Casey Jarrett

As a young man Casey Jarrett sat alone in his faded blue and white wooden sunfish, on the lake, north of his Pennsylvania town, as the sun disappeared behind the woodland silhouette of the horizon, and promised himself—and sometimes, even, aloud to the seemingly limitless reflection of day folding in the surface of the dark Pennsylvania waters—that one day he would change the world. A year ago Casey perched in his fathers’ study, the russet leather recliner in the center of the room, and held his fathers’ suicide note between the fingers of his hand, as he held his head in the other. …hurting. …troubled. …alone, words that Casey was also holding on to, he could see them, in his head, after having read the note that was staged on the table next to the russet leather recliner; his fathers’ body lay exposed, chastised on the floor beside the armchair behind his desk. Casey was 14. He had sunk into an inaudible swoon. Walking, sometimes for long stretched hours through the woods around the lake. He found the sunfish covered in leaves and sticks one late afternoon, shortly after the funeral, in the thicket surrounding the lake. Casey learned to plane, and got lost in repairing the sailboat. He fixed it in the thicket, under the brush, at the edge of the arm on the southeast corner of the lake, and launched it—every day since. The town was somewhat of a pick-and-roll, those that discovered it stayed, for a while, but always seem to continue on their way. Casey’s father was a writer—he was known—and left the polished Lower East Side, Manhattan lifestyle when Casey was only an infant, after Casey’s mother had died. He wasn’t upset at his father, Casey understood that once the idea that life might be meaningless crawled into the mind, and gestated, it was nearly impossible to let go of. The thought alone is engrossing, being granted meaning is as incidental as being stripped of it, and when it does obsess your soul everything, by reason or body, which may have made life worth living has slipped away, into the shadows, darker even than the soulless lake just after sunset.

After his fathers’ death Casey’s aunt, his mothers’ sister, Eileen Foggerhty, came to the house to live with him. Eileen had spent much of her youth in and out of rehab, halfway houses, and county jails; these past five years she has been living in a halfway house outside of Charlotte, North Carolina, and working as an Au pair on the grounds for troubled children. Aside from Eileen Casey had no one, and until Casey’s father died Eileen was estranged from her family. She was the closest thing to a guardian that the state of Pennsylvania could prescribe. The first, and last time that the two had met was a few days after Casey was born; to Casey, Eileen was as much a stranger as the orangutan that lived in The White House; the warm, radiant sun, as well as the soft, guiding moon had more distinct roles in the development of his life, besides it occurred to Casey that Eileen wanted only to get out of the halfway house, and to take the rights to the lake house. Casey didn’t necessarily distrust or dislike Aunt Eileen, it was only that he had spent all that time in his head. The first day Eileen was there she sat on the pier overlooking the lake all day, she never moved; she sat out there until the sun had drifted again, and Casey was trekking back up the hill to the lake house through the thicket. Casey did not see her but he did hear her crying, at first the crying startled Casey, when he realized it was Aunt Eileen he walked slowly up the back steps, over the back porch, and through the wooden door; he did so stealthily, and with intention; for much of that night Eileen had forgotten there was a boy in the house—until Casey came downstairs for dinner. “I can manage on my own,” Casey started, “…you don’t need to worry about supper.” “Oh, shit. Dinner. That’s right.” Eileen reacted. “Really, Eil… Miss Fogger…I mean, Aunt Eileen, It’s not a problem. I’ll just make some mac-n-cheese.” Casey had responded. The two of them sat at a table cluttered with manila envelopes, folder dividers, and a mixture of legal papers, story drafts, and outlines. Eileen made an effort to talk to Casey, he noticed, and he appreciated it, still he didn’t respond in kind, he was still stuck in his head. “What do you do out there, all day, on the lake?” Eileen asked, accidentally triggering something that Casey would talk about. “I talk.” Casey responded. Eileen met Casey’s gaze, “Really, who do you talk to?” She asked. Casey was silent, it seemed unlikely that he would respond. “Your dad?” Eileen asked. Casey’s gaze grew fierce, well, serious, as he started to speak, thought better of it, and then continued, “No, my dad is dead…” Eileen felt terrible for even suggesting it, and yet Casey knew that she would have to suggest it. Of course. “…I don’t really know who I talk to, I just, kind of, talk. It’s strange, I know…” “No, it’s not strange.” Eileen interrupted, shaking her head. “…a lot of the time, I think I challenge myself, I day dream, and invent, I don’t know, different futures for myself.” Casey shared. “Does it make you feel better?” Eileen inquired. “I don’t know, it must. I guess.” They sat in silence for several more moments. “Why were you crying?” Casey asked as he transferred a spoonful of mac-n-cheese into his mouth. “What do you mean? When?” “When I walked out of the thicket and past the pier I could hear you crying.” “I didn’t know you were listening, I thought you were in the house.” “Nope, I heard you.” Casey continued. “Well, I