Collusion: Part XIV

/kəˈluʒən/ Show S[kuh-loo-zhuhn]

                                                                                                     –noun

• a secret agreement, esp. for fraudulent or treacherous purposes; conspiracy: Some of his employees were acting in collusion to rob him.

  

Three months past, and things continued much as they had started. Ritual dinners with the friends became even more ritualistic and more members were added to the group. Tisha and Richard were the quietest members of the group, preferring to silently eat cereal for dinner, and eye rape one another as the rest of us ate normal things for dinner and rolled our eyes at them. I can understand their frustration. Research supports the idea that men and women are most fertile in their early twenties. Do not forget dear reader, that here behind the walls of khrist's kastle, sex is absolutely forbidden. I give you a demographic of ladies and gentlemen that are primed for copulation, whose very bodies have evolved to seek mates and reproduce, and should they attempted to fulfill that evolutionary imperative and are discovered by the authority... their academic pursuits will be instantly terminated. Their belongings will be immediately collected and dumped onto a sidewalk (day or night) and their nearest and dearest relative will be contacted and informed of their loved ones shameful actions. That's not to say that students weren't having 'relations.' On the contrary. Students were boinking in every nook and cranny. It's more the fact that if students wanted to engage in sexual activity they had to go through hours and hours of secret preparations, tell lies, find an abandoned movie theater somewhere, lock themselves in a cleaning closet... or pull in a favor from a Wealthy Townie. I cannot begin to imagine the circ de soleil style maneuverings that it must require to accomplish successful copulation in a small room filled with vacuum cleaners and bleach, but I assume Tisha and Richard had burned that bridge when they came to it. 

I was so naive then. My parents were so uncomfortable about the idea of explaining normal sexual relations to me, that at long last when I was 15 years old, they were finally brave enough to leave a copy of 'Dick and Jane's Guide to Your Changing Body' on my bed one sunny afternoon. 'Dick and Jane's Guide' was so amazingly ambiguous as to be worthless. Cartoon characters had conversations in little speech balloons about growing pubic hair and feelings that the rest of the world called being 'horny.' I already knew that I had a penis, I just had no idea what to do with it. Thankyou Dick and Jane for your mindless dribble, but I had finally turned to the internet for the most expansive over-share an innocent 15 year old mind had ever experienced. 

Dear Parents:

         I know you feel embarrassed about telling your spawn about how you created them. I understand. The fact of the matter is your child is going to grow up to be a very fine lady/ gentleman and the sooner we get this uncomfortable little bit of information out of the way the better. Don't wait for your children to start asking questions about sex to have a frank discussion about it. Regardless of the social stigma that your own archaic development may have placed on human sexuality, the conversation doesn't have to be awkward or frightening! Plan to tell them in a casual and perhaps humorous way sometime before they turn 12. Be specific, blunt and nonchalant. It will keep your children from developing silly ideas about intercourse and having ridiculously inaccurate conversations about it with their playmates. I know you're scared! And it's normal to feel that way.... but trust my professional opinion. I am after-all an acclaimed blogger.

Most Sincerely Yours in Christian Love, 

Josh Cupcake

Would that my parents would have received this kind bit of encouragement from the grown-up me. Would that I were able to fax that little psa back in time to my anxiety fraught care givers. I can only image that I would have had a much more normal outlook on sex in general and not have developed to consider the act barbaric and vulgar. Nay disgusting even. It's a shame there's not a more enjoyable way to create offspring I thought. 

We were drawing quickly to the close of the school-year. Christine and I had become quite chummy and did nothing but tell each other amusing stories about the other goings on in Khrist's Kastle, and send long laughably romantic notes to one another in glittery ink. We were quite the couple. Never apart. Never fighting. Always carefree and fun. I loved her. She loved me back. It was simple. We could easily waste 3 or 4 hours talking on the phone about class or pranks that we had be playing on fellow members of our dormitories. I remember those times fondly.... but Im quite doubtful that she does. I'm sure that now she prefers not to remember them at all. 

One Saturday's developments came to stand out in my memory as one of the defining moments of my first years schooling. The members of my room were all milling about doing their morning activities. Laundry. Larry was not present. I had decided that this was one of those mornings that I wasn't going to do anything much but attempt to sleep in. Devin had been busy about his mocking me well into the wee hours of the morning and I was getting to the point were I was having long day dreams that centered on creative ways to light him on fire without being incarcerated. I was laying in bed texting friends to find out who might wanna go walk around the mall and spend money on things we couldn't possibly need. Chester was polishing a pair of his shoes filling the air with that acrid smell that waxy shoe polish always has. Ramon was just ending an exited phone conversation with someone who either understood spanish, or was amazingly good at pretending they did. These days I'm nearly fluent in espanol. I thought learning the language would have been helpful for me to understand the slanderous insults that were slung at me, and perhaps discover any plans that these brutes may have to cause physical injury or perhaps even my death. Everyone from puerto rico has clearly had experience in a violent street gang, i reasoned; as my first experiences with them seemed to support. I imagined also that in order for a young puerto rican boy to ascend to man-hood, he must complete a series of rites of passage. Fabricating a car-bomb from found objects. Successfully selling a kilo of crack cocaine. And/ or clubbing at least two baby seals to death... providing food and clothing for the tribe. 


Without knocking, in pops Devin. I rolled over in my top bunk and pulled the covers over my head to indicate my disapproval of his presence. Christ! Didn't this boy have a hobby? Perhaps classes? Anything? Meh. Devin would not take the hint that i would rather not have conversation with him. This time to aid in his attempts to get my attention, he had brought a 5 ft long 2 inch by 2 inch piece of hardwood trim that he had broken off of some piece of furniture in his room. He drug it into the room... the wood making a rasping sound on the carpet. This time in addition to his insults, he proceeded to jab at me with the stick, with quick impish jabs.


DEVIN: "Wakey, wakey! Awww..... Little Joshie is sweepy?"


OOOOOoooooh no. No. No. No. This is not how this is gonna go. Devin's actions had caught the attention of Ramon and Chester, and they stopped what they were doing to watch this new entertainment. They were laughing. In one smooth motion I rolled over and jumped the 4ish feet to the floor. Tossing my cell phone away. I was so angry that one of my eyes was twitching as adrenaline poured into my veins, brushing my heart rate up to match that of a field mouse. I am a small man. I say that without shame, but it bears being mentioned. Im 5'6'' and weigh 130 pounds. Devin had a few inches and twenty some pounds on me. But these facts were well beyond my logical powers at the time. He took a couple more jabs at me with the stick, landing a crack on my shoulder as i attempted to snatch the stick from him. 
DEVIN: (Laughing) "Oh! He's angry now!.... Mira! Mira el pato!"
The others got comfortable. This was obviously going to be a scene. There was a struggle for a moment as I was able to wrestle the stick out of his hands. "Get out of my room!" I yelled at him as it was I jabbing at him to try and scare him out. The laughter continued as I pushed him toward the open door. 
DEVIN: "Oh look! He's good with a stick eh?" he said getting more laughter from the other boys.
It was at that moment that seemed to lose all sense of control of myself. What ever part of me that was good and kind slid away and some other me took over. I put as much tork into swinging this ridiculous weapon as i could and landed a sharp blow to his right clavicle. People who behave like dogs, should be punished like dogs. The blow hurt enough that he was enraged now too. 
He sulked back across the hall cussing at me in spanish. I went to close the door... and planned on returning to my bed and my texting, thinking that the little fight was over. Not so... just as had turned from closing the door in charged Devin. The bastard grabbed my neck from behind and used his body weight to push me to the floor, which we both landed on with a thud. "Think you're gonna push me around ya little fag?" He yelled as his grip got tighter and tighter on my throat. I couldn't get my knees or elbows underneath me for a few long seconds as he weighed so much.... and I was choking and trying to squirm away from him. I was starting to think I might black out. I couldn't breathe and my vision was starting to go white a little. Finally I was able to flip over and i used my feet to kick him off of me. I jumped up quick before he could get his bearings from being shoved off and flung a right hook that landed just under his left eye. He fell back to the floor and I looked for a new tool to use in the fight... I snatched up a wooden chair and was about to start bludgeoning when Ramon and Chester seemed to realize I was going to kill Devin. 
"Whoah! Whoah! Calm down!" They were yelling... trying to get in between him and me. Ramon started trying to help Devin get up, and Chester made himself into a big black bouncer and held me back as i tossed the chair aside and struggled to get at Devin... who was now cowering...
I was still livid... "Stay the fuck out of my room you little shit-stain!" I screamed at him wiping blood from my lip as Chester push me back towards the other end of the room. 


