Warning: 7 pages long (single spaced)

“The Last Ditch Effort”
By:
Maurice Irvin


Thursday, December 4th

The room was dark due to the thick blinds that covered the windows, through which little daylight could creep. The alarm clock began to buzz. He woke up the same as he had every day for the past month: alarmed at his dreams. He scratched his head and rubbed his eyes. Squinting, he focused on the digital numbers which read 7:15. He jumped out of the bed and rushed into the bathroom.
Flipping on the light, he groaned as his pupils recoiled in shock from the sudden brightness. He showered, dressed, and brushed his teeth. Nearly tripping down the stairs, the thud of his steps echoed through the still house.
He passed the door of his parents’ bedroom.
”Mitch! Is that you?” his mother yelled shrilly.
“Yeah, Mom, it’s me.”
“Are you up?”
“I am now,” Mitchell said as he entered the living room, grabbing his keys and wallet off a table. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I thought I heard your shower!” his mother cried, “Wear your blue thing, it’s supposed to be cold today!”
“Okay,” Mitchell murmured.
He looked at a blue hooded sweatshirt but left it on the coat rack, reaching for his leather jacket alone. Jamming his arms through the sleeves, he turned to leave.
“Do you need gloves?” his mother inquired.
“No. Bye!” he called out, slamming the door behind him.
Mitchell almost liked being late while driving. It allowed him to speed and not feel guilty. Stopping at a red light, he tried not to move his lips too much as he sang along to the radio, in order to avoid the attention of fellow motorists. Looking down, he noticed dried toothpaste encrusted on the crotch of his pants. Surely his classmates would ridicule him for it.
“Great,” he thought.
He glanced at his face in the rear view mirror and realized he had forgotten to shave. Amidst the patches of stubble, an inflamed pimple protruded just above his lip.
“Well,” he said quietly to himself, “this is proving to be a wonderful day already.”
Mitchell arrived at school five minutes late. He hurried across the parking lot and half panicked when not another soul was in sight. Halting just short of the entrance, he looked out over the field surrounding the building. The lack of trees in the horizon made the pale morning sky seem to stretch on forever. He sighed and walked inside.
Mitchell despised school, though he appreciated learning. The students made it unbearable. Mitchell tried to pass off his acute fear of people by telling himself that he was reserved. He hadn’t the slightest notion of who he was, and this terrified him. He tried to believe that everyone at his age was equally insecure, as his mother had told him numerous times, but they seemed to hide it much better than he ever could. Mitchell feared the worst: that he had somehow missed out on vital information about growing up and was a stage or two behind. He must have been sick on the day everyone else got the memo. He constantly searched for someone with similar interests, but the results were grim. He did not believe there was anyone quite like him, so he reveled in his individuality and detested his uniqueness.
Each hour was torture. Daydreaming was the best diversion from the pains of boredom. He existed in a near trance, somewhere between sleeping and waking. There he chose to live, as far away from reality as he could make himself. His serenity would be periodically interrupted by a teacher’s query, but he always placated them as best he knew. He won some battles and lost others. Mitchell had learned to conceal his terror of embarrassment, but it snuck through his façade on occasion.
Walking the crowded halls was a curiosity to Mitchell. The pressure of all those eyes on him made his walk stiff and unnatural. He wondered if maybe one of his legs was longer than the other. Though he made himself as inconspicuous as physically possible, he still hid from any vicinity of the center of attention. He slouched, keeping his head down constantly, and allowed his long hair to drape over his face.
He usually avoided eye contact all together. But for some reason, he could always sense when she was near. The feeling of her presence overwhelmed him until he was forced to look up. Every time, without fail, his object of affection would be there: Faith Hilner.
