I Paint Myself

“Yeah, he’s at Maryland now.”

“Yes! He mentioned that. Does he like it there?”

“Oh yes, much better.”

Somehow, their semi-hushed voices made their way through the clamoring crowd to my ears. I looked just in time to catch my mom emphatically nodding her head, the words trailing from her lips. I’m not sure why I looked; I knew who was talking as soon as I heard the voices. It didn’t surprise me either — she had a habit of talking about me as if I wasn’t even there — it was kind of funny actually. I let my sidelong glance linger a few more seconds, then returned my eyes to the game. The prospect of having them realize I was listening seemed infinitely more embarrassing.

“Yeah, he had a tough time at his last school.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. “

“Yeah, he had us pretty worried…lost almost thirty pounds.”

Eighteen pounds, I corrected her in my head.

I snuck another sidelong glance: my Mom’s head bobbing up and down again, the other woman’s hand over her mouth.

“That’s terrible. Where was he again? Gettysburg, right?”

“Well he did a year at Gettysburg then transferred to Juniata.”

“Where’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”

No one has, I thought.

“It’s out in PA. But yeah, he really likes Maryland I think. He already has a lot of friends there, you know? I think he just needs to know some people. Then he’s fine.”

“Well good. I’m glad he’s getting along better.”

I welcomed the opportunity to be depressed. They acted like something was wrong with me. Well, maybe something is wrong with me, I thought. I began to paint myself a rogue youth misunderstood by the world. I fancied myself scorned by life, too smart to fall for its facade. “What’s his deal?” they whisper as I walk past. “He’s different,” they say. “I wonder what goes on in his head?”

A cheer from the crowd broke my thoughts.

Should I cheer? I wondered.

I looked around the stands at all the screaming parents and suddenly became painfully aware of how I was standing, how my hands were hanging stupidly by my side. I hastily slid them into my pockets.

I won’t cheer, I decided. It’s been too long for me to even know any of these players.

I scanned the bench, looking for a familiar face. I saw a few kids who I knew, but not very well. Of course, I knew Coach, but that was different. The sight of him dropped a new heavy worry onto my chest.

Should I talk to him after the game? I’ve always had other people with me when we talk after games, but tonight I’m alone.

I tried not to think about it.

“Hey bud, you want some wings?”

I looked up to find my Dad thrusting a helping of wings into my hands.

“Of course he wants wings!” chimed in my Mom. “That’s the only reason he came!”

An eruption of appreciative laughter surrounded me. I laughed to satisfy them, thinking that the wings were certainly not the only reason I came to the game.

Soon the game was over and I was making my way through the crowd back to my car. I stood by the fence for a moment, watching Coach give his post-game talk to the team.

What would I say to him? I wonder if he knows I’m not playing ball anymore?

Excuses flooded my mind.

They lost, he probably doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now. I don’t know how long he’ll be talking to the team. It’s going to be Hell getting out of here.

I stayed for only a few more seconds. I felt his eyes on me as I walked away. I felt everyone’s eyes on me: the parents, the players, the little kids, the opponents. I sped up, telling myself I was trying to beat traffic, dreading the idea of running into someone I knew.

If I see someone, I’ll just go a different way. I’ll pretend like I didn’t see them.

But I made it to my car safely. I sat in the driver seat, relieved, yet somewhat disappointed. I began to paint myself the outcast, the invisible man, the kicked-aside, and the forgotten. The familiar gloom cast over me, and I welcomed it as an old friend. It felt good to be somber, alone in the night and the warm air of Fall.

Why do I do this? I asked myself. Someday, I will paint myself satisfied. I will paint myself good and whole and loved, but the paint will drip and smear. The canvas will remain blank, and I will laugh at how I wished for such a life. Now, the canvas is blank, and I do not like the man I have become.