The Time Capsule
by
Matthew Dexter
I could sit here
now and tell you
how I was such
a great kid and
everything was
great. But that
would be a lie.
I mean everything
was fine. I had
it all. Even though
I was painfully
shy, my childhood
was golden and
slowly emboldened
me to believe
that everything
was amazing, nothing
was impossible,
and anything was
attainable. But
a few rapid mistakes
were made as well.
It’s
funny stepping
back into fading
memories and retracing
footsteps, as
though I could
ever want anything
more than the
treasured opportunity
of traveling a
dozen years into
the past and changing
my course. Of
course that’s
impossible now
and so my desire
is ultimately
purposeless, but
sometimes I still
lie awake, my
ghostlike face
illuminated by
the merciless
gloom of the circular
fluorescent moon
wondering how
the hell I survived
so long.
Leaving
friends behind
forever is immensely
difficult to initiate.
For me the hardest
part was always
saying goodbye.
You never want
those precious
waning moments
to end. Like that
ethereal moment
when the sun dances
on the distant
horizon for a
few glorious minutes
before sinking
precipitously
into the oceanic
abyss of tomorrow.
Or that time you
take one last
silent glance
at your best friend’s
face because you
know you’ll
never see those
angelic features
ever again.
It’s
strange. When
you come to live
in a certain place
for any period
of time you eventually
come to build
up these mysterious
sentimental feelings,
even if you hate
the damn place.
I hated this wicked
dwelling with
an unmitigated
and malignant
passion. But there
was no place else
on the surface
of the earth I’d
rather be. Even
though home was
both a paradise
and living hell,
it was still home.
That’s
how it was for
me at Kent School.
Kent was just
another ordinary
upper mediocre
New England prep
school. It still
is. Situated in
western Connecticut
along the banks
of the Housitonic
River, amidst
a hilly valley
where pretension
meets tradition,
illicit memories
still shiver down
my spine whenever
I mention or endeavor
to remember the
vivid, repulsive
moments of my
expulsion.
I
never feared the
currents of the
ocean would ever
pull me under
the surface, but
some yearning
to discover more
than the river
was flowing copiously
through my veins,
surging forward
in anticipation
of explosion.
Little did I know
that a few instinctive
decisions made
a decade earlier
would challenge
the very purpose
of my present
life and eventually
threaten to overthrow
all of my fledgling
successes.
The
first expulsion
was the most difficult.
Or maybe it was
the second way
around. These
days it all seems
the same. After
a decade of distancing
myself from that
haunting New England
campus time has
become an inadequate
measure of classification.
Ten years ago
I left in a daze
of tears for the
last time, full
of fears and demons,
and now those
years and months
have merged together
like weak protruding
masses of colliding
clouds.
I’ll
never return.
Even if they’d
allow me back
onto the campus.
Even to bait my
twisted curiosity
about whether
the deans would
call the police
to enforce the
restraining order,
or if they’d
even bother to
remember my name
at all if I should
decide to show
up for the reunion
next year. I’m
sure so much has
changed in so
many years. We
all have. I’d
be surprised if
more than a dozen
people even remembered
who I was, let
alone what I’d
done that windy
wintry afternoon.
Listen,
when I said that
I was in tears
I didn’t
mean they were
rolling down my
cheeks or anything.
I don’t
want you to read
this narrative
and think I wasn’t
a stoic stubborn
bastard, since
I was. But the
stream of sentimentality
was definitely
sparkling in my
eyes, threatening
to pour down my
face as I struggled
to restrain my
final farewells
to the place I
knew better than
myself. My exhausted
lower eyelids
began to tremble
and collect blood
as I bid farewell
to my past life
for the last time.
I think it’s
because I knew
it was the last
time that I felt
so profoundly
grief stricken
on this occasion.
As if I had finally
screwed up my
one last spectacular
hurrah, it all
started to sink
in.
