Tarnished Chain

 

 

 

 

"It's crazy how you can go months or years

without talking to someone, but

they still cross your mind every day."

 

R. Steve Mahong

 

 

Study hall in my junior year at the private academy was a disappointment in that not one of my friends had the same schedule.  Early on, I chose a table with only one other person sitting at it.  I was aware of his name, but knew nothing about him except he was the epitome of the 'dark side'. 

 

At my college prep academy, those reflecting the 'dark side' were a definite minority and usually ostracized.  I falsely believed  we would never talk to each other and I could have some alone time.

 

As the months passed by, Allan Rooms and I became confidants.  We talked about anything and everything not related to school.  He was a self-reported outcast with his wealthy family and it was no wonder.  He wreaked of cigarette smoke (which was not allowed nor cool) and wore filthy clothes.  His hair was unkempt and he had severely dark rings under his eyes as he never seemed able to sleep.  He always slouched, never held himself straight, and shuffled with an irregular gait.

 

The only place I spent time with Allan was in study hall as he was a senior and we did not share classes.  If we happened to pass each other, we held eye contact and nothing more even if we were by our selves.  A strange relationship indeed.

 

Throughout the year, our relationship deepened as I discovered I was the keeper of his silent world.  For whatever reason, Allan knew he could trust me and although we never physically touched each other, some small part of my heart engaged with his.  He offered strange tales as I sat and listened.

 

Right before he graduated, he took a  small wooden cross hanging  from around his neck and slid it across to me.  He said nothing and I just shot him a questioning look.  As far as I knew, he had worn it every day.   It was small with gold paint chipped on every side.  I held it tightly in my hand and that was the last time I saw him.

 

A few years later, I read in the alumni news that Allan Rooms had died while fighting in Viet Nam.  I felt a very deep sorrow and a large sense of loss.  Immediately, I went to my college dorm and unearthed the little cross on the tarnished chain.  I sat and cried, promising I would never forget him.  I wish he knew I remembered him still.