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eve11John Doggett, character study. Made-up past history about two episodes into season 7 (7? was that the one where Doggett came in?)
John Doggett did not believe in the comfort of commiseration, so he always went on the day after. But as luck would have it, the 12th was a Sunday, and something told him it would be just as bad. It wasn't that he minded crowds -- seems he spent all his life in the middle of the crowd. But he knew that for this, it was wrong for him to stand there, blending in with a hundred other people. It could be right for everyone else; he didn't care. For him, it cheapened the sentiment.
When he was first in college, he would only visit the cemetery after midnight. He couldn't do that now; years of oh-five-hundred revelies had gotten the better of him. Nowadays, he was lucky to stay awake for the end of the eleven o'clock news. Give a little, get a little, though. The marine corps may have robbed him of late nights, but it gave him the discipline he needed in order to actually finish college the second time around. The diploma didn't come easy, but it came, and that was the important part.
So midnight was out of the question. But still, he didn't want to go to the wall on a Sunday, so he waited.
******
"Jesus John, you got me fuckin' stumped."
"Language, Mark," came his mother's voice from the kitchen. But she hadn't bothered to shut off the faucet, and the calm clinking of dishes in the sink said it wasn't serious trouble.
Mark made a face. "He's heard worse."
The faucet stopped. John shot his brother a pointed look.
"Well, not in this house, and not from you." She ended the conversation by turning the water on again, full force.
Mark rolled his eyes and looked down at the pre-algebra book, then leaned back from the table. John stared helplessly at the homework problem for another second before looking up.
"You don't know how to do it?"
Mark's answer was a punch in the arm.
"Ow!"
"Sissy."
"Didn't hurt," John shot back, trying to save face. "You just surprised me is all."
"Hmph," his brother answered, but the pissing contest was already forgotten. Instead, Mark flipped noncommittedly through the pages of the textbook. "What they teachin' you this shit in the sixth grade for, anyway?"
A clatter from the kitchen. "Mark!"
A sigh from the living room. "For God's sake, Mark, just humor her."
******
It was always the mundane memories that surprised him. Here it was, six-thirty Monday morning, he was in front of the wall, slouching in his coat (for the chill in the air, he told himself) and thinking about an evening like a hundred others. These stark angles were supposed to stir bigger thoughts.
He flicked his gaze toward the west end of the wall again. The only other visitor was an aging black woman in welfare pumps and a knee-length trench-coat. She was kneeling on the ground, forehead pressed against the backs of her fingers, fingers pressed over a name.
Mom would never do that, he caught himself thinking.
Embarrassed, he turned around before she could look up and see him. Who the hell was he to judge? Mom's whole side of the family was from Georgia. Peopled with Klan members and lynch mobs. Lord knows his mother was stuck in her views, even now.
He sighed, fishing around in his pocket for the pack of Camels. Mark's brand, and his father's.
******
John stared at the cigarette, lying there on the table like a dead thing. He was going to throw up. A fist slammed onto the table, and he jumped.
"Go ahead! You wanted it!"
His stomach rolled with his father's words. He kept his eyes downcast, mumbled the words.
"Swear I won't touch'em again, I promise. Just. . . "
Low, and eerily calm, his father interrupted.
"Son, you're not leaving this table until you eat that cigarette."
******
His stomach had long ago stopped rolling at that memory. John shook his head, smiled at the wall. He peeled the cellophane off the pack, remembered his brother rescuing him from the toilet afterward ("Ah c'mon! I ate a whole pack of those before I was nine"). Mark shipped out for basic only a few days later, still teasing him about the cigarettes.
"If I don't make it back, you gotta promise to smoke a pack on my grave." John must've gone green at that, because Mark laughed, and added, "You just gotta smoke'em, Johnny. Not eat'em."
In front of the memorial, John slid a single cigarette out of the pack. He searched the wall, found the name MARK J. DOGGETT etched into the black granite.
"I coulda quit years ago if it wasn't for you," he muttered at the name. He chucked the rest of the pack on the ground in front of the stone, and lit up.
