I made a list

I made a list of all the people i knew better than, and it was a short one, comprised mostly of sober drunks and drunk sobers and, even worse, drunk drunks and sober sobers. But though it was short, I was told I had to revise it downwards--demands from upstairs to economize, save paper, save ink, save souls, etc. So I did, I forgave. 

The teachers went first, the fourth period gym teacher who made us run right after drinking our milks, I knew better than him, but, then again, not at handball--cross him off. And the seventh grade science teacher who trusted Michael Crichton, of all people, about global warming, of all things, I knew better than him, sure, but you know what, his spaghetti bridge did hold more weight than mine, it was the triangular trusses, and so, off he goes. And off too with the bus drivers and the cabbies and the late night semis, off with hosts and with hostesses and waiters and waitresses, off with pizza delivery men and Digiorno ad men and with wedding photographers and twenty year old hucksters--off with all the professionals--I used to know better than them, but now I know better and I don't know how they did it. 

With these cuts, I'd met the bosses' expectations, exceeded them even--the list was down to one sheet, double spaced--but still I was zealous. I was carried away. These were easy to eliminate, known unknowns, if you will, but there were unknown knowns, too, and so I stayed late. I put parentheses around the bullies and the dictators, and the bosses, and the liars and the thieves, I knew better than them, but it wasn't worth knowing what they knew, so I forgot it and now I don't know a thing. I put asterisks after the victims and the survivors and the brave and the wonderful, I knew better than them once, but of course i fucking didn't; I mistook knowing what to say for knowing what to do, and this is a correction that must remain in the paper of record. 

I was left with two names--the bare minimum for a list. I took it home with me. My dad, after a few ones, as he's teasing my auntie, I knew better than him and to tell the truth I still do. He's still on the list, but I called him and we agreed on eight point font and invisible ink--my aunt's idea, no less--and so I still know better, but I might know worse, too. I found a concoction to erase the invisible ink, apple cider vinegar and smelling salts, and I mixed it up and knew a little better how worse I now knew.

So the next morning I was down to one, his name in bold face. The friend who took something that wasn't his and hid it in his attic. He never told a soul, just watched, watched as the family he took it from suffered, as they looked for it, as they cried for it, watched in a mirror, as he fell apart, too, as veins began to pop and as his hair went knotty. I can't tell you what it is that he stole because I still don't know, but even then I knew better than him and i still do, I know better than him. And this is cold comfort, but it's comfort all the same. I made a list, and all it had was his name. 

It wasn't a list anymore, my wife told me, and I couldn't bring it back to work. She was right, of course, so I sewed it into lining of my jacket and I wore it every single day, even after it ripped, long after the jacket had fallen apart, the list kept me warm. It saved me the cost of a tailor, saved thread, saved cloth, saved souls, etc.