In Dylan's room are his three favorite items: a copy of Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle, his Sony turntable, and himself. The position of these items must be specified if we are to continue with any sort of success. The record player was in a box. Boxes have a local name. They are also known as Dylan's solution. Cat's Cradle was on top of the dust cover of the record player in the box. Dylan clinched his solution and started towards the door.
Dylan's favorite thing to do was tell a story. Some of it was a lie but he would tell you otherwise. It went something like this:
Back in Dylan's junior year, he was six foot one inch tall. He was long but he maintained his quickness. Basketball disinterested him after getting in a scuffle with a coach and being suspended for the rest of his sophomore season, so he needed another sport to hang his cleats on. He found track.
Track was beautiful. He could run. He could jump. He could stretch and vault and lift. Mainly, he ran.
And he ran well. His first two meets put him in the top five. The coach, Coach Alpend, Al, Coach, what have you, liked his company, enough so that he invited Dylan and two others from the team over for a congratulatory dinner. That night, Dylan's car broke down so he couldn't attend. The next morning he woke up to messages on his phone describing how Alpend's home had been raided finding stacks of child pornography involving his athletes.
With the new coach came new meets. They traveled down to Yorin for a semifinals qualifier, taking a team bus instead of making the trip seperately like usual. This is where Dylan saw Javelin in action.
Dylan injured his ankle, suspecting that he had a simple strain but still icing it and not participating in further events. For the first time, he watched the other events. When Javelin began, he was captivated.
Spears, hurling through the air at the whim of might and muscle and wind. That was the name of the game for Dylan. He dropped running on the spot and committed to Javelin.
A month later, he was throwing farther than the rest of his team. The two lowest throws in the squad combined didn't match his distance alone. This is where Dylan became the Dylan we know, both the Dylan we hate, and the Dylan we love.
He was on the field, throwing lengthwise down the field and positioned closer towards the stands. They cut the wind back significantly. Dylan was sitting on a bench, javelin at foot, focusing and studying on the throwers before him and their distances. A scream shattered his concentration. It came from the stands.
A lady was waving her hands and screaming and pointing towards a man in a cheap blue suit taking two stairs down in a stride, object in hand. The lady and a few other vigilantes from the stands began to chase the man in the cheap blue suit down the stands, but he was already turning the corner and running towards the parking lot while they were only halfway down.
Dylan stood, bringing the javelin in hand. It didn't take thought. He was running and committing to the motion, and the next second, his eyes were closed and his hand was ejecting justice. He looked up in time to see the javelin hitting the height of the parabola and starting to pick up speed on the way down.
The javelin careened, reaching it's target and impaling the foot of the man wearing the cheap blue suit. He fell immediately and clinched his foot while Dylan sat back on the bench and watched the scene.
Both Dylan and the man in the cheap blue suit were arrested. Hurling a javelin could be called attempted murder, while stealing a purse was a misdemeanor. They were throw into the same car.
When Dylan was in the station, the cops told him that he had thrown the javelin through a loop in the shoelace of the man in the cheap blue suit, sticking into the ground and anchoring his foot. The man, in a full sprint, was hooked and stopped like an anchor was attached to him.
Dylan was released shortly after with a lecture.
The sad part is that when Dylan tells this story, and sure enough, if you meet him, he will, he lies about the wrong parts. What's right is wrong and what's wrong is right. Entropy. It's a hassle.
Dylan was an indirect promise to myself that rainbows existed without a gloomy day happening first. He was vibrant. He was alive. Most of all, he was Dylan, and he was applying the Dylan Solution to escape from the mess we all put him in.
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