Ramon helped Devin stagger out of the room as i was left shaking from rage. I went to the sink to see what damage had been done. Chester was quiet as usual. Just as if these types of goings on were absolutely normal. I washed the blood off my face and spat the rest of it out of my mouth still shaking, looking in the mirror. Ramon returned from the hall and quietly shutting the door.
"Man, I think you gave him a black eye...." He said. 
I didn't reply. I wished I had done worse.

 

Collusion: Part XIII

Going back to school was no where near the tooth pulling-experience that it had been when i arrived at the campus for fall term. Everything got boxed or shoved into a suitcase and thrown into the Suburban.
I was no were near ready to return but filled with an unadulterated desire to survive and maybe come out on the side of it with a piece of paper with my name on it. A piece of paper that mentioned just how fantastically talented I was. Preferably in gold calligraphy.
I was mute for most of the return trip.

My mother is a delicate, and quietly passionate woman who is just a hair over five feet tall. She has deeply brown hair that will probably stay the same shade of mahogany forever due to a brigade of chemicals at her employ. She enjoys pruning roses, playing the flute, reading the holy word, and taking exhaustive bubble baths. I have always thought that she was beautiful. But then again, I suppose that anyone who's not a sociopath probably thinks the same thing about their mother, and perhaps in that I'm not significant. Mothers are the link in the chain that connects us to the rest of our culture... right back to where time began.... 

MOM: "What are you taking this semester?"
ME: "Oh something about Harmony again. Something about another Bible class."
I sat listless in the back seat...
MOM: "Well are there any of them that you're excited about?"
The questioning was well intended, but not exactly helpful. Dad was driving. He drives with his knees and elbows and this is reason enough for a healthy prayer life. By ways, or die ways.... from my vantage point it was a little un-decided.
ME: "Well. I guess so."
I was developing a bit of a persona with my parents. I wouldn't even consider telling them about some of the initial bullying and hostility. For one thing, there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it... and on the other hand if i were being marginalized, there was something clearly wrong with me. I wasn't working hard enough on making influential friends. Perhaps there was a certain smell about me that i hadn't worked hard enough to mask... that was no doubt the reason. Expansive orchestral arrangements of hymns were playing in the cassette deck as we made the drive. It was one of those days in January when it's brisk and clear out... and all the scenery was brown and forlorn looking.

I arrived. This time there were no tearful goodbyes... no heartbreaking feelings of being set adrift without a clue of how to carry myself around. I unloaded everything and set about the business of setting my things in order in my little nook in the ant hill. I returned my alarm clock to its precise place on the head board on my bunk and flipped out my silver MOTORazor to find out which of my friends might be back in town. There was a knock at the door as i was re-filling my drawers with my clothes.
The door swung open and un-ceremoniously; in barged Roland.

ROLAND: "Hey man! (beaming) "How was Christmas break!?
I never quite understood the continual vigor which this person poured into every mundane conversation; nor did i understand why he would want to talk to me at all. We have nothing in common! Why are we talking!?
ME: (not looking up from my unpacking) "It was good. It was nice to be away from here for a while."
ROLAND: "Ha ha! I know what'cha mean dude! It's nice to kick back and relax for a while."
I hate being referred to as a 'dude.' Absolutely hate it. I am not a stoner... and i would appreciate it if everyone would just try and respect that.
ME: "er.... right. Well what did you do for Christmas break?"
ROLAND: "Me and the fam went skiing in Vale. It's like an hour away from where we live."
(Why do popular people feel the need to abbreviate words that do not require abbreviating? Isn't the english language deteriorating fast enough without all of us trying to sound like a valley girl?)
ME: "oh wow? really... that sounds like a lot of fun actually." (compared to chopping wood to keep from freezing....)
ROLAND: "Yeah its pretty awesome." (eyebrow raise. general look of self appreciation. he stares off for a second as if to calculate just how wonderful he really is.) "Did you get anything cool?"
ME: "I got some money?.... Yeah. That was about it."
ROLAND: "Sweet dude! I got, like, three different Bible concordances that I was asking for.... a bunch of cash.... and.... hm.... like a bunch of small things. Socks and stuff."
Bible study tools and undergarments. Thankyooou Santa, I thought.
ROLAND: "Did you get a chance to witness to anyone over the break? What's god doing in your spiritual life lately." He asked, as if it were a question about the weather.
ME: "oh..... uh..... witnessing? Yeah... yeah. Seems like I did some of that. I actually got to spend quite a lot of time working in a local soup kitchen, and rescuing tiny kittens from trees for old ladies." I said remembering to add a little smile that i tried to make look honest.
 "Oh... and I've been reading an aweful lot of the Bible! In.... James!" These statements seemed to relieve him of his concern for me... as he began checking for particulates in his teeth in the mirror over the sink, and pushing his super man hair-cut around.

ROLAND: "Yeah man, I been thinkin' that it would be great to start a little Bible study after light bell with any of the guys on the hall that might wanna join. Yeah know... to support hall unity and help us get to know each other a little better."
I stopped putting things in their places for a second to give him a blank look.
ME: (catching myself) "Oh! uh..... that could be good.... . . . . . . . . . . " (wondering how long i would be able to continue this line of conversation without laughing hysterically.)
Roland was now flexing his biceps in the mirror and admiring his profile. I sighed. Yes... what a wonderful idea. Let's start a Bible study. That's going to make my life soooo much easier. Heck.... my room-mates could even stop calling me 'the faggot' in their devil language. This was clearly the next rung I would need to climb in the fame ladder. Look out Ryan Seacrest.... Here. I. Come.

I would realize somewhere in those next few months... that Roland's mind was filled with cotton candy. And he's from a place were smurfs and dolphins are our friends.

ROLAND: "Hows everything going with the room? You guys getting along?"
ME: "... . . . . . . why yes. We are developing into quite the little family." I said flatly enough that i think he finally understood what I actually meant.
ROLAND: "HAHA! DUUUUDE!! I love your sense of humor! its like.... so dark!"

I sighed again. This person was intended to enforce light-bell... not to engage in meaningful conversation.
Thankfully the silence was broken just a few seconds later by one of my friends popping his head into the room. Eric Inafuku. I had met Eric back in first semester... friends of Amy and Christine. He was the first thin Hawaiian that i had been introduced to here. A willowy snarky thing who had changed his major no less than 23 times during first semester. He and I had similar views about school and Handsome Soccer Players such as Roland, and thus got along swimmingly. He was passionate about asian independent films, learning Cantonese....and origami. He also seemed to like photo shopping photographs.... though I have yet to discover why. He always had a way of lightening the mood in a room. I think it had something to do with the fact that he was so outspoken... and that he was so thin, but always always wore black boots with very thick soles.

ERIC: "MERRRRY CHHHHHRRRRRRRIIIIISTMASSSSSS!" he screamed... landing in the room as if he had just dismounted from a pommel horse. "MELE KE IKE MAKA! Hi ya Roland!"
ME: "hey eric."
ROLAND: "Hey." (still looking in the mirror.)
ERIC: "Wanna go to dinner? Everyone's meeting at 5. Tonight's chicken patties!" he exclaimed with mock excitement.
ME: "Sure, yeah.... Christine and I were going to meet anyways I think."
ERIC: "Well it's nearly ten till! Let's go.... we're gonna be late!"
ME: "Ok.... " grabbing a jacket and heading out the door.... leaving Roland alone with his reflection. They deserved one another.

