Cheated

Caleb Steven Huffman
2007-2010


i remember the day i heard of your arrival; you and nolan came into this world a bit earlier than expected. complication after complication after complication, but you boys kept fighting.

i remember the first time i got to see you when you were finally home with your mommy and daddy. i walked into laura's room where your cribs were set up. there in the darkness, i saw lights flickering from monitors and machines and i heard all this beeping and i saw all these wires and i couldn't help but feel that you were being cheated. cheated from so early on, cheated in ways that i couldn't even vocalize. a nursery shouldn't feel like a hospital. from day one you were cheated, but you didn't care. you kept fighting.

i remember seeing you once after one of your many surgeries. i was afraid to hold you, afraid to hurt you, afraid of the scars, afraid of moving your shunt, just afraid. your daddy grabbed you from me and tossed you in the air and you couldn't have laughed louder. he swung you down in front of me and pointed to a scar on your belly. 'see this one here?' he asked. 'this is from a shark attack!' he flipped you over and pointed to another scar. 'and this one? a crazy ex-girlfriend!' and he tickled you and your smile couldn't have been any bigger. your daddy never wanted you to be scared, bucky.

far as i can tell, you never were. you are one of the most courageous individuals i'll ever have the privilege of knowing, caleb. i have two decades on you...and i'm ashamed to say that i've never fought for anything as hard as you fought to live.
you are superman.

you were cheated, time after time, but you didn't let anything get in your way. you never gave up, and neither did your parents. they took whatever news that came their way without batting an eye, and they are so proud of you caleb. so, so proud of you.
you are their hero; they are mine.

you were cheated. doctors gave you rules and restrictions, but before i knew it, you were holding your own bottle. then you were sitting up all on your own. then you were standing, and just last week? just last week i got to see you walk, and being in that living room that evening was one of the most important nights of my entire life. you've done more for people than you'll ever know.


on october 23rd, it was the world that was cheated.
when my phone went off saturday morning, i never...i just never thought...

i stopped believing in certain things a long time ago -- but i'd hate to think you went anywhere alone. may angels lead you in, caleb.
may angels lead you in.

"An angel in the Book of Life wrote down my baby's birth,
and whispered as she closed the Book, 'too beautiful for Earth.' "

see ya on the other side, handsome. <3

Chuck's Travels

i sat on the toilet and she hopped up on the counter. with a constant thudding in the background and voices we didn't care to know, i pissed in the toilet and she pissed in the sink and we may or may not have had one of the best conversations of my entire life. she later lifted her shirt and her tits were so perfect that i had to confess explicitly that i hated everything about her, and she laughed. i laughed too. a few hours in the future, after i lost most feeling and self-respect and realized i didn't like who i was anymore, i told her i loved her, and she laughed, and i laughed too.

the following morning i texted her: 'my hoodie smells like perfume, beer, sweat, and deceit.'
she laughed. and i laughed too.

chuck klosterman is perpetually affecting my writing. i now think like he writes, and i hate the way he thinks, but like the way he writes, so after a few left turns, i'm not mad about my train of thought.

chuckyboy: "i never understood the song 'infatuation,' just as i have never understood the concept of infatuation. it has always been my understanding that being 'infatuated' with someone means you think you are in love, but you're actually not; infatuation is (supposedly) just a foolish, fleeting feeling. but if being 'in love' is an abstract notion, and it's not tangible, and there is no way to physically prove it to anyone else...well, how is being in love any different than having an infatuation? they're both human constructions. if you think you're in love with someone and you feel like you're in love with someone, then you obviously are; thinking and feeling is the sum total of what love is. why do we feel an obligation to certify emotions with some kind of retrospective, self-imposed authenticity?...if my only way to understand the world is through what i think and what i feel, how can thinking that i'm in love and feeling that i'm in love be relegated into the category of 'infatuation'? what's the fucking difference?"

on a crumpled receipt in my wallet i find a note, from myself. past kendall to future kendall.
i imagine it was something i wanted to write about, but i think it's best left standing alone.
'mustard hiding.
poltergeist in my fridge.
like my phone.'

