George Borland

Name: George Thomas Borland

DOB: January 7^th, 1956

Residence: Manhattan New York

Occupation: Unemployed

If George Borland appears on the surface to be a deeply sad and troubled man it is because he is a very sad and extremely troubled man. From an early age George was subjected to life’s inexcusable cruelties. Whether he was being taunted by fellow school children for being a bastard (his father left his mother when George was a toddler) or suffering the embarrassment and pain of redeeming bright red coupons for free lunch at school; George was constantly ground beneath the wheel of misfortune.

There was a brief ray of light that penetrated the gloom of Borland’s youth and it came in the form of his elderly grandmother who upon seeing the squalor George was being raised in by her alcoholic daughter (His mother took to drink when his father left) spirited him away to live with her. For a moment it seemed like George would be saved from a life of torment and hardship, but then the expected happened and his grandmother died in front of him when she tumbled violently down a flight of stairs audibly breaking many of her brittle bones in the process. She managed to live just long enough to say in a weakened, near death, and quivering voice, “Georgie you can change your life, just hang in there (*cough cough) things will get better.”

George stayed in the house for almost 24 hours before reporting his grandmother dead. I’d be lying if I said George did not think about burying her in the backyard and staying in the house. So great was his fear of returning to his mother that he contemplated desperate measures, but being only eight years old he knew that it would be impossible.

So George went back to living with his broken and alcoholic mother where he was the caretaker rather than the son. The years heaped onto the compost pile that George considered his life and the torrents of silent tears he cried at night wore deep grooves into his face. Frown lines formed irreversible tracks of sorrow in his young face and turned what could have been a handsome visage into a mask of pain.

All the while George maintained good grades in the face of such opposition. He would tuck his mother in and clean up her messes around the house, then retire to his room and study diligently. Work was the only escape George had from the sad reality of his life. When George finished high school he graduated at the top of his class and although he had scholarship opportunities at more prestigious schools further from his home, he had to attend a college closer to home so that he could still mind his mother.

It didn’t take long for George’s brown hair to turn grey and with each emergency trip home to check on his mother more and more hair lost its color. George spent equal time in school and at home. He would be grading papers as a teachers assistant while putting out lit cigarettes his drunk mother would drop between couch cushions. He could never be comfortable in class because the thought that his mother was burning down the house or drowning in the bathtub were always in the back of his mind.

When George came home on a particularly cold December afternoon to find his mother dead on the living room floor he did not cry. To this day he hates himself for not crying, but no matter how long he stood there his eyes would not produce a drop for the woman he knew as his mother.

Things actually did get better for George after the death of his mother. He could focus on school and excelled like never before. Upon graduation George was snatched up by Bank of America to manage portfolios and immediately went to work at the World Trade Center. I should say here that yes, he worked at that World Trade Center, in the North tower, and that yes what happened on 911 affected him deeply.

He worked for many years, developing friendships while building an impressive career. Like all moments of joy in George’s life, they seem to just be precursors to eminent suffering. On 911 George was not at work. He was taking a sick day because he had not taken one yet this year and would invariably lose them if he did not use them. Instead he watched on television while two planes destroyed the buildings that housed everyone in this world that George was even remotely attached to. He looked on in horror unknown to common men as flames erupted from the side of the building causing it to crash down on into a cloud of smoke.

For the first time in 24 years George cried. Hot tears ran down familiar grooves and frown lines and his sad eyes looked on as reports came in. George did not leave his apartment for 3 days. Many thought he was among the victims, and in his mind he wished he was. How George gets out of bed is even a mystery to me, but he does.

George has no desire to work. He is afraid of work. Afraid he will become friends with more people and open his heart to even more hurt. Instead he walks the streets of Manhattan, wearing the suits he accumulated over his many years of working at Bank of America. People don’t like to look into George’s eyes, it makes them uncomfortable. Homeless people don’t bother George for money as if they can sense his sorrow. He slips silently in and out of the moving mass that commutes daily in the big city. From above he is just a spec, a small moving dot among a multitude, but inside George is more complex than a mere dot. He is a mystery.