Don’t
get the impression
I’m some
sentimental fairy
or something,
since I wasn’t.
Since I’m
not. But the raw
emotion was boiling
through my skin
as I acknowledged
the gnawing assertion
that I could certainly
never again return
to this magical
world which I
had created. It
was devastating
to confirm this
with my tortured
conscience, but
the truth of the
matter was that
I would never
ever be able to
reenter the one
and only place
I could call home.
I
had lived there
many years, and
remember thinking
in the midst of
my first endless
December how I
wished this horrid
frozen winter
would last forever,
and these next
three snowy years
would pass like
a majestic dream
that never ends.
I had never before
been so happy,
wishing that every
second would linger
so. It’s
one of those truly
enchanting aspirations
that a person
only encounters
a few times in
his existence.
For me this occurred
when I was sixteen
and living on
my own for the
first time.
I
could get into
all the boring
details of my
departure from
school and how
my absence was
long overdue,
and how I had
prolonged the
inevitable on
numerous occasions,
but the truth
of the matter
is that all I
can remember now
are Morgan’s
sandy brown eyes,
and the morbid
sound of the organ
preceding the
Thursday evening
chapel service
foreshadowing
my departure as
I grabbed my remaining
possessions, slamming
my ruffled duffle
bag upon my back
like a load of
bricks.
The
smooth lamination
on the oak desktop
from which I had
written my final
message of consolatory
reflection was
given the freedom
of expression
as I departed.
And I like to
believe that somewhere
in some cathartic,
dark, hidden storage
room, consumed
by intersecting
spider webs far
up in the quarantined
attic above one
of the dormitories,
my words are still
heard every couple
of months by a
degenerate group
of students courageous
and stupid enough
to explore the
forbidden corners
of their campus
at four in the
morning.
As
I was about to
walk gallantly
out the dormitory
doorway something
caught me and
pinned my fingers
to the perimeters
of the doorframe,
fixing me in place
as I swung my
shoulders around
and screamed at
the top of my
lungs. Morgan
was watching me
leave from about
a hundred feet
away.
“You
know! You’re
better than all
the rest of them
in this god damn
place combined!”
I
didn’t see
his expression
as I shouted it
because I began
to get slightly
molested by those
aforementioned
tears. I suppose
it was a residual
effect from my
pollen allergies
as well. But I
had the feeling
that he sensed
it as an honest
compliment and
I’m sure
he must have smiled
like a beautiful
blooming flower
with that luminous
perceptive expression
of virtuous integrity.
The stylish way
that he always
exuded it to me
in confidence,
as if he were
the most trustworthy,
good-natured person
on the surface
of the earth,
and I could tell
him all my deepest
secrets without
any fear that
he would ever
reveal them.
And
that was that.
Like a dream,
I disappeared
from Morgan’s
life forever.
The organ bid
me farewell and
the river kissed
me goodbye as
the campus and
my past slide
away from view
one last time.
There was nothing
left to do but
pull the fire
alarm as I pushed
the dormitory
door open and
slithered out
into the dawning
dusk like a dehydrated
water snake longing
for a swim.
*
* *
My
first few days
back were hideous.
Being burdened
by the burning
regret and omnipresent
shame of my actions
I entered into
a sort of depressive
comatose state.
Within months
and years it all
quickly faded
away, like clouds
merging with a
snowy mountain
on a breezy Connecticut
afternoon.
Within
a few years of
my departure from
school I used
all of my influential
connections and
reputedly established
myself working
successfully in
a very respectable
career. I still
thought of Morgan,
but only every
once in a while
when I had exhausted
all other endeavors
or a nightmare
reminded me of
the mountain.
Living in separate
countries had
kept us apart,
and things being
as they are, old
friends are eventually
replaced by new
acquaintances
and faces ultimately
turn from strangers
to best friends,
and life goes
on.
I
was working for
a national suicide
prevention hotline.
