Eh?

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Eh?


You had this thing about Canada and Canadians. I don’t know what it was about it. I don’t even really know how it started. I just know you had a thing about them.

Really, it wasn’t like you were obsessed. You were just always mentioning it in passing conversation, like a normal person would mention Brad Pitt or their favorite baseball team.

Rachel picked up on it the first time she met you. She only spoke with you for a few minutes, and I can’t imagine what you talked about that you mentioned Canada that often. But when she walked away from you and back over to me, the first thing she said to me was, “He’s got a thing about Canada, doesn’t he?”

“Why?” I asked. “Why would you say that?”

“He does, doesn’t he?”

I sighed. “Yeah.”

But she liked you, nevertheless. She said that. That she liked you. I don’t know if I ever told you that she liked you. She did, though.

It was your obsession with Canadians that got you in that fight with those guys at the football game that one day. I was with you, and so was Rachel. You were being uncharacteristically quiet, but I just played it off as you being tired. For some reason, you were always tired on Fridays.

The three guys were standing in front of you, and they were talking about some girl that they knew. Rachel and I were talking about her grandma, who was in the hospital again, but I was listening to the guys with half an ear. I don’t know why, though. I just was.

“I bet you wanna be her, don’t you?” the guy said. “Do you wish you were her?”

“No. I don’t. Why would I wish I were her?” another guy asked. He looked upset, and kept running a hand through his red hair. “She’s a girl, right? I don’t wanna be a girl, man.”

“I think he’s being a bit defensive. Eh, Freddie?”

That’s when you went over to them, and asked, “Are you from Canada?” They all stopped walking, confused. They looked at you for a second, and something about you made them back up against the bleachers. They stared at you, and both Rachel and I stopped talking. We watched you too.

They didn’t respond to you, and this made you mad. You always got mad about things like that. You don’t like to be ignored, and it always made you mad. You were always so mad. It scared me sometimes, especially when you got mad for things that don’t make other people mad. I didn’t know what you were going to do.

“Hey! Are you Canadian?” you asked. There was a deep line between your eyebrows, and you were staring at the boy who had spoken last. He was fair skinned, but his pale face had turned bright red. He looked nervous, and embarrassed.

“Uh. Hey, man. Cool it, ‘kay? Just cool it,” Snow White’s brother said. “Just cool it.”

But you don’t like people to tell you to calm down. You said that you should be able to have any emotion you want, and to express it in anyway you want. You said that people telling you to “chill out” and “stop freakin’” were ways that people would try to control you.

“Are you Canadian?” Now you’re yelling. You had drawn a bit of a crowd, and it looked worse than it was. The scene, not the crowd. The three boys were younger, and looked scared. You were looming over them, and looked as angry as you probably felt.

Finally, Snow White’s Brother says, “No, okay? No, man.”

You back away a few steps, your face relaxing. The boys beat it before anything else can go wrong. You smile at Rachel and me, and then start walking back to our seats, like the scene had never happened. But it had.

And when we get back to our seats, and Rachel asked what that was all about, you explain that Canadians shouldn’t be allowed in the USA. We aren’t Canada’s garage dump. They couldn’t just dump all their filth into our land.

Rachel and I looked at each other, and that was the first time I was afraid for you.

Rachel told your mom. I didn’t want to, and I couldn’t. But she did, and I think it may have saved your life.

Did it save your life? Are you glad that Rachel did what she did?

Do you even remember that day? Do you even remember that thing you had about Canada and Canadians? Do you remember how it started, or why it started?

I don’t remember a lot of things about those days, either. It was so long ago now. You don’t remember anything, they say. I don’t know, though. I haven’t seen you. I can’t see you.

It’s not fun to not remember things, is it? But they say you’re okay, and I shouldn’t worry. They even say that I should come visit you sometimes, and that it would probably help you.

But what do they know anyway? They don’t know you at all, do they?

How are you doing anyways? You’re good. You’re good, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Eh? Eh.





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This article has 1 comment. Post your own now!

Ryan B. said...
Aug. 19, 2009 at 7:45 am
The title caught my attention, and the story itself had a very different feel from the "typical"posts. But, I definitely enjoyed it. Great last few paragraphs by the way.
 
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