don’t know, I’ve been sad, a lot, in my life, for a long time.” Aunt Eileen said. Casey ate his mac-n-cheese, only. “Because mom died?” Eileen looked at Casey, hard, as if she were studying him, but realized that Casey’s intention was near meaningless. “I am sad that your mom isn’t here anymore. She was one of the only people that ever believed in me, and never gave up on me.” Eileen said. “I don’t remember my mom.” Casey said, still shoveling mac-n-cheese into his mouth. “That’s a shame. I remember her, very well, and I think about her every day.” “I think I’m gonna go to bed now.” Casey said, leaving Eileen at the table as he wandered into the kitchen to clean the bowl and spoon. “Well, goodnight.” He said, as he walked past her towards the stairs. Eileen remained at the cluttered table, trying to picture how their dynamic would progress. Casey walked slowly up the stairs, lost in his head, wondering why he wanted to come across so childlike. Casey knew that, after their conversation tonight, at the cluttered dinner table, Aunt Eileen would view him as oblivious, and ignorant, he was OK with having mislead her but he couldn’t understand why he had. Casey sat in his room staring out, but through, the window into the blackness beyond thinking about the mark he would leave on the world. He felt it, almost immediately after discovering his fathers’ body on the floor in his study, it had swept over Casey as if he had been consumed by shadow, one that would follow him towards some destiny. He hated the word, destiny. The first time he heard it, or remembered hearing it, was after the release of one of his fathers’ novels, he liked the word, at the time, how it sounded; Casey always loved words, and especially how some words, the way they looked on paper, could make him feel stronger, more complete. Destiny had been one of those words, until his fathers’ novel, A Striking Resemblance to Destiny, was released and people started talking about it on the television and in newspapers, there were other people that would write about it, about Casey’s fathers’ novel, about destiny, entire books dedicated to his father. Suddenly his father stopped using the word, he seldom saw it written again, and sometimes Casey could hear his father late at night yelling at the fire place with a glass in his hand, and a nearly empty bottle of something dark on the table. The same table Casey would eventually find his fathers’ suicide note on. Now, whenever Casey thought about the word destiny, all he thought about was a bottle sitting on the table, it was always nearly empty, but it never seemed to be completely empty, and yet the glass in his fathers’ hand was always full, and he thought about the way his father would yell, while staring in the fire, he didn’t seem like himself, and, of course, it scared Casey. That was many years ago, it was the beginning of the late nights that would eventually end with an ash’d, and dying fire, and a suicide note that was not addressed to Casey, or anyone in particular, it simply started with three dots, three periods of ellipsis at the top of the page, as if his fathers’ trailing thoughts only suddenly began to bleed out onto the paper.

Casey kept the suicide note. It remains hidden on the bottom of a cigar box, tucked inside a shoebox, which was placed into a stereo box in the closet of Casey’s Upper West Side, Manhattan apartment. He hasn’t opened it in many years. For a long time Casey would read it every year on the anniversary of his fathers’ death. It gave him strength, for a while. Aunt Eileen and Sarah, Casey’s ex-girlfriend, tried to convince him that it wasn’t healthy. Eventually he stopped, in part, only, because he has had the note memorized since high school. Aunt Eileen still lives in the Pennsylvania lake house, and will call Casey on holidays, and his birthday—if Casey can’t make it back to Pennsylvania to see her. Casey is a photographer, he is contracted with a handful of national magazines that send him all over the world to take pictures of relevant issues, not always political, but, of course, the world being the way that it is, if you’re a photographer you’ve either sold your soul to advertising or to politics or both, and Casey’s eye is so developed that destiny, as it were, drew Casey into a spotlight of dark rooms for almost as long as he could remember. Eileen was proud of him, as proud as any parent that Casey never had. In the evenings Casey would bring a different girl to the roof of his twelve story walk up and show her the New York City skyline, not that she has never seen it, still though he managed to make it seem new to her, as if she was watching something outside of time unfolding between the busy avenues, he would talk about Central Park while he poured her a glass of wine, shaking the silhouetted image of his father holding a scotch with the fire behind him from his mind, Casey had an eye for beauty, and so all he needed to do was to learn how to express that beauty, to put it into words; if his father taught him anything it was how to learn to lust for words. Before Casey left Pennsylvania Eileen began reading A Striking Resemblance to Destiny, she would interrupt her reading to ask Casey to fill in the blanks about his father—about who he was? He began to recognize similarities to the way that he and his father felt about the world, how the two of them perceived life, and how they each fought, only to accept their role in the world. Casey couldn’t understand the sudden desire for Aunt Eileen to get to know his father, and