The second entry in the diary of Jesse Charleston Maith
Sunday, 3 September 14 N.G., 2005 hrs.
Writing is cathartic, isn’t it?
At least it’s a more constructive way of expressing emotion than violently smashing all of my material possessions and punching holes in that 1980s AD drywall in my antiquated house, at least in nine-percenter terms.
I know I should be grateful for what I have. I know I should be grateful for the opportunity to go to Everton and be the starting quarterback. I know I should be grateful I’m not a pryvie.
But I just can’t sit here and type with a straight face that I’m just one peachy, buoyant fella.
Not when I have so many questions about the world.
Aunt Stacy, bless her heart, will constantly remind me I’m going through a rebellious teenage phase, but she’s just pandering to Uncle Bob. I’m not even sure she really loves him, but she pretends to. Like Bob, she is a CEO of a company, albeit hers is just some small marketing firm. But unlike Bob, she has some heart. She’ll at least sit down and listen to me vent , and I know she’ll be in the front row at Pioneer Stadium Friday night to cheer me and Matt on.
Why can’t Uncle Bob be like that? Why does he have to be this callous humanoid and not an organic, exuberant character that actually shows he cares about his family?
He’ll only care about me if he gets to brag about this whole destiny narrative of his. For Joshua’s sake, if I hear one more word from him about how I’m a reflection of my dad and how I’m gonna be this genius scientist and the greatest quarterback Everton’s ever seen, I will snap.
And if he shuts up about that, then he’ll get into that ridiculous Divinity Day coincidence dirge. All because I was born on the first Divinity Day, 15 October 1 N.G., the same damn day the Divine Republic of Freedom was born, and because it took place at the end of the “most important speech in history,” and because that speech concluded at the exact moment of my birth, with the words canonized in massive lettering on a gigantic gold rectangular slab outside the entrance to the Capitol Towers: “My fellow Freedomers: welcome to a new world, and a peaceful and prosperous life. Let us begin!”
Everyone around on that day remembers the Genesis Address as that speech delivered by Francis Stewart attended by hundreds of thousands of people, enthused and eager for a fresh start and new beginning following the Great Conflict, on Central Park’s Great Lawn on a cloudless, seasonably warm mid-October evening. They watched in awe as Stewart blah blah blahed about his vision and expectations for his post-United States of America virtual Utopia. I call it a silly bit of self-indulgent mouth poison performed by the last President of the United States and the first and only Ultimate Minister of the DRF. The only other reason we’re supposed to remember this speech is because in his infinite wisdom, Stewart decreed Divinity Day as New Years’ Day in the DRF and only the DRF, and that it was no longer the year 2041, but year 1 New Genesis, or N.G.
I probably should stop writing about the Ultimate Minister here, but…I just can’t help it.
I hate Franc…I mean…I hate you-know-who. Almost as much as I dislike Uncle Bob.
And I can’t even call you-know-who by his real name – not on paper, not on a computer screen, and certainly not verbally. How in the name of all that is holy can that Divine Treatise of Freedom contain a first indentation allowing for free speech when you also have the third? Why is it that anyone who wants to criticize the Ultimate Minister can’t refer to him by his real name? I’ll tell you exactly why. Vanity. Insecurity. Pure hypersensitivity.
He’ll execute anyone that dares criticize him.
There have only been two public executions in DRF history for third violations. At least that we know of.
Sarah Boynton was the first.
The second was given to Cory Jacobs, a prominent journalist who labeled you-know-who evil, among many reproachful terms, for allowing the repeal of the Seventh Indentation, providing universal healthcare to all Freedomers, to occur.
Boynton and Jacobs were executed after convictions and laborious appeals processes, but if you believe those theories on the interlink, you-know-who has had other third violators secretly killed, tortured, or infected with terminal disease, depending on which method he either found most convenient and which of his victims’ executions would not fall under the interpretation of Freedomian law.
And how would the government know I’m typing such disparaging remarks about our fearless leader despite not calling him by name? You know about the SPYFLYs – those ant-sized airborne robotic creatures that record video and audio of everyday Freedomers like you and me? If they really do exist, and you-know-who hypocritically deems an entry such as this offensive? Then I may be the “third” to be executed at the Rockefeller Grounds!
If, say, that were to happen, I must say, I may not feel the same internal pain, anguish, or sorrow I still carry in my heart and mind nearly seven years after that fateful spring in 8 N.G. The Boynton execution was bad enough, but the stupefaction and desolation I experienced that day rendered my mind comatose – devoid of sentiment or acuity – when my mother passed from this world on 22 June 8 N.G. I barely even remember all four hundred square feet of her hospital room in Secaucus decorated with flowers, tchotchkes on the wooden tables, the windowsill, and foam-cushioned chairs. Not to mention the more than a thousand get well cards flowers, and boxes of chocolates addressed to one of the most beloved educators at New Hackensack Elementary School: Mrs. M, as she was called.I only have vague memories of seeing my mother under those blue blankets in that green hospital bed; wrinkles and stretch marks lining her skin, brittle bones visible beneath her flesh, especially her face, and her bare scalp devoid of what was one brown wavy hair, hooked up to four I.V. bags, tubes attached to her nostrils and the major veins in her arm. I don’t even remember where Bob, Stacy, or my cousins crying by her bedside as a Joshuan minister read her last rites.
One thing, however, still strangely stands out in my mind about that day.
The last words she ever said to me.
I remember them verbatim. My teary eyes gazed into hers like a dagger, intent on listening to and absorbing every word and gesture. It started off as one of those generic goodbye speeches.
“Everyone dies one day, son,” she said to me in labored breaths. “It’s up to you how you spend that time between birth and death.”
Then, things turned rather cryptic.
“Your father was a great warrior, and a better husband. He always said… don’t believe everything you hear. Believe what…you want to believe.”
When my chest started shaking from grief, she asked me to lean closer.
“Your father was also a brilliant scientist. Before he fought in the conflict, he was working on something so important for our future something so…important…for…our world…”
And with her final words, she plodded: “learn about Project Miracle.”
Then, at age 31, Elaine Maith drew her terminal breath.
As Stacy collapsed to the ground in grief with a naturally aloof Bob holding her, and cousins held each other in their arms while sobbing, I remained knelt at her bedside adjacent to her, bewildered and numb. Why would she even use her last words to tell me about something that made no sense to me? This was not the Elaine Maith I knew: coherent, intelligent, disciplined, humble, and robust.
There had to have been a reason for it.
One of these days, I’ll find out that reason.
I never fully appreciated the power of cathartic exercises such as writing…until now. So, for now, I’ll leave this entry with words my father told my mother, who in turn, passed down to me.
Keep your head up, walk with confidence, and never give in to manipulation.
That’s how I’ll approach my first day at Everton tomorrow.
And I’ll make my mother proud. I’ll make my dad proud. No matter how of a jaded and cynical rebellious jackass I’ve become.