tell you why it’s ruined. Because I have to listen to what you say. Even though I don’t really. Shh! Wink wink. I can do that because it’s on paper and you won’t know if I’m really good at it or not. Let’s say I am. We’ll see. Craig’s father picked me up and Craig was already in the car. He was my friend, my friend with benefits, that I spent the summer with. You know him. He’s around. Very fit. Very preppy. Very convenient to this place. You know the type. It’s your favorite type. I was wearing a black cotton and polyester sleeveless dress. It had cinches and pleats in the bottom. It only came down to above my knees and with my arms down to my side, no it did not come past my fingertips. But I am not apologizing, because I think that dress code is stupid. That’s an elementary rule and I am not an elementary person. I am in high school. I wore red shoes, red patent leather heels. I said it was because I knew they could get dirty in the cemetery and I could wipe them off. That’s what I said. I really just didn’t want to be like the rest of them. What they called the dark parade. They called it that because they all looked the same. She called it that because they all looked the same to her. Kind of like you actually. I knew they would all be in black. I could be in black, but not all black. Lackluster. Humdrum. Kind of like the lives they led. I stood there while they lowered the coffin. And then I walked over to Reverend Buchanan. I took his bible and I opened it. I spit in it and threw it into the plot. Bury that shit with him. We don’t need someone giving us a reason from a book that has nothing to do with us. Right? Of course they pulled it back out of the plot. They ruined my moment, but I got what I wanted. One more second of no dirt on the box. One more second with the sky beating down on the blue metallic job. One last second that I was able to keep him back. There’s more, but I’m tired and it’s too early in the morning for this shit. Plus, what if you tell them about what I’m saying? What if they know I hate that book and that I think it’s useless? Wait. What if they don’t care? They say they do. But they don’t and they’ve all given up on me. Just like you will. Know why? Because you know I’ll turn out like you. Mid-life, still living in Telegraph like the loser you are. No dreams. No aspirations for a life outside of here. And the worst…no desire, either out of fear or out of guilt. You’ll probably say it’s out of guilt, guilt for leaving the people you love in this shit hole. But you don’t love people here. You’ve just gotten used to them. That doesn’t mean you love them…so you can’t feel guilty for leaving. I’ll never say I didn’t go because of guilt. But you will. You already have. And you say staying here is out of necessity and out of guilt. But it’s inexperience. It’s fear of what that inexperience could do to you and being so blinkered, not like my blinkered…but really blinkered, so much so that the sight of any metropolis would make you wet your pants. I would love to see that. I saw a boy wet his pants yesterday. In the cemetery. It was a different kind of fear that caused that piss. A fear you wouldn’t understand. Still a pussy fear, but still better than your rigid shit. God I’d hate to be you. That’s why I have to get out of here. Time 8:46AM.