It’s time for me to cram my ears with wax and get the hell out of here.

Dear Trevor,

Dear Trevor,

I’m sitting here at The Laughing Gull again, trying to get up my courage to go into the woods.

No, courage is not the right word. I’m trying to break through my walls of inactivity. Gordon would call my state The Modern Malaise. “We’re too separated from necessity,” he would say. “We don’t need anything. We don’t go hungry enough. We don’t fight for survival enough. No one’s trying to burn our village or kill our family. We’ve got nothing worth fighting for, worth working for.” I’ve been wallowing in this meaningless existence for so long that I don’t how to step out of it. I’m going to, though.

Do you have these kinds of days? I remember as a kid getting together with a friend and asking the inevitable question: “So what do you wanna do?” And he’d say, “I dunno. What do YOU wanna do?” We’d swap that question back and forth half a day without doing anything. Every option, no matter how stupid, would have been better than sitting there doing nothing. Drawing hand turkeys. Making toast. Trying to break the record for standing on one foot. Sometimes it doesn’t matter so much what you do, but just that you do, right?

Speaking of broken records, I’m starting to sound like one. Or how would I say that in a way that makes sense to you? I’m starting to sound like a parrot. Or a repeating sound bite.

I pretended that the reason I came down here to the Laughing Gull was to ask Sung-Hee precisely which direction Martin and Julia headed when they went into the woods. She told me that in the first 60 seconds. Right past Martin’s cabin and straight through into the shadows. Since then, I’ve been here for what would probably equal many hours in your world, trying to figure out how to get off of my ass, onto my feet and into the trees.

Instead I’ve been sitting here painting a portrait of Sung-Hee with her own awful coffee. If the picture is imperfect, it serves her right. I’ll include the picture with my letter to you. Hopefully it will be a going away present, as I go away into the woods.

Sometimes—today is one of those times—Sung-Hee sings while she cooks. She has a love of awful, old, pop songs and she sings them in her rickety voice with a Chinese accent. “IF-a you want my baw-dee AND-a you think I’m sex-eee, COME on sugar, let-a me knowwww…” She’s like a siren. I don’t mean a police siren, although that’s about how bad she sounds. She’s like an ugly mermaid, wooing me into her crummy restaurant with her warbly voice.

It’s time for me to cram my ears with wax and get the hell out of here.

Hopefully, you won’t hear from me soon.

Dad

If you are slacking off, revel in the glorious idiocy of the game.

Dear Trevor,

I’m not certain what the term “Rhino” means, but I don’t care much for this Mr. Schick, so I wouldn’t assume it’s complimentary.

Excuse my dishonesty. I do know what he means. I’m done with any courtesies that require lies to accompany them. He’s calling you a rhino, because you’re charging the ball to hard. Do you blow past attackers? Don’t. Square off with them. Play on your toes. Wait for the attacker to make a mistake.

When I was alive, I thought that when I died that games and hobbies would reveal themselves as irrelevant. I was wrong. Every moment is relevant. I long for a run on a soccer pitch as much as I long for a child being born. At every moment, I wish I’d gone for it. Do you know what I mean?

I’m not trying to sound like a coach—do your best and all that. I’m trying to say that my hope for you is that you suck every bit of juice out of every moment of life. If you are playing soccer, be aware of every blade of grass under your cleats. If you are slacking off, revel in the glorious idiocy of the game. Feel every bit of the sting when a drop of sweat rolls into your eye. If the other guy beats you, go ahead and feel humiliated. The fact that you’re feeling means you’re in the game. You’re a player, not an observer. I think that may be all that matters. That you play. That you jump in.

Meanwhile, I sit on my porch and watch. Others get off the train and wander off into the woods. A few get on the bloody boat.

You asked about the woods. Let me describe them to you. The edges are full of brambles and shrubs, but once you get under the trees, the ground is mostly clear. The trees are huge—mostly firs and cedars, if I guess correctly. Huge ones. Reminds me of a place on Mount Rainier. I don’t remember the name, but your mom loved it. Huge old trees. Boardwalks to keep the tourists off the ground.

These trees are even bigger. My guess is that the constant fog makes them grow like that. Under trees that huge, the forest is always dark. Almost none of the dim light that we get around here makes it down to ground level in the woods. The dirt there is spongy from the countless inches of needles.

There’s not much else to tell. I’ve never gone in very far. I’ve never heard a bird or seen any creatures in there. It’s all trunks and shadows. If I can get a bit of gumption, I’ll try to explore further. Maybe I’ll take a bit of paper and a pencil with me and write you a letter while I’m there.

As far as Mr. Schick being disappointed in you for chewing gum, don’t beat yourself up over it. You’re right. You were only chewing gum. He’s trying to use guilt as a motivator and he has no right. He is not God. He does not sound like a worthwhile role model. He does not sound like a just judge.

Nice drawing of him, by the way.

God, I fear, is a just judge. I fear that’s why I’m stuck here. I’ve done far worse than you, Trevor. I hope you’ll never bear the shame I bear.

It’s one of the few hopes I have left.

Dad