Miércoles Thanatopsis Kornblatt sat pensively on the riverbank, contemplating both future and past as he watched the occasional eddy swirl in the mocha before him. Not yet having reached his twentieth anniversary of existence on the planet, the youth could claim neither the sophistication of adulthood nor the innocence of childhood, but his experience brought him realization enough to know that he did not like his name.
Early on, given the constant derision and insufferable teasing heaped upon him from his first days in school, he’d sought a nickname capable of ushering him expediently through the minefields and carrying him safely into adulthood. It was bad enough that the kids looked at him funny and snickered as he walked past, pausing to whisper to friends before the giggling commenced, but when teachers and other adults paused before trying to pronounce his name as though they suddenly must master a foreign language before proceeding, the world closed in upon him and forced him to deal with a lingering sense of anger and disillusionment. Over the course of his grammar school years, many sobriquets were tested, each failing dismally. Somehow, no one could develop a moniker from his given name. ‘Miér’ didn’t work, ‘Than’ lacked the ability to persist, and he was unwilling to consider ‘Korn’. Similarly, he learned to attach an uncommon disdain for nicknames such as ‘Bubba’, ‘Stinky’ or ‘Butch’, narrowing the possibilities for acceptance even more. Naturally, his intense, white-hot rays of embarrassment and displeasure radiated into society as a whole, his parents becoming the focal point that would magnify them and provide the intensity necessary to burn anyone who spoke to him. The words of Johnny Cash swirled before him as powerfully as the water he now stared into, “Life is tough for a boy named Sue”.
What were they thinking about? How could his parents have done this to him? Miércoles Thanatopsis Kornblatt, for Christ’s sake? Yes, mother tagged herself a born-again hippie and dad laid claim to a posture that labeled him a self-loathing Jew, but neither embodied the depth of belief in either culture to establish themselves to the world; Mom ran a flower shop and Dad masqueraded as a mid-level pencil pusher for a second-rate book publisher—while their son developed no identity whatsoever past that of an inveterate loser devoid of social skills.
Long ago he’d briefly researched the origins of both names before inquiring of his mother as to her motivations for giving him his name. Miércoles means ‘Wednesday’ in Spanish, he found out, and while the name sounded exotic, it carried less-than-scintillating gusto. Thanatopsis, with all its multi-syllabic involvement, presented more possibilities. Coined by a Nineteenth-century American writer, William Cullen Bryant, it was spawned from the Greek thanatos ("death") and suffix ‘-opsis’ (literally, "sight"); and is translated to mean ‘meditation upon death’.
Now, imagine a woman who recently completed twenty-four hours of labor pains and pushed out a healthy baby boy. In the presence of doctors, nurses and, of course, her husband, holds him for the first time and while smiling through her sweat and tears, proclaims “Welcome to the world, ‘Think about it, you’re going to die on Wednesday’ Kornblatt”.
Twenty years, in the fullness of time, represents less than a pinpoint on a chart, but to Miércoles Thanatopsis Kornblatt it seemed sufficient duration to realize the folly and futility of a world dedicated to madness. Resolutely, he stood and tossed a pebble into the river before again scaling its bank. Today, February 14, 2007, the world would celebrate St. Valentine’s Day. After crossing the bridge, he would zip up his parka to protect him against the chill and walk approximately one mile into the downtown venue of the Remington Arms Company. The elevator would expedite him to the basement office of Incoming Freight, where he’d hand a note and the package to the clerk and step back one pace. Then, a wry closed-mouth smile still parked precariously upon his lips, he’d reach into his coat and touch a button igniting the twelve pounds of plastic explosives. The note contained the words “Today is Wednesday…call me Cullen”.
Early on, given the constant derision and insufferable teasing heaped upon him from his first days in school, he’d sought a nickname capable of ushering him expediently through the minefields and carrying him safely into adulthood. It was bad enough that the kids looked at him funny and snickered as he walked past, pausing to whisper to friends before the giggling commenced, but when teachers and other adults paused before trying to pronounce his name as though they suddenly must master a foreign language before proceeding, the world closed in upon him and forced him to deal with a lingering sense of anger and disillusionment. Over the course of his grammar school years, many sobriquets were tested, each failing dismally. Somehow, no one could develop a moniker from his given name. ‘Miér’ didn’t work, ‘Than’ lacked the ability to persist, and he was unwilling to consider ‘Korn’. Similarly, he learned to attach an uncommon disdain for nicknames such as ‘Bubba’, ‘Stinky’ or ‘Butch’, narrowing the possibilities for acceptance even more. Naturally, his intense, white-hot rays of embarrassment and displeasure radiated into society as a whole, his parents becoming the focal point that would magnify them and provide the intensity necessary to burn anyone who spoke to him. The words of Johnny Cash swirled before him as powerfully as the water he now stared into, “Life is tough for a boy named Sue”.
What were they thinking about? How could his parents have done this to him? Miércoles Thanatopsis Kornblatt, for Christ’s sake? Yes, mother tagged herself a born-again hippie and dad laid claim to a posture that labeled him a self-loathing Jew, but neither embodied the depth of belief in either culture to establish themselves to the world; Mom ran a flower shop and Dad masqueraded as a mid-level pencil pusher for a second-rate book publisher—while their son developed no identity whatsoever past that of an inveterate loser devoid of social skills.
Long ago he’d briefly researched the origins of both names before inquiring of his mother as to her motivations for giving him his name. Miércoles means ‘Wednesday’ in Spanish, he found out, and while the name sounded exotic, it carried less-than-scintillating gusto. Thanatopsis, with all its multi-syllabic involvement, presented more possibilities. Coined by a Nineteenth-century American writer, William Cullen Bryant, it was spawned from the Greek thanatos ("death") and suffix ‘-opsis’ (literally, "sight"); and is translated to mean ‘meditation upon death’.
Now, imagine a woman who recently completed twenty-four hours of labor pains and pushed out a healthy baby boy. In the presence of doctors, nurses and, of course, her husband, holds him for the first time and while smiling through her sweat and tears, proclaims “Welcome to the world, ‘Think about it, you’re going to die on Wednesday’ Kornblatt”.
Twenty years, in the fullness of time, represents less than a pinpoint on a chart, but to Miércoles Thanatopsis Kornblatt it seemed sufficient duration to realize the folly and futility of a world dedicated to madness. Resolutely, he stood and tossed a pebble into the river before again scaling its bank. Today, February 14, 2007, the world would celebrate St. Valentine’s Day. After crossing the bridge, he would zip up his parka to protect him against the chill and walk approximately one mile into the downtown venue of the Remington Arms Company. The elevator would expedite him to the basement office of Incoming Freight, where he’d hand a note and the package to the clerk and step back one pace. Then, a wry closed-mouth smile still parked precariously upon his lips, he’d reach into his coat and touch a button igniting the twelve pounds of plastic explosives. The note contained the words “Today is Wednesday…call me Cullen”.
2 comments:
Holy crap, now what do you
want me to call you!
signed,
Whellymaster Bummble Gart
You can call me Ray, or you can call me Jay, but you don't has to call me Johnson!
(Sorry, I lost my head there for a minute...)
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