******
------------
John Doggett did not believe in the comfort of commiseration, so he always went on the day after. But as luck would have it, the 12th was a Sunday, and something told him it would be just as bad. It wasn't that he minded crowds -- seems he spent all his life in the middle of the crowd. But he knew that for this, it was wrong for him to stand there, blending in with a hundred other people. It could be right for everyone else; he didn't care. For him, it cheapened the sentiment.
When he was first in college, he would only visit the cemetery after midnight. He couldn't do that now; years of oh-five-hundred revelies had gotten the better of him. Nowadays, he was lucky to stay awake for the end of the eleven o'clock news. Give a little, get a little, though. The marine corps may have robbed him of late nights, but it gave him the discipline he needed in order to actually finish college the second time around. The diploma didn't come easy, but it came, and that was the important part.
So midnight was out of the question. But still, he didn't want to go to the wall on a Sunday, so he waited.
******
"Jesus John, you got me fuckin' stumped."
"Language, Mark," came his mother's voice from the kitchen. But she hadn't bothered to shut off the faucet, and the calm clinking of dishes in the sink said it wasn't serious trouble.
Mark made a face. "He's heard worse."
The faucet stopped. John shot his brother a pointed look.
"Well, not in this house, and not from you." She ended the conversation by turning the water on again, full force.
Mark rolled his eyes and looked down at the pre-algebra book, then leaned back from the table. John stared helplessly at the homework problem for another second before looking up.
"You don't know how to do it?"
Mark's answer was a punch in the arm.
"Ow!"
"Sissy."
"Didn't hurt," John shot back, trying to save face. "You just surprised me is all."
"Hmph," his brother answered, but the pissing contest was already forgotten. Instead, Mark flipped noncommittedly through the pages of the textbook. "What they teachin' you this shit in the sixth grade for, anyway?"
A clatter from the kitchen. "Mark!"
A sigh from the living room. "For God's sake, Mark, just humor her."
******
It was always the mundane memories that surprised him. Here it was, six-thirty Monday morning, he was in front of the wall, slouching in his coat (for the chill in the air, he told himself) and thinking about an evening like a hundred others. These stark angles were supposed to stir bigger thoughts.
He flicked his gaze toward the west end of the wall again. The only other visitor was an aging black woman in welfare pumps and a knee-length trench-coat. She was kneeling on the ground, forehead pressed against the backs of her fingers, fingers pressed over a name.
Mom would never do that, he caught himself thinking.
Embarrassed, he turned around before she could look up and see him. Who the hell was he to judge? Mom's whole side of the family was from Georgia. Peopled with Klan members and lynch mobs. Lord knows his mother was stuck in her views, even now.
He sighed, fishing around in his pocket for the pack of Camels. Mark's brand, and his father's.
******
John stared at the cigarette, lying there on the table like a dead thing. He was going to throw up. A fist slammed onto the table, and he jumped.
"Go ahead! You wanted it!"
His stomach rolled with his father's words. He kept his eyes downcast, mumbled the words.
"Swear I won't touch'em again, I promise. Just. . . "
Low, and eerily calm, his father interrupted.
"Son, you're not leaving this table until you eat that cigarette."
******
His stomach had long ago stopped rolling at that memory. John shook his head, smiled at the wall. He peeled the cellophane off the pack, remembered his brother rescuing him from the toilet afterward ("Ah c'mon! I ate a whole pack of those before I was nine"). Mark shipped out for basic only a few days later, still teasing him about the cigarettes.
"If I don't make it back, you gotta promise to smoke a pack on my grave." John must've gone green at that, because Mark laughed, and added, "You just gotta smoke'em, Johnny. Not eat'em."
In front of the memorial, John slid a single cigarette out of the pack. He searched the wall, found the name MARK J. DOGGETT etched into the black granite.
"I coulda quit years ago if it wasn't for you," he muttered at the name. He chucked the rest of the pack on the ground in front of the stone, and lit up.
******
------------