Eric and I made our way down the hall of the dormitory, and across the long walk to the Dinning Common. Chattering and laughing about Roland, Christmas happenings and whatever else we could find to chatter about. Dinner was to become a little ritual for the group. We would work out our class schedules so that we could eat together... enduring the vegetables that had been boiled silly, and the swarm of other students that would crowd the gigantic room. We shared stories from how we spent our Christmases... I didnt have a whole lot to add... but everyone else's stories were funny and touching. These people were my family now it would seem. These people made me feel a little bit like i wasnt so abnormal. We were the loudest group in the football field sized room. Quirky. Nerdy. Mal-adjusted. Those were the days. We created sculptures out of mashed potatoes that were thick enough to glue a glass to a plate. No lie.
Work and class would begin again soon and there were new adventures to be had. Oh, yeah.... and i would have to find a way to punish my room-mates for their behavior. It was way over the line. If the Authority wasn't keeping them in check, I'd have to do it all by myself.




 

Collusion: Part XII

Words. Powerful words. They take shape and leave our mouths. Such harmless little things made out of carbon dioxide. Little puffs of a toxin and a bit of vibration made with teeth and tongue. Or little symbols on white paper. These are the tools that we use to fabricate community. How odd that stubby doses of poison should give us so much... should become a deity of sorts making so many choices for us.

Collusion celebrated 1,000 page views this week and I cant think of a better way to slide into Christmas than by inviting my friends and my foes to collude with me. To follow the pied piper. To admit to ourselves if only for those moments that we share with our thoughts and a computer screen that corruption is everywhere. It is who we are. It's the one thing that you can be sure of in any new person that you meet. And why is corruption so pervasive, you might ask? That's simple! because its so delicious.

Christmas break droned on. We chopped wood for the fireplace. A great hulking thing that's the centerpiece of the largest room in my house. Enormous 13 and 15 foot logs my dad had chainsawed into submission were piled up in my back yard at the edge of the woods; and every other day or so my brother, or my dad or myself would take an axe and cut away enough wood for the next couple of cold nights.
I'm from a very close-nit community. In a town that cant have a population of more than 3000 people. Its so rural as to be cliche. As ive mentioned before, people farm there. They have all their lives. Their fathers did, and their father's fathers did. Our neighbors all came to church with us. A church which my father had left the sins of his wild youth to found, and one which he continues to lead to this day. As i consider it, most of my early musical training was intended for use in worship. As a result, I have a mental database of hundreds of hymn tunes that I can play with my eyes closed, in any key. When I was home over Christmas break I fell neatly back into the roles that I had played before. At home and at church as well. All told it was a congregation of about 40 people. The number changed from season to season as southern people tend to have disagreements about such highly important religious matters as women who wear pants and those obviously diabolical members of the congregation who attend movie theaters. No joke. Anyways, our church services met twice on sundays and once on wednesday nights. We all met in a beige corrugated metal church building in the middle of a seven acre field of green lawn, behind one of those stone and metal church signs that you can rearrange letters on. You can make them say whatever you like...

"POT LUCK THIS SUNDAY!"

or

"DO RIGHT 'TIL THE STARS FALL"

or

"CHCH. WHAT'S MISSING!? U R!"

My dad was mostly responsible for these messages. One could always rely on them to be inspiring. The members of the church were the most fascinating group of people on the planet. All ok, plain folks with thick syrupy accents. Loud women who wore too much mascara, and ate too much red meat. And quiet men who sat beside these women.

I liked church. I loved the routine of it all. The ritual. We gather... sing old old songs about christ's blood and its power to make us perfect. We'd pray, or be lead in prayer... and then my father would preach a message about sin. Faith. Or the evils and destructing force of extra marital sex. His sermons were all peppered with his own brand of gawdy obvious humor. I have so memorized the lilting pace of my fathers sermons that i can predict what he's going to say next. It's a type of relationship that not many people have the opportunity to experience with their fathers and as such I feel quite lucky to have grown up that way. Each facet of my fathers belief system was made plainly evident written out in hour after hour of monologue. Layers and walls. A labyrinth of hedges looping and twisting into a maze of 'do' and 'do nots.' Sermon after sermon I received a powerful view of this bank of rules.... Fascinating and complex.

The music leader at my church is named Charles. Charles McMillan. He's a man of colossal girth. I estimate that he weighs very close to five hundred pounds, and oddly enough is still mobile. He's been a friend of the families for as long as i could remember. Apparently at one time he was quite average size, but from what ive been able to gather; a love interest in college left him with emotional scars that he had tried to patch up with lots and lots of brisket. Charles is roughly 46 years old. He has been in charge of all the songs sung, and all the notes played at our little community church for very close to 10 years i suppose. Charles and I had been cordial to one another since I had met him until one day when I had prepared a little piano piece for church, he told me that i was "never going to be a good pianist unless i learned to read music." As you can imagine... the comment did very bad things for a cordial relationship.  My playing from sight was remedial at best. Lessons had been cast away patch work things with hit or miss training from country bumpkins who owned pianos. Ah well.
From that moment however Charles and I became mortal enemies. If the both of us were in a room you could feel the temperature drop. The water vapor in the air would instantly crystallize. Charles was part of the reason for my pursuing piano so decidedly throughout highschool... and undeniably had something to do with my two year stint with bulimia when I was 17 and 18.

During holiday services Charles and I danced our icy dance of cordiality and hatred like two quiet little pageant queens; needing attention much as daisies need sunlight. And so i passed away the few days that remained of my break from school. In a very few days i would return to what was sure to be hostile environment. I would be stronger than those boys at school though. They'd see. They wouldn't break me.

Collusion: Part XI

6 or 7 thousand of us students and faculty piled row upon row in Founders Memorial Amphitorium. 'Amphitorium' is a made up word...Perhaps it was invented in an attempt to convey the idea that this was a building like no other. I know not. Either was its what the mammoth building is called. Its roughly 6 stories high and wide enough that it would take you 6 minutes to walk from one end to the other at a normal pace. There are hundreds of rows of rainbow colored fold down theater-style seats that follow a gradual decline in the floor towards a grand stage. A balcony seats about two thousand more. I've been in the building at night before... when the lights were out and no one else was there. The space can give you the feeling of being in the largest cave imaginable. One could very easily play baseball here and not feel like they were lacking space.
The building was used every day for something or another. At eleven a.m., Monday through Thursday everyone is required to attend 'chapel' here. All students report here from the far reaches of campus, which may require a bit of running or brisk walking to get there in time. You must be in your seat at precisely 11 a.m.. If you're late you will be given demerits.

The service begins and a chorus master walks onto the stage. He instructs the mass of students to find one hymn or another in the blue hymnals that can be found in little brown wooden cubbies on the back of each seat. The gathering raises quite a lot of sound, filling the august space with a rich albeit somber music. Precisely we praise mystic hebrew god. In less clinical metrics... all together. After two hymns another speaker emerges from the row of ancients that find their seats lining the back of the stage. (Theses are all the highest member of the authority... many of them of a great age.) He would make a few remarks on the day and the lead us in chanting the university creed. A monologue that all first years had to memorize within the first three weeks at school. Together we stood and recited.

"I believe in the inspiration of the bible. both the old and the new testaments. the creation of man by the direct act of god. the incarnation and virgin birth of our lord and savior jesus christ. his identification as the son of god. his vicarious atonement for the sins of mankind by the shedding of his blood on the cross. the resurrection of his body from the tomb. his power to save men from sin. the new birth through the regeneration by the holy spirit. and the gift of god, which is eternal life."

The chant had become such an integral part of campus culture that it was often spoken in a hollow and conviction-less tone. No matter. Conviction or not... when seven thousand people chant something everyday... it has a tendency to stamp itself into your mind. It becomes the sediment and silt of your thoughts.

The day that we were all set to be released for Christmas break there was one of these such services. We sang Christmas tunes and chanted our chant. And Dr. Bob Jones III took the stage to wish us well and safe travels to our homes. And that was that. Semester over. All my exams had gone well.
I said my goodbyes to my little group of friends and of course thought the better of saying anything at all to my brown skinned room-mates. It's such a burden being Caucasian.  

Mom and dad picked me up at the appointed hour. All my bags and things that i was taking home were waiting expectantly in a neat little pile on the sidewalk in front of my dormitory. The two hour drive home was as quiet as a funeral. My brother and sister had tagged along. Mom and Dad offered questions about how I was and how my final test scores had gone. I was at best non-committal about it all. I would not complain about how things had been. This was a choice that i had made. I would present the bucolic ideal of my introduction to college as best i could. I began a collusion of sorts with my family. That is what this story is about after all; isnt it? I would only let them see what they needed to see. Besides... it would be nice to put everything away and just have a nice Christmas. I sat in the back seat of the suburban and stared out the window as the city retracted and trees and fields began to fill up the space left by buildings and parking lots.