//end//

These Lips Were Champs

words roll off of them well, they work great, but how do they look?

right now, a gash, bitten at best. like the sahara but chapstick won't work, and i carry the scar i know nothing about.

it's in you, kendall. it's pushing itself out. you're healing.
oh. like a demon?

i remember ghosting with josh and joe once, missing out on the entirety of the experience because of the throbbing on my face. they'd whip out flashlights and i'd whip out abreva. they were scared and i was confused. origins, origins, origins, and i wield the cross.

i also remember the day the resolution came about. we were wrestling in your room, the smell of suburban basement flooding the air, and up on the bed we fought, back down to the floor, my mouth hit your shoulder and i pulled away to see blood dance down your chest. we watched it together find its way to your navel. it took too long to realize it was my blood and not yours, and i was ushered into the bathroom and i painted the walls red. the color fell from my lip without hesitation and i watched as it filled the sink, not amazed so much by the blood itself but by the fact i felt nothing at all. you left the room, panicked, the mess, your mother not knowing i was down there with you at all, and now this? evidence of my existence everywhere, on the floor, on you, on the towel, sink, and nearly on the mirror too before you stopped me from finger-painting (you never let me have any fun).

right now? a fender bender, not nearly a car crash. when i feel one coming on, i crouch and wait, then attack. i stand over the sink and wait and watch, but it'll never be the same again. you're not standing behind me searching frantically for clothes and towels, you're not blaming my lack of concern for anything and everything, you're not there at all.

[you trained these lips when they were champs, and now they're itchin' for a comeback: so come back.]

I'll Be: De-Evolutioned

it is absolutely terrifying what feelings certain songs can evoke within you. things we thought were long gone in the dirt come crawling back out, and we've got no control over it. i've said it before and i'll say it again, aside from increased cranial capacity and shifts in mastication, we haven't come that far at all. edwin mccain starts screaming at me through the beast's radio, i swerve off the road and slap the round radio knobs, but it's too late. i'm already kidnapped, taken back to a time i'd rather not be, a time i'd do anything to have back, a time i'm in now and a time i never knew.

[go on just say it: you need me like a bad habit. ]

back to ambiguity: i see a meteorite strike a neighboring farm and i now have justified means to contact you in the dead of night. our walk is warranted, our meeting acceptable, and you come up behind me in a stranger's lawn and by the light of the moon we tell ourselves that this is a healthy relationship that we've got going on. a bush protects us from the street, nothing but dumb luck protecting us from the owner's house, when we're done we walk home and you preach to me again about how everything is a fucking mess and we can't see each other ever again, and (approaching clarity) i want you to know that there was a time when i would have done anything for you.


i didn't set out to write about shooting stars this afternoon,
but that's what a stupid song can do to us.
we can conquer plagues and destroy mountains with our bare hands,
but all it takes is a text,
a flash in the sky, a song,
and i'm back to nothing.

Sympathy For The Martyr

[and never getting help doesn't make you brave]

in a glass tank, a poor imitation of where you should be.
trapped, for my amusement.
so i guess the question is, whose jellyfish are you?

***

It’s been proven: there are a certain number of things that are guaranteed to make the most rational, sane person lose all control of their self. The amount is low but the evidence couldn’t be more tangible. Being trapped in a small space with other people for a significant amount of time is sure to make the most calm and collected resort to cannibalism. No one wants to be hungry. Having someone you care deeply for, someone whose existence defines half of yours, die? Proof of gravity: the tallest will fall to their knees. No one wants to be alone. And relationships: anyone who thinks they have a grip on reality just needs to fall in love, just needs to trip over infatuation. Things stop making sense, idle hands and irreversible brain damage. There is someone out there for you: someone to drive you absolutely fucking mental. Find them, and you’re set for life. No one wants to be happy.

***

i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.
from my window i can see sights i dare not describe,
but i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.
in the past few months i've added masks to my masks,
but i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.
we're all waiting for the punchline of a joke that isn't funny,
but i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.

Shin Splints

nothing deep today,
just complaints.
bragging: i always have awesome shoes.
admitting: that's the only reason i chose this picture.

baby, i'm not negative.
you've just caught me at a bad, bad, bad time.

there's something about the body,
there's always something, you know?
if it's not your back, it's your teeth,
and if it's not your teeth,
your sciatic nerve doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up,
always something.

trying to clock in, trying to tally up, my schedule says today is just two miles, just pack in two miles. dad and i ended up at the most beautiful trail today in mogadore. fucking, wow. the water, the trees, the weather, you can't make this shit up.
but it's not about the perfect state of everything around me, it's about me. my calves hurrrrrrrrt, and it's great.
current city: emoville. i've unpacked my suitcase, i think i'll stay awhile, the one thing i've been loving lately is now taken from me, woe is kendall.

cement walls slope gently and stop the water, because we're human and we can do that (sometimes). the trail wraps around the edge of the reservoir, and i stared at the lake and i became upset. i realized i didn't have a way to describe, with words, the way parts of the land jut out into the water. i'm making the motion with my hand right now, but i can't dictate it how it needs to be dictated, and i'm upset.

i collapsed. plopped right down in the middle of the trail, in the middle of nowhere, and i cried.

well,
i tried.
nothing came out but the few whimpers i could muster.
they were pathetic. dramatic. (drathetic. pathatic.)
the way a toddler whines when they don't get their way, but no one is around to listen? that was kendall today; kendall didn't get her way. on my back, i covered my face with my hands, i whimpered again to hear the sound of my voice. and you know what?

it felt great.
i sat up, looked at the water, appreciated the perfect temperature, sucked in the fresh air, soaked in the beauty. it felt great.

then i stood up, resumed my shittastic mood, heard the medial tibial stress syndrome shout my name, told it to fuck off, and felt sorry for myself all over again. it's back to emotown, and though it hurts like hell, i think i'll run for mayor.

