Free Our First Love by Anthony Lamarr Page B

selectively uttered the words aloud, one behind the other, the words disseminated into syllables, letters, sounds, thoughts, then into nothingness.
    â€œâ€¦was tired.”
    â€œThe ceiling…”
    â€œâ€¦tied…”
    â€œB-r-e-a-t-h-i-n-g…”
    â€œâ€¦D-e…”
    â€œ.”
    He forgot the ineffable agony of a constricting noose around the neck of a hanging man. Then he released the anger that he deemed tangible, flowing as fluidly as blood. Caleb made the choice to be happy living in his world with its sequestered walls and telescopic windows; its flinty hardwood floors and crumbling sky; and the canned meadows and mountains and oceans that colored its vapid air. He didn’t fool himself into believing everything he hated about his world had suddenly become appealing. Instead, he gratefully accepted his friable life for what it was, because now he knew that ending the story was way harder than living it.

CHAPTER 10CALEB
    M y world was unchanging. I could paint these walls every color in the heavens, but I would still be living within a dungeon of reachable moons and planets and stars inside galaxies that go on and on forever.
    Our life was turning Nigel into an old man way before his time. And as much as I hated to take the blame for it, my condition had a lot to do with his premature aging. Don’t get me wrong, he didn’t look bad for his age. What’s breaking down was Nigel’s spirit. He had the spirit of a man who knew he’d lived too long and the only thing he had to look forward to was the rare night his dreams transported him back to one of the few happy moments of his prior life. Something akin to catching a Hail Mary pass and scoring a touchdown during the last seconds of the game to win the district championship for his high school football team, or seeing the smile on our mother’s face at the surprise party we gave her on her forty-third birthday, or fishing in Flatley Creek with Dad and me. Nigel had a long life ahead of him, but he acted like all his happy moments have already been lived and captured in the framed portraits lining our hallway and living room walls.
    I hoped this new job as an assistant professor of journalism at FAMU would lift his spirits. I sent out seven resumes and, within a week, Nigel received five calls for interviews. The call I was hoping for came first. Nigel was sitting by the phone when Dr. Hubert Alexander, FAMU’s journalism department chairperson,called but he didn’t budge. I answered the phone and pretended I was Nigel. Dr. Alexander said he admired our work for the Capitol Sentinel and he was extremely interested in meeting with us to discuss the assistant professor position. I, well me as Nigel, told Dr. Alexander I could meet with him the next day. He asked if ten-thirty would be a good time, and I told him ten-thirty was fine. When I hung up the phone, Nigel, who was playing tic-tac-toe with the TV remote, asked who I was talking to. I answered him with a question, “What did you say, Professor Greene?”
    â€œSo I’ve got an interview at FAMU tomorrow?”
    â€œThe interview is only a formality. Trust me. You’ve already got the job.”
    â€œWe’ll see,” Nigel responded in his drabbest tone.
    I wasn’t about to let Nigel spoil my excitement, so I pretended not to hear his cynicism. Besides, I had to get him ready for the interview—make sure he looked the part.
    His bedroom was dark even with the light on, so I opened the curtains and blinds. The sunlight poured in. That’s when I noticed the wastebasket next to the nightstand. It was filled with wads of used paper tape. A nearly empty roll of tape was on the nightstand. Paper tape is Nigel’s constant bedmate. A few years ago, when Nigel was cuddling with regular Scotch tape, he went around for months without any eyebrows or lashes. I never said anything to him about it, but from the despairing