Paul Brenner
An Unfortunate Turn of Events

I have found in my years on this earth that being ordinary is a far greater sin than any that may have been listed in Biblical times. My name is Robert, and I am utterly and unbearably mediocre. I'm not particularly good looking, but then again you couldn't call me Quasimodo. I am a straight C student, have been since elementary school, and I still very much am. I am in my 12th year here at Middlesex High school located in this very blue collar town. I have found myself over the years attempting many great feats; well, I suppose they wouldn't be great to anybody other than me.

You see, as I said, I am ordinary in ever aspect of the word, but ironically I am a dreamer. I find myself on most days dreaming of what my gift could be. I have attempted every sport, but to my dismay never succeeded to a point where I could receive any recognition. I am no physical specimen; I can assure of that. I have tried my hand in weightlifting, but without much surprise it was to no avail.

At a certain point when a man is seemingly down on his luck, he may find himself attempting something that he never would do otherwise. As I said, I have searched; I have clawed at my brain to find even the smallest inkling of talent. It is a very sad day when a man can come to the realization that he will never stand out. Some may say I am young yet, haven't found my niche; I wish that was the case.

It's Tuesday morning and the grand entrance way to the school looks more uninviting than ever. It seems so unnecessary to me, tremendous cement pillars led up to by what has to be at least fifty cement steps. You know if you stand at the base of the steps the entrance isn't so intimidating, the trouble comes on about the fortieth step. It's almost like the exhale of a giant beast. You can hear screams and muffled voices as the youth of three different towns clash inside the belly of this giant monster. On a bad day it's enough to weaken my knees.

Once I get inside I walk directly to homeroom. Now don't consider me antisocial; I have friends. It just takes me a little while to get acclimated on a Tuesday morning. You see, you will never find me in school on a Monday. There is just something about it. I understand that nobody likes Mondays; it's common. For me I believe it's different; I don't dislike it because it's the beginning of the work week; I dislike it because it's the first day back from the weekend. You may say it's the same thing, but for me it isn't. You see, on Monday all you will hear are the hazy tales from Friday and Saturday, the extraordinary weekends of my peers. Don't get me wrong, I have friends, but our weekend adventures are seemingly run-of-the-mill compared to the legends told on a Monday.

There's something worse though, something that can actually bring a tear to my eye, and that's the morning announcements. On Monday morning a student at Middlesex High School will be informed of how well the teams did on Friday and Saturday night. Football is very big around here, the biggest, and the team is doing very well. To see the admiration these players get in school, it's an all-week thing, but on Monday it's especially thick.

I have the utmost respect for any athlete. Perhaps, it's simply because it's something I could never be. There are a few though, a few players that take what they have for granted. I'm not talking popularity or having the best looking girlfriends. It is simply the skill, the ability they have to run, catch, or throw, whatever it may be. To see an athlete seemingly shrug of his gift makes me fucking nauseous.

As usual I daydream through all of my classes. You could call them delusions of grandeur. I dream of things I will never achieve, girls I will never touch, and of situations I will never be put in.

If there's one thing I love, it's lunch. That's my time, my time to hangout and think. There's always that chance that I may discover a talent that lays dormant deep inside me. The lunch room is the perfect environment, the proverbial high school melting pot, always somewhere or should I say someone to get inspiration from. I'm in line; you know those lines in the cafeteria. When you're in the front you're standing side by side with those in the back. I sit alone at lunch. I mean I have friends, I just prefer to sit alone. I can focus better that way. As I sit here today I feel as if something is a little bit off. Not in the cafeteria, but in me. I can't really put it into words though; you know it just must be one of those days. I'll be home soon enough, and I will go about my business as usual.

Wednesday is probably my favorite day of the week, ironically. It's kind of middle of the road, nothing too bad but nothing particularly good either. Maybe it's because it's as far away from the weekend as I can get. Today is good for me. I had no trouble entering this morning, and in second period I made a new friend. We had to work in groups; it will be that way for the rest of the week. Maybe I'll work on my shot today after school. I've shot ten in a row from the foul line before, and that's not half bad.

Man, I haven't shot a basketball in a long time. You see, I tend to feel inspired by what most people would see as trivial happenings. I'm not going to say that just because I made the acquaintance of someone who may be gifted in the areas I'm not, gifted at all for that matter, that it has seemingly lifted my spirits.