That first Christmas was so welcome. It was nice to take a look at my family dynamic in comparison to the building full of testosterone driven repressed cave dwellers that i had been living with. This Christmas was a new one. A different one. I savored the relics of my childhood and yes even mourned their loss.

I baked cookies and wrapped the gifts that I had saved and bought for my parents, brother and sister. My carefully controlled existence had begun to reveal itself to be far from my ability to govern. So that Christmas i learned perhaps the most valuable of life lessons... that we are but the students of life's changes. That adaptation is to be considered our greatest strength. That true godliness could be found in the simplest of acts of kindness, one person to another.

Three weeks of yule therapy had got me into a better state of mind. I had plans for these who opposed me at school and they would suffer the consequences of standing in my way. My optimism was no where near weakened. I would return to the kitchen, and the piano, and my books.

My sister and i were very close then and many nights during the break we would spend out in the night time chatting on the trampoline... Talking about everything. It was nice to know that some bonds stayed strong no matter what... and would never need mending.

Collusion: Part X

And so it began. It was written out in red letters. I had my suspicions confirmed. Not everyone here was my friend. I was a rogue program... The others that fit more perfectly into the matrix were taking notice... they would find a way to have me deleted.

I should not have been surprised. I had seen this type of behavior before. The data was already part of a working map.... a grid that exists in all societies. It is part of our genetic programming to instinctively isolate the weakest member of our group. To chase them out of our social network and prevent their weakness from infecting the gene pool. We instinctively consider the disabled, blind, weak and ill less a part of society... and for thousands of years this instinct has taught us to put our best genes forward.

Flash backwards ten years:

My family had gotten the idea that we should raise chickens. We should have fresh eggs that we wouldn't have to drive thirty minutes to the nearest large town and buy them. It was that convenience and the fact that my dad was overly fond of the idea of housing animals. My house was well situated off of a major highway.... thirty minutes south of the capitol of South Carolina. It was the largest agrarian county in the state. You could drive for miles and miles and see nothing but fields of cotton... soy beans and fields where the stubble of corn stalks remained from the year before.

12 Rhode Island Reds. We had raised them from chicks.... bought them from the seed store. I know what you're thinking... Laura Ingalls Wilder.... "oooooh paaaaaaw!" and all that. Not exactly. We didn't have horses. Either way we raised the chicks to adult hood... and even though i had taught them to behave, they were not so different than human beings. We kept them all together in a rather large coupe with little wooden boxes affixed to the wall where they could have a little privacy to lay their eggs. Much to my 13 year old horror.... I learned that these creatures looked out for not only their own interest... but apparently also the genetic health of the whole species. If one of the hens was discovered to be wounded... the others would mercilessly attack it... pecking at it to drive it away from the group and the food sources. It would seem that regardless of brain size; some tendencies stay the same cross species. The wounded hen would have to be guarded. Kept separate from the flock... otherwise the bullying wouldn't stop. And eventually the other hens would kill her.

I should have remembered these observances. And in truth i hadn't forgotten them... I just didn't realize exactly how helpful the memory would be. Alright... back to the story.

The end of the semester wash rushing nearer and I couldn't be more thankful for the fact. I pushed past Ramon on the way out of the room to dinner. Ever since Devin had taken such an interest in terrorizing me (he and his genitals had become a recurring late nite show) Ramon and Chester had taken it to mind that they would follow suit. But not in such a violent or dramatic way. I would over-hear an insult or two; or part of a funny story involving me and gang-rape. I couldn't make it all out... Even though i was picking up Spanish quickly; I wasn't what you'd call fluent. Of course it was embarassing... but i just thought that the best way to deal with it was to ignore it. Id never been bullied before. I always pretended not to hear... and left the room.

The group was getting together for supper... it had become a little ritual. We had made a little family. Me. Christine. Ami... Richard; Tisha... who by now were a lot more like Richard/Tisha. Gross. Affection. Christine and i had become good friends i would say. She and i were regulars to all the required campus events. We were both odd... and a good match as friends. I hadn't let any of those in the group know about the bullying. After all, if i showed weakness in either group... wouldn't it just incite more aggression? I was new to the game. So very new.

In a very few days the school would hold its annual lighting ceremony. One of the biggest cultural events of the Christmas season. Thousands of people would pile onto the front lawn of the campus. Choirs would have been in place on a stage and some figure head would lead the masses in prayers and songs.You know those obnoxiously feel good Christmas choral works? The ones that stores play all December in efforts to have you buy everything in the store? Those. Huge speakers everywhere. And and chunky mezzo soprano would eventually sing 'Oh Holy Night.' When she reached the most painful highest note.... some one would flip a huge switch and release millions of mega watts into the lights strung all over the place. Thousands of people would gasp... either from electrocution of because the combination choral music and intense lighting gave them the experience of communing with the divine. It was a spectacle. It was an event... The school had opened its arms to thousands of the unsuspecting public. Baked them cookies; gave them a show; and then told them how to go to heaven. It was marvelous to behold. It was fantastic. It was a colossal bear trap made out of fairy lights and guilt.   

The group went and more or less had a good time. It was fun weaving through and around the crowds. Taking photos together and laughing about the goings on. The diversion was much needed. Finals were very soon approaching...

I was academically gifted. I guess that's what you'd call never studying. Maybe it was just that I really didn't have time to study. Meh. Either way i was looking forward to getting away from here for a while and returning to my little house in the big woods... it was so quiet there. I wanted the quiet for a few weeks.

Tensions in the room were getting higher and higher. I was getting closer to having a pretty nasty blow up. I try to steer clear of violence, but sooner or later you get tired and angry about a jack-ass swinging his dick around at you whilst flickering the lights at 1 am. I looked for ways to make peace. I tried talking Ramon, and less often Chester. I tried to discover personal interests and goals.... hobbies even. Chester seemed to enjoy lifting weights. But lets be honest... that's really not a conversation point. Ramon had more than enough to say about himself... but i found it difficult to be interested. The two had affectionately taken to calling me 'el pato.' Which i could only translate to meaning 'the duck.' There were worse things to be called i reasoned... and was too busy about my own business to give much thought to it. I just assumed that was their way of accepting me. Ramon had a birthday on the way. He'd be twenty soon. Kinda old to be a freshman i had thought. Ah well. Maybe they get a later start down mexico way.

My mother has the most beautiful hand writing. Really i'll have to show you a sample of it sometime. She writes in perfect, unbroken cursive. She always had a stash of stationary on hand... and never every misses a chance to send a birthday card or thank-you note. This was a habit that she had tried her hardest to pass on to us children. She had always stressed the importance of letting people know that you're thankful for what they've done for you. There was an elegance to it. An old-world gentility. Its one of the things that I love about my mother. She will always be a graceful thoughtful thing in my mind.

I decided that I could try and bridge the gap in the room a bit. I would get Ramon a birthday card. And so i did. I wasn't anything fussy. It was simple and plain. It mostly wished him well in black ink.... It congratulated him, I imagined, for making it thus far without having been killed in drug related violence in puerto rico. That was something he deserved to be congratulated for. My spanish skills at that point were ever so limited... but in an attempt to further bridge build.... I signed it.
"El Pato Magnifico"
-the magnificent duck-
I handed him the envelope. He looked at it suspiciously... but tore into it. He read it quickly... and read the signature. I was smiling. Hoping to see a thread of friendship being made. But I didn't understand. Something wasn't right. There was a black and serious look on his face...
He said thank-you. But that was it.
Ah well. A hit and a miss i thought.

I would later learn that 'pato' was a slang term used in puerto rico. It meant something akin to our english word 'faggot.' I was mortified. But by the time i had garnered this information it was something that the latino members of the room had been laughing about for weeks. They had no souls, i decided. Their hearts were black and loveless. I was beginning to understand genocide.

I never spoke of the incident again. I stayed to myself... in a very few days everything was over. I had Christmas to look forward to. Home. The home that i had taken for granted until now. I returned to the little house in the big woods and thought about all these things. There in the dark, in the wind in the pine trees i grew stronger. I vowed to make fewer mistakes.

