Every time we drive past the old farm with the chipped white wooden fence, with all the crosses and bouquets lining the side of the street, I always look for that giant multi-colored Star of David that they hung there for you. The one your father carved with his own hands, just days after it happened. The one the neighbors wanted to take down because it was too loud, too bright, too overtly Jewish. I heard they succeeded once, but by the next week it was there again, and it looked like it had been polished and re-painted.
I was there when your father and uncle nailed it together, gray-faced and sweaty, determined to keep their hands from being hammered and their eyes dry. I watched them while I stood next to my mother, squeezing her hand tight inside mine, watching your uncle’s Adams apple throb up and down as he tried to will his tear ducts to dry up. He could barely make eye contact with anyone.
I always thought it was beautiful. The contours of the wood, the way the colors overlap each other with a sort of vividness that I’d imagine you’d like, the smoothness from the hours of sanding and the hundreds of fingertips that touched it. When the sun hits it just right, the colors sparkle and light up like a neon sign was nailed to the side of the fence.
I still have the card your dad gave me, the one that has your face on it and says not to drive drunk or high. When my friends see it in my wallet, they think it’s a credit card or an ID card, and when they see the face of an 18-year-old boy with the words “Mark’s Promise” scrawled in bubbly letters at the top, they are immensely confused. They ask me who you are and I don’t know what to tell them. I barely knew you, not really. I explain what happened and they all look at me with this sympathy etched into their faces, and I want to say no—that’s not the point, that’s not the point at all. The point isn’t to feel bad for me. This has nothing to do with me. The point is that we have to do something.
Sometimes, in those moments before I fall asleep when millions of thoughts speed through my mind, I think about your family, your friends. I think about your best friend. How could anyone stand to lose someone so close to them? Your best friend, the one who was there with you throughout elementary school, who slept at your house hundreds of weekends, who wanted to graduate with you in the fall. I think about how unfair it is for him to lose you. And then I remember that he was the one driving the car.
- Megan Shaw '11
Monday, October 18, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
A Surprising Lack of Professionalism
“It is 12:45 in the morning. You’ve had your license for only two weeks. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” After examining my license and scolding me for my stupidity, he locked my license in his car. It sat on his dashboard, begging me to rescue it. But I could not. “Son, I’m not going to give you a ticket, but I can’t let you drive home. You’re not old enough.” “So, I’m going to have a Baltimore City Police Officer drive you around for awhile until your parents get here.” This glorified security guard followed protocol to the letter, glaring at me with unblinking eyes, watching my every move. This man was not an officer of the law, though. In the holster on his right hip was a flashlight, not a Glock 17. His gut, which engulfed most of the accessories on the front of his belt, was the only trait similar to many of today’s policemen.
I sat on the hood of my car, collecting weeks of dust on my clothes, watching Towson students walk by and drunkenly pester this man about his weight and occupation, asking “Where’s your Segway bigboy?” I was no longer angry with Ron; he was just doing his job, and these kids were harassing him for that.
I wanted to scream at the guy chanting at Ron’s expense. He stood only six feet tall, but sprouted to inhuman heights as he neared me. His uncovered arms contracted with his hostility. I did not want my first fight to end the way we both knew it would.
He gauged his friends’ reactions to every joke he told. A silence ensued when his impersonation of John Madden was not well received. From the disappointment in his eyes and the sudden shrug in his face, I could tell that he had his own insecurities with which to overcome. I left him alone, and, thankfully, he did the same.
A middle-aged, Baltimore City cop pulled up in his squad car at 1:15 a.m. He proudly introduced himself as Officer Dave. He had bags under his eyes, a cup of coffee in his hand and, to his disdain, the task of babysitting me. I was sitting up front, handcuffs not on my wrists, but on Dave’s utility belt. He asked me if I did well in school. I lied. He knew me as an eleventh grade student at St. Paul’s with a 3.9 grade point average. I assumed that smart kids got off easier. He nodded in approval but his raised eyebrows and rolling eyes indicated that he thought otherwise.
There was a sprinkling of white powder on his right shoulder, most likely from a donut, but possibly from cocaine; his entire body convulsed. It would not have surprised me if he needed a special boost towards the end of a long shift.
The brakes on his Crown Victoria squealed as it came to a stop. “Get out,” he said.
“And go where?” I responded from the sidewalk. He drove away without giving me an answer. I whispered obscenities at him. I could not believe that I just been stranded by an officer of the law.
Ron would have been disgusted.
- Colin Davis '11
I sat on the hood of my car, collecting weeks of dust on my clothes, watching Towson students walk by and drunkenly pester this man about his weight and occupation, asking “Where’s your Segway bigboy?” I was no longer angry with Ron; he was just doing his job, and these kids were harassing him for that.
I wanted to scream at the guy chanting at Ron’s expense. He stood only six feet tall, but sprouted to inhuman heights as he neared me. His uncovered arms contracted with his hostility. I did not want my first fight to end the way we both knew it would.
He gauged his friends’ reactions to every joke he told. A silence ensued when his impersonation of John Madden was not well received. From the disappointment in his eyes and the sudden shrug in his face, I could tell that he had his own insecurities with which to overcome. I left him alone, and, thankfully, he did the same.