Well I didn't go ten for ten, but I didn't shoot so bad, average I guess. All in all it was a pretty good day. I haven't been able to say that in awhile. I think tomorrow is going to be pretty good too. I'll sleep well enough tonight.

“Hey, Bob did you get that stuff done?”

This couldn't be worse, figures. I forgot to do my share of the research for my group. Already I can feel myself starting to sweat. You know I had a shot, I had a real shot of making some friends here. Not that I need friends, but I blew it.

“Hey, Bob did you do that research?”

What was I going to say? Maybe I could bullshit it, you know tell the guy I did it but….

“Yeah I did it, but I left it home, sorry bro.”

“Hey, don't apologize to me, man; I don't care.”

See that's the kind of guy Jim was: cool, easygoing. You see Jim was a star, to me at least. Jim was the football team's halfback. It was only six games into the season and this guy already had almost nine-hundred yards rushing. That's what I wish I could do. If I could run like that and play ball like that, I think I would wear my stats on my chest. You know up close Jim was kind of godly. He wasn't particularly tall or particularly smart, but he was built like an athlete. I wish I could know what it was like to be an athlete. I mentioned the admiration a football player at Middlesex High School received, Jim was no exception. As we arrange our desks, groups of four, I could see it in the eyes of my other two partners, Amy and Chandu. It may sound a little odd, but I'm actually honored to be in Jim's group for this project.

Don't get me wrong, the whole project as I see it is pointless. We're supposed to research a particular president, and then regurgitate information back to the class in a presentation tomorrow. It's your average sixth grade history project.

I didn't really know too much about Amy or Chandu. Amy, I had gone to elementary school with. She wasn't particularly attractive, but she wasn't bad looking. The only solid recollection of ever having spoken to her came from the time she accused me of stealing out of the desks of my classmates in fifth grade. I didn't do it though, I caught a bum wrap. I don't really care for her, she's obnoxious.

Chandu was a foreign exchange student. He hasn't been here for too long, but you wouldn't know that from the way he picked up English. All in all he was a good guy, he didn't say much, but a good guy none-the-less.

Our President was Abraham Lincoln. This was upsetting to me. There is not much that can be said about Lincoln that is not already known by your average 12 th grade student. You know the old “four score” and the Ford's Theatre incident. At least there wasn't going to be much research involved.

“You didn't get your shit done, did you?”

I told you she was obnoxious.

“Yeah I did; I just forgot to bring it. I'll just type up the information tonight, no big deal. I'll have everything here tomorrow. I wouldn't leave you guys hanging.” Although, I would love to see her hanging form the rafters.

“Well, you and Jim gotta get together this afternoon, and get your parts of the presentation done. Chandu is coming to my house so we can do our share.”

“Hey, man I got read-through today after school, but I'll swing by your place after that. It will probably be like five o' clock or something.”

“Sounds good; you know where I live?”

“Yeah, you live across the street form my girl.” I knew that; I'm just surprised he did.

Jim's girlfriend was one of the best looking girls in school. She lives directly across the street from me. She's the reason I moved my basketball hoop to the side of the house. It's one thing to be slightly better then awful at basketball; It's another to have a beautiful girl watching you be slightly better than awful. It's embarrassing.

It's lunch time. All I can think about is Jim coming over after school. I haven't had a friend over in a long time. I mean I have friends; they just don't come to my house. I'm excited. What if he gives me some sort of valuable tip to improve my game? It's possible you know; great coaching has made great athletes. I will wait until we get started with the project and then I'll ask him if he's got any pointers. If I'm lucky he will have some bit of invaluable information, a little insight into the way of the athlete.

It's about five-thirty now; Jim said he would be here at five. When I got home, I made sure my autographed picture of Barry Sanders was in plain view, you know so Jim can see I'm a fan. Barry Sanders was a halfback you know, that will be my in. He will most definitely see the picture and figure I am a football fan, then I can ask him for some pointers.

Finally a knock at the door, it's six o' clock and I was beginning to get a little bit worried that he wasn't coming.

“Hey, man, what's going on? Sorry I'm late. I got caught up with my girl, you know how it is.” Really I didn't, but I pretended like I did.

“Yeah, no problem, let's get started on this garbage.”

It only took about 20 minutes to get all the information we needed; now we just had to put it in some sort of logical order. I couldn't really focus though. I was just waiting for Jim to notice the Barry Sanders photograph.

“So how's football going? The team is looking great this year.”

