Gwyneth | by Robbie Pieschke

Words and paper, thought Gwyneth McGrath, who was on the verge of learning that life doesn’t fit neatly into simple sentences. Life, with its curls and swooshes, is cursive. And it is made up of mostly Wednesdays. She was walking her usual route to school—west through the suburb where she lived, where the patches of mailboxes were adorned with matching busts of Clydesdale horses; south through the Ashland neighborhood, browning with Fall; west again, past the school’s tennis courts, where grass poked through the cracks and the nets hung low like tree branches; and straight through the back parking lot of Evergreen High—immersed in determining the subject of her first story for the school newspaper. It was rare weather that morning—the sun was beaming through sprinkling rain—and she, a storyteller without a story, was humbled by writer’s block.

Without the necessary science to do so, she was faced with the unenviable task of determining the significance of things. In that town, in that time, what stories, she wondered, were worthy of telling? Some new beat was needed, she thought, and it was both inside of her and beyond her. A growing desire for whimsy was triggering her first story. Indeed, she thought, there were stories to tell in that town, but they had yet to emerge from the unturned rocks of commonplace. She was a storyteller, and in her mind, all stories somehow unfold. Given the chance, they stretch their legs and spread like fire. And so it seemed that her story began when she became aware that she was a part of it.

The newspaper room was effectively a glorified closet, lined with five, especially dated Mac computers, each a different color, representing different sections. As ordained by Mr. Puffpaff: Blue was for the Front page. Yellow was for Student Life. Pink was for Features. Orange was for Entertainment. Green was for Sports. Years ago, Mr. Puffpaff idealized his role as Newspaper Advisor, but the grant for the Mac computers remained his only lasting achievement. Year after year, the newspaper staff at Evergreen High applied for regional newspaper awards at the Midwest Student Journalism Conference, but they hadn’t won any of them since the year before Mr. Puffpaff became advisor. A plaque was hoisted above the Blue computer at the head of the room, commemorating the achievements of his predecessor. 

The affects of such long-term disappointment contributed to the rigidity of the newspaper’s functioning. Not unlike the computers themselves, the Junior and Senior editors of each section fell in-line with their job descriptions, and like clockwork, filled their sections with what seemed to be the same stories as the issue before. Gwyneth described the experience as “dribbling mundanity” and, even as a new member of the staff, still acclimating to the long-established processes of publishing a bi-weekly newspaper, she was conscious of the unfitting nature of her participation.

In many ways, however, this endeared her to Mr. Puffpaff, whom she and other students fondly referred to as Mr. Puff-puff-paff. He too seemed desperate for a new beat. “The ethical implications of storytelling,” he said in the first minutes of the class period, “suppose that we as journalists remain distanced from the story’s subject and maintain objectivity.” The remaining hour was dedicated to the work of student journalists—roaming the halls and excusing friends from class under the guise of important interviews. For some it was an early lunch. Gwyneth continued to brainstorm the story to which there was increasingly less distance.

To Gwyneth, the social implications of her story were more important than the ethical. Although she felt as though she belonged to “the highest level of the lowest social order,” as she put it once to her parents, Gwyneth was more confident than the average sophomore. Nevertheless, the influence of her liberal upbringing, which hinged on both free thought and rationale, made it difficult to navigate the unreasonably rigid social structures of high school society. Like history, the rules of social order were unfairly written by those with the highest cheekbones.

Gwyneth’s blemishes, on the other hand, were strategically placed above her eyebrows, and around her temples, and along her hairline by God or the Universe to keep her from attracting boys. Then again, she thought, what do boys know about beauty? What are blemishes but the grass stains of adolescence? Gwyneth knew that she would outgrow her blemishes. Or so she hoped anyway, for, like most people, she felt an unyielding desire to be accepted by those around her—she was “only human,” or so she justified to her diary almost daily, stressing the word “only” with double underlines. In her mind, writing for the newspaper would quell the constant tension she felt between maintaining autonomy and developing relationships with those who cared very little about autonomy.

She was considering this tension when she found Jimmy Braun in the hallway before lunch. Jimmy Braun and his broad shoulders. Jimmy Braun and his slippery hair. Jimmy Braun and his jeans. Was she getting the best of him? Or was it the other way around?

When Gwyneth spoke, this is what Jimmy Braun heard: Collect the old couch on Ashland Drive…Sunday night on the school roof…Gwyneth’s boobs.

“Under the bra?”

“You’re so gross.”

He raised one eyebrow as the bell rang and a crowd of hungry students surrounded them.