They passed each other four or five times a day. Mitchell didn’t know if she noticed him, but he always noticed her. More often than not Mitchell would throw a quick glance at her in order to admire the features of her face, and to see if she was exchanging the look. In the rare instance that she locked eyes with him (whether intentionally or accidentally he could not tell), both politely turned away.
The least painful point of the day was Mr. Marshall’s philosophy lecture. Mitchell had one of the lowest grades in the class, but even Mr. Marshall could recognize that Mitchell was one of the few students he ever got through to. Mitchell was lazy, and an awful test taker, but genuinely interested in understanding theory.
Mitchell often stayed behind to talk with the teacher after the rest of the class had gone to lunch. The subject of Eastern mysticism had caught Mitchell’s attention during the course of the day’s discussion.
“Mr. Marshall, you know how you told us that parable today…the one about the monk, the strawberry, and the two lions?” Mitchell inquired as he walked up to the front of the room.
“Yes, Mr. Jensyn. Almost sounds like a bad bar joke set-up, doesn’t it?” Mr. Marshall chuckled while shuffling papers into a briefcase. He listened for a response from the student, but to no avail. Mitchell spoke when Mr. Marshall looked up at the young man’s characteristically deadpan countenance.
“Right,” Mitchell replied in a solemn tone. “But it was something that you said in particular.”
Mitchell had a sense of humor. He was a serious person, but he loved irony. He believed in the existence of God because he thought life too good a joke to not have a teller. But this was not the time or place to divulge the belief.
Cocking an eyebrow, Mr. Marshall asked: “What was it that concerned you, Mr. Jensyn?”
“Well, you said that he was stuck in between two lions and if he went either way he would be eaten. Then he found a strawberry and ate it.”
“I did indeed,” Mr. Marshall said, then pausing. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow. Where is the interest?”
“You said that the strawberry was delicious,” Mitchell said softly as his dark eyes lit up. “The fact that he could enjoy something so small in the face of certain death is incredible.”
“Well, those are the basic principles of Buddhist-Hinduism: the strawberry is to the man as the man is to the lion. They are all connected, and so on and so forth.”
“It’s not that so much which interests me,” Mitchell said as he sat down on the edge of a desk adjacent to Mr. Marshall’s. “I mean, the idea that we are all somehow unified is neat, but what I got from it is that it took the man’s awareness of eminent demise to fully realize his own existence. He had to accept death before he could live.”
“You’ve lost me,” Mr. Marshall replied, covertly checking the clock. “I think you’ve read more into this parable than what was meant.”
“If you look at life in terms of the end,” Mitchell continued, “we all eventually die out and none of the little matters we as humans usually get wrapped up in are of any importance in the big picture.”
“Okay, I understand that,” Mr. Marshall said, plopping down in his swivel chair and leaning back, “but what’s your point?”
“What would happen if someone had the guts to transcend all of these barriers that we put up between each other; if we tore them down instead of built them up? Like Mark Twain said, ‘Dance like no one is watching. Sing like no one is listening. Love like you've never been hurt and live like it's heaven on Earth.’ Wouldn’t that truly be enjoying life?”
“I’m not certain that’s what he intended,” Mr. Marshall said, eyeing Mitchell. “If you broke down every barrier, that would include discretion. As a result, if we said what we thought or felt all the time, no one would want to be around each other. Enjoying life and having bad manners are two very different things.”
“Mr. Marshall,” said Mitchell with a sigh, “all I’m saying is that if you knew when you were going to die, would you not do everything in your power to try and enjoy whatever little time you had left?”
“Well, hypothetically speaking, yes. But, who wouldn’t?”
“Exactly. Then everything you did would be your last. That would make even the most mundane task the be all and end all of every task you had ever done. If you painted a picture, no matter how terrible an artist you were, you would want it to be the most magnificent work of art you had ever seen or created, essentially because it would be the last opportunity you would ever have to paint.”