Collusion: Part IX

 First semester barreled on. Time is contagious. In the first few months at school i had begun to re-tool myself. Each new day had been scheduled and designed by people who sat in desks... People of devotion. Wholesome men and women who had given their lives to follow a beautiful collection of rules designed to save the masses. Rules that were meant to preserve order. Truth. Beauty. Chastity. It was the perfect place for me to be. I longed to control myself.

Through years and years of teachings as a child my parents had taught me that the heart was unruly. A wickedness above all things and not to be trusted. I remember fondly that always was my instruction taken directly from the hebrew Bible. My thoughts wander back to an every day scene from those days.

Me, my brother and sister sat around the breakfast table. Mom would put the finishing touches on scrambled eggs and bacon... toast. After we had prayed over the food, and eaten Dad would turn to a passage in the 1st John. He read about wisdom, justice, and lust.

For all that [is] in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world.

What is lust i thought? I pushed the last of the scrambled eggs around on my plate. Lust seemed like a word filled with dark foreboding. It was the dark messenger. The bringer of death and destruction. As a child i hadn't remembered feeling anything quite so powerful as what lust must be like. I imagined that it must be alot like the feeling of falling from a great height. I was afraid of falling. 

I thought of these things as i waited outside an office on the second floor of the fine arts building. The hall stretched from one end of the building to another and was lined with gray textured wallpaper, and a low nap gray carpet. I fiddled with my book sack and waited on one of the wooden benches that were placed up against the walls here and there for just the purpose that I gave it now. Tom Grimble. My piano teacher. His name was cut into black plastic with white lettering.... with a little cork board by his door.
The door swung open and the previous lessons student walked out. Thankyou! see you next week!
Ah. Here we go.

Tom Grimble is a plump man. My height and very fond of wearing navy blue blazers and maroon ties. He always has this way of speaking to you where you feel both like he's listening intently to you.... and like he's not listening at all. Like someone that sees all of you... but is perhaps so far seeing, that he might be able to see right through you. I wondered what he was able to see beyond me.  His office has two pianos. A baby-grand, and an upright. Both black. There's his desk. A window. Built in shelving. And always the very delicate scent of floral candle wax. Tom carried himself with an air of dignity that one would associate with a collegiate level piano professor.

Tom sits at the desk:

Tom: Hey. Come on in. (Phone rings) Do you mind if i just take this for a second? It's my wife.
Me: Oh no.... go ahead. (I never protested his taking phone calls.... it wasn't like i was paying for his time or anything)

He would discuss something that sounded very very dire and then end the conversation seriously, and politely.

Tom: How is everything going? How are you settling into your room? (This was accompanied by that intense and benign knowing stare.)
Me: Oh... everything's fine. Going well i suppose. (Happy face. Fake happy face)
Tom: What are you roommates like?
Me:.... er. hm..... well. They're puerto rican. (As if that should explain away all these questions.)
Tom: Do you like them? Are you all getting along?
Me: ... ... ... well. Yeah. Everything's fine i guess. I don't really talk to them much and they don't talk to me.
Tom: How's work?
Me: Oh its fine... it's hard work.... but i don't mind.
Tom: Where is it that you work again?
Me: Oh, i work in the Dinning Common. Im a cook. (Brightly)
Tom: (Eyes widen) Oh... Oh right. I don't know how i could have forgotten that. Do you.... enjoy it?
Me: (I thought for a moment before answering.) Enjoy it? No i don't guess that would be the best word for what im doing there.
Tom: Well. I just worry about my students who work around heavy machinery. It's not safe. I just think about all those grinders and mixers. They could end a career.
Me: (blank look.... eyes widen... Im silent. I hadn't thought about the possibility of getting my hand stuck in a hobart. I scream. The other cooks look on in horror.... Blood everywhere.)
Tom: (Seeing the little scene playing in my mind) Well! Why don't we have prayer and then start!
"Father... we thank you for your unfailing love for us. I pray that here in this time you've given us, you would help me to be instrumental in Josh's learning... I pray that you would help him with his 'room situation' that you would show him ways to be helpful to those around him... I pray for Kendra that her Aunt would be able to find an apartment quickly... and for all of those that are without you today... that you would bring them to yourself. Amen"

OK.... what should we start with. How's the Bach coming?
Me: It's going well. I'm making headway. The reading is difficult, but I really like the piece.
Tom: Ok. Have you marked the theme throughout? All four voices?
Me: Yeah.... they're all marked. But i wasn't sure about the inversion of the theme here... if that was something you wanted noted as well.
Tom: That's fine. I don't think that's essential. Let's hear what you have.
Me: Alright. (I find my bearings. and begin playing.)

It wasn't a perfect performance by any means. There were misread notes. Rhythms that were a hair short or long. And it has always been difficult for me to be emotionally involved in such a precise type of music. Bach is clinical and elegant. Bach never had a shouting fit in his kitchen with a jealous lover in which china was thrown.

The rest of the day continued as scheduled. I thanked Tom for his help. I had also begun to refer to him as 'Mr. G.' How highschool. How 'Mr. Holland's Opus' of me, I thought.

Night fell and I was looking forward to sleeping. I would get up early... I would shower and start studying for the Introduction to Music Lit. test that i had coming up in two days. Christmas was getting closer and closer and i didn't have enough seconds in the day. I'd had dinner with the gang... The same old gang from when we had picked up trash. And there were a couple of new members that I'll introduce you to soon.
All the last bells had rung and it was starting to settle down in the room. It's nearing midnight and I'm starting to drift off.

The door swings open with a THUD, and light from the ever-florescently-bright-hallway pours in. In stalks Devin. Crap. All sleepy feelings are tossed away. Devin was yet another puerto rican... and some back wards relation of Ramon. I will not attempt to describe him physically, as I will be un-kind. He stalks into the room with gaucho swagger. He's dressed in nothing but his boxers. He flicks the room light on.
Devin: (Grasping his genitals and shaking them violently.) "Oy! Mira! Mira Pato! (He does a little dance and laughs as if he has been named the Anit-Christ.) He does all this while glancing out the door and down the hall to make sure he isn't alerting the attention of Roland.
He continues making noise and flickering the lights until he gets a response.

As fortune would have it... i was the only one who flickering the lights actually affected. I slept on the top of the double bunk.... there was no way for me to build a protective light barrier out of sheets and blankets. My blood pressure had almost instantly reached boiling. I yelled at him to get out of the room. His response was to play with himself, and the light switch a bit more.... Laugh and chatter at me in puerto rican. Then slam the door as the Authority approached.

The experience left me a bit rattled. This was my first experience with what i would come to learn was called 'hazing.' I wasn't fitting into the social fabric well enough. And this was my punishment.
This wouldn't be the last of Devin's little dances. This wouldn't be the last time he prattled himself around like a little brown gay dolphin.
This was only the beginning. And no one flicks on the lights and shakes their genitals at me. No one. I have a schedule. I have goals. I will not be toyed with.
This would be the beginning. I would burn down whatever village he had crawled here from. I would raid the filthy streets and allies he had played kick ball in.... His mother would beg for mercy... but would have none.

Collusion: Part VIII

Contact. Confluence. Society. Tiny threads of familiarity that we spin each day. We work with differing levels of pre-meditation, with differing goals attaching ourselves to those around us with invisible filaments. Fibers made from memory, affection and complex belief systems. Our decision to invest in friendships seems arbitrary. This however much we’d like to believe it is the farthest thing from the truth.

Whatever wholesome thoughts we might have about ourselves…. Under whatever peachy stage lighting we like to see ourselves… the ties that bond us to others are most often motivated by selfishness and the promise of personal gain. Look for yourself. Look at your closest friendships. Why do you love the people that you do? You wont have to look too far to find the reasons are simple ones… and most often have to do with personal pleasure… entertainment or money. We as a people have the strongest of self-preservation instincts. This fact is evident in everything. We love who we love because of an intrinsic desire to thrive, to be perceived well by others and to be successful. We must choose the ones we invest in carefully; because the paths that life takes are so often directed by these choices. It was now that I should begin making these selections of who and what to love. It was my choice, and it was the expected time in my life to begin making those choices. Or so I thought…. That’s what I believed back then.

