First Blood

Guidance

Dear Mr. Jeffries,


I’m your student, Adam Harrison. I have guidance class with you third period on Thursdays. I say “student” because I can’t think of another word that fits, but you are not my teacher. You are my guidance counselor, and I am writing you to communicate one simple message: back the fuck off.

I’ll keep this quick, because thanks in part to your killer instincts, I guess I have A.D.D., so I probably won't be able to focus for long anyway. Thanks for that enjoyable chapter in my life, by the way. Good thing my family are a bunch of feel-good neo-hippies like you, they’re really supporting me through this awful disease. Also, no they’re not. Now when my Dad calls me a “retard”, I think he really means it.

I didn’t know what to do when I was struck with the symptoms of “not wanting to do my homework” and “having trouble paying attention to bullshit about Napoleon for 50 minutes” and “wanting to bang everything” – but fortunately you had the answer: Put me on pills and start some extra mentoring! At least I make some cash selling the pills, so thanks, I guess.

Anyway, the main point of this letter is to formally request that you stop trying to tell me what to do with my life. I am 17. No one knows what they want to do. I know you think maybe some kids do, but that’s bullshit. Those are the kids who have agreed to go along with whatever their parents have decided they should do. My father has simply decided he wants me to get the hell out of his house when I graduate, but I’m not sure how well that pays. Do you follow me?

You had me take a standardized test the other day that recommended I would be a fine Park Ranger, or maybe a lawyer. Who came up with this test? I’m not huge on the outdoors, and I don’t know much, but I know I don’t want to be a lawyer. And how the hell are those jobs even related? Are park rangers and lawyers cut from the same cloth in your mind? That's some bullshit, man.

Look, just leave me alone. I will still come to guidance class on Thursdays, but don’t talk to me. And our “progress sessions” on Mondays are over. They’re done. Unless you want to just let me come to your office and take a breather. No bullshit about college, careers, my family, nothing. Just let me take a little break. From what? My life. I am a 17 year old boy. I am assuming you were 17. Do you remember that? I’ll remind you: it’s like being on steroids all day, except if that in addition to zits everywhere, hair everywhere, aches, etc., steroids made you a chronic masturbator with braces. Oh yeah, I forgot the crippling rage. There's that, too. Man, how could I not be pumped to learn shit all day?

In closing, I am in no mood to discuss my future with you. I don’t care that “Mandarin is the language of the future” or that “computer programming skills will always be in demand.” I am 17. Tell you what; should I ever decide to give up on life, I’ll ask you how I can become a guidance counselor.

Sincerely,

Adam Harrison

Rusty

An old man walked into the woods with his dog, just as he had done every day for the past thirty years. As he walked the familiar paths, he greeted each tree with a “hello friend”, just as he had done every day for the last thirty years. The old man was kind and gentle. If he ever happened upon a rabbit, or a deer, or perhaps a fox, he would greet them with the same “hello friend” that he bestowed upon the trees. Rain, snow, wind, none of these things could keep the old man away from his beloved woods.

“Rusty,” said the old man to his dog, “you’re not the first dog I’ve been out in these woods with, and God willing, you won’t be the last. But you’re a good friend to me, and I thank you for that.”

“Whoa, whoa. What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Rusty. “Are you about to kill me or something?”

The old man’s jaw dropped as he looked down at Rusty, who met his gaze, gently panting. “Earth to Bob,” said Rusty. “You’re freaking me out.”

“R..Rusty…you can talk,” stammered the old man. “I can’t believe this.”

“Why?” countered Rusty. “You talk to animals. You talk to frigging trees. Wait, wait, you were doing that, and you didn’t know….?”

“You’ve never spoken to me before, old friend,” said the man.

“Because you’ve never freaked me the fuck out like that, Bob,” said Rusty.

The two walked quietly down the paths for a while longer.

Finally, Rusty spoke again. “Nice day, right Bob?”

“Yes,” the old man answered.

“Well, you’re actually dead,” said Rusty. “That’s why I can talk. You died in your sleep last night. This is Heaven. Helen is probably here somewhere, and I suppose your old dogs, too. Congrats, Bob. You’ve made it.”

The old man stopped walking, and was silent. He held up his hands and looked at them. They began to tremble, and the old man began to sob quietly.

“Bob, Bob. I’m kidding,” said Rusty. “You’re not dead. I’m messing with you. Lighten up.”

“I don’t understand,” said the old man. “What is happening to me? Rusty, am I losing my mind? You can talk. My dog and I are talking. I am talking to trees. To animals. My dog has told me I am dead, only to reveal that he, my dog, was playing a joke on me… I must be going crazy.”

The old man looked down to Rusty, who sat silently for a moment, before tilting his head to the side quizzically.

“Woof,” said Rusty, and he ran off to chase a squirrel.

The old man leaned against a tree, dazed and confused. A few minutes passed, and Rusty returned to the old man’s side. The two sat there quietly until the day’s light began to fade. Rusty had curled up on the ground to keep warm, and was dozing intermittently. The old man finally spoke.

“Okay Rusty, I am ready,” he said. “I am ready to go.”

Rusty raised his head, then slowly ambled to his feet. His tail began to wag.

“I am ready, Rusty, come on boy.”

The two began to walk back down the path, exiting the forest.

The next day, the two returned to the forest, and shared a silent walk in the woods.