The Life of Ely Read online

  The Life of Ely

  by Jason McWhirter

  “This is my first non-fantasy book that was originally written as a screenplay. This story is sort of my ‘baby’. There are a lot of personal connections in the story that make it very important to me. I sincerely hope that you get as much enjoyment from reading it as I did in creating it.”

  A Twiin Entertainment Book

  Other books by Jason McWhirter

  The Cavalier Trilogy (Fantasy Genre)

  Book One, The Cavalier

  Book Two, The Rise of Malbeck

  Book Three, Glimmer in the Shadow

  Published by Twiin Entertainment

  http://www.TwiinEntertainment.com

  Copyright 2013 Jason L. McWhirter

  Library of Congress

  All rights reserved

  Cover photograph copyright: Isoga/Shutterstock.com

  Author Photo: Jason Halvorson

  Edited by Linda McWhirter and Sarah Finley

  Cover designed by Twiin Entertainment

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored electronically, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated primarily to Rick Selfors, my middle school shop teacher and wrestling coach, my mentor, my colleague, and my friend. His dedication to his profession and his positive impact on thousands of students cannot be measured.

  Author’s Note

  Some people might think that Mr. Seljin, one of the main characters in this book, might represent me, or maybe Mr. Selfors to whom I’ve dedicated this book. But the reality is, that although his character may be somewhat autobiographical, he represents aspects of many of my former mentors, such as coaches, teachers, and colleagues I have known over the last thirty years. And although Mr. Selfors, known as ‘Sel’ to his students and friends, was the main inspiration for the character of Mr. Seljin, his personality also includes the traits of those I have had the pleasure to know and work with throughout my years as a student, athlete, and educator. The other characters in the book are also fictitious, though they too were often created from bits and pieces of various people I have known throughout my career. Ely was not one of my students; his character merely reflects many of the traits and conditions of some of the students that I have encountered over the last eighteen years of teaching.

  The Life of Ely is fiction, but like historical fiction it contains pieces of truth and reality, rearranged in a way to create a coming of age story that sheds light on the struggles of some students, as well as the amazing ability of some of our dedicated educators and coaches who manage to make a positive difference in their lives.

  And so, I not only dedicate this book to Rick Selfors, but also to the educators, coaches, and others who work so hard to improve the lives of our struggling students, not just by trying to teach them something useful, but also providing support and the tools necessary to build a life for themselves. These people deserve our thanks, and this book is for them.

  One

  There are only a few things in my life that I’ve figured out to be certainties. You’re born into a life of which you had no choice, you grow older every day, and then you die. Everything in between, is up to you. As the old saying goes, modified by me of course; life is a blank slate, and you’re the writer.

  I’m a big movie fan, and I read a lot of books. You tend to find things to occupy your mind when you have a shitty life…an escape from the realities of your own world. One of my favorite movies, Shawshank Redemption, had a line that I think of almost daily. It helps me sometimes when I think things couldn’t get any worse. Andy Dufresne, played by Tim Robbins, says in the movie, “Get busy living, or get busy dying.” It’s so simple, but most truths are, and it makes so much sense. It helps me focus on the possibilities that life can offer, not the negative stuff that seems to be shoveled in my direction every day. It helps me put my life in perspective and makes me realize that no matter how bad my existence is, someone has it worse. All you need to do is turn on the five o’clock news, open a newspaper, or scan the Yahoo main page and you will see daily proof that your life, no matter how bad it seems, is better than some. Unfortunately, it’s sometimes difficult to have this perspective when you’re walking through knee deep shit. Some people need a guide to help them, while some can do it on their own. It reminds me of the difference between a Theravada Buddhist and a Mahayana Buddhist. The Theravada, thought to be the original branch taught by Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, believe that everyone can reach enlightenment on their own if they follow the Four Noble Truths and Eightfold Path as taught by Buddha. The Mahayana Buddhists believe that you need help to reach enlightenment. So they worship the Buddha, and other Buddha’s, in order to find the path towards enlightenment. But unfortunately I didn’t know much about Buddhism in eighth grade, so this so called Eightfold Path did me no good. But I think both sects of Buddhists would agree with Andy and say, “get busy living, or get busy dying.”

  There is something else that I try to remember when things get bad. I think about how insignificant we really are. I know we don’t want to think about it, but the reality is that what we do now will generally not matter in a hundred years, unless of course we invent something world altering or we do something horrible enough that our actions are taught in history classes hundreds of years later. What are we really in the scheme of things? We’re nothing, just a collection of atoms rolling around for a set number of years until our cells’ DNA code tells us it’s time to die. It’s our emotions that make us more than that, but at the same time make us susceptible to believing that we deserve better. I believed that, that I deserved better, and yet I could not pull myself from the muck on my own. I needed help, and unlike many others in the world, I was lucky enough to find that help. I found my Buddha, or Buddha’s actually, and because of them I survived.

  Here is my story.

