I am a weak, cowardly person, and in many ways I am not the hero of this story–although the events do concern me in large part. If I am to be entirely honest, the heroes of this story are those who rose over and above myself to demonstrate courage in the face of despair. But before I recount the story at hand, I must provide a brief disclaimer: it has been twenty-two years since the events of this story took place, and thus one must assume my memory has introduced some amount of error into the recollection. But nonetheless I have strived to provide an objective and fair account of all that has happened, so you may therefore assume that everything I say is true, except of course for those things which are not.
I have lacked courage for as long as I can remember. The first instance of cravenness I can directly recall was in the first grade, when my arch-nemesis Elijah pushed me down on the playground and I ran away crying. I remember how unjust the world felt at that moment; it was as if the entire universe had failed to uphold my own standards of righteousness. I could have done something about this, but as I said I am a coward–so instead of doing anything, I chose instead to simmer in my feelings of ineptitude. Someone braver than me would have done something, for surely anything would have been more courageous than just biting my tongue and running away crying. I have never forgiven myself for this embarrassment, and I chose in bitter spite to never forgive Elijah. Thus he became my arch-nemesis for all time.
And truth be told he felt no such feelings towards me, and as our school years went on I was not even sure he knew I existed. Such was my unyielding torment. I would spy on him out of the corner of my eye as he snickered and laughed with the other boys in class, and in my bitter self-pity I would imagine throttling his stupid neck, choking him and taking revenge for how he pushed me down in the first grade. Now that would be a suitable revenge, so surely would that be the moral redemption I had forever sought! But as I said I am a coward, and therefore I did no such thing. Instead I sat and observed him quietly from the shadows of my own self-image.
In the seventh grade I had a crush on a classmate of mine named Estrella, and I swear the crush I had on her could put even the love of God to shame. Such was the character of my infatuation. I would sit around idly wishing myself to move towards her, but again and again I would fail. Of course this is something I would reproach myself for quite violently, and like a scab that never truly healed I would keep picking at it. I would mock and belittle myself for my own perceived weakness, as if that would somehow transform me into a shining and courageous knight of virtue. And this self-reproach was not entirely without purpose, for occasionally after a large enough bout of self-flagellation I would acquire the needed self-hatred to approach her, and with uncharacteristic vigor I would begin my approach. But always without fail I would encounter some magnetic barrier when I got too close, and my cowardliness would return. In those moments I often tended to make a bitter fool of myself. One time, for no apparent reason, I turned my lunch tray upside down on myself as I got too near. I soaked myself in milk and corn and some sort of gravy, and the entire lunchroom laughed at me. At least that time I did not run away crying.
Things came to a head at the seventh grade year-end dance. I was wearing my best cargo pants and polo, and for once I had something almost approaching self-confidence. As the night went on I found myself increasingly inebriated by my own desire, and I began to feel quite sick with dread at what I somehow knew would come: I knew that night I would finally approach her. But still a coward I was, and so I bid my time until the last possible moment. The DJ announced it would be the last song of the evening, a slow dance for all of the love birds out there. And finally, my chance had arrived! I spotted her through the crowds across the room, and swallowing all of my fear and self-disgust I began to walk towards her, slow and unsure at first. But as I came closer I finally began to feel the slightest whispers of confidence, and she was just a few paces ahead of me, and I called out “Estrella–”
And then that mad demon Elijah swooped in instead! He asked her to dance before I could even stammer out the rest of my sentence. And he looked at me, and I swear to God in that moment he knew exactly what he was doing and had planned the entire night around it. I swear it by God, he had stalked me the entire evening and had seen me looking for her. And when he noticed I was finally making the jump, he decided to take her away! I watched him lead her away, holding her hands (how lecherous!), and at that moment I knew that either I would kill Elijah or kill myself before the night was over.
I considered killing Elijah first. It was unclear how I was going to accomplish such a feat on the crowded dance floor, so I decided I must ambush him in stealth–perhaps I could fashion something into a blade and stab him in the back before slipping away. But in consideration of this I had a terrible thought: what if he did not die at once, but instead turned and resisted me? Would I be able to fend him off? Moreover, by that point everyone would know who was the culprit! I proved myself too cowardly to kill Elijah, so I considered instead killing myself. But how embarrassing that would be! Surely I would be the talk of the town for months on end. I did not want anyone discussing me post-mortem, whether that be in mockery or pity. Then could I do it alone under the gentle twinkling of stars? Of course not, because I knew in my wretched heart that I would never be able to ‘pull the trigger.’ I knew even then that I would hesitate on the precipice, just as I had for everything in my life hitherto. So at last I decided to not kill Elijah or myself.
…
Another example of my cravenness comes from the tenth grade when I was bullied relentlessly by a gang of boys from the tennis team. First, I must make a note of the sheer humiliation provided by being bullied by tennis boys. To be shoved around by the football team is one thing, but tennis? Fucking tennis?
