100 People in 100 Days:viii. Jack Drower

Jack Drower, who at thirty-five was still unsure how Jack was derived as a nickname for Patrick, sat in front of his computer and, for lack of better phrasing, surfed the internet. It was Oscar season, so he jumped from one link to another about various celebrities’ or columnists’ top five, ten, or twelve picks for 2006.

While visiting one site about the best documentaries of the year he found a link to enter a contest—or perhaps just a search, as there was no million-dollar prize—to have one’s life documented. Jack clicked on the other link to go to the entry form. He digitally checked off little bubbles indicating his race, marital status, annual income, and such. He filled in blank fields with his name, address, phone number, and whatever other information that could not be expressed by filling in a digital bubble.

Then he came to the essay portion of the entry form. A simple question: Why should we document your life?

Jack stared at the screen for a while. It’s blue-white light the only light in the dark half-kitchen, half-office, half-homework room, in his home. His wife upstairs asleep. His three children, one downstairs and two up-, asleep. The dog occasionally walking by Jack, sitting next to his legs until Jack reached down and scratched its head, and then walking away. Outside the sprinklers sprinkled the grass with water.

Jack clicked the mouse so the cursor populated the blank field for the essay portion. And in five hundred words or less he typed:

My name is Jack Drower. I am an American. I live a life consumed with living, without ever doing anything to live for. I’m to scared to become a painter, which is what I really wanted to do. Traveling between New York and Paris. Sleeping with eighteen year old girls who have just started art school and as many hookers as possible. I wanted to be a madman, an artist. Instead I did what most people do; I dropped out of art school to console my nagging mother. I received of business degree and married the first girl that did not find my obnoxious when I was drunk. I have a white collar job that could be easily outsourced to India any day. I am completely useless with my hands except for the two or three paintings I try to paint a year. I am scared of risking anything. I am miserable with me life. I am an American.

Sometimes I yell at my son when I see him sitting around doodling in his notebook instead of doing his homework. I talk to him about responsibility and the future and marketable skills and responsibility and work ethic. I lie to him. Maybe I’m afraid he will end up like me because he didn’t do what he wanted to in life and resent his family. That is what I am like.

I envy my teenage daughter because she spends twelve hours a week at dance school. She loves dancing and is very good at it. She could be a famous ballerina once day. Or maybe interpretive dance. Why do I envy her? Because she is free to do what she wants. If the whole dance thing works out then she will be living her dream. If it doesn’t, then she can just grab herself a husband and live off of him. Or if she doesn’t want to get married, she can still manipulate so man to provide her a living anyways. I know that may not sound fair, but that is how life is.

I guess you could say that the way I see my wife is like that consolation price the losing contestant gets on a game show. Sorry you didn’t win the twenty-thousand dollars, but you get this really nice home version of the game show. I know that doesn’t sound nice. And I know sometimes she feels my resentment. But sometimes I do truly love her. It is just that she never understands why I like to paint pictures that seem like nothing more a bunch of splattered paint.

One time I told her it was like producing a giant come stain that the world found beauty in. An ejaculation that didn’t tell a tale of rape or domination or submission or patriarchy behind it; just something beautiful. She didn’t find that meaningful, or even funny. We didn’t talk for two months.

I wish I had courage. I wish I could live my dreams. But I am afraid.

Jack clicked on the submit button. He exited the browser and stood up. He stretched his arms and back, went to refrigerator, and pulled out the carton of milk. He took a swig of milk straight from the carton and then returned it back to the refrigerator. He noticed the little light inside had burned out. Jack walked back over to the computer, opened the internet browser, and began searching for what kind of lightbulb he needed and how he could replace the burned out one he had just discovered.