he began to resent the effort that she made. Still he knew, even then, that it was only because he was a child, and the real understanding of her need to know him would either come to him in time, or he’d realize that he would never actually need to understand it, because it was his Aunt Eileen’s obsession, and to understand anyone’s obsession is destined to prove meaningless. A lifetime is enough to try to understand our own meaningless obsessions. Casey kept photographs on the walls of his apartment, but not his own. The woman he had waiting on the roof asked about it while Casey collected the wine, the glasses, and some cheese, he responded as anyone might whom is made uncomfortable by a question, he thought about it a lot, though, because every woman that he brought home asked the same question, and he always responded in the same way. However if he, either: bypassed his apartment entirely, and instead continued straight for the roof, or, by placing a handful of his pictures framed to the wall, it would allow him to avoid the question—the feeling—but he never did, it’s hard to say whether he never got around to it, or if the question, though uncomfortable, forced him to recognize something about himself that he would otherwise ignore. She sipped at the wine and listened to Casey enchant her with stories of still life, the raw, framed, black-and-white world within Central Park. And then the pair would make love on the roof, under the stars, forever fixed, in still frame, in the New York City skyline. Casey would always feel the same thing afterwards, regardless of the women next to him, Casey would feel numb, and it was the same feeling that he felt the morning he discovered his fathers’ body. Afterwards the pair would be overwhelmed with discomfort, the feeling of enveloped meaningless would sail, curious, through the night sky, and trail Casey, and though he always managed to escape it’s grasp, the woman that lay awkward on his chest would, shortly after, remove Casey’s arm from around her shoulder, stand, and leave. He would sit with his legs dangling off the rooftop, over the concrete world stories below, and finish the wine, drinking directly from the bottle, and hum to himself, and he would imagine that he was sitting alone on the old sunfish, watching the sun disappear behind the silhouette of the Pennsylvania woodlands. In the morning Eileen called, Casey let it ring, as he wandered around his bedroom: standing, first, over the nightstand staring out the windows with a glass of water in his hand, then sitting at the foot of the bed watching a muted television set that was left on, and is usually left on, from the night before, before Casey answered it, “Good morning, Aunt Eileen.”

Opening night of Casey Jarrett’s most recent exhibition was more crowded than he had expected, than the gallery had expected; Johnathan, an intern, and an art major at NYU, hailed a taxi to make a wine run. It rained outside, and it was cold, a freezing cold rain that contradicted the warm humid November air. Johnathan pulled his jacket tighter, holding himself around the waist; he thought of his mother, before he was no longer allowed to visit her, and how she was escorted to a seat behind bullet proof paneled glass, her arms strapped tightly in a cross around her torso, the dirty off white jacket, made of some material that Johnathan had sworn he had never seen before, seemed so tight he could hardly breathe. “Mom.” He had said, the last time he saw her, “I’m not your mom. I’ve never seen you before in my life.” He shook his head slowly and rolled his eyes. “Mom…” he said, again, this time his mother mirrored Johnathan’s reaction, saying nothing. “…I got accepted to a school in New York. I’m moving up there with Jessica, we already have a place lined up. I just wanted you to know, because I won’t be coming by to visit you for a while—which is probably for the best…” Johnathan nodded, while talking, staring at his hands while he traced feelings of loss, love, and betrayal carved into the metal table in front of him. His mother looked at him, through him, and said nothing, “I have a scratch, on my chin; do you think you can get to it for me.” She said, finally; Johnathan stood to leave. The cab stopped outside of Trader Joe’s, Johnathan paid the cabby, and stepped out in to the rain, he slid several bottles of wine, both white and red, into a wine box and walked hurriedly to the registers, paid with the credit card the gallery owner handed him, and again stood in the rain to hail a taxi. The university he attended was several blocks south of the Trader Joe’s, and Johnathan thought about his life, right now. He knew Jessica was at the Stonewall Inn bar on Christopher Street, the prominent gay bar that was the site of the 1969 riots which launched the gay rights movement, with friends, he thought about their third floor walkup studio apartment on St. Marks and how lucky they were to find it, he thought about the handful of papers that he needed to complete before they were due in the next couple of weeks, and he thought about the job that he needed to be getting back to so that he might answer questions, pour wine, and direct people to the photographer whose show dragged so many tasteless people out of their homes and into the dark, freezing cold rainy November night to stare at inept, useless photographs indolently framed, and hung hapless on a wall. He was soaked, again, when he stepped back into the gallery. Very little had changed since he left, patrons oohed, and awed, over the photographs, the