“Right,” said Mr. Marshall, “but who can live the way that you’re talking about? No one can comprehend their ultimate fate and still operate on any normal plane. The burden is too much to bear. People just don’t do that.”
“But what if they did?” Mitchell retorted.
“Living life to the fullest, as you have described it, would be substantially exhausting to the human person after a prolonged period of time,” Mr. Marshall stated. “You don’t know when you’re going to die. It could be tomorrow; it could be in fifty years. Life is fragile, yes, but also unpredictable. Are you planning on dying any time soon?”
“Why not?” Mitchell interjected, “I’m going to die someday. Who’s to say it shouldn’t be sooner than later?”
Mr. Marshall gazed intently at his pupil.
“Mitchell,” he said, “is there something you want to talk about?”
“No, Mr. Marshall,” Mitchell said, shaking his head, “I’m not suicidal or anything, that’s not what I mean. I just think that we should try to live life as if it’s the last thing we ever do. Some people never get the chance. Even if it kills us, we should at least try. There has to be something more to all of this than just the daily grind. We’ve lost sight of what’s important. In my opinion, the primary purpose of being is to be satisfied in existing at all. To me, that’s the meaning of life. We have to stop being scared all of the time. If we did not know but rather accepted that someday we will no longer be here, we would live life the way it was intended to be.”
“Well, Mitchell,” Mr. Marshall said abruptly, “like you said, that’s the meaning for you. Feel free to pursue it. It is your life, after all.”
“I just might,” Mitchell said, taking the hint from Mr. Marshall to leave. “Have a good day, Mr. Marshall.”
By the time school was over, the weather had become frigid. An icy wind lashed Mitchell as he went to his car, and he regretted not wearing the blue sweatshirt.
After eating dinner and finishing his homework, Mitchell found himself surfing the Internet, as he did routinely every night. All nine of his buddies were listed as offline and no new posts were made at the Pink Floyd message board. Reviewing his e-mail, he found a letter from his pen pal in Ontario entitled “You’ll love this.”
The mail contained merely two lines: a hyperlink and a single sentence from the sender, which read “March 31st, 2050 for me.” Mitchell clicked on the link to find “Death Ticker.com.” It was a site he had heard of, where one submits required information and the mysterious “Ticker” system predicts a personal date for the curious person’s death. Desperately in need of a laugh (however morbid), Mitchell filled out the fields: place of birth, sex, weight, height, smoker or non-smoker. At the end of the page was a button labeled “Reveal Your Destiny.” Mitchell hesitated, and then clicked. The process took a few seconds before his guaranteed expiration date was produced.
“That can’t be right,” Mitchell blurted out.
He reset the page, refilled the fields, and clicked three or four more times before deducing that there was no error in his submittal.
“Odd,” he thought. “Maybe there is a glitch in the system or something. I’ll e-mail the Webmaster.”
Mitchell wrote to the posted address on the site. Once satisfied, he got ready for bed. His mind churned.
“What do they know anyhow?” Mitchell consoled himself, “It’s just some stupid internet gag.”
Like any normal person would, he tried not to let the prediction affect him, but he felt this was a potential opportunity. He now knew when he was going to die, or at least the idea had become acceptable. Finally, he had an excuse to live. He was given a deadline. The thought excited him. He pondered the practical details and quickly devised a plan.
“That’s what I’ll do,” Mitchell resolved, laying in bed and turning on his side towards the laptop on his desk.
The Death Ticker window was on the screen, displaying the seconds he had left. It read 79,200. He turned out the light and flipped onto his back, propping his head against the pillow to gaze at the digital clock. Mitchell’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and the bright red numbers came into focus. It was 11:04 p.m.
“I’m going to die tomorrow,” Mitchell said, closing his eyes and smiling.
That night he fell into the deepest sleep of his life.


