Meaning Among the Madness
Kevin Cummings
The sun was setting on the other side of the hill, and the last of its light made the shadows grow long on the surface of the pond. We had driven out there, to this tiny body of water clinging onto its life in the Texas summer heat, behind the old Catholic church, St. Something or Another, on Custer Road. The place always seemed right for chain smoking through good conversation; it was far enough back where I couldn’t see the endless rows of uniform houses, or even really hear the road filled with people I didn’t know going place I’d never heard of. It was our last night in town before Anthony and I left for college. He was going to Baylor, and I was going out into the wasteland of West Texas.
I had met Anthony a few years ago in one of my math classes, and after showing him how to make a proper Molotov Cocktail in the creek near my house, smoking a few Lucky Strikes, and going to a punk show down in Dallas, he moved in with me. He lived with me at my parents’ house for two years due to his family situation, and became more like a brother than a friend to me. There were very few times when we were apart, and now we were both leaving. Neither of us intended to come back.
We sat on the banks of the pond, sharing a pack of Marlboro Reds. Surrounding us were empty beer bottles, a washer and dryer someone had left to fall apart in a pile of itself, and the remainder of a hollowed out car, things that once had a purpose. As the weight of the night began to fall upon us, the conversation began to change from past girlfriends, who we swore we “loved” at the time, and vague, idealistic politics, to something that struck at the marrow of life.
“I’ve always been afraid of the dark,” Anthony said. I laughed, not wanting to admit the same thing. I knew what he meant. It wasn’t some childish fear of the monsters hiding in the corner of the room; it was a fear of the vast unknown of the future. The darkness that we had tried to put off for so long, that now had come and crept into my bones. I had always been terrified of that.
“Same here,” I replied after a long silence as the smoke vanished above my head. “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
“I don’t think anyone does, man.” I thought he was right about that.
“You know what I hate the most,” I said. “It’s when people tell me that I am going to do great things.” The truth was that I didn’t even know what things I was made for. The whole career, mortgage, marry thing never really cut it for me.
“I know, right, what if we just fuck it all up?” He said. We both hated that pressure. We had heard it before from teachers and parents. They all seemed so sure of it, but we had our doubts. All we really wanted was to drink coffee, and not have to worry about rent. Maybe we weren’t the most ambitious, but really all we wanted was a happiness, some meaning among the madness. We wanted a life we were proud of, that on our death bed we would not regret. Anthony skipped a stone across the water, and I thought about how we each cast our stones into the waters of life, skipping and lingering for a few brief moments, then sink, nothing left except the few small ripples we leave on the surface.
A few stars began to poke through despite the city lights. We sat there in silence, wondering how the future had showed up so fast. College seemed far away, and now it was here. The worst part was the next step, going out and being a productive member of society, whatever that meant. Where were we? Where had our childhoods gone?
“So what’s the meaning, I mean the purpose, of it all,” I asked, as if he or anyone knew the answer. We had both given up on the “God” answer a while ago. If there was one, he certainly didn’t care about us, and if even so, we were probably going to Hell anyway, so we might as well have fun on the way there. Besides, Jesus had never been drunk, he never smoked a Marlboro Red, he had a purpose, so what did he know about our lives?
“I have no idea,” Anthony replied confidently. “I think all we really can do is find our own way; help other people out, do some good in the world, so that you can leave happily.” That seemed like a good enough answer for me, and I wondered what that would look like.
“Well, whatever happens, my friend, we have to stay in touch,” I said almost jokingly, but meant it with all sincerity. I had already seen a lot of my friends beginning to drift away. I knew most of them I would never see again, and that was fine with me, but Anthony understood me.
“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” he said, and I knew he meant it.
We got up, and walked along a path that climbed up the hill and led towards the creek. It seemed like the right thing to do, to keep moving. There really is no other choice. We walked, or rather stumbled, down the steep embankment. We each lit another cigarette.
“You wanna make one last Molotov, for old times’ sake,” I asked. I had made my first one back in eighth grade, and they always seemed a fitting symbol of reckless, childish hope. It was a reminder that we had once thought we were anarchists, and that one day we could save the world. The first time we ever hung out we had made one. I’m surprised he even talked to me after that.
“Of course,” he replied, pulling out a bottle filled with gasoline from the backpack we had brought, just in case the mood struck us. I grabbed a sock, and set to work. The real trick is that once you have soaked the rag, or sock in our case, in the gas, and have tied it around the neck of the bottle, you have to put the lid back on it. I’ve never had it work if the lid wasn’t on. You also have to remember that a little gas goes a long way, and water doesn’t help too much to put it out.
“You care to do the honors?” I asked.
“We’ll play Rock, Paper, Scissors for it.” That was always Anthony’s way of making decisions like this. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad way either. It involved a small amount of knowledge, and a lot of luck, just like most things in life. He won.
There is a certain ritual to lighting and throwing a Molotov cocktail. First, you let the sharp scent of the gas fill the air around you, becoming part of you. Then, you light the rag, admiring it for a second, letting ancient human fascination with fire envelope you. Finally, the release. The glass shattered on the rocks on the bank of the creek, and the fire roared up, some of it being carried down the creek. We laughed and admired our work. I think mostly it was the kind of laugh that comes from giving up a part of your life, because sometimes it all just gets so overwhelming that there is nothing else you can do. We watched the fire begin to die down like the last remnants of the life that we knew, and for a moment it illuminated the darkness around us.