“Okay. But only if everything goes according to plan.”

“Then see you Sunday, Gwen.”

She hated to be called Gwen.

Her usual route to the school was less familiar at one o’clock in the morning, when the trees cast shadows on steps otherwise dedicated to muscle memory. Her path was mysterious and, as she walked in and out of the orange hues cast by city-funded streetlights, she felt that she had finally found her story. She was an investigative journalist, following a lead down her now-unfamiliar trail to school. Granted, she had planted the story, but it still needed to be told—if not for her sake, then for the sake of her autopilot town or for Mr. Puffpaff.

The school was brighter than she imagined and it appeared as a gothic castle in the nighttime. Drawing closer to the back parking lot, she followed a trail of empty beer cans, caved-in and then strewn around a small crowd slowly growing.  

“What is this, Braun?”

“Isn’t it great?”

“What if someone rats you out?”

“Oh, I ain’t worried about all that. I only told Joe and Adrian ‘bout it. It kinda jus’ spread, ya know? Plus, Joe thought we’d need more people to put it up there, so he called Kevin and Kevin doesn’t go anywhere without Jennifer and Jennifer doesn’t go anywhere without Gina.”

“I get it, Braun, but why isn’t it on the roof?”

“Well, see, that’s the problem. We only have one ladder and there’s really no way to get it up there, so we kinda jus’ been staring at it.” Jimmy Braun with his beer.

Gwyneth realized that the old couch was in the center of a giant circle of people, which had become north of twenty, maybe even thirty. She didn’t recognize most of the people there, which provided a strange sense of satisfaction, as if she was responsible for a good party.

“I hope nobody else from the paper is here.”

“What’s that, Gwen? Hey, at least I got the thing. That should be good enough for, at least, over the shirt, right?”

As Jimmy Braun continued to bargain, someone started chanting, “Burn it!” And like the fire it set out to create, the chant spread throughout the crowd, who, under the influence of spirits, began to hold their lighters near the tattered upholstery of the old couch. “Burn it! Burn it! Burn it!” At first, the material would ignite for only a brief moment and then flicker out near the armrest, but when one football player pulled a tank of gas from his truck and doused the poor couch, tall waves of fire grew like a tsunami. Everything facing the fire appeared orange like the streetlights. The heat caused some distance between the couch and the crowd, which began to sway around the fire and sing the school’s fight song:

Evergreen, Evergreen, we dearly honor thee

Evergreen, Evergreen, will always stay with me

Tradition and excellence, our staples through-and-through

Fighting for and conserving all things that are true.

She looked around the riot and smiled at so many who had stumbled upon an upturned rock and embraced a new beat. They were dancing around the burning couch and tossing stones and wrappers and bottles and articles of clothing in a juvenile, but cathartic sacrifice to the spirit of youth and immaturity. There was an eclectic sense of unity that transcended grade-level and autonomy. That which Gwyneth was once so concerned about now seemed superfluous.

The black smoke from the fire was visible against the dark sky and parts of the couch bubbled from the days old rain. Several students ran and jumped over the burning couch. One junior’s shoe caught on fire. The crowd continued to drink as the couch burned slowly into the night.

When the fire died down—the couch left charred in the back parking lot of Evergreen High School—and the crowd thinned out, Jimmy Braun wrapped one arm around Gwyneth’s shoulder, his beer clipping her chin slightly, and with the other he reached up Gwyneth’s shirt. Jimmy Braun with his forthrightness. There were sirens in the distance.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“Just the right amount of danger,” she whispered and kissed his mouth. As with the embers, the last remains of summer rose into the atmosphere and disappeared.

On her walk home, two rogue clouds, floating lonely and backlit by a dime-sized moon, looked painted in the sky. Her route was more familiar now in the dark. Words and paper, she thought. Words and paper can never fully capture the essence of life, the experience of story, and she would never let it. What would Mr. Puffpaff think if he learned that she was responsible for the couch fire? What trouble would find her? On the other hand, words and paper are all that some will ever know of experience. Break the story and bury the lead, she decided. She would inch close to the cusp of truth, the extent of all that words and paper can accomplish, and write the story as if it were news.  

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Next time on The Hindsight Bridge: Thrift Stores always seem to hold hope for revitalization. Benjamin Champagne’s “Vintage” unravels the thread of past lovers and future hand-me-downs. How can the real and the imagined be discerned? You may never know, but at least it’s cheap! Thank you for enjoying the first of our summer season! Revisit on Monday, June 10th for more.