1.

Christian woke up at 6:57, three minutes before his alarm. He had been doing this for longer than he could remember, but had only recently accepted the fact that he would never, in the years that he had left, be able to sleep until the ungodly hour of seven o'clock.

And it's not like he had a decent excuse, either. He could have accepted this inconvenience if, say, a freighter came by and blew its horn like it was its last day on earth, or if it was due to a disorder, like insomnia or something, or even just chronic nightmares, but no, he had nothing. He had less than nothing. He had three minutes fewer of sleep every night then he should have and more than anything else, the inability to sleep in to precisely the time he wanted really pissed him off.

His mouth drooled half open against his pillow, and a shortness of breath was already starting to grow in his chest. Christian never talked in the morning, except with eyes; a strategic, non-verbal, form of communication that he had mastered years ago. It was originally developed as a defense mechanism against his mother, who was, on top of everything else, a morning person. She seemed to be oblivious to Christian's desire to be a mute for the first hour of each day, and every morning, greeted him with the same gleeful, cheery words that would make any and all teenagers want to close a door violently on their temple. Or at least, he would imagine so.

Julie was something else. It seemed that she was under the impression that marijuana was a gift from God that could solve just about any problem that she was presented with, so when she delivered her son at the age of nineteen, she lit a doobie right there in the delivery room. And while it most likely did relieve her pain, it had a most unfortunate and lingering side effect. At some point within the next four hours, she, unquestionably still stoned, told the nurse that she had decided on the name for her child. Light giggles interrupted her otherwise incomprehensible babble, and as she made it official, she laughed wholeheartedly inside that she had just given to a good Jewish boy, the name of Christian.

"Good morning, Christian. How's my little Jewish angel doing today?" Christian coughed through his morning mucus. "I was starting to get worried that you were going to sleep in and forget about school. But no, not my precious darling!"

            The best thing about the morning was by far the bowl of cereal. For five minutes, Christian could sit over his bowl, spoon in hand, and feel the cold milk wash all of his anxieties away. His bare feet felt in place against the cold tile floor, where their toes curled in and out rhythmically as he chewed.

            Two years ago Christian's mother had stopped trying to make conversation while he ate, after a paroxysmal outburst that sent her face down to her pillow for the good portion of eight hours. But this hadn't crossed Christian's in a year and a half. She resigned to leave the room while he ate, but it wouldnt have mattered to him either way; he ignored her regardless of her presence.

            His bowl rang against the kitchen sink, and his mother reappeared from the living room.

            "How's your speech coming?"

            "Fine, it's almost done."

            "Good. Good."

            Fingers tap against the countertop.

            "Didnt you start a new book a few days ago?"

            "Mmmh."

            "How is it."

            "Not bad."

            "Cool."

            Conversations were an awkward and rare occurrence between the two. She was more comfortable talking when she knew he wouldnt respond. So was he. Most of their communication was some sort of familial telepathy; they got inside each others brains, they knew what they were thinking, and that was enough for both of them.

            Mother and son left through opposite doors, and as if a dark cloud cast a shadow on the kitchen, their spirits immediately lifted, and both went on to do what ever needed to be done for the day.

2.

            The morning fog was thicker than usual, even for a Thursday. It was probably fifty out when Christian left his home ceremoniously without saying goodbye to his mother, but he was never very good at judging. If the subject ever came up, as it often did - Christian had a habit of talking about the weather, especially in awkward conversational pauses - he would go on to explain to who ever happened to be with him at the moment the time his misjudgment sent his best friend to the hospital.

            "Weathers nice today."

            "Yeah, its not bad. A little warm, though."

            "What is it, about eighty, eighty five? I dont know, Im not very good at judging temperatures. I was with my friend Jason this one time up at Mammoth and I told him-"

            "Christian."

            "Yeah?"

            "Youve told me this story before."

            "Really?"

            "Yeah."

            "Lauren, you heard it too?"

            "Twice, actually. You were telling it to Mike the second time and I just happened to be there."

            "Huh. Oh well. Well, its funny anyway, and Im really not very good at judging the weather."

            "Yeah, we know."

            It was sixty five, when Christian got to school, and he felt colder then when he left his house just ten minutes earlier. School existed as a 1930s depression work project remnant without air conditioning or heating, which became a problem for whenever Christian exaggerated the extremities of the weather.

