Personal Essay
By: Wes Nelson
By: Wes Nelson
You see, I’m no ordinary madman. I was born with my mind’s eye tightly open and my physical eyes widely shut. But, no matter whether or not, I am madman or boy out of place, because I am mad, man. Joshua Holbrook. He goes by Joshua. That’s because there’s already another Josh H in our class. Josh Herman, a small boy who was almost timid but well liked. He had dirty blond hair in a faded bowl cut and Harry Potter-esque round rim glasses – he was alright. Unlike Joshua. God, I hate him. If hate is a powerful word, then I’d say it’s not strong enough. I like the way loathe feels as a description, but it doesn’t quite capture and convey the same grit as hate. Yes, I hate Joshua Holbrook. Josh Holbrook hates me.
Why, you ask, why do I hate Joshua Holbrook? Because he keeps putting his f***ing feet under my side of the desk. You might be tempted to imagine two crotchety fourth graders sharing a desk poorly. Fighting over who gets to use the pen cup or whose stapler touched who’s side of the desk. Oh yes, that might almost be as entertaining a situation as it was bizarre, but no, you’d be quite wrong, I’m afraid.
No, for some reason, Mrs. Reid decided to rearrange all the desks in the classroom, pushing them together to form larger tables, creating a seating arrangement more similar to the cafeteria tables than a classroom. That’s right; she pushed everyone’s table to be facing another table. Touching, in fact. Creating a situation where that pasty b****d can invade my toe sanctuary with his oversized, light-up Sketchers on his little baby feet.
My grandma, god love her, says the best thing I can do is take a deep breath and just ignore his presence. Easier said than done. Here I am, minding my business, drawing the Black Ranger, and dreaming up the controls to my Megazord, when I’m curb-stomped back to reality by Joshua throwing his bag and notebooks on the table. Instantly, I grit my teeth. I do my best to pierce his skull with my gaze. Sometimes I really wish I were Clark Kent; it’d be great. Were I him, Joshua Holbrook’s eyeballs would be spilling onto the floor in a pile of pink sludge as I melted them with my laser vision.
As he unpacks his bag, I stare at him silently. He tries to ignore me, but I’ve got his number. All you have to do is stare at him. I just stare. As I do, I feel a wash of calmness across my whole body. It’s great. His face starts gaining color, flushing from a light yellow, followed by brief glimpses of ever-darkening pink, until his cheeks are red as roses. A smile starts to tug at the corner of my mouth. A detail Joshua notices immediately, and he erupts.
“Take a picture, it’ll last you longer!” he nearly yells.
“Good one,” I retort. “You would try being a little quieter when you set down your shit every day; it really bugs.”
“Yeah, it really bugs me that you just stare at everyone like a fucking creeper all the time!” he shoots back.
I lean back in my chair, smile, and cross my arms. “I’m only staring at you, sweet stuff.”
Joshua replies only with an eye roll and sits down.
