Speechless

by Adam P. Schmitt

just because I’m good at public speaking doesn’t mean I hate it any less.

just don’t worry about it.” I hate hearing that phrase. People only say that when something isn’t their problem.

Near-death experiences are hard to forget.

All I heard was “animals” and “dangerous”— two words any seven-year-old boy would take for bait.

I’ve never understood why kids cry when their parents leave. I’ve always looked forward to the freedom.

His personality had moments of usefulness.

There was a chance to get a full-size Snickers bar, and that was enough to motivate us.

There was a hostility in his voice that could intimidate kids who didn’t know him. He had a way of commanding an audience.

This was Patrick being Patrick, creating a masterful plan to destroy something good that happened to me. I wanted no part of it.

I promised myself to never listen to him again.

When you walk into a funeral home, this feeling happens. It’s like when you walk into church . . . but scarier. You don’t want to touch anything, you have to be quiet, and there are men in suits walking around watching you. It’s like a boring museum, with tissue boxes every ten feet.

Is that where I’m headed? Some big ugly mess because of a little thing like a speech? It already feels like everyone has turned on me.

I want someone to admit that no one wants to do it.

A for effort; not so much for results, though.

If a furniture store and a dentist’s office had a baby, this would be it. Open enough to accommodate a fair number of people, but without rows and structure — and a sense of anxiousness in the air.

The door. The metal-on-metal clamor I previously found unnerving is a welcome sound. Someone else is here. I don’t care if I know them; any interruption from this woman would be better than being alone with her.

“How does one summarize an entire life in a few words? A difficult task for anyone.

“Simply be honest. Tell everyone something you have learned from the deceased.”

Just write what I’ve learned and be honest. Just put some words on the page and clean it up later. Just write.

Patrick and fireworks was not a combination anyone imagined would lead to a happy ending.

demands shouted by children aren’t well received.

I had no interest in locating my pain threshold. I just liked the power of making things go boom.

Every time we see my grandma, I learn more family rules.

I hated when Patrick ruined things, but that night was different. He wasn’t the one who cheated or got an award because his dad was in charge. But he was still the one ostracized from the group. I felt sorry for him. Even though he was right, no one would listen to him. Especially me.

“You never get involved with someone else’s family.” Just like Grandma Mutz said: Never interfere.

Speak from the heart. Great advice from someone not giving a speech tomorrow.

I learned early in life that the word vacation can mean different things to different families. Some families go to Hawaii or on a ski trip. Our family vacations were always to see relatives, not destinations.

“Downtown,” like “vacation,” is a relative term.

“Why did they name it and then kill it?”

“Why did they name something they were going to kill?”

“Why do they eat animals they take care of?”

“How many animals have been killed?”

“Why are all the animals going to die?”

That’s the way Roy and Millie operated. They lived in their own happy place and chose to not acknowledge anything bad around them.

I didn’t know what to think of two people who would introduce a sweet animal to a group of kids, then expect them to eat it the next day. I wanted nothing to do with whatever was in the bag.

Smiling for so many hours seems like it takes it out of you more than standing, though.

Everyone who walks through the door is here to see my aunt and uncle. I feel bad for them. That’s a lot of polite conversations about their son’s death.

Who was the god of moving unseen? Leto? Lelantos? Doesn’t matter. That’s what I have to do. The entire building is too full of people for me to find an empty room, so I need to be motionless among the crowd until they don’t see me. That’s it. Just make it to that small space of freedom, remain still, and avoid eye contact. Like a hunter in the wild, I’ll become one with my surroundings.

Did it work? At least thirty seconds have gone by, and no one has noticed me. I did it. My strategy is working. I’m hiding in plain sight.

I don’t consider myself claustrophobic when the walls are closing in, but people closing in, I can’t handle that. These two are now blocking my only exit. I don’t see a way out of this space if I need to move. I’m trapped.

Why is everyone working against me to write this speech?

I’m walking from my own guilt. Micah wasn’t trying to push me. It’s just how he is. It wasn’t his fault. I just . . . I can’t be asked to do any more for anyone right now. Still, I feel awful. He came for Patrick. I know that. He was trying to be nice, in his own weird way. I didn’t think that little request would have set me off like that, but I just lost it. I snapped on someone who never saw it coming. Maybe I have more in common with Patrick than I realized.

I never said anything to her about what happened. Patrick’s side of the story would never be taken over a teacher’s. I figured he’d been punished enough.

I’d seen countless times where Patrick sought to make someone miserable. That day was different. I knew he hated school, and most of the teachers, but I saw something new in his reaction that afternoon. It wasn’t that Mr. Biner antagonized him. It was something else. It was the way he reacted when he had to go home early. He hated school and made no secret of it. But did he despise being home just as much? I don’t know. I have no idea where he felt like he belonged. That afternoon proved one thing, though. He was more comfortable walking into a thunderstorm than being in either one of those places.

Throughout the wake, I’ve heard the phrase “Pay my respects” uttered numerous times. No one ever respected Patrick, so I don’t get why they’re saying they do now. I’ve paid attention to exactly what this “paying respects” looks like. Everyone seems to be in on some secret at this wake that I don’t know about. People in the procession line have enacted the same ritual over and over. 1. Stand at the coffin. 2. Bow your head. 3. Kneel. 4. Wait ten seconds. 5. Rise and walk toward the back (some do the sign of the cross at this point, but I’m not sure what determines who gets to do that).

Malcolm Somner told me once that being Catholic basically means you memorize two prayers that fit any circumstance. “You need help, want out of trouble, or are thanking God for something? . . . Both work and they are always in a Catholic’s back pocket,” he would say.

I hate praying. I feel awkward every time I have to do it. Doesn’t matter if it’s at church or when Uncle Mike says grace, I never feel right doing it. Almost like God knows I don’t feel comfortable praying, and pretending is just lying, and that’s even worse. I can’t pretend now. I raise my head and look at Patrick’s picture sitting next to the coffin.

It wasn’t like he got a thrill out of it. He truly hated his picture being taken. Maybe there weren’t many moments he wanted captured. I’m not sure, but I am a thousand percent positive that having his school picture placed next to his casket wouldn’t have been his choice.

I can’t kid myself. I’m not kneeling here for him; it’s for me. I’ll swim with guilt if I don’t do this now. There. That’s honest, at least.

I hate this. Is everyone watching me? Feels like everyone has stopped talking and is waiting to see what I do now.