            A prepubescent voice arose from behind the fog. "Jesus Christ!" it exclaimed, and then ran off in some indeterminate direction. The Jewish Christian jokes started at the point where adolescent boys started to discover irony and sarcasm. They had no idea what either of those words meant, but they knew that it was hilarious that a Jews name was Christian. This happened three years ago, and would have happened sooner had the unfortunate name not been self-shortened to Chris. But there were always hairy moments, usually involving substitute teachers and roll call. Every time "Watts, Christian" shot off the substitutes lips, his heart skipped a beat. Would someone make the connection that could end his carefree days at school forever? Would this idyllic existence come screeching to a violent and convulsing stop at the ill timed firing of an improbable synapse? Most of the time the answer was no, and Christian would simple reply "Chris, here" and the sub would make his or her mark on the roll, denoting that this student was to be called Chris, not his given name. None of this would have been even an issue if it hadnt been for his mother, however. She insisted on pulling him out of school for Yon Kippur, and anyone who had ever been to his house would have noticed the countless menorahs on the mantles, in the kitchen, and in the bathrooms and the oversized gold plated Star of David that hung over the fireplace. And of course, there was her tendency to mention the word Jew whenever she talked about or to him. "Hi, Christian! How were my little Jew and his friends days at school? Would you like a cookie?" she would say unflinchingly when he came home from school. But the connection was inevitable, and on February 13, 1998, Sam Reynolds - the really, really smart guy, the one who was too smart for his own good, the one who never forgot anything even if you thought that he never knew it in the first place - spoke up and exclaimed exuberantly: "Wait a second, youre a Jewish kid named Christian? Dude, thats so awesome!"

            Fuck.

            It was temporarily gratifying that Sam was given a referral for creating commotion in class, and so the rest of the students held off making snide remarks out of fear of also getting into trouble. At first, Christian didnt mind. Some of the things people said to him were clever and thus forgivable and not offensive. But by the start of his sophomore year, creativity had long disintegrated, and a rehashing of worn put downs were hurled like lemons at his bleeding ego.

The fact that he didn't know his father didn't help the situation, either. On top of everything else, teenage boys, as they have a tendency to do, thought they were very clever and witty when they made a joke pertaining to his immaculate conception. Christian was not amused in the slightest, and this new angle of onslaught furthered his growing hatred for everyone around him.

Sophomore year was well underway when he finally snapped. A freshman, having just learned of this kid with a hilarious name from some older friends approached Christian and said very matter-of-factly and with great composure, "You know, they say the Virgin Mary wasn't really a virgin, and that she was actually raped by a Roman soldier. Was your mother raped, too?" What followed was too strange and disturbing to describe. For the first and only time in his life, Christian's right arm developed an unnaturally violent twitch, which inadvertently caught the freshman in the face, neck, ribs, stomach, kidneys, groin, knees, and ankles. For ten minutes, Christian lost control of his arm, and rumor had it that the twitch spread to his left arm, both of his legs, his forehead and his teeth. Fortune had it that this outburst occurred off grounds after school, so expulsion was not a concern, but 1000 hours of community service and counseling were ordered by the courts, and both were concluded within six months.

Needless to say, the jokes just about ended then and there. Occasionally they would be heard at a distance or in a crowd, but fear and maybe even a little newly gained respect kept most from mentioning his ill-fated name. Nevertheless, he became isolated, part by choice and part by default, and cut off ties with all of his friends. He still joked with classmates and ate lunch with people who didnt hate or fear him, but outside of school, he never intentionally saw anyone.

So he read. Rand and Vonnegut mostly, but also Asimov, when he wanted something light. He even tried romance novels once but the trial ended prematurely as he quickly learned that they were only good for masturbation and put him to sleep more than they got him off. He read the classics - The Republic, The Odyssey, The Divine Comedy, Don Quixote, Faust, and Catch-22 to name a few - and was fascinated by Niztche and Marx. He held odd jobs until he was eighteen, when he finally could work in the one place he felt hed fit in best: the G-Screen, the aptly and somewhat ironically named adult movie theater, located across the street from a Toys R Us, and next door to a Starbucks. After school today was his last day of work, and he realized he wouldnt miss it, though nor was he glad to leave. No one asked him questions; no one bothered him about anything personal - especially not the patrons, who didnt want to be bothered themselves. He could keep quiet, and relax with his thoughts, and no one interfered. If only school could be like that.