Actually, I was
the vice president
and had risen
to prominence
by climbing the
ladder to success,
escalator style.
I did so through
my personal connections
within the company
and also by a
series of unfortunate
incidences where
I had an impressive
series of successes
talking numerous
suicidal individuals
away from the
brink of their
own catastrophes.
More than just
a phone operator,
I had actually
had the fortunate
privilege of having
a propensity to
encounter random
strangers in the
process of destroying
themselves.
Every
couple months
there would be
another man on
a bridge with
a badly handwritten
note and a recently
purchased bottle
of whiskey, or
an elderly woman
clenching her
eye glasses with
trembling hands
as she steadily
edged closer to
the corner of
the observation
platform where
the receding safety
barrier was leading
into the abyss
below. She was
within inches
from the antenna
tower, where it
was possible to
fall if someone
willingly leaned
downward enough
to do so. I grabbed
her at the very
last moment as
she lunged forward,
and we watched
silently as her
enormous eye glasses
spun from her
fingertips, spiraling
seven hundred
feet to the crowded
city street below.
At least I did.
I’m not
sure if she could
see well enough
without them.
Come to think
of it I don’t
think she could
see at all. She
died a few days
later, but that
story never made
the news.
Yesterday
it was the pretty
young girl with
the fist full
of pills and the
three day supply
of prescription
sleep medication
already sifting
though her stomach.
She knew the system
and was on the
brink of swallowing
them when she
caught my wandering
attention. Instantly,
I viciously threw
her hands away
from her face
in an instinctive
wave of emotion,
the glass of water
and yellow pills
splashing across
the marble linoleum
floor like a suicidal
tsunami.
The
problem with this
was that she was
one of our summer
interns and it
was my job to
hide this unfortunate
incident from
the attention
of the media.
Thankfully we
had doctors in
the building and
we were able to
pump her stomach
in the facility
in the basement
where we train
for such unpleasant
disturbances.
Plus, the local
media and the
whole country
had enough of
my rescues already
on record so this
one was even more
special because
it was secret
and improved my
credibility within
the office. Now
my reputation
sparkled like
a diamond throughout
the entire company.
I was sure that
I was going to
be president soon
enough.
*
* *
I
maintained my
connection to
my dear friend
Morgan through
the buried treasures
we secretly left
for each other
every other September
through the ingenious
idea he had cleverly
concocted during
our senior year
in high school.
Morgan, being
the creative benevolent
spirit that he
was, proposed
the brilliant
time capsule idea
as a tangible
way to keep in
touch through
the vast distances
of spaces, places,
and faces in-between
our continents
and changing lives.
Every
other year we
would return separately
in the second
half of September
and dig up the
old aluminum box,
which we buried
in Nantucket beneath
an old decaying
fishing boat illuminated
by starfish and
phosphorescent
barnacles. We
had been attracted
like pathetic
magnets to this
secluded spot
in front of the
decrepit sea vessel
as if by some
prophetic cosmic
calling one night,
and we promised
each other to
someday return
separately to
experience the
stellar views
dancing above
our heads once
again.
The
rules were that
we could only
return for two
days at a time
during the two
week span and
could only visit
the spot for an
hour each day
to dig up and
bury our gifts.
It was a stupid
idea. A peculiar
ritual that grew
increasingly demented
and surreal as
the years progressed.
At
first it was the
usual innocuous
items. Letters,
pictures, poetry,
music, cheap jewelry.
Neither of us
ever left a phone
number or an email
address to keep
in touch on any
other level, and
on the first five
occasions neither
of us ever encountered
one another. Though
it seemed on a
couple incidences
our paths had
crossed by no
more than a few
hours.
Morgan
always left very
nice letters,
carefully protected
in plastic bags
sealed with many
layers of messy
glue. I used to
write friendly
letters too. Until
I noticed the
dead rabbits stuffed
neatly inside
the leather guitar
box beneath our
aluminum time
capsule. Then
my letters became
very inquisitive.
