Topic: People who are in love with objects

Author: Chris Dunn

I was on the fence about whether to cry or not. Part of me really wanted to. It would increase the impact of the injury and maybe force an empathic reaction to let Chris now how deeply his betrayal had stung me, but then again, this was school grounds. I was surrounded by my peers; the energy of a potential fight having drawn them into a close cluster. But they were beginning to suspect that there would be no fight, just a simple over-reaction and a brief assault. They tittered and whispered their hushed disappointment all around us. Tears, at this point, would’ve done more harm than good. My reputation among the eighth graders had never been on the manly side, being small for my age and what most would call a “later bloomer” physically. Tears – had they fallen – would’ve been all that were remembered of that day, and that was not the impression I was going for. I wanted Chris to hurt for what he’d done – feel a deep pang of guilt for the betrayal I was suffering, so I continued to clutch the side of my head which had struck the dirt wearing my best pained expression while Chris worked with some others to recover his lost treasure. He wasn’t even looking at me!

I can’t say how it came to be that Chris Marx and I were friends. A large part of it had to be that we shared the same first name. Ironically, my parents had chosen to name me Chris for the name’s uniqueness. To their knowledge, no one was named Chris. This must have been a common misconception among many hippies, as I was one of six Chris’s in my first-grade class. Chris Thompson, Chris Werk, Chris Marx - and two others who have now faded completely from memory - had to share the name and sign all our assignments with our last initial for clarification. This was hardest on Chris Thompson, as he often got in trouble for signing his work ChrisT. Which didn’t go over in the holy confines of Saint Margaret Mary Grade School. Of course, there were other factors than our shared moniker. Chris was lanky and awkward and socially – how best to say it – uneven. Though he was tall and fast, he never had displayed interest in organized sports. I assume today, it was probably due to a lack of money, though to be honest, we never became close enough friends that I learned the exact level of his family’s finances. What made any of us friends back in grade school? Proximity and coincidence. Was it really ever more than that?

Whatever the reason, Chris was my friend. I wish there was a font that could portray the emphasis placed on that word by a sixth grader. More than lover, more than brother, friends were what the world was about. I like these people. These are my people. Together we don’t like those people. Cliques were still a few years away waiting in high school, but their seeds were well planted. So, when my friend Chris wanted to show me his new creation, I was excited both for him and for me.

It wasn’t much, just a glow-in-the-dark rubber skeleton he had suspended on strings. It stood about eight inches in height, and Chris could make it dance comically by jiggling his hand like a poor puppeteer. If you ever see Robert Palmer’s video for the song Clues, you’ll get a very accurate idea of the level of artistry as well as the duration of the novelty. Chris was very proud of, and highly amused by his creation, as were we all - Daryl, Mark and the others of our outcast band. We each took turns working the crude marionette, but recess was long – twenty whole minutes – so it wasn’t long before this ceased to hold everyone’s interest. Even before I had my turn, someone – I believe it Mark – began throwing the rubber skeleton into the air. This was funny, in that watching its limbs flail as it flew looked silly and was, therefore, in keeping with the theme of puppetry while surrendering control to gravity and wind resistance.

The game changed. It was no longer, take your turn and show what you can do with this amusing, if crude, puppet. Now it was, catch the falling, flailing skeleton and see how high you could throw it. Oh great, another activity where being in constant competition for front-row-center of every group photo, was not an asset. And I hadn’t even gotten to play puppet master yet! But I was game to try. You had to try or be left out, right? Leaping and jostling as the taller boys continued to catch and release, laughing now as much at my feeble attempts to participate as to the skeletons wild bones. But fate has a way. Eventually things have to fall. Mark and Chris collided. Or maybe a ricochet, carom or fumble. Whatever the cause, the lovely bones fell to me, and I made the most of it. Not content to merely toss them up with what would likely be my only contribution to the game, I heaved. Heaved with all my puny strength, tossing the makeshift amusement as high as I could manage. Too late I saw the fence. Too late I remembered where we were. Too late I realized my own strength.

You see recess was held on the field adjoining school, which at that time, was a large open field of grass predominated by flanking baseball diamonds. We had congregated for our activity that day on one of said diamonds – the open grass being reserved for a never-ending game of what was known as kill-the-man-with-the-ball. Beyond the title, you can assume the rules and play of this game anyway you like, we always did. If you had asked me when I came to class that morning, walking along the path which ran beside the field, “Hey Chris, do you think you could throw a rubber, skeletal marionette as high as that backstop?” I doubt I would have said, “Sure, no problem.” Turns out, it wasn’t that hard. The thrashing arms reached out desperately to arrest the puppet’s return to earth and grasped the highest point imaginable before rapping tight and clinging for dear lifelessness.

Everyone froze. I watched the anger rush into Chris like a crimson river, flooding his face from the neck up. I should’ve run. Run it out. I would only need to avoid him for a few minutes and his stamina would’ve likely abated. But, no. I stood my ground, trying to fix the situation with a counter flood of apologies and pleas for sanity. No good. Chris grabbed me. So shocked, was I, by this the first, and I think only time, my friend had ever laid hands on me, that I barely resisted. Physically, that is. Verbally I continued to pelt him with “sorrys” and “waitaminutes” and scarcely noticed I had been upended, flipped nearly 160 degrees. I saw the dry earth of the infield and thought briefly, “Oh, shit! Am I in a fight?” The he dropped me, on my head! Well, my forearm and the side of my face, really, but that doesn’t really convey the impact. I hit and it hurt, that’s what mattered, I decided as I lay there stunned.

In my injury, hand clutched to my battered – and likely bruised – skull, I crawled to the backstop and stared with rage and betrayal as Chris and Mark and some other kids worked to retrieve the toy the only way the animals could think of. They threw rocks at it. The crowd had dissipated as quickly and magically as it had formed. No fight was occurring and now there were falling rocks to contend with. All that remained were a couple of faceless, unrembered true friends, sitting by my side and voicing actual concern. But I couldn’t hear them. I don’t even see their faces in my memory. All I saw was how it only took a couple dozen well aimed stones and toy returned to earth. Chris held it up by the strings, none the worse for wear for its temporary ensnarement. Beaming with delight at the rescue, Chris didn’t notice me approaching with my hand still glued to the red scrape on my cheek, lest one forget where I was hit.

“Hey,” he said to me. “I got it back!” Suddenly, as if only then realizing, he asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

“You dropped me on my head!” I screamed. “And for what? For this stupid-” I was going to cuss. I wanted to cuss, but catholic school, you know… Instead, I lashed out, my hands quick, and for once, my blow struck true, ripping the tiny dancer free from its strings. The look on Chris’ face was perfect. Shocked betrayal! I had won. But what good is a victory, when guilt didn’t even give you a minute or two to enjoy it?