gallery was crowded, as crowded as Johnathan had ever seen it. He brought the wine to the back room and began opening bottles. Casey Jarrett, the photographer, was a few yards away talking to a pair of young women, probably college students that likely only stumbled into the gallery after walking home, for the free wine, and a place to get out of the rain. Johnathan poured himself a glass of cabernet and downed it quickly before anyone noticed, a moment later his boss, Sheryl Madison, snuck up behind him, “Oh, good, there you are! I was beginning to worry.” Johnathan handed her the credit card, and the receipt, “Is there anything you need me to do?” He asked, “Nothing more than what you have been doing: walk around, greet guests, ask if they need anything, or have any questions.” Johnathan nodded. “Johnathan…” Sheryl quietly yelled, as he was walking away, “Could you ask Casey if he needs anything?” Shit, Johnathan thought, he hated having to be nice to artists, especially if he hated their work, and if he knew he would have to be fake. “Alright, Ms. Madison.” Johnathan stood beside Casey and the two young women with a glass of wine, seemingly patient, but anxious and annoyed. Casey noticed him, Johnathan knew, but had ignored him standing there. “Yes, can I help you?” Casey said, finally, very rudely. Johnathan took a deep breath, “…first, I brought you some more wine, but also, I was asked if you need anything, if I could get you anything?” Casey took the wine from Johnathan, handing him, also, his empty glass. “Thank you. No, I’m fine.” Casey responded. Johnathan nodded, and walked back to the entrance of the gallery. The opening had already extended later than the scheduled time, and it didn’t look to be ending anytime soon. Johnathan grew more and more anxious to get back to Jessica. In the crowd he had noticed a few familiar faces, famous faces: artists, actors, actresses, musicians, the elite splintered Johnathan’s appreciation for life, these people didn’t fit into his understanding of how the world worked, or should, or did, or something. Clearly there are multiple plans of existence, different realms coexisting simultaneously within a single dimension. The thought was exhausting. There was meaning in Johnathan’s world, it made sense to him, he felt it; whether it was purpose, or belief, or interconnectedness, or destiny, there is definitely more to life than is made obvious, and, again, the elite took the concept and devoured it completely, simply because they could, but did purpose drive them as well, or was their drive fueled by recognition, position—vanity? Johnathan bought into some of it, of course, why else would he attend NYU, as an art major, and work in one of the most distinguished galleries in New York City. Johnathan went to the backroom and saw Casey back there sitting at Sheryl’s desk with his head in his hands. “Are you OK?” Johnathan asked, startling Casey. “I’m fine, yeah. I just hate these things.” “Really?” Johnathan inquired, surprised. “You seem to be in your element.” “Because I have to…” Casey responded, “…you’re out there, you seem to be having a good time, but anybody that might look closer, deeper, could easily tell that you’re miserable.” Casey continued. Johnathan nodded, taken aback. “We’re both putting on a face.” Casey said, smiling out of the side of his mouth.

Jessica and Johnathan were in Jess’s favorite restaurant in Brooklyn, it was an anniversary and Johnathan had spent weeks making sure the night would be perfect. He organized the evening with room for spontaneity, storing ideas in the back of his mind if chance didn’t take effect, but he had also made plans for a show in the late afternoon, he had called ahead to the restaurant, made the reservation, scouted an unfamiliar, “new place”, for the two to eat desert, everything about that evening would be a harmony of well-planned appearances that he was certain Jess would love, and improvised happenstance, which she had grown to, first, accept, but then to relish. Of course, however, you can never plan on-, or account for mood, and our moods will always be the resolve which narrates the course in which our lives unfold. Neither Johnathan nor Jessica were inclined to savor the night, once it had finally arrived. The show triggered the feeling that shadowed a memory of Jessica’s that had been lost over time which would insight an immediate and intense desire to escape the theatre as quickly as possible with tears streaming down her face. Johnathan, frantic and confounded, guided Jess out of the theatre and onto the street, where her wild breathing left her near speechless. Johnathan was consumed in awe, the woman he loved, standing in front of him, was radiant in a light of passionate terror, and Johnathan hadn’t the slightest clue as to how it began, where it was coming from, what it meant, or where it was headed. In the moment his own dread was principle in the factor of his condition, something, however, came over him, uncertain of where he had found it inside of himself to express, at that moment it was irrelevant, because the answers to his questions and his fears would make little difference in the present moment, it wouldn’t matter what he thought or felt when challenged by the uncertainty of his love beside him. Johnathan put on a face. It wasn’t his own. He wiped the dread clear from his mind and replaced it with love, and with that love he escorted Jessica back into a place of warmth, and the spent the remainder of the evening walking hand-in-hand through Central Park.