Immediately demanding
that Morgan inform
me how he could
kill so many innocent,
defenseless little
animals.
I
knew it was from
him because there
was always another
note on top of
the guitar case,
mixed in with
the few inches
of sandy dirt
between our box
and the bottom
of the hole. At
first I opened
the case with
such pleasure
and excitement,
as if there was
actually a buried
treasure sitting
in my dirty trembling
hands.
It
was six years
since I had last
seen the eternally
magnificent, beautiful,
charming, Morgan.
I could hardly
contain my obvious
excitement while
struggling to
rapidly unbuckle
the scratched
metal latches
on his guitar
case. The rabbits
were shaped in
such an awkward
position. As if
the great Morgan
himself had actually
attempted to make
them fill out
the case in the
shape of the missing
instrument.
I
was riveted by
this hideous discover.
I pivoted on my
knees and spun
the case shut,
throwing it back
into the hole.
The stench bit
at me viciously
as I began writing
an improvised
message of shock
to my gentle friend
Morgan, crying
tears into the
red ink of the
pen, turning the
words purple and
murky.
I
reburied the guitar
case and placed
it beneath our
box, exactly as
I had found it.
*
* *
Two
years later I
opened the box
in the middle
of the night to
make sure that
nobody witnessed
anything unusual.
As if I wasn’t
doing the most
damn unusual of
things to begin
with. Cursing
Morgan with my
whispers I directed
the flashlight
beam upon the
dirt and dug with
my feet until
I reached our
box. Inside was
the usual items.
A benevolent letter
written as if
Morgan had no
idea about the
rabbits, giving
no indication
of having even
read my message
concerning the
murdered animals.
It was as if everything
was absolutely
normal and nothing
had even happened.
I
placed the flashlight
on top of our
box and began
to shovel into
the ground below,
ultimately making
a clearing around
the guitar case,
reading the brief
message Morgan
left in the sand.
“My
music was my life.
I can’t
use it anymore.
I am useless.”
I
threw the paper
on the beach and
unlatched the
guitar case with
reluctance. I
was definitely
expecting to find
something worse
than the first
time, but didn’t
know what it would
be. I was certainly
surprised by my
discovery.
“I
found lobsters!”
That
was my response,
as I sat down
on the sand and
began crying silently.
About
three dozen giant
Nantucket lobsters
were crammed into
every inch of
his guitar case.
I wrote my reply
in a fury of emotions
and began to close
the case when
suddenly I noticed
some movement
coming from the
orange cluster
of jaggedly cracked
shells and angry
mangled claws.
It was alive and
walked right out
of the damn guitar
case. Danced right
across the beach
like a phosphorescent
fairy and disappeared
into the water.
I
shuddered and
finished burying
the items. Then
went home to go
to bed. Hoping
that two years
would change everything.
That Morgan would
fill the guitar
case with butterflies.
Live butterflies
that flutter with
beauty and fly
to the moon like
florescent shooting
stars.
*
* *
Morgan
and I hadn’t
spoken a word
to one another
outside of the
time capsule.
It was our only
communication
and my intention
was to propose
exchanging phone
numbers and emails,
getting together
after so many
years. I had the
note all written
when I began digging
in the middle
of the night.
It was the ides
of September and
it looked as if
the sand was just
freshly planted
into place as
I tore it apart
with my shovel.
The
case was filled
with music. Songs
and lyrics he
had wrote were
crumpled up into
little balls in
the guitar case
and the note explained
it all.
“I
didn’t have
what it takes
to go professional,
my dear friend.
I just didn’t
have the magic
ingredient.”
And
with that I began
to realize that
my wonderful friend
Morgan must be
upset with not
yet having fulfilled
his boyhood goal
of becoming a
professional musician.
For he had the
intellect to do
many extraordinary
things, and had
in fact graduated
with a business
degree from Princeton
University in
little more than
three years. He
was certainly
worthy of greatness.
