The campus cafeteria is a place of dull revelations, coffee spills, and the occasionally meaningful conversation. I’m reading some of the criticisms that Signet has taken the liberty to include with the edition of Hamlet I purchased. Signet, one of the biggest publishers of world classics also shares the name of the company with which my father is employed—Signet Electronics. One of major focuses in these critical essays is Hamlet’s relationship with his father. Yes, they each seem to agree, Hamlet fits into some mold of the Oedipal Complex, but to what extent and flavor is up for debate.
I mark up the sides of the book with a pen, agreeing, disagreeing, and drawing the occasional stick figure. I think we can abstract Hamlet’s relationship with his father as much as we like, but the bottom line of analysis is that we only understand Hamlet in the absence of his father. Hamlet, I would argue, has lost a point of reference for masculine identity. I guess this falls into the ‘looking glass self,’ or another psych theory. I consider finding a passage which shows this as the focus for my explication. I’m already overdue on emailing the selection to my professor.
I turn my phone back on. After leaving it in my passenger seat the night before, the cold sucked the life right out of the battery. But like a newborn spider, it will recover solely on heat alone without having to recharge it. I’ve missed a bunch of texts from friends, asking why I disappeared from library, why I disappeared from the lounge, and (most concerning) why I missed the nightly coffee run. I reply, just stating that I was sick, sparing details. One of the text messages was from my father. I assume it’s some discourse about being careful during the three-hour drive home.
I open the message.
Years ago during the 4th of July I threw you on the ground. I wanted to say sorry about that.
In personal memoir, I write a lot about struggling with self, and I try to say as little as possible about my family. I’ve never been in an abusive situation with my father. Whenever there was a little tension it was usually the result of some immature action on my behalf. (My adolescence is littered with those).
I replied immediately upon reading the text, telling him that it was alright. I had to let him know that I understood. But what prompted him to send the apology? I look at the timestamp and I can see he sent it in transit that morning.
The event in itself is pretty vague. I threw a water balloon at him. He threw me. This was what, eight or nine years ago? I can put myself in his shoes and see why he’d be stressed during that little chunk of memory. But how long has he been dwelling upon it?
Since I’ve been in Mass for spring break, we haven’t mentioned the text exchange to each other once. I am worried—I don’t want him harboring any assumptions that he’s hurt me in some way.
The two of us are taking a drive Wal-Mart. The store is a sea of unhappy faces. Nobody looks excited to be here. Canned soda is on sale beside the display of imported coffee makers. We’re having an intellectual debate over what type of dish soap to buy. I recommend the eco-friendly one, but my best argument is that the bottle looks a little more enticing than the generic brand. There’s no tension in our exchanges, just the unexciting, sometimes meaningful words.
In the electronics section we’re looking at Ethernet cables. He’s explaining to me how his job demands that he makes them on the spot. I believe him, but he seems eager to show me.
Back in the Gorman household (oh, God) he takes a spare Cat-5 wire from the basement and stretches it out against the paved floor. I wonder how small the cats need to be to run back and forth through the wire. Cat-6, he says, is bigger, but you can’t fit in the heads of the Ethernet jack. I watch him cut the wire, only to reveal a handful of smaller colored wires underneath. The smaller wires are striped, each holding a dominant color, which signifies how you identify it in the row. He arranges the wires in a specific order, lining Orange-White against White-Orange. When he finishes, we test the cable. It works. With his hands, which have undergone four surgeries, he made a connection.
I decided to leave Hamlet and his father alone. While the material is rich, I’m going to settle for another thesis. Act four looks good. Scene four. Hamlet’s confrontation with the progress of Fortinbras. I typed out a vague thesis for the presentation—something about thought and action. Of course… at this point I’d been through a few cups of Captain and it makes little sense. I emailed it regardless.
Stage Fright 