Elliot Granger & The Clueless Brigade

Chapter One: Lost souls recognize others of its kin

   The last words my mom spoke to me were, "I love you, have a good day at school."

I wish I could honestly say that I knew somewhere in the depths of my stomach that was the last time I'd see her alive. I play back the memory of my walking down the stone steps and swear, there was a twinge of finality, but I doubt its purity. The mind and emotions muddy the clarity of memories over time, and it doesn't take much at all.

I can look back on the cloudy morning, and remember the winter chill wasn't far from taking over entirely. My mom's worn and freckled framed mouth twisted in a forced smile. The pain was getting the best of her; I knew that. Her eyes said it all. I heard all the adults talking even though, for some reason, they thought I couldn't hear them. Even my kid brother knew what was happening. I wished it weren't true. It didn't seem right, and it certainly wasn't fair. The truth kept finding its way in my head even though I couldn't possibly begin to understand how much it was going to hurt.

I can still smell vanilla.

Right before going home for lunch, the office called me in, and I knew mom was gone—that, I can honestly say. The emptiness swelled in all of my new holes that were just there instantly, open and raw.

I hate cancer.

Christmas lights bathed the street in a forced cheeriness that made me want to curl into a ball after punching a lamp post. I wanted to scream. I couldn't wrap my head around how the holidays could continue without my mom. The whole commercial twist on the holiday season uses "family time" as a vessel to sell everyone stuff. For every time, a commercial of a mom making cookies or gift shopping would air, a metaphorical knife would bore itself into my chest. I bit at my thumbnail as I crossed the street. A microscopic chip of my purple nail polish disappeared into my mouth. My eyes stayed focused on my feet as they walked over faded white lines.

I was too nervous to drive, so I walked everywhere. I did three hours of driving lessons and decided the way of the foot was for me—which for the most part fit my life fine until Glen's new wife, Joan insisted I go to group counseling on account of all my problems. Northern New Jersey, land of the malls, had terrible public transportation. It was basically unusable—in other words—it took me three buses to get to the group which was a trek I needed to make five days a week now thanks to my being a minor and having very little control over my own well-being. By car, it takes about fifteen minutes. As a recent high school drop-out, my days were pretty empty. Glen and Joan didn't know what to do with me, and I'm not sure they want to do anything other than getting through the next year and a half until I turned eighteen. We all know once I can be, I'm gone. At least, we can hope that will be the case.

The third and final bus dropped me in the heart of Clifton, one of Jersey's rougher neighborhoods. North Jersey was a patchwork quilt of neighborhoods that are inside of gates that money drips off of, dirty towns that have streets lined with trash and graffiti, nothing-special collections of houses in between and the most elaborate retail assortment just all five minutes away. I felt like I was losing my mind, like I was living in a box that everyone could see but me. I had eight, long blocks to walk past pawn shops and strip clubs to a large, crumbling building that held my support group for teenagers who abuse drugs—not for ones dealing with grief. After three different therapists, my fill-in guardians decided group therapy was the best bet. This is more of an out-patient program. Having me out of the cramped house for four hours was better than one.

A woman with a black coat that hugged her slim body and nearly touched her feet tossed a paper cup into an overflowing trash can. Her eyes were on everything but the ground, her focus was on whoever she was talking into her platinum phone to. I often spend quite a deal of time thinking about how people spend their brains. As my mind flipped through her possible backstories, without decision I slid my camera out of my coat pocket, brought it to my eye. The camera turned on by my thumb during the motion of bringing the tool into position. I pull in the focus, bringing the woman closer to me. My lens is aimed at her bright red heels. I snap the picture, then zoom in on her hand that clutched her cell. I captured that, then returned my camera back to my pocket without anyone noticing. I was beginning to believe life was impossible for everyone, and I was trying to find proof of it.