Friday, December 5th

The following morning at precisely 6:45 a.m., Mitchell was downstairs and wide-awake before the break of dawn, toiling in the kitchen. His mother came up to investigate the unusual racket.
“What’s all this?” she asked, dumbfounded by the sight of her son cooking.
“Breakfast,” Mitchell replied with a smile. “It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.”
“When did you learn how to cook?” she asked, sitting down at the kitchen counter.
“I watched you,” he said, “and you made it look so easy.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say, Mitch,” she said, tasting the eggs on a plate in front of her. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” Mitchell replied, pouring orange juice into a glass. “I’m just having a moment. Life, I’ve found, is a series of moments shared between people that care about each other, and I don’t think we’ve had enough.”
“Aw, Mitch, I’m really sorry,” his mother began, with a mouth full of food. “I know I’m not around as much as I should be, but I promise after I get everything ironed out at work with the reports and the…”
“Mom,” Mitchell interrupted, putting up his hand, “you were always around when I needed you, and that’s all I could ever ask for. But, it was my fault if I didn’t always recognize when that was.”
The two looked at each other. Mitchell admired his mother as she inhaled her breakfast.
“What brought this all about, by the bye?” his mother garbled between bites of toast.
“You ever read those motivational posters that say ‘today is the first day of the rest of your life’? Well, today is the last day of the rest of my life,” Mitchell answered.
“What?” Mitchell’s mother said, surprised.
“Mom, relax. It’s nothing for you to worry about,” Mitchell said.
He bent forward over the kitchen counter and kissed his mother on the forehead. All chewing had ceased.
“Mitch, what’s going on with you?” she asked, ignoring her plate.
“I love you, Mom,” Mitchell said, walking around the counter to hug her. “I have to get going or else I’ll be late.”
“Did you get a girlfriend?” she inquired, receiving no reply.
Mitchell walked into the living room and reached for his keys and wallet. He said goodbye to his mother and exited through the front door, wearing the blue hooded sweatshirt underneath his leather jacket.
He arrived at school five minutes early. Mr. Marshall stopped in his tracks at the sight of Mitchell, who was drenched in water from head to toe. Mitchell walked erect as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
“Mitch, you’re soaked!” Mr. Marshall exclaimed. “What happened?”
“It’s a beautiful day out,” Mitchell said, wringing out his sweatshirt and then bending over to pick up his leather jacket. “I couldn’t help but take a little stroll.”
“It’s pouring down rain,” Mr. Marshall replied with a quizzical look.
“I know, isn’t it glorious? Could be the last time.”
“What, of the season?”
“Something like that.”
Mr. Marshall peered into the young man’s eyes, checking to see if they were bloodshot.
“You’re insane, Mr. Jensyn.”
“Maybe,” Mitchell said, smiling and nodding.
He went nearly all day without seeing Faith, until he spotted her walking down at the far end of the main hall. She was chatting with one of her friends and the pair rapidly approached Mitchell. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was left gaping as she blew right past him, unaware of his presence. He looked after her and clenched his fists, unsure of himself. He could feel the grinding of gears inside him as they were thrown into reverse from full steam ahead. The sound of screeching brakes reverberated in his mind.
“Faith!” he shouted.
The entire hall turned. The mass of students, which had been engulfing Faith, parted like the Red Sea before him. Mitchell walked towards her and stopped a few feet away. He had made up his mind; there was no turning back.
“I know I haven’t spoken to you in about a year or so,” Mitchell started, “but I realize I may never see you again after high school. After this year we’ll both go away to college, and most likely, I won’t get another chance to say what it is I have to say to you.”
“Yes?” Faith replied, confused, after a brief lapse.
“You don’t know me very well, and I don’t know you very well, but I think you are absolutely the most gorgeous girl I have ever seen in my entire life,” Mitchell uttered, his voice quivering.
Faith flushed, motionless, as the stunned crowd stared.
“I’ve always wanted to get to know you but I never had the opportunity,” Mitchell continued. “You were always dating Eric, and though I do sincerely hope you are happy with him, I felt like I could have treated you better. The truth is, I’ve had a crush on you since the day we met, but never had the courage to say anything until now. I waited until it was too late. For that, if nothing else, I’m sorry.”
Faith stared at him with wide eyes.
“Right,” Mitchell said after a few seconds (seemingly minutes) of awkwardness, “that’s all.”
He slowly backed away from the scene in the hallway. It seemed to him to be an alternate reality. It couldn’t have been real. Under no circumstances could that have actually just happened.
In an adrenaline rush, Mitchell walked feverishly towards his car. Looking up, he jumped as Faith ran to him.
“Mitch,” she said, catching her breath, “what are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing,” Mitchell replied, his heart racing. “Why?”
“Here,” Faith said. She reached down to grasp Mitchell’s hand and write her phone number on his palm. “Call me tonight, okay? Maybe we could do something.”
Mitchell stood in silence and watched her walk away. After that, he gazed at the numbers on his skin.
That night at nine o’clock, Mitchell called Faith. He asked her if she wanted to get a strawberry milkshake with him, and though she considered such a specific request to be odd, she consented.
Faith waited all night. Mitchell failed to show or even call to say he would be late. The next morning, Faith’s mother informed her that a student at Faith’s school had been in a major car accident the previous night and was pronounced dead on arrival at the county hospital.
“Oh my God!” Faith exclaimed, “Who?”
“Mitchell Jensyn,” Faith’s mother replied after searching the newspaper article. “Did you know him?”


Epilogue

Rumors surfaced some time afterwards that Mitchell’s mother had accessed his online account and found the Death Ticker site in his Favorites. The display window with the heading “Seconds Left To Live” read 0. Upon opening his new mail, she found an unread response to a letter sent the day before his death. It was the Webmaster’s assurance that there was no possibility of the Death Ticker reading so near a date or any date at all, for that matter, as the site had been down the night of December 4th.
Mrs. Jensyn then opened the only other link in her son’s Favorites. She found Mitchell’s online journal in which 63 sonnets were written about each individual member of his senior class, all highlighting the positive attributes of their subjects. The last entry was entitled “Faith”, which only read “W.N.A.” At the bottom of the page was a footnote inscribed “Words Not Applicable.”
The main page of Mitchell’s journal read as follows:
“Albert Einstein, widely heralded as one of the most scientifically advanced men in human history, said he maintained a belief in the afterlife. He based this conclusion on the fundamental principle that energy is not created nor destroyed, but only changes forms. Life, the most vibrant of all energies, cannot cease. I have come to terms with this, and have finally found my peace. I can tell you all with the utmost confidence that someday I will surely die, but my life shall never end.”