“Have a glass of wine with me.” Casey suggested, of Johnathan, while sitting in the office, late on that rainy November night. “I think I’ll take you up on that.” Johnathan said. “You never said what you thought of my photographs.” Casey said, “Your right, I didn’t. I don’t know being around all of this art every day, I think I’ve stopped paying attention, really, to anything on the walls.” Johnathan responded. “You hate it.” Casey reacted, without much interest, or concern. Johnathan chuckled and stared into his wine glass, “I’m not a fan, no.” Johnathan responded. Casey laughed, “Yeah, I don’t blame you, it’s all way over emphasized. What those people out there have turned art into is…I mean, it’s laughable.” Casey said. “Everybody who shows an interest, has become a self-acclaimed critic, there all Andy Warhol’s—everybody is Andy bloody Warhol.” Johnathan shared. Casey laughed, again. “There are a lot of women though.” Casey interjected, raising his glass, unconsciously towards the ceiling—towards the heavens—“Yeah?” Johnathan asked. Casey nodded. “A different woman every night, kind of a thing?” “Something like that, yeah.” Casey nodded, slowly. “Do you enjoy that?” “That’s kind of a trite question; a series of women, different faces, and different names…everybody in my position always suggests that we’re empty, and that it’s meaningless—that they don’t really like it. And I’m no different. In all honesty I’ve been spending my entire life avoiding both meaning, and the meaningless alike.” Johnathan nodded, though he wasn’t sure why, Casey’s words had little meaning to Johnathan. “I’ve spend the better part of my life searching for meaning…”Johnathan shared, “…and then somewhere along the way I just accepted that meaning is found only once we let go of it, or philosophical bullshit saying like that.” Johnathan continued. “Is that why you don’t like the photographs? Because they’re meaningless?” Casey asked. Johnathan shook his head, “No, I don’t understand them. I think it’s an aesthetic thing.” Johnathan’s phone sang at him, it was a text, from Jessica. I’m headed to bed, love you. Johnathan nodded, “Shit.” “What?” Casey inquired. “Oh, it’s my girlfriend, I was hoping to get home before she went to bed, but…” Johnathan shook his head. Casey nodded. “This has been a crazy turn out, I really didn’t expect this.” Casey said. “Sorry about that.” Casey continued. Johnathan cracked the door and peeked into the gallery, “People are starting to leave.” He said. “Good! I’m ready to get home.” “You want to get a drink?” Johnathan asked, surprising himself. Casey looked up at him after staring into his hands, also surprised, “Why not.” Casey said, chuckling to himself underneath his breath. “What?” Johnathan asked, Casey looked up at him again, “Nothing, I thought I would be leaving with one of those girls I was talking to, earlier. When you interrupted us.” Johnathan laughed. “Did they blow you off?” he continued, “Not exactly, no; actually I didn’t ask either of them to go out.”

At Casey’s apartment, that evening, Johnathan was browsing the photographs framed on the walls, “These are pretty good.” He said, “Did you take these?” “No.” Casey said, handing Johnathan a glass of wine, these are just some of my favorites. “This one here was taken by my Aunt Eileen of the lake that I grew up on in Pennsylvania.” There was a moment of silence while the two sipped at their wine looking at the lighting of the sun on the lake in the photograph. “It’s my favorite photograph.” “Between every photograph you have ever seen or taken, this is your favorite?” Johnathan reiterated, Casey nodded, “Yes, it is.” He said, swallowing a mouthful of red wine. “None of the photographs on the wall are yours are they?” Johnathan asked. Casey shook his head, “Nope.” “I can understand that.” Johnathan said. Casey kissed Johnathan laying his glass on the table next to the couch, at first Johnathan seemed startled, but he composed himself and pushed towards, and into the moment in a manumission that he had never before known. Jessica crossed his mind, briefly, and then he opened his eyes and saw Casey staring back at him, and again returned to the moment; the two stepped into Casey’s bedroom, leaving their wine glasses on the table next to the couch, the headlights of a passing car below reflecting off of the glass of the surrounding buildings illuminated the dark Pennsylvania lake that Casey had spent the best year of his life sailing, in his youth. Early in the morning, well before the sun is aroused, Johnathan tiptoes out of the apartment and on the New York City streets, while Casey stared up into the blackness, towards the ceiling, and promised himself that one day he will change the world.