You & i

But the Ii remains the same. Oh yeah, lowercase or uppercase, as if it matters— like it's the difference in standing between freshmen or seniors, or something evolutionary. I don't see it anymore as different, really, the chip. In freshman year (should that be capitalized?) I toyed with an idea for a philosophical blab book that contemplated differences between the (little) i and the I.

Of course it was brilliant shit. That's the way it is with things in the mind's eye. We see a thing as already polished. That diamond in the rough never got hewn, though. It was about the disconnect, or it was to be about the disconnect. I held possessively to the title, because a good title makes or breaks a work, right?

The dot on The i

—that was the title. The idea never graduated, and, and, the story morphed, or maybe it was i.

"Mr. Caufield? hi," I said. I couldn't get through the gate and up the stairs fast enough. It's hot as hell and anyway I hate when people watch me like I'm on parade. He's ok, though, I guess, so no sweat.

"Jenny, nice to see you, come on in. Come in," he said. He's wrinkled, worn, but just the same old Holden, with ideals. Weird, I know, he got married and has a girl now.

Turns out, we all recover from given Life blows and momentary infamy. Somehow, as long as we get up. He's living a quiet life, even with the book publishing, and multiple editions, and all. Now, you mention "Catcher" down the block, and almost nobody knows what the jackass you're talking about. Caufield says nobody reads anymore. That's not true, obviously, because I do. I even know the good ole Robert Burns poem.

I've read enough yarns to blanket the family my mom says, "...maybe, but just what did you understand, honey, I'll never be quite sure..."

I chose Jenny. I even looked it up. It means white wave. I don't know why but it reminds me more of extinction, than starting again. Something like a verb, rather than a noun, to jenny— it reminds me of the way an ordinary undyed waxed candle is snuffed half-way. It's like the variations on a theme of white, that never really is, white, I mean. It leaves that lingering trace, of the archaic poetry, in the un-scent-ed, and old smoke's tale. I feel those shades of gray, seriously, like a population of ghost sensations.

It's a shrinking population. White folk, I mean, are dying out. I feel kinda responsible.

"They're here!" Mr. Caulfield said, calling up the stairs. He was sort of an idol for us growing up. I'm not here to see him though. He's ok, cause he's not gonna say dumb things like "don't do what I wouldn't do." Life is not a game. He knows that. It's confirmation.

There was quite a fussing and shuffling as they tumbled down. They chose Seamour.

"You didn't look it up?" I said in disbelief.

"Nope, it just fucking fits. I mean c'mon, my parent's picked Tabitha, for chrissakes," you said clenching your lips together like its fact if you say so.

I've been whooped a few times with the Bible so I know that Tabitha is the one St. Peter raised from the dead. I guess it's trivia in the end. It's a cool name, though. I almost took it, but I didn't want them to feel all weird about it, like we were becoming mirror twins or something black lodge Lynchian.

I still feel odd about the clothes you gave me. It's not because these are thrift store. I'm glad to see them, though.

"Do I look ok" I said, tugging at the lilac floral hem a little. I ask this so often I've started leaving out the question mark. It's a hallmark of my insecurity--my social statement. I know they're going to say yes. I mean, it's Seamour, right?

"Did you put your soul strap on today?" they joke, and I have to smile, crookedly. My wisdom teeth have wreaked havoc on my moneymakers. Seriously, poor people used to sell their teeth so rich people could implant them. I'm not even sure there was good anesthesia back then. It's vile. Modern folks sell plasma. I knew a poor unemployed blind guy who sold his plasma so he could Uber his three-year-old to free preschool. It's called Head Start. There were too many on the bus for that one to be picked up.

"Yeah," I said. They've got work brand clothes on, with the goddam label on the outside. I hate that. I'm not even going to give that brand "name". Why, man? Why, I just don't get it would a company do that. Companies are run by people, though sometimes I wonder. Maybe it's like in that movie where you have to put special sunglasses on to see the Aliens. I suppose I shouldn't pay so much attention to labels, and names.

I know, I know, sticks and stones and all, but words and names matter. A kick in the crotch hurts even if it's tangential. I like Seamour, even if the name doesn't 100% fit.

"Are you sure you still wanna to go out?"  Seamour said.

Maybe that was the beginning, though it obviously started way before that. That's what they said, later, in the hospital.

"Yeah." I said. "Let's go."

[Chapter 1, in Sequel to The Catcher in the Rye.]

*Themes: being human; race, gender, age, self-identification, social anxiety

**Plot line: Two teens who question their gender identity unexpectedly find themselves expecting a child, and reconsider what it means to be human.