A middle-aged, Baltimore City cop pulled up in his squad car at 1:15 a.m. He proudly introduced himself as Officer Dave. He had bags under his eyes, a cup of coffee in his hand and, to his disdain, the task of babysitting me. I was sitting up front, handcuffs not on my wrists, but on Dave’s utility belt. He asked me if I did well in school. I lied. He knew me as an eleventh grade student at St. Paul’s with a 3.9 grade point average. I assumed that smart kids got off easier. He nodded in approval but his raised eyebrows and rolling eyes indicated that he thought otherwise.
There was a sprinkling of white powder on his right shoulder, most likely from a donut, but possibly from cocaine; his entire body convulsed. It would not have surprised me if he needed a special boost towards the end of a long shift.
The brakes on his Crown Victoria squealed as it came to a stop. “Get out,” he said.
“And go where?” I responded from the sidewalk. He drove away without giving me an answer. I whispered obscenities at him. I could not believe that I just been stranded by an officer of the law.
Ron would have been disgusted.
- Colin Davis '11
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Eric Pigg
Ebay Sales rule my life. I like selling phones, and I like the money I get out of it. My parents like how it’s something that can get me into college, and they like to hear about it.
I had a Blackberry Tour I purchased on eBay with the intent of selling, from an amateur seller from Tennessee. I purchased it for $105, and listed it auction style in order to gain new clients. After the three day auction ended, it sold for $174.50 to Mr. Eric Pigg. He opted for the expedited shipping, which increased my profit margin by $4.70. Soon after his win, he sent me numerous emails in regards to if it was shipped yet. After assurance that it was shipped, the emails stopped.
Around two days after the purchase had been shipped, the emails began. He was having trouble activating the phone because the previous owner failed to properly close her account with Verizon. Within two hours, he had sent me enough emails to make my phone vibrate like a massaging tool. Given it was a Sunday, I was unable to do much in regards to rectifying the issue. After apologizing multiple times, he sent a grand total of 97 emails in 1 day, and made threats about “ending” me. As he filled my inbox enough to piss me off, I filed a harassment charge with eBay, and forwarded them the messages. Because of this, he was kicked off eBay. Roughly a week later, he sent the phone back with a used Kleenex included.
Eric Pigg lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee in a two-story, Three Bedroom - 2 Bathroom, brick house valued at $298,000, and built in 1987 (I looked up the house value online). Given his marital status (constant references to his wife), and his email address ending with ’74’, I’m assuming he’s 36 Years Old. By looking at his recent purchases, leather wallets, drives a 2003-2007 Honda Accord, owns a 2004 Ford F-150 (recent eBay Parts Purchases), and he likes beef jerky
As I use a PO Box for shipping, it is almost impossible for him to follow through with his threats. I seem to know a lot more about him than he does about me.
- Adam Davis '11
I had a Blackberry Tour I purchased on eBay with the intent of selling, from an amateur seller from Tennessee. I purchased it for $105, and listed it auction style in order to gain new clients. After the three day auction ended, it sold for $174.50 to Mr. Eric Pigg. He opted for the expedited shipping, which increased my profit margin by $4.70. Soon after his win, he sent me numerous emails in regards to if it was shipped yet. After assurance that it was shipped, the emails stopped.
Around two days after the purchase had been shipped, the emails began. He was having trouble activating the phone because the previous owner failed to properly close her account with Verizon. Within two hours, he had sent me enough emails to make my phone vibrate like a massaging tool. Given it was a Sunday, I was unable to do much in regards to rectifying the issue. After apologizing multiple times, he sent a grand total of 97 emails in 1 day, and made threats about “ending” me. As he filled my inbox enough to piss me off, I filed a harassment charge with eBay, and forwarded them the messages. Because of this, he was kicked off eBay. Roughly a week later, he sent the phone back with a used Kleenex included.
Eric Pigg lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee in a two-story, Three Bedroom - 2 Bathroom, brick house valued at $298,000, and built in 1987 (I looked up the house value online). Given his marital status (constant references to his wife), and his email address ending with ’74’, I’m assuming he’s 36 Years Old. By looking at his recent purchases, leather wallets, drives a 2003-2007 Honda Accord, owns a 2004 Ford F-150 (recent eBay Parts Purchases), and he likes beef jerky
As I use a PO Box for shipping, it is almost impossible for him to follow through with his threats. I seem to know a lot more about him than he does about me.
- Adam Davis '11
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Fifteen Down the Drain
I have become a professional at the one shot kill. Those tan little centipedes that always seem to be crawling around late at night. I did not hate them because they posed a threat of danger, but because they ran so fast it was hard to stop them from crawling on you. No matter how many textbooks you drop they always seem to scurry away when you pick them back up. Never did I think I would care about one, that is until I pulled the stopper and let the sink fill up watching it sit on surface of the water, floating and wiggling its legs, hoping to find the dry counter. A smack is quick and painless, but watching it wiggle and fight for the surface after I tap it under, feels like murder.
- David Hooper '11
- David Hooper '11
Thursday, October 7, 2010
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