K

calling card, calling all heartbreaks, calling card,
ten pounds down the drain,
i told you about this magnificent graffiti that asal and i found,
and you said:
K.

and how fitting. i'm your problem.
K?
K.

i walk up behind you, squeeze your shoulder.
and not just your shoulder: that part of your body between the base of your neck and the end of your collarbone. does this spot have an actual name? yes. do i care to google it? no.

i'm empty today. i was empty yesterday.
the forecast cries that i'll be empty tomorrow, too.

K?
K.

we've all got our own explanations.
baby, it's not you, it's me.
baby, you'll find someone, someday.
baby, you're just a good time.
baby, baby, baby,
baby, you're great, really,
baby, shit's gonna fall into place,
baby, everything's going to be okay,
K?
K.

(it's the song in the background that's doing this to me, not you.)

we turned the corner,
trip somewhat of a bust so far.
she's like, lemme take a picture of this,
and i rolled my eyes.
she takes pictures of everything.
i'm like girl, you can't live like this,
you gotta live in the moment,
but when i saw what she was talking about,
i threw my kodak at the world.

when i die, who will paint something for me?

and when you've got nothing else,
OR,
when you've got ALL the answers,
just say: K.

pop yer collar, walk away, leave 'em shakin'.

K? K.

Pretty Baby

my pretty baby makes me so happy.
there's something about having a shitty day...you know, when the going's good it's great, but when the bad's going bad, you can't fucking breathe...there's something about having a shitty day, the world's not spinning at the rate you want it to and nothing feels right...you know, there's something about having a shitty day, but when you feel those tiny little arms wrap around your neck, nothing else in the entire universe matters at all except that tiny little heartbeat melting in sync with your own.

deep sigh.
extended pause.
pretty, pretty baby.

moving on,
to less important things.
birthday: tomorrow.
best birthday ever: 21st.
why: anticlimactic on all accounts.
in a good way.
why: few souls in europe understand the importance of being twenty and some change; the alcohol on my lips was bittersweet. i should have turned 18 over there.
why: on the shores of loch ness, and she didn't even come out. i said, hey nessy, it's my birthday, show yer fucking face, but she didn't.
and i'm not mad.
i was, sort of.
i mean, i came really, really far to see that lake,
and she didn't show,
but i know she was there.

m's like,
you gotta try this.
i was hesitant. it was blue.
no no k, she said, you gotta try this.
lo chimed in, kendall, this shit is good.
(loved the way she said my name.)
so i slid over two pounds and a shaky voice,
and i got it.
minutes later, i'm swimming.
you feel funny?
yeahhhhhhhh.
that's what i like, m said,
i like that.

i never get sick, but i got sick once.
the sickest i ever got was in scotland.
veggie pakora, maybe, or maybe something else.
it started with a burp.
the air got trapped between the computer screen and my face,
straight up stomach acid stench.
i ignored it.
evening, a thursday, i go to stand up,
and shit,
i'm weak as well.
then it hits you,
hits you like a fucking microburst, man.
to the bathroom,
your body is a fucking warrior
and every cell is trying to get that shit out of you.
i remember moaning, crying, yelling,
public bathroom, the best.
at 21, i recall actually yelling for my mom.
mommy, make this go away.
good god, the pain,
the fucking pain,
kept thinking,
boy, won't this feel good when it stops hurting.
i woke up later with a blanket on me.
someone had the decency to push my feet in the rest of the way and shut the door, covering me, but i ruined their blanket.
there are some good people out there,
and i ruined their blanket.
why kendall, why on earth would you feel the need to revisit and dissect the night you puked and shat all over yourself, why would anyone ever want to hear about it?
because.
because,
when you're in that kind of pain, nothing else in the entire universe matters at all except your explicit desire for that pain to go away.

my best friend had her baby boy on november 11th.
42 days later, i got to see his beautiful face.
his perfect little toes.
his perfect little fingers.
pretty, pretty baby.
you know, she got a shitty hand of cards.
she got the cards from the deck we had taken
great pains in throwing away when we were little.
we planned our lives out with our chosen spades, our clubs...
we had the kings and queens and jacks right where we wanted them.
but the game sped up,
the cards fell out of place,
a frantic phone call in the middle of the night
and me realizing that nothing was turning out like i had planned,
but she's making it work,
and when i get to hold that pretty, pretty baby,
nothing else in the entire universe matters at all.