I had an extensive prayer life then. I remember in the months before I came to school… I had a little prayer that I would recite before falling asleep. I asked God to make me stronger. Sharper. To give me wisdom. I thought of college as something to be afraid of…. Being much more than a challenge… it was a threat that would force me away from my family and snatch away my childhood. I only now realize how childish I was then. I still kinda believed in magick. Such is the plight of precocious children. Their minds grow so much faster than their hearts.

Freshmen were required to complete at least one community service project for the city of Greenville. It was one of the requirements of the class called ‘Orientation.’ The class would have more aptly been named “How to Attend School at Bob Jones University.” It covered everything. Importance of abstinence, harnessing sexual desire, how to visit the library, how to budget your time to include an annually completed Bible reading programme… all the essentials really. Anyways, I asked Richard from work which community service project he had picked off of the list. He had chosen one where bus loads of freshmen were trucked to a park downtown and then expected to pick up liter. Delightful. I loved liter. We decided we would shmuck along together and check this experience off of our bucket lists.

The Saturday morning of our planned parole- like experience arrived. We waited on a curb with an unfortunate looking group of like sentenced students… all looking much the worse for this occurring on a Saturday morning. A white school bus with big blue stripes down the side and the schools name shuddered to a stop in front of us and we all piled in.

Richard and I sat side by side glumly. It was expected that males and females would sit only with members of their own gender in the two seat benches on either side of the aisle in the center. God forbid that a little thy-to-thy friction should be the spark that ignites a raging orgy on the way to the park to collect discarded soda cans and half- buried plastic grocery bags.

Some redheaded thing was sitting on the seat in front of us. She was quite noticeable because she was as loud as a macaw. She was laughing with all the force her lungs could muster. The kind of laughing you do when you’re laughing at something you really shouldn’t be laughing about. As the bus made its way through traffic she turned around in the seat, got on her knees and leaned on the back of the bench to greet us. She said hello in an elvish pitch… she sounded like Fran Drescher. She had her bright red brown hair pushed up in violent spikes. Rainbow colored earrings. Rich-girl red lip stain. A pink floral micro print short sleave t, and jean over-alls that were 2 sizes too big and had the legs rolled up. Converse. Of course. A style that made me think perhaps Rainbow Bright and Prince had given her up for adoption to pursue their carriers, and she had been raised instead by Bible believing faeries. 

She asked for our names and told us that her name was Amy. Amy Jasperson. And that her pint-sized quiet friend was named Tisha. Through out the remainder of the trip we four palled around… and formed a little troupe. Amy was instantly captivating and kept all of us laughing with her antics. She was cartoonishly animated. Her being no more than five feet tall only added to the comedy. It wasn’t unusual for her to break into an eighties power ballad and look around expecting us all to join in. Always raucous and loud. I quickly came to fall in love with her. There was nothing she wouldn’t say. Rapid fire wit and comic observation about the irony of us collecting trash being an obviously academic pursuit.

Tisha and Richard more or less were magnetically attracted to one another from that moment on. Standing between them felt odd. The four of us made our way up and down the river that ran through the city park. Mostly goofin’ off… but occasionally being intrigued by a caution cone sunken in the water…or a tire. Cigarette butts all over lost in the fallen leaves. The park was filled with sprawling live oaks… and it seemed like they watched the little dramas unfold beneath them.

It was the first time I remember having fun at school. The brevity of class and piano and work fell away for a few hours and fresh air and muddy water washed away any thought for what I would spend my time on the next day.

Perhaps we are not the only ones that influence our social network. Others are hard at work as well, searching for people that they enjoy. People that entertain them… People to share parts of their life with. Maybe my thoughts about friendships weren’t so right after all. Maybe it wasn’t foolish to allow friendship with less protective skepticism. It was clear that there were people that were much more skilled with these threads of connectivity. Without my noticing Amy had looped strong and fast filaments around the four of us… bonds that would last for years. And you know… it didn’t seem all that dangerous. Maybe I didn’t have to be so careful.  

These thoughts mulled around in my head on the way home. We sat in the same arrangement on the bus. Tisha was spent and was laying her head on Amy’s shoulder. The chatter was less boisterous on the return to campus. Play time was over.  

As the bus dropped us off back at school we said our goodbyes. ‘Lets do lunch soon!’ Amy suggested. Women have a secret language that they speak to one another, and I think quiet Tisha had wanted this to happen but lacked initiative. Bye. Nice meeting you…. See you all later.

I spent the evening reworking the fingering on a phrase in a prelude… looking out the window as night fell like a blanket.

Collusion: Part VII

Morning creeps in through the metal blinds of the room. 200 alarm clocks have been set to roughly 12 minute intervals beginning at 5 am; all along the hall. The rest of the room didn't have classes at eight am. They had planned their schedules around the luxury of rising at 10 am. I would come to realize this was a common wisdom amongst students, and it was only my in-experience and freshmen class availability that had forced me to begin the learning process in the dead of night.

Leap from the top bunk. More or less land gracefully. Stagger. Slip into my flip-flops. The room is fuzzy at this point and filled with little grunts and sleep sounds from the other constituents. Towel. Shower caddy. Then a trudge down the hall to the showers.
Twelve or thirteen more of the cement and tile, military style showers that were so common here. Now was a good time to shower, because i wouldn't find myself waiting in a line to do so... the closer the clock came to 8:30 am, the more likely you were to be waiting in a line, 5 men deep. This was certainly not how i had come to think of bathing before school. Before here, showering was something that was equal parts sanitation and therapy... think, Calgon commercial... or, a Dove ad in Seventeen.
Not so here. It was just another part of commerce. To be completed as quickly as possible. Lather up... Spray yourself off. Offer polite conversation to other shower members.... but only if they begin the conversation. If other members of the shower happen to be singing, it is impolite to giggle, chortle, or guffaw, regardless of their pitch and tone. You must never enter the shower without sandals of some sort. The floors ( and likely more surface areas of the showers than I'm comfortable thinking about ) are crawling/ swimming with bacteria of every sort. Ebola. Hantavirus, Athletes foot, tennis elbow, and scurvy. It would be fool hardy to consider ones immune system strong enough to withstand attacks from the shower floor. If you cut yourself shaving, you'd better have good insurance.

I returned to the room to dress and the time keeping the pulse of the clock, as being late to a class was something that i could not allow myself to do. I did not want run-ins with the Authority. I was in the habit of styling my shorty-short brown hair with a product not un-like roofing caulk. Think hedgehogs with crew cuts. Already i had begun to re-style myself to send subtle messages about my individuality apart from the confines of Almighty Handbook. As far as i could tell, dress categories here amongst students could be more or less follow the major divisions of the Cast, and the styles would follow the divisions respectively, from most popular to least.
Dress Clues to Cast Membership:

Prep: Generally a style most used by members of the upper strata of the Cast, Prep males were outfits that fit like they were tailored for them. P-coats in the winter or trench in the rain. They carry their books in leather bags that they sling over their shoulder. Colors are conservative, or ever so occasionally gem tone. Ties in patterns that can be found in 17th century French wallpaper. Hair styles deviate ever so slightly from the confines of AH.... the slightest stylistic variation to send a message.... I was learning quickly how these messages worked. Female Preps were much easier to spot. Just look down. A heel of three inches and higher worn daily almost always indicates membership in this style block. Pencil skirts are quit common, as well as knee length tailored wool coats worn in the winter with scarves and pearls. After looking down, look up. female Preps wear their hair in voluminous slightly curled-volumized-shiny shoulder length manes. They spend hours cultivating this look in the morning. They carry all of their scholastic needs for the day in a large purse. Large enough to fit a laptop, and two books. These purses are commonly made of leather, or faux snake-skin. Dress colors vary, but stick to a common theme of slate and jewel tones.

Common American Eagles: The broadest stylistic block. This group contains members of all sections of the Cast. As the name indicates, anything that American Eagle sells, goes. That's nearly all i need to say. Females in this style block almost always wear ballet flats. Males choose khaki distressed chinos and button downs in colors that it would be easy to ignore. Leather shoes.