  Ely Carter

  ——————————

  The setting sun reflected off the mirror-like water of Vaughn Bay, casting a crimson and orange glow behind the Olympic Mountain range as the sun descended behind the evergreens on the opposite shoreline. Several dozen boats filled the quiet marina, creaking and whining as they rubbed against the oiled pylons and weathered planks of the dock. The rickety dock led to an old single lane road separating the marina from a rustic country store.

  Ely Carter, a young, round faced fourteen year old, sat on the curb outside the country store. His frayed, gray sweatshirt barely concealed his two hundred and fifty pound body. Khaki shorts and dirty worn out sneakers mirrored the overall appearance of the store behind him.

  A light scattering of freckles highlighted the boy’s pale and pudgy face. He would be considered a five or a six on the rating scale for appearance, average and relatively non-descript. His overweight body and double chin, however, dropped him significantly lower on the middle school scale, probably to a three. But in that world the difference between a three and a six is really insignificant; either rating making you a pariah, or at best a ghost, a fluttering apparition in the school’s hallways that no one seemed to notice, making Ely painfully aware of his virtual invisibility.

  The old store had definitely seen better days. There were only two cars parked outside; one a rusty pickup truck, and the other a paneled station wagon, both old and dilapidated, covered in dirt and grime.

  Ely was sitting, crouched over and sobbing quietly in his hands. He lifted his head up and wiped his bloody nose with his sweatshirt, completely oblivious of the stunning sunset before him. Flakes of dried blood covered his upper lip and one eye was swollen partiall
y shut and beginning to turn purple. Blood from his nose made a red streak across his old, threadbare sweatshirt. The boy’s brown disheveled hair hung in loose curls over his face. With bloodshot eyes he scanned his surroundings with a look of utter despair.

  A scrawny man with long, greasy hair, dressed in dirty pants and a flannel shirt, walked out of the store carrying a half-rack of beer. His white undershirt was stained with a mixture of dirt and yellow sweat, yet it looked to be the cleanest part of his clothing. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. As he walked by Ely, he stopped casually, flicking his cigarette on the ground at Ely’s feet. He glanced down at the boy with a look of mild disdain, “What the hell’s your problem kid? Christ, what do you have to cry about?”

  Ely glanced up at the man, barely registering his words through the sorrow that draped him like a heavy coat.

  “Pussy,” the man muttered under his breath. Shaking his head, the lowlife turned and got inside his pickup truck. As Ely watched the truck drive away a little girl suddenly plopped down next to him on the curb. She looked like she could be about seven.

  “Hi, I’m Laura,” she announced.

  Ely wiped his nose again and stared at her. The last thing he wanted to do was have a conversation with a little kid. He was not in the mood to interact with anyone let alone a young child who couldn’t possibly understand what he was going through.

  “What’s wrong, why you cry?” she continued. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a pony tail, and though one of her cheeks was smudged with dirt, it did nothing to diminish her angelic expression. It was as if she really cared about why Ely was crying.

  Ely didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. But she wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily.

  “You can tell me. I cry all the time, especially when I watch sad movies.”

  “I…hurt myself,” Ely stammered, again wiping his runny nose on his sleeve.

  “I fall and hurt myself sometimes. See this,” she said, pointing at a scab on her elbow. “I was running fast and tripped. It hurt really bad.”

  “I’m sorry,” was all Ely could think to say.

  “Are you okay? My momma has band aids. They have little bears on them.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Ely responded.

  From behind them a voice interrupted their conversation. “Hey, there you are!”

  Ely and Laura turned to see a young boy, about Ely’s age, walk up behind them. The boy was thin and handsome, sort of a Justin Bieber look alike, and his smile seemed genuine to Ely, although he had seen so few smiles in his life that he could not be sure. “Laura, don’t run off while we’re in the store, okay.”

  “Okay, Jeff,” Laura said with mock contriteness. “I was just bored.”

  Jeff glanced over at Ely. “Hey, is my sister bugging you?”

  “No,” Ely replied softly, not looking up from the ground.

  “He needs a band aid,” Laura said.

  “It sure looks like it. What happened to your face?” Jeff asked.

  “Nothing, I just fell.”

  Jeff looked intently at Ely for a second before lifting his sister up from the curb. “My name is Jeff. I don’t recognize you. Are from around here?”

  “I just moved here a couple of weeks ago,” Ely murmured.

  “You going to Key Peninsula Middle School then?”

  “Yup.”

  “In that case, it looks like I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jeff said, holding his sister’s hand.

  “Yeah,” Ely sniffled again, “maybe.”

  “What’s your name?” Jeff asked.

  “Ely.”

  Just then two women in their late thirties emerged from the store carrying a few bags of groceries. One woman was tall, with long straight sandy blonde hair and a clean face devoid of makeup. She was naturally pretty, but with the type of beauty that would not make her stand out, appearing almost average, until you took more than a passing glance at her and noticed that her strong features were anything but average.

  The other woman was short, almost stocky, with short cropped hair and an angular face. She looked the complete opposite of her companion, except for when she smiled. Both women had glowing smiles that lit up their faces.