            First period started with a dud. This pivotal day was all that stood between him and freedom, and nothing could have made it drag on more. You know those movies where people are really anxious for something to happen, and the camera intermittently shows a close-up of this fried characters sweat-drenched brow and a clock, ticking in slow motion? And you know how you always say how stupid it is that someone would watch the clock that much, to the point where it actually seemed to slow down? Well, this was Christians morning. A rousing dose of English normally started off his day, but the only writing done this morning was in Yearbooks. Christian didnt bring his yearbook. He had one, because his mother had bought him one without telling him; she said that hed want to remember all of his fond memories of high school. Julie new nothing of her sons high school existence. She never asked, and hell if he ever told her anything. She just figured that silence was a good thing; after all, she never told her parents everything and her high school days were wonderful - well, except for that whole getting pregnant thing.

In the top left corner of the white board, as always, was an inspirational quote. Actually, it was the inspirational quote. It had been there since the first day of Christians freshman year and most likely long before that. He took a break from staring down the clock, and read the quote, but this time actually thought about it.

Two roads diverged in a wood and I,

I took the road less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

                                    - Robert Frost

No one really knew why the quote was there, and most were afraid to ask about it since it had such a history. Christian had tried to erase it once only to find the words would not budge. Had the ink solidified over so many years, or had someone taken a permanent pen to the board and scribed this poetic graffiti to piss off and bewilder all future generations? It was generally accepted that an alien civilization would come to inhabit earth long after the extinction of the human race and see these strange etchings and conclude that us humans were oversimplifying naturalists without dogma and with no concept of reality. Not too far from the truth, he thought.

Christian never really understood the appeal of this poem or why it received the praise it did. But it was everywhere. It was the standard cliché of blazing your own trail, not following the way everyone else goes - but wait: the poems protagonist still followed someones path. If he had really wanted to be an individual, he would have walked off into the wood and gotten lost and most likely been eaten by a bear. Or a Caribou. In Canada, it would have been a Caribou. But never mind that. Christian didnt like the idea that the future could be determined by the outcome of one key choice. It rubbed him the wrong way. A person should be able to fix where they were at any time, not just at some predetermined fork in the road. This opinion had led Christian to discover the perfect title for his English Portfolio: Metaphors are Bullshit. Needless to say, the teacher disagreed.

The ceiling was creaking again, and Christian prayed for a cave in. He always imagined this unexplained collapse killing everyone he hated - which was everyone - and left him miraculously alive. The thought brought a smile to his face, which quickly vanished when he looked at the clock and realized only thirty seconds had passed since he last looked.

Fuck.

Class ended anticlimactically, and Christian began his last Walk. It was called the Walk because this wasnt just any journey from one class to another. It stretched from one end of the campus all the way to the other, which made most people upset, because it meant they didnt have time to catch up on the latest gossip before the bell rang, but not Christian. To him, it was the chance to ogle the greatest number of the opposite sex in in the shortest amount of time, all in short skirts and halter tops, with copious cleavage exploding from shirts bought when they were still in trainer bras. For a full five minutes, he could fantasize fucking the brains out of all of these gorgeous but brain dead females, having a harem of them ready to tend to his every need, and when he didnt want to be that imaginative, he just pretended they were topless. It was the best five minutes of his day everyday, and it would be the one thing he really missed after school ended. Well, except of course for Calculus.

The class itself was awful, but Mrs. Felney couldnt have been better. Fresh off the fantasies of the walk, he was greeted by his favorite seductress/teacher, Mrs. Patricia "Makes Me Want to Commit A" Felney. She liked Christian. He was smart. He did well in her class. He asked questions when he had them. He corrected her when she was wrong. He kept her on his toes. He always dreamed of getting her off her toes, like a male Lolita or something, but he settled for sitting in the back with sunglasses on and playing Snake on his calculator, unless she dropped her pen, when hed look from his game to watch her bend over, which was spectacular. He was pretty sure every guy pined over her, and he was also pretty sure she liked it that way. I mean, why else would she wear thongs and skintight pants, or fitted t-shirts day in and day out. In the crudest terms possible, she had the shit, and she liked it like that.

Christian achieved a new high score in Snake about half way through the period, and class ended abruptly in the middle of the fifth level. And then it hit him like a brick to the back of the head. School was over. Most people still had classes left, but he didnt. At least, not important classes. Acute atrophy had led him to sign up for Sculpting and Office Aide and take his last two periods off. So rather than showing up and mentally masturbating though third and fourth period, he left the school grounds and decided to clock in early at work, where masturbation was a fairly common experience.