“Eh, you know, same old stuff, no big deal. I'm starting to get a little tired of it, kinda the mid-season drag. I can't wait fore the season to be over.”

“Yeah, I gotcha.”

Really I didn't though. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I felt a little bit sick; I though back to all those times I lie awake at night just dreaming about what it must feel like to have genuine ability. Ability enough to stand under the lights on a Friday night and have the entire student body turn out to see what I was going to do. How many yards I would pick up, or how many points I was going to put on the board.

“Hey, man I'll be right back.”

I had to walk away for a minute, regain my bearings. I was feeling nauseous at this point. How could this son-of-a-bitch just take what he had for granted? I would give anything for that kind of ability. You know what I do when I'm upset? I carry an aluminum bat. There's something about it that soothing to me. It helps me think; it helps me reason.

Jim was sitting in the chair with his attention towards the computer screen. I tell you the way I swung that bat, you would have though I've been playing baseball for years, real solid form. It was only one swing, it was my breaking point. The blow did severe damage to the back of Jim's head. I'm sure he doesn't have much longer. I'll tell you, it's strange I don't particularly feel very guilty. You know, the way a man should after committing such an act.

At a certain point, when a man is seemingly down on his luck he may find himself doing strange things. I mentioned earlier that it is a far greater sin than any to remain ordinary throughout one's life. I don't feel that way anymore. To have the ability to do great things, and take that ability for granted; that is the greatest sin.

At this point it is easy to see that I have gotten myself into a good amount of trouble. Even if I were to hide the body, Jim's girlfriend would certainly tell the authorities that he was last seen entering my house. I'm going to have to think of something.

You know, it's a little ironic. I feel somewhat like John Wilkes Booth; maybe he wasn't such a bad guy after all. Perhaps he had his reasons just as I did. These are reasons that others will never understand. The act that I have committed today was heinous, but still I don't feel any remorse. Jim should have felt guilty. Guilty for taking his God given ability for granted. He'll burn for that. As a matter of fact we both will.

There's no way out of this, I'll be caught without a doubt. I can't go to prison. I can barely walk through the halls of my own high school.

I walk over to the area where Jim's body is sprawled underneath the computer desk. There are still some visible signs of life; the blood from his head is coming out in spurts which leads me to believe his heart is still beating. How am I going to pick this guy up, he has to weigh over two-hundred pounds. I suppose I'll have to drag him. I grab Jim by his feet and begin the long haul down the hallway to my bedroom. His head is leaving a trail of blood on the carpet, and with this observation my body shutters upon the realization of just how brutal this crime scene is. At this point I've begun to wish I hadn't done this. What are the authorities going to call it? I hadn't planned on this; my actions were not premeditated. I guess you would call it a crime of passion.

Jim's body is now tightly hunched against my bureau. I can see only one solution. It's almost instinct, and so I am going with my gut. You know, I have heard a number of athletes say they play strictly on instinct. Maybe this is my game. Perhaps I hadn't realized it until now. Maybe this was my fate. I suppose I'll tell myself anything at this point to try and justify what I've done.

I have to wash my hands, so I don't leave blood on the door knob. You know, as I stand at the sink, I am forced to look at myself in the mirror, and you'd expect me to say I don't recognize the person I see. It's strange. I do. It's the same person that has always been there. The same person I see when I come home from a bad day at school. The same person I see when I can't sleep at night, because I feel utterly useless. It seems I have always had the capacity to commit this act. I say that because it seemingly hasn't changed me one bit.

The shed is cluttered, but I've had no trouble finding what I wanted. As I walk back through the yard I can see that I have lost track of time, it's got to be almost seven-thirty. I suppose I should hurry.

I'm a little anxious at this point. I close the door to my bedroom. The gasoline stinks, and it's making me a little woozy. I suppose that's the least of my problems. I pour the gas on the carpet as well as the bureau, and then Jim's body. There are no signs of life now. With the remainder of the gas I slosh it around the room as if I were one of those abstract artists.

You know they'll probably see it as an accident. They'll probably say we were smoking pot or something and we went crazy, didn't even realize the room was on fire. I hope that's the case; for my mother's sake. Maybe they'll even make one of those commercials about us. You know, how pot numbs the senses; send a message to the community. I drop the match.

I'm just trying to inhale as much smoke as I can, hopefully I'll pass out before I actually catch fire. You know, as murder-suicides go, I expected I wouldn't be so calm in this situation.