In the clarity of thought provided by many years, I can see now I actually kind of deserved it. For the truth is one day when I was walking home I passed by the tennis courts while they were practicing. I found one ball heading in my direction, and I went to catch it but failed miserably. it plunked me in the chest, and enraged I took the ball and tossed it (rather daintily) into the marsh on my right. The tennis boys all booed and decried this act, and for the rest of my years at school I found myself tormented by them relentlessly.
But there was one horrible action that tormented me more than any. One time the tennis boys were mocking my pathetic stature while I waited outside a class, and to my horror none other than Elijah came to my rescue! He told them to stop messing with me and that it was rather uncouth of them to pick on someone with no friends or life. And he really did not say this with malice but with pity, which served to make my blood boil even more. I felt this anger surge up inside of me, and I prepared to shout at him from the top of my lungs–but what actually transpired is that I stammered out a meek “thank you” with my eyes averted and scurried away like the timid creature I was.
…
When war broke out in the twelfth grade, I knew in my heart that I would do absolutely anything to avoid being drafted. While the other boys discussed which branch they would join, or how ready they were for combat, I brainstormed how to make myself ineligible for the draft.
I initially considered smashing my toes with a hammer. It seemed like a safe bet at ineligibility, and I supposed that they would one day heal. So I snuck into my father’s workshop late one night with the courage of a champion, and I raised the hammer high and mighty–but much as Abraham’s hand was stayed by that angel, so too was my hand stayed by my own cowardliness. I simply could not bring myself to hurt myself in such a way, craven I was! My toes laughed at me in the pale light, and I felt that mad demon Elijah taunting me from somewhere deep inside. Elijah would do it, Elijah would smash his toes without a second thought! I felt humiliation burning inside my cheeks; I felt a sea of repressed anger well up inside of me, and once more I raised the hammer high and mighty, but once again my courage abandoned me in the moment of truth.
Unable to mutilate my own feet, I considered other options. For some time I pondered the idea of vagrancy. How difficult could it be to run away to a foreign country and start a new life? Surely not that difficult. So I began constructing a new alibi for my life abroad. His name was Dave Montana, and he was the most confident, charming, and assertive person you have ever met. He worked on a ranch as a cowhand, and he spent his free time camping under the stars with his horse and guitar. I saw myself living this life as if through a transparent pane. So I prepared to become Mr. Montana. I went to the store, and I bought a whip and a cowboy hat. But then I realized something! Where would I sleep each night on my pilgrimage south? Well I’d need to camp, but then I remembered my own fear of camping I had procured as a young child. While camping by a lake with my family, a large spider had crawled inside my tent and traumatized the poor boy I was. Thus I realized my dream to become Mr. Montana had been doomed from the beginning. I would never be able to surpass my own fear of sleeping outdoors.
The final method of escaping the draft I seriously considered concerned finding a girl to marry. And this was not as implausible as it may sound today; I was fairly handsome despite my cravenness, and I came from an admittedly well-to-do family on top of that. It was a fairly trivial endeavor to visit the local trailer park and find someone desperate for a chance at a better life. I remember speaking to her father about the prospect, and he asked (slurring many of his words), “What in the Goddamn does an uppity boy like you want with my daughter?” His breath reeked of alcohol, and their trailer reeked even more of despair. I told him nothing even remotely resembling the truth. I told him I had known this girl in school for some time and that we had slowly been falling in love. The girl, for her part, was eager and willing to play along with this lie.
So we called together a little shotgun wedding–I didn’t even tell my parents–and an hour ‘til midnight on one fateful evening in April a priest read us the vows. And he turned to me and asked me to say my part, and I opened my mouth and completely froze. I stammered, coughed, put my hands in my pockets, and looked around oddly. The priest and girl both raised their eyebrows at me in expectation. I briefly met her eyes, then the priest’s, and then I ran out of the church as fast as my Goddamn legs would carry me.
…
My own lack of courage actually became the catalyst for this entire story insofar as my inaction caused the draft notice to appear one day at my house. I was to join the air force as soon as high school ended in a month. The next day in school all the boys were discussing their draft notices, which all appeared around the same time. They all had mirth on their faces and the cockiness of youth ready at hand. All I had was fear, and each night until my due date I trembled in my bed like a sick baby.
One night, laying awake in terror until the world had long been still, I considered my ultimate plan of action to escape the war–my ultimate act of cowardliness. When the bus came, I would stamp my feet, and defiantly tell them “No, by the Gods and all that is just in this world, I tell you no! I will not come!” And I actually began preparing a long speech that night, invoking my own rights as an end unto myself. I spent quite some time writing this, and after much trial I finished. I rehearsed this speech many times over before the bus came.
I distinctly remember the day the bus came to my house. It was the day after we all graduated, when the boys in my class all shook each other’s hand and promised to trade war stories when they all came home. I had hoped they would all die. Then the next day the bus appeared in front of my house as promised, and before I knew what was happening there was a knock at the door, and when I opened it there stood the most intimidating man I had ever seen. He was tall and broad, with a buzz cut and a deep scar tracing the left side of his face from brow to cheek. We stood staring at each other for what felt like an eternity… and I opened my mouth to recite my speech, but nothing came out. As it so happens, I grabbed the bag I had already packed and got on the bus.