The Shunned: These were the rest of the population. The ones who hadn't attached large portions of their ego to the cost of the threads on their backs. Tennis shoes or cousins of the tennis shoe are common among both genders. Males wear button downs in a solid color... and they are often one half size too large; and/or pleat fronted chinos in navy blue. You must at all cost avoid dressing beneath your allotment in the cast.

Introduction to Music Literature.

It was one of the core classes for any music major here and as such was quite populous. Any student who had planned to perform or teach anything in the musical realm would have to take this class at some point along their journey. The class was lead by a short and delicately precise man named Fred Coleman. He drove at break-neck speeds, giving sweeping over-views of a large portion of Western Music.  On the first day of class heir Coleman instructed that we should feel the liberty of referring to him affectionately as ‘Uncle Fred.’ I chose not to. I decided that there was quite enough fantasy here without having to imagine that I was related to the teachers. His teaching style was quite theatrical. He came up with clever acronyms for remembering important names and dates, and once or twice leaped onto the bench of the 9 foot Steinway to make a point and awaken a few of the members of the class. Even though it was a three credit class it had the reputation of being as easy as yawing, and thus lured in students with such far reaching majors as ‘Missions’ and ‘Counseling’ or ‘Being A Virtuous and Child Bearing Woman.’

It was absolute foolishness for me to have taken the class first semester, topping off my work-load at 20 credits straight out of the gate. I had nothing to compare the work-load with, however, and so thought nothing of it. This was one of the classes that i didn’t study for. Five or six rows 20 people long filled with bright eyed pupils converged in a large diamond shaped room precisely at three o’clock in the afternoon Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. A sweeping variety of the social strata were represented, and as we were seated by our last names; I would be situated between a quiet, mousy-brown haired Jane Doe Groupie and a mute Seriously Serious Musician.

Time was moving quickly to the point where everyone should have chosen their opposing-gender companions for Artist Series. I had no idea where to begin. Women out-numbered men on the campus two to one. Perhaps because statistically women tend to pursue higher education more these days…. Or it could be because they’re more likely to believe that wearing panty hose would grant you special privileges in the after-life. Be that as it may, if I had too I could resort to making a randomized phone call to one of the woman’s dormitories…. Whoever. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Just pick one. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. I would need to come up with something soon though. I would by no means allow that barrel-chested puppet of the regime, Roland, to predict my social arrangements. 

There were a few minutes before class started in which the students were shuffling their things around willy-nilly and chattering about assignments or other events. At the beginning of the semester moods were light and the students felt free to cross the boundaries of the social strata. A love of music was the common thread. It was a room full of people who in some way or another, worshipped beauty. Same as me.

I was bored with the people sitting beside me, so I turned around to survey the row behind. Girls. Perfect. I scanned the row homing in on those who looked like they were closest matches to my own situation in the Cast. My eyes darted around quickly assessing tiny details in dress or conversation. Assessment 100% complete.

Me: “Hello!” I said brightly. “I’m Josh! What’s you’re name?” I offered the girl behind me in a tinsel covered tone.

Girl: “I’m Christine.” She replied. Her tone was quizzical. She had a smirky look on her face… like I was speaking elvish or something. “I know who you are.”

Target Acquired. Parameters set… This would be my female companion to required entertainment. Christine was an inch shorter than me and had shoulder length ash blonde hair that fell gracefully to her shoulders. Straight white teeth. Im quite partial to people with good dental hygiene. She had fascinatingly large blue eyes the color of a frozen lake. Gray blue. She used them to regard me with skepticism.

Me: “Hey…. So…. Do you have any plans for Artist Series?”

Christine: “Not yet.” Languid. Emotionless. Complicated.I liked her already.

Me: “Well…. Hm…. Wanna go with me?”

My tactlessness amused her. I amused her in general. At least that what her smallest of smiles indicated.

“Sure.” She said.

Click.

Mission accomplished. We talked a little more before class started. I attempted to sculpt away the awkwardness of my introduction/invitation with a bit of humor. Fred started the class with a prayer. He asked mystic Hebrew god to guide the class towards knowledge… I listened intently and took pages of notes. I would soak up everything he had to say.

Collusion: Part VI

My classes were stacked on top of one another in precision. Tonal Harmony. Speech. English 102. Lunch. Choir. History of Civilization. Orientation. Spanish. Then... mercifully enough... it was off to the kitchens. How odd I thought, that i should find relief in that steamy, noisy metal plated bunker. But find relief i did. There were other venues for thought there and most of them included re-traying meatloaf.

One of my fellow 'cooks' lived on my hall. He and I would strike up conversations at work. Mostly about how ridiculous this all was. Richard Reece was a good foot or so taller than me... with broad features and black hair. His accent smelled like Boston... or at least like it had driven through Boston. I didn't know they kept naming people 'richard' after 1953... but he had said that was his name; and i believed him.
We usually worked the same shift. The one that fell after the lunch rush.... So it was our responsibility to put away left overs and start dinner.

50 Stainless steel trays of leftover meatloaf needed to be re-trayed, covered in plastic wrap and wheeled on a 5 foot tall aluminum cart to the cavernous walk-in refrigerator. (One of 3 room sized refrigerators that averaged about 12 feet by 16- 20 feet.) I would drag my book-bag and my worries into the locker room in the basement, find the smallest uniform i could (being 5'6'' and weighing 120 pounds made that difficult when all the uniforms were designed for males) and leave all my stress and confusion with chord function and dangling modifiers with my book sack, in my locker.
The locker room smelled like sweat, stagnant water, and granulated carpet detergent. Or a combination of each of those. All the students who worked in the kitchens had to come there and suit-up first... I never spoke to anyone in the locker room. Not because I didn't know anyone's name who might have happened to be stowing their books away and putting on a uniform.... it just seemed un-natural to be conversational, or chatty in such a place. To be jovial in a basement room lined with avocado green lockers, and a variety of carpet patches on the cement floor.... a room with a adjacent military-style style showers.... it just seemed vulgar. 

The anxiety over academic failure.... even though i had yet to expect failure.... blew over me like a strong, hot, summer wind. Like the wind before a thunder storm. As you can see, regardless of my early social programming, I had become extremely self motivated, and had even attached self- worth to my performance in every arena. Somehow though, there was no wind in the kitchen. The kitchen meant work. If there was anything that i could not fail at..... it was transferring 302 lbs of left-over meatloaf slices into shiny new stainless buffet trays, stretching clear plastic wrap over them, and push-pulling a cart full of trays to the gigantic refrigerator.

Sometimes it was chicken patties. Sometimes it was a vegetable that had been baked to within-an-inch-of-it's-life. Sometimes it was those 6'' little pizzas... but it was always the same process. Richard Reece was usually involved with getting a start on dinner. Which meant that he and the Staff Cooks would be lumbering around the Steam Pots... boiling 20 or so chickens at a time, turning 40 gallons of salty water into macaroni and paste, or punching frozen brussel sprouts out of their cardboard cartons, and into a vat of steaming seasoned stock. What would Julia Childs have said? It would have reduced her to tears. She would have been a broken woman.

At any given moment the Kitchen was populated by 20 plus workers. All clad in their white matching suits and tennis shoes that they wouldn't have minded throwing away. (I think that last sentence contained a dangling-modifier.... but in hind-sight I dont think any of the workers would have minded throwing away their works shoes, or their uniforms.) These twenty sum workers were either busy in the bakery department, having gargantuan machines kneed bread, or working in the basement fork-lifting pallets of macaroni to the elevator, or cooking with the Steam Pots, or even sometimes, in the very darkest corners of the kitchen basements.... i had heard that they butchered cattle. A fact that would be much later confirmed by my discovery of a bovine corpse in a large rubber trash can.

In the midst of all this commerce. In the very center of the kitchens.... there was a space reserved for mostly empty stainless tables... and me. Collect the leftovers. Re-pan the leftovers. Drag foods to the majestic cold room. The whole process was so very repetitious.... so delightfully designed, that there was nothing my mind needed to do here. In the continuity of a physical action, i could allow my thoughts to relax... and the tensions of my mind to evaporate. I used a large white plastic scoop for more liquidic food stuffs... or tongs for others. Maybe it was all the steam, maybe it was the fact that this part of my life was so un-like class or piano... But in the most profound irony, this place of gore and metal and blood, was my own little mecca.
I had a set list of very simple tasks. Most of them including meatloaf... but all the same, the tasks were simple... and no one was grading me on my ability to scoop peas.
My work hours would pass along. Not fast... Not slow really, and soon enough i would trudge down to the little room with all of those forlorn looking lockers and its naked bony showers, and id collect my things.