But some dreams
are unattainable
for us all, even
the extraordinary
Morgan himself.
He was only human
after all.
The
last line on his
note was written
much smaller,
and I didn’t
noticed it until
I was just about
to toss the message
aside and leave.
The words sunk
in like an anchor
smashing into
the bottom of
my stomach.
“I
am going to kill
myself dear buddy.”
“If
I must for some
reason return
to this same god
forsaken spot
of Nantucket earth
having not yet
achieved my deepest
dreams and ambitions
in two more years
I will succeed
in achieving what
you thankfully
and blessedly
failed on top
of that snowy
mountain. Unlike
your fortunate
situation, nobody
will be around
to save my life.
Saving you from
falling was my
calling my dear
boy. Hope for
the notes my friend.
Hope.”
I
told Morgan through
my words that
he would achieve
everything if
he only believed
in himself as
much as I and
everybody else
did. I told him
how we needed
to see each other
again, and then
I went home to
dream about the
future.
*
* *
Two
years elapsed
like a magic dream,
and I found myself
once more on hands
and knees in front
of the treasure.
This time the
earth was not
so neatly preserved
and it looked
as if an animal
or a person had
unearthed the
first few inches
of our usually
perfectly level
spot. I wandered
if our perverse
intricate secrecy
had finally been
jeopardized, instantly
spinning the flashlight
in wild nervous
circles toward
the Atlantic Ocean
and the rolling
dunes of the darkened
beach.
The
moon was full,
the wind was furious,
and my heart was
racing like a
balloon full of
helium toward
the glorious stars
above as I began
to open the time
capsule and read
the beautiful
note from my companion.
He told me that
he agreed we should
meet and suggested
we do so as soon
as possible. He
said he could
not wait and promised
it would be today.
Gently
removing the guitar
case from the
hole, I sat down
and read the note
in the sand.
“I
hope we meet again
someday under
different circumstances.”
On
the bottom it
mentioned the
directions of
his savage scavenger
hunt.
“Now
walk to the ocean
and look for the
freshest hole!”
I
did so immediately
and easily found
my dear friend
Morgan sitting
in the bottom
of the hole, transfixed
in such a precarious
posture of elegance,
his hands in the
sand and perched
in the most peculiar
position imaginable.
A mass of crabs
were feasting
happily on his
corpse. With his
wet ragged clothes
he looked like
a defeated scarecrow
who had just lost
a significant
struggle with
the vicious sea
vultures who were
triumphantly pecking
through his fresh
putrid flesh.
I
buried our boxes
and then returned
to hurriedly burry
my loyal friend
Morgan in the
wet shallow grave
which he had so
neatly dug for
himself, as if
even in death
he decided to
show off his fantastic
talents. For how
perfectly he could
dig the dimensions
of his own sand
coffin.
I
began to cover
Morgan with the
wet sand from
the neat square
pile when suddenly
I noticed a piece
of paper protruding
through the bottom
of the hole near
his left hand.
I knelt down and
reached into the
golden grave,
lifting the envelope
from the sandy
tomb with a whisper
“I‘m
sorry,”
and as I stood
up and read the
words I wondered
why Morgan was
so wonderful.
“I
would have buried
myself alive but
couldn’t
accomplish such
an ambitious endeavor.”
Even
in death the distinguished
Morgan wanted
his suicide to
look meticulous
and impressive.
I wrote a brief
note, placed it
in a bottle, and
threw it into
the September
sea. I watched
a star dance into
the moonlit horizon
as I said goodbye
one last time.
That’s the
last correspondence
I ever had with
my dear friend
Morgan.
I
do believe and
hope that someday
that note will
get into the hands
of the angels
who hold my hero
in their hands.
If I could I would
confess this incident
to the appropriate
authorities, if
I thought it would
make any difference.
But someday I’m
gonna be company
president.
©
2008 by
Matthew Dexter
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