Fake Adulthood

It will be your nineteenth birthday tomorrow, and you’ve never felt so young. You start to wonder if everyone feels this way as they grow up, or if this is just another thing which sets you apart. You miss being young. Then you realize how ridiculous that thought is. Because you are young. You are really, really young.

You can’t even drink yet – legally. You think about the night last fall when you tried to pass as older, with your falsified I.D, but were caught because you looked so young – because you are so young. And that’s not even you projecting, that’s the outright, honest-to-goodness reason you were caught.

I saw the girl with the scarf buying PBR’s. There’s no way she’s any older than eighteen.

You immediately regret having bought so many. Only one of the four you’re charged with buying had even been yours. One for you; one for the boy with whom you had danced; two for the boy who would eventually hear more of your secret thoughts than most other people ever had, even though you weren’t and still aren’t sure why he was the one you entrusted them to.

You sit at the bar and fill out the required paperwork. The alcohol which is still coursing through your body makes it difficult to think straight, to answer the questions directed at you. It’s too difficult to focus, to not get distracted by the disjointed conversations occurring all around you.

Katherine with a “K”, not a “C”.

Do I really have to stay inside? Can I at least go outside and tell my boyfriend that it’s okay if he wants to leave?

I can’t stop crying, it’s not my fault, I’m trying, I’m trying. I’m sorry.

I didn’t even want to come out tonight, I wish I hadn’t.

You finish the paperwork, but of course you aren’t yet free. All of your friends are though. And they’ve all already left. And why shouldn’t they have? Nothing is still going on, unless you’re one of the unlucky ones to have been caught. As you are. You sit down on the ledge next to the fire place with a sigh.

Everyone who’s still inside is going to have to come to the station.

You sigh again. You don’t even have anyone to be angry with; this is so clearly and indisputably your fault. You allow your hands to be handcuffed behind your back, with your purse awkwardly hanging on your wrist. You look down as you are led to the patrol car. You aren’t drunk enough to escape your own self-consciousness. Because you are self-conscious, as much you pretend that you aren’t. And that applies to everything, not just to this.

You arrive at the station, and your handcuffs are switched to just one hand, and connected to a metal loop on a bench. You pull your knees into your chest, and suddenly you can’t control your laughter.

What’s so funny!?

It’s just, like wow, this doesn’t seem real, you know? Like, I just got arrested, we all just got arrested. Is this even real life?

Believe me, I don’t want to be here anymore than you kids do.

I think I’ll write a story about this.

All of you creative types at this school.

The officer shakes his head and sighs.

I’m really sorry you kids have to go through this.

It’s not like we can really complain, like this is clearly our fault.

The officer begins to call out the names of you and your temporary peers from the stack of confiscated I.D.’s. You hear your name.

That’s me.

Do you have any noticeable scars or tattoos?

I have a treble clef behind my ear, and-

You pause, to breathe, in an attempt to suppress your nearly irrepressible laughter.

-          An inverted cross on my hip.

Really!?

Yep.

You’re the man.

Thanks.

Your small group begins to be split up, as you are all led away at different times to be fingerprinted and have your mug shots taken. You realize with a slight pang that you will never be able to escape this; New York State will always know your face, your fingerprints, and your eighteen-year-old mistakes. You realize that you will never be able to be a teacher, a cop, or a politician, not that that’s something you even ever really wanted. You ask the officer to print your mug shot out for you, because, well, why not? You’re told that they don’t do that, even if you beg. You ask if you can see it anyway. The second officer enters as the screen is turned towards your scrutinizing eye. He laughs and shakes his head.

Teenage girls. You need to make sure you look good?

Well, of course!! And since I can’t have a copy for myself, it’s really the least you can do.

You realize how slightly manic you look, how messy your hair is. It is four in the morning after all, and you haven’t been able to even properly sleep off your drunk. But altogether, it’s not that bad. You’re glad that this is the image the state will have of you, and resolve that you won’t give them the chance to take another. One mug shot is enough.

You are told that taxis have been arranged to take all of you back to campus. You’re handed a green slip of paper, with your court date and all of the appropriate information. You’re told that if you miss court, for any reason, it’s grounds for a warrant to be released for your arrest. You make sure to mentally take note of the date, while also vowing not to lose the slip of paper either. Today, you wish you had kept that vow to yourself. A byproduct of a different eighteen-year-old mistake.

Today is the day for you to look back on your eighteen-year-old mistakes. It’s your last day of a year of fake and feigned adulthood, of failures, of constantly questioning yourself, of falling in and out of lust and what you think could be love, but definitely isn’t, of worrying that you’re making the wrong long-term decisions in the grand scheme of your life, or something.

People always say that nineteen is meaningless, but you’re not sure if you agree. While it’s not as obviously meaningful as eighteen or twenty-one, it is meaningful in its own special way. For one thing, it symbolizes that the messiest year of your life is about to be over, that you survived your first year of fake adulthood without (too many) visible scars. There will only be two more years of this, this feigned and fake adulthood. Maybe more if you go to graduate school. But you don’t think you want to. You’re already sick of fake adulthood, already itching and ready to grow into real adulthood, real responsibility, and all of the realness that will go along with that. You hope it won’t hurt too much. But you know that it will.

John Gardner

     My mother’s first husband – although not exactly – was John Gardner. Yes, that John Gardner. The literary rebel of the late twentieth century, and the author of The Sunlight Dialogues, On Becoming a Novelist, and – the one everyone knows – Grendel. He was not exactly her first husband because he died on Wednesday, September 14, 1982. Their wedding date was September 17, 1982.

     In my ill-advised youth, I often imagined how different my life would have been had I been the daughter of the late, great, John Gardner, romanticizing it and imagining perfection. It probably would have been terrible. He had an artist’s temperament: he was often intoxicated, often unfaithful, and often abusive, both emotionally and physically. My mother had not been happy with him.

     My mother had met him at a conference for aspiring writers when she was a young, naïve thirty-year old woman. As you’ve probably gathered, my mother was drawn to his artistic temperament because it was something which she also cultivated in her own life; although she never met with nearly the level of success which he did. Due to this relationship, my mother has seen both sides of what being a writer is about: the constant struggle towards publication which she experienced, and the constant struggle for acceptance which he faced within the writer’s community after becoming successful. I still remember, and always will, her reaction to my announcement of a comparable path: She shook her head and covered her eyes. I’m still not sure whether she hid laughter or tears.