Nothing Left to Know, by Mike Lee, sparkling water

Dave entered community college after the registrar volunteered to review his high school transcript.

When Dave handed the transcript to the clerk, he was told to go to “that man” first. Since he was a dropout and had yet to take his general equivalency diploma, Dave needed his approval to register at the community college.

The registrar looked at the sheet, sighed, and mumbled, “Okaaaayyyy.”

Upon handing it back to him, he said, “Perfect grades in Philosophy and Religion, Media Studies and the histories. You flunked nearly every other class.”

He paused. “You’re either going somewhere important—or waking up in the morning under an overpass. It’s your choice, now.”

This was on an afternoon during the late summer heat. Dave had sold his collection of punk rock singles at a used record shop before heading to the auditorium for class registration.

Dave remembered the man’s gaze when he handed back his transcript. They locked eyes.

The registrar hesitated for a moment before letting it go from his grasp.

He looked hopeful, or so Dave believed, as he turned away from him to get back into the registration line.

“Good luck,” the man said as Dave walked away.

Dave sighed in relief, paid his fees, and bought his textbooks with the money he had earned from selling the singles.

Dave registered for four classes: Sociology, Introduction to Psychology, an introductory course in English Literature, and Texas History. Three classes were held at the old high school building at Rio Grande Street, and Texas History was an at-home study, with classroom dates to turn in midterms and final papers.

Two weeks after classes began, he got a job a mile from the school washing dishes at a steak house, four nights a week, at minimum wage.

The job was repetitive and mindless, and it made him feel at ease. The rhythm of shoving racks, pressing the button on the Auto-Chlor dishwasher, and putting dishes and trays away gave him opportunities to daydream while Tony, the main cook, blasted Delta blues and obscure old country music from the radio cassette deck combo on the steel rack next to the grille.

During downtime, Dave studied and read the Diamond Sutra, trying to make sense of its heavily fathomed depths.

A month into the job, Dave saved enough to move from home. Since he didn’t have a car, it became too embarrassing to drive to school and work.

Mom didn’t mind. She told him she could use the emotional space.

So did he.

He found a notice on the bulletin board at the liquor store down the block from work advertising a garden studio behind one of the houses around the corner. It was furnished at $150 a month, and utilities were paid.

The studio was a converted shed. Its kitchenette featured a 1920s double sink with chrome and glass touches. It was furnished with an aged fold-out couch, a coffee table, and a single bed. Dave did his homework at the red Formica dining table, listening to music on his cassette player.

Leona, his landlady, lived in the main house. She was friendly and occasionally doted on him. Dave helped with her garden on Sundays, and sometimes they dined together.

So this was home. His telephone was in the booth outside the liquor store. Dave called his mother daily to let her know he was okay. Now and then, she didn’t pick up, but he learned not to mind.

He didn’t hang out as much with his friends, and outside of a visit by a couple of them shortly after he moved in, only his landlady and form time to time his mother came by. He enjoyed the solitude, studying with his textbooks and reading books such as the Dhammapada, the Sutras, Alan Watts, and others.

One morning in November, when the heat dissipated into autumn cool, he arrived early to study in the high school’s former cafeteria. It was repurposed into a common area, with snack machines and a rack of video games in the back.

He just sat down when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Whoa.”

Standing over him was a guise from the near past. Sherry was one of his ex-girlfriend’s friends. Her peroxide hair was stuffed in a Greek Fisherman’s cap, and under her bomber jacket, she wore a Joy Division T-shirt.

“Hey! Nice running into you,” she said. “I heard you were here. How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” Dave said. He was sheepish about talking to her, given she was close to his ex-girlfriend. That relationship didn’t end well.

She pointed at the stack of books next to his open spiral. “That can’t all be for your classes?”

“No, not really. Been reading a lot since the summer,” he said. “I guess I will read until there is nothing left to know.”

They chatted for a short time. Sherry was taking a Math Intro class to fulfill her obligations at the university, and she was still making the music scene. Dave was reticent about the past but listened to the gossip. Monica, his ex, was dating a bass player.

What is around him is noise except for the flip of the page, and a pen scratching on lined paper.

He thought of Alan Watts’s writing about change and joining the dance. Dave was, as far as he was concerned, dancing well.

Sherry had to leave for class and promised to meet next Thursday. After watching her leave, Dave returned to writing in his notebook, beginning his morning ritual of creating form out of desire.

Thursday, he wrote. Thursday, there is someone I want to know.

About the author

 

Mike Lee's work appears in or is forthcoming in Cafe Lit, Roi Faineant, Wallstrait, BULL, Drunk Monkeys, and many others. 

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