Jakeb Brasee

Scott Is A Man's Name

          Polka Roget "Scrabble" Scott was flawless, which is not the same as perfect, not always. Flawlessness precludes forgiveness. A man can only be forgiven for being wrong. A man in the right can never be forgiven -- he can only be obeyed or killed. I chose to obey Polka Roget because killing him seemed...unforgivable.

          We were next door neighbors, and the school district line cut us clean through. This was by the mercy of God I am sure. I only had to obey him on nights and weekends. Nintendo was our favored pastime, and Monopoly, and Scrabble, which Polka Roget Scott played flawlessly (though not perfectly). I was ten years, eleven days old when I met him. He was nine years, three hundred fifty four.

          QUICKLY, he lay down Scrabble tiles. The word does not sound amazing, but it is very amazing. I was one hundred points down and ready to quit! This was stupid!

          "Jasper," he said in a reed pipe voice, "forgive me but, if you quit now you will never finish anything for the rest of your life! I care about you too much to let that happen." So I kept playing. Always the voice of good character, that one. I remembered...

          "Jasper, forgive me but, you have not been well. You would infect everyone at my birthday party! I would save you that regret -- and a piece of cake."

          "Jasper, forgive me but, cooler heads will always prevail! Let me negotiate with your parents, and I believe I can reduce your sentence to twelve days grounded."

          "Jasper, forgive me but, ownership of the Nintendo does not constitute freedom from the rules of fair play and common courtesy! Relinquish your controller and retain your honor."

          "Forgive me but," forgive for what? He was flawless, and I could never forgive him for anything, all our years growing up together. Different colleges called to us, and consequently we parted ways. As is often the case in the absence of mutual enthusiasm for continued correspondence, we fell out of touch. But Polka Roget, being unforgivable, is also unforgettable. Not having spoken in ten years, still I remember -- and I think I have been obeying him still. That levelheaded, pleasant, equitable, generous, fearless, considerate jerk. Did I ask for a second conscience? A flawless one? Unforgivable.

          But no more. One red light run, one fender bent, and one familiar face screaming at my window. Mind you, he ran the light.

          "You blind, blistering moron, forgive me but, what is your problem!?" he says. He said other things too, such things as would be ungentlemanly to recount.

          "Scrabble Scott?" I smile. "I would be lying if I said I have missed you, because you have never really left me."

          It took him three seconds to blink the shock off his face and plaster it was pleasantness. "Jasper! How good to see you though, ha ha, it is under regrettable circumstances. If you have lived your whole life in such a state of oblivion, it is a wonder you are still alive. Pay greater heed to your surroundings or I will worry about you endlessly."

          Perfect is not the same as flawless, not always. It is not enough to be loved. We need to be loved anyway, in spite of something. Forgiven is better than flawless -- and forgiving is better than following a merely flawless man. It is undeniably better than killing him in your heart for ten years, a little at a time.

          "Polka Roget, there is nothing to fear. I have finally forgiven you."

          "Forgive me but, forgiven me for what?"