Code Junkie

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I was in a good mood. As often as I like to badmouth my friends' social failings, it was a nice change of pace to experience one of them growing. Jerry, more so than Ted. Ted was a lot more on-base and stable than our curly friend. Or maybe he just hid it well. Jerry's upbringing involved years of antiquated coddling and a family setting that made every failure a chance at earning love, affection, and celebratory comeuppance. He came out of childhood as a decent person, but you simply cannot fix something by throwing money and sweet words at it. Thus, there are times that his untouched social stunting becomes so painfully prevalent that we cannot do anything except shake our heads and bear the embarrassment with him.

We all parted ways and it was a sunny afternoon when I arrived home. The house seemed a bit cleaner, a bit homelier, and, in my mind, a bit more colorful. It was as if I were wearing a new pair of glasses, or if I had just awoken from a lengthy sleep, one not inundated with the burden of too much deep slumber, almost invariably resulting in the distant, throbbing headache that lasts far too long into the waking hours.

I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water from the tap. For a moment, I considered what exactly went into making our first world's water clean. How many added chemicals were there, what did they mean by added minerals, why were said minerals not present in the first place, and what led to the realization that we needed the minerals? Water is water. It is our baseline standing, a source of our livelihood. It makes up however much of our bodies and even more of our planet and we claim to understand that we can add x amount of y to make it "better," to make it more acceptable. To make the purest form of our existence purer. Playing God by claiming his toys are not good enough.

It is a simple glass. A cylinder a few inches tall and capable of shattering at a height of eighteen inches or more, chipping at twelve inches, and rolling with a thud at anything less. This glass belongs to a set of utensils and home furnishings that my parents received as a wedding gift from some local businessman they were friends with, years ago, back before I was officially a bastard. I could remove dozens of plates and drink-ware from said matching set and arrange them, from practicality to size, through all varying degrees of use shown throughout. Oddly enough, since my parents were out-of-the-bottle alcoholics, the glassware was not the most worn product, but, in fact, the least touched.

In my mind, they spring up along my counter top: fifteen ceramic plates, eight glasses like the one in my hand, ten large dinner plates, dozens of utensils, a mixing bowl, a serving bowl, and a napkin holder. I hold up the glass in my hand to my eye and stare into the slightly bubbled tap water. Chemical influence and natural resistance, all by the hand of man, playing the hand of God, acting through one nation, under itself. The all-knowing being with an Oedipus complex.

Through the pale blue glass of water, I see something move through three layers of glass. Through the two sides of the cup and water, through the window, and through my backyard, I see people walking through the woods. I am instantly reminded of the incident involving my air conditioner, but it is only that nature club taking its stroll through the woods, once again. I am taken back to my high school days, when I, too, was a fan of the outdoors. On a day like today, they had the right idea. I finished the rest of my water, the imaginary plates having already disappeared, and go to look for my shoes.

The woods behind my house are dense. I am not sure if I have ever given much consideration to them. There were, at one point, plans to develop this land. There are acres of abandoned farmland after about a mile of forest. Beyond the trees, the land stretches, barren and brown, for what seems like forever. Objectively, three-fourths of a mile away, the forest begins once more, stretches for three miles, and then meets the shore. I am not sure if anywhere else in America could replicate Deptford's unique nature. Anywhere else, the shoreline properties would be scooped up and manhandled by their respective developers. Here, in Washington, it is far too rocky and steeply inclined to build any retirement or starter homes.