American Reject

by

The Small Bow

Sometimes it’s better to keep things to ourselves.

Volume 4, Issue Eleven

*****

My earliest memory of rejection was in second grade, an age where kids are still young enough to piss their pants and cry but also big enough to do some real damage to each other. That was the age I first saw a bloody nose, after one unlucky little kid got hit with one of those thick rubber balls during a blacktop kickball game, turning his face into red and black mush. 

I became kind of a clown that year, just one of those idiots that wanted all the classroom attention. There wasn't an armpit fart I didn't make or a glue stick I wouldn't eat. My best bit was falling into the metal trashcan next to the teacher's desk. I'd pretend to get stuck and call for someone to help pull me out. The teacher, Mrs. Hynd, was a tiny old woman who screamed when she got flustered, and one time she smacked the top of my head and pulled my hair until I climbed out of her trashcan. I didn't care–I loved those laughs–and one person, in particular, sometimes laughed the loudest. She eventually became my first real crush. 

Every couple of months, we'd switch up the seating arrangement in class. And one day, jackpot–the laughing girl moved into my quad area and sat right across from me. So for a whole marking period, I'd be near her. And because she laughed so loud at me falling into trash cans, I was sure she was smitten in the same puppy-eyed way I was. And if she wasn't? Well, not for long. 

The next day, I brought in a few stuffed animals to school to give to her as gifts. I tried my best to cram them all into the open front part of my desk, so I let one tumble out. It was this silly blue dog that my grandfather won for me at a shady carnival over the summer. She picked it up and tried to give it back. "No. You keep it," I said. That was my big move. She kept it and put it inside her desk. I purposely dropped a couple more of them at her feet. Each time she'd laugh, then she'd give the stuffed animals back to me. She was playing along! My heart sang: We'd probably be married by recess.

But when recess finally came, it was clear that I'd made a terrible, terrible mistake. A group of kids was stomping on the blue dog in the sand underneath the giant swings. These were the kind of kids who caused all sorts of trouble for someone like me–they were the army fatigue-types, with pushed-in faces and long fingernails. I kind of got the sense she summoned them to protect her. She stayed as far away from me as possible the entire recess and, based on the way most of my other classmates were looking at me, she'd made it clear that I was a total weirdo and that I'd embarrassed her very badly. 

When we returned to class, she picked up her things and moved to the other side of the room. Mrs. Hynd helped her find her new seat. I could not move a muscle; I was so stunned. 

And I can still feel it. Isn't that crazy? After like 40 years, I can remember the sound her chair made as she settled into her new desk. I can still remember the vibrations as my eyes trembled with water. I tried so hard to not let any tears hit the floor, but they did. Loud as a leaky roof. 

Full-blown alcoholism came much later, but flushing away those sorts of feelings is what got me there. Pretty sure that's what gets most people there.

And, man, I can think of dozens of rejections that happened after that one: My name being absent from a list of players who made various sports teams posted outside the gym for all to see. The thin envelopes from, like, ten colleges who informed me that I wasn't part of their class of 1996. The voicemails from various HR people who told me, "we had another candidate who was a better fit." The chilly emails from editors informing me that "we're gonna pass, but good luck placing this elsewhere." The ATM slips with INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. The wedding invitation from a dear old friend that never arrived. The way our toddlers tell me they hate me and that I should go away. I think I even got rejected from a sober living house when I first moved to LA.

I've gotten over most of it–I live a human life on earth, after all.

But, man, that dumb blue dog–that's coming into the coffin with me.