  “Come on you two, let’s go,” the taller woman said.

  “I have to run, Ely. I’ll see you around,” Jeff said, walking towards the station wagon with his sister in tow.

  Ely glanced up, nodding briefly before returning his gaze to the ground. His mind was cluttered with many images, mostly unpleasant, but Laura’s face managed to peek through his thoughts, staring at him with what seemed to be genuine concern. Kids, Ely thought, they are so innocent, so full of goodness. How do they lose it? he asked himself. It gets beaten out of them, he answered back almost immediately.

  A voice derailed Ely’s train of thought. “Here you go, it’s clean.” Ely looked up to see Jeff standing near him holding out a white handkerchief.

  “Thanks, but I don’t want to dirty it.”

  “Go ahead; it’s for my allergies in case they act up. I have several more in my backpack. Besides, you need it more than me.” Ely looked up at the towel skeptically. “Don’t worry; I haven’t blown my nose on it or anything,” Jeff smiled and tossed the handkerchief on Ely’s lap. “You can have it. See you tomorrow,” he said, racing back to the car as the engine started.

  “Okay,” Ely responded, this time with a little more assurance.

  Two

  Picture a jar with marbles in it. Every marble represents a reason for living. Each little glass ball is a dream, a goal, an idea, a compliment received, a word of praise from a parent, a kind gesture from a stranger, the feeling of accomplishment from a task well done. A jar, a life, filled with everything good and kind that has come from others and one’s own consciousness.

  Every time something positive happens, a marble is added. Every time something bad happens, a marble is taken out. The idea being that as you live your life more marbles should be added than taken out. At least that is the type of life that people ‘should’ live.

  My jar was nearly empty. I had a few marbles in the jar of life. Some came from my mother who struggled to make my life better. But she too had a jar that was nearly empty. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s hard for someone with few marbles to fill another’s jar. She tried as hard as she could. I know that. But as she added marbles to my jar, marbles were taken from hers, and before long that drain on her jar affected the input of mine.

  I received a few marbles from various teachers who did their best to be kind and help me, but their presence in my life was just a temporary blip in time as I moved from school to school and grade to grade. They did their best, but they just couldn’t add marbles to my jar at the same rate they were taken out.

  It should be known that for someone like me, each marble added to my jar felt as if it weighed ten pounds, its impact so much greater for me than for someone who already had lots of marbles in their jar. One more marble in their jar would not be noticed so much. But one marble rolling around and clinking against the glass walls of an empty jar resounded like cathedral bells on a Sunday morning.

  My jar was empty that morning as I sat on the curb of that store. But a marble was added that day, and its presence had a huge impact on my life, an impact that no one, not even myself, would fully understand until later.

  Ely Carter

  ——————————

  The dilapidated trailer sat on cinder blocks tucked into the corner of a small parcel of land, surrounded by overgrown grass and shaded by several large oak trees. A long dirt road, filled with pot holes, snaked its way through the heavily wooded lot until it made a loop in front of the old worn down single wide. The un-mowed grass around the trailer was choked with weeds, and it was obvious that no one had cared for the home or the land for many years.

  The trailer was streaked with grime and mildew and a few of the windows were cracked and had been repaired with
frayed pieces of duct tape. Several rusted derelict cars littered the front yard, and intermingled amongst the cars and weeds were various rusty automobile parts. A fender, some hub caps, and even an old axle lay peeking from the overgrowth of foliage.

  The inside of the trailer was old and run down as well, though it looked as if someone had done their best to make it clean and organized, an effort equivalent of trying to polish a dog turd, impossible, and to most, not worth the effort.

  The small living room was furnished with worn mismatched furniture arranged around a little television in the corner with rabbit ear antennas. A worn recliner sat before it, flanked by garage sale end tables covered with empty beer cans and several ash trays overflowing with cigarette butts.

  The tiny kitchen could barely accommodate the small round breakfast table and four rickety chairs. It was relatively clean but everything was so stained and nicked up that it was difficult to tell.

  Two bedrooms and a bathroom made up the rest of the home. In contrast to the rest of the aged trailer, one of the rooms reflected a desire to make the best of what it had to offer, which wasn’t much. Like the rest of the trailer, the room was old and the carpet stained, but it was as immaculate as it could be under the circumstances. Nothing littered the floor and everything had been meticulously arranged to provide an orderly functional space in an otherwise chaotic life.

  An aged rickety book shelf lined one wall and several dozen books filled those shelves in perfect order, organized alphabetically by the author’s name. On closer inspection one would see that every single book was either a fantasy or science fiction novel. Several of the classics were there, like The Hobbit and the other Tolkien books, along with those of C.S. Lewis and Isaac Asimov. There were handfuls of others that would seem obscure to a casual observer, but to a fellow fantasy aficionado they would bring a smile of recognition, books by David Gemmell, Robert Jordan, E.E. Knight, Terry Brooks, and Jim Butcher, just to name a few. All of the books were old and worn, as if they had been purchased from a used book store. But their careful and organized display suggested that they were much more than junk to their owner.