After stopping and practicing piano for a couple hours, my motivation to practice would fizzle out, and i headed back to my room.
Ramon and Chester were at their usual exploits. Fraternizing with the other troglodytes on the hall... being loud and making what Im sure what would have been considered witty snide remarks about my bookishness.... albeit, they might have only been considered 'witty' in the shanty-town countries of the boys' origin. I was working on a bit of homework when the hall leader pushed through a raucous tumble of boys who passed themselves as adults in some circles. Yes, the dormitory was always like this... and unrelenting drama of post-adolescent hormonal sociopaths... talking, laughing, and breaking into un-explainable wrestling matches.

Josh Roland was our Resident Assistant. Hall Leader. Sheriff of the third-floor west wing. I was his job to prevent action against the Almighty Handbook. He took his obligations seriously... the raucous in the hall was precisely why he was here. After making a group of boys stop bowling in the hall, he stepped in to say hello.
Roland was the picture of former highschool-football star, and by extension was a Handsome Soccer Player. One of 12 or so siblings that looked exactly like him, his father was a devout christian doctor in the vein of Doctor Quinn Medicine Woman.... a father who, i assume did not believe in birth control.
How Roland became both popular, and powerfully situated in The Authority, is probably a novel in and of itself. Broad shoulders. Obvious indention in the chin. Blue eyes and extensive self confidence. I think once or twice he appeared in promotional literature for the school. Glossy photo.... glowing credentials.... etc. etc.

Roland appeared through the dust from the crowd, and immediately engaged me in conversation.

JR: "Hey! You're Josh right?" (slight hair toss, and overtly pensive look.)
Me: "Yup... that's me...." (rubs eyes and offers blank expression...)
JR: "How's it goin' man? What ya sudyin' there?"
Me: "Harmony... its.... great...." (More bland expressions.)
JR: "Cool... is ah, Mr. Flowers still teaching first year a that?"
Me: "Yeah. I like it. He's slow.... easy to keep up with."

Roland at this juncture began making his was through the room taking a look of everyone's things, as if they were relics of a lost civilization. He settled on my alarm clock, which due to the fact that so little space in the room was left for me to claim when i arrived, was over across the room on my dresser. It was amazingly over sized, plain faced clock made out of chrome. Hammer and bells and all.

JR: ''Is this thing real?"
Me: "Do you mean, 'is it a clock?' or 'does it exist?" I quarried.
JR: (chuckles; eye roll) "I mean, does it work..." He plowed on.
Me: "Yes. It functions as it was intended." (Blinks.)

I was beginning to lose faith in establishing intelligent thought flow, outside of the class room. Never the less, I was not the instigator of this conversation, and could think of no way to end it without transgressing polity.

JR: "So who're you taking to artist series? You're a freshman right?"
Me: "Yeah, I am... What's artist series?"
JR: "It's where everyone gets dressed up and goes to a concert in the auditorium.... They throw one every coupla months. You invite a girl and buy her flowers.... ya know, it's kinda formal."
Me: (Blinks) "Oh. I think i remember reading something about that in the calender of events. When is that?"
JR: "It's in a couple weeks. I mean it's ok if you don't take a date.... Not all the freshmen get dates."
Me: (More Blinks) "Do I have to go?"
JR: (Ironic laughter) " Yeah... haha. You have to... but they're pretty cool usually."
Me: (moans... shoulder slump.) "Oh... great."

Whatever Roland had left to say has been deleted from my memory, with a slew of everything else that was un-memorable about him. Artist Series. Yet another challenge had presented itself. A formal event he said? hm.... I thumbed through the calendar of events to discover more about this mystery.
hm. Dates. Hmmmmm. The Freshmen don't usually get dates? Hm....
The concept of required entertainment was confusing... but then, there were so many other requirements here that i couldn't force logic behind that i didn't bother trying to make sense of it. It was something that must be done. Just like study. Just like leftovers. Just like piano.

Roland made his was elsewhere and when he left, the rabble in the hallways turned back to their bowling. Bells rang.... Prayers. Larry crawled out of his cocoon long enough to read a few passages from Proverbs, while Chester and Ramon carried on a conversation about something hilarious in Spanish. The were giggling like absurd little girl scouts. More bells. Lights-out.
I laid awake, pondering this new revelation.... Formal event, in which decorum required that i request the company of a female.... hm.... Work had made me tired. When i slept i had dark dreams.... I dreamed of a black forest with wolves. I could hear the wolves. I could hear them, but i couldn't see them.

Collusion: Part V

You know that thing people say sometimes? When you're parting? Maybe a friend or an acquaintance that you might not see again for a while. Sometimes at that little juncture... they say "take care of yourself." Take care of yourself.
In that small moment of kindness they offer one of the many cliche phrases that have been programmed into the social fabric. "See ya soon." "Great seeing you!" or one of several affable options that social context provides option for. Thoughtless we say these things. Thoughtless we toss the phrase aside... like so many other things in our lives that are as easily discarded.
This little piece of advice, however draped in common clothing is invaluable.
What have we but ourselves? Our bodies and minds.... And should we ignore this cast-away of conversation filler... We are lost.

This tiny pearl of information became bright and evident... in stark relief for me in the first month of school. Much as there might be inclination to let circumstances, room-mates or schedule... class even eat away at your sense of being... it must not be this way. We must make reservation for our own happiness... no matter what the strength of our will. If we don't take care of ourselves... who will?

The first week was so filled with things that i needed to accomplish as to be foggy in my memory. There was my audition for my major. As it turns out, if you're planning to major in Piano Performance... the school wants to hear some kind of proof that you can play the piano. I had been preparing for the audition feverishly for most of the year before. I played Rachmaninoff. I played a Bach matched set of prelude and fugue. C minor i think. And then the piece i was most proud of.... Beethoven's piano sonata Opus 10 Number 1. It was a reflection of the way things worked in my mind. Balance. The most delicate balance. Just like the work, though, i was filled with passion. Passion to do well and to be above all things; perfect. A rhythmic exactitude held this passion in check and kept me from over speaking.... But still that heinous desire was there.

Over the summer before I had spent hours.... weeks and weeks of hours perfecting and polishing. Articulating the precision of phrase.... the sparse pedaling.... and guiding the soulful angst of the piece. All of the pieces were memorized, per requirement by the entrance committee. Repetition and memory made the work a part of me and wrote each line on my finger bones. My joys became the high exuberant lines of the work and my fears and angers grew into a great sea that swelled into the crescendi and crashed on the shore as tiny sea gulls flew away with the staccato.

Three faculty members of some age heard my pieces. Two men and a woman. It was like standing naked in front of strangers. Nerves flooded by blood stream with endorphins.... i felt like i could run for miles.
I nailed the performance. I didn't miss a note. What's more... for a little bit the oddest thing happened. I was communicating. I was sharing.... something beautiful. This was the art of the 'great un-said.'

There was a slight hang up however.... This isnt a hallmark movie after all. I could sight read. But i was doing it several grade levels below what was expected. My growth of expression and memory was thwarted by being a slow reader. I was still sounding out the consonants and vowels of the little riff i was given to sample. It was embarrassing. So much that i ignored the stifling social decorum of the exam.... and asked out-right if that was going to keep me out of the major.
I'm sure they could all hear the fear in my voice.
No. It wouldn't keep me from studying.
The lady judge offered comment. "It's a bit strange that you're playing literature that some don't see until their junior year, and you're reading like a junior high student.... but it's nothing preventing your study."
She said this with as little affectation as if she had been commenting on the weather. Particularly bland weather.

Relief. The kind of relief that one must feel after giving birth. And i had a healthy baby. I'd grown it within me for almost a year.... and there. It was done. It was fine. Everything was going to be just fine.

The rest of the day after the audition... i wandered around campus with a sickening smile on my face. I was walking a good three feet taller than anyone had a right too. All those months of worrying and preparing.... and perfecting every tiny detail... and now i had earned the right to be called a musician.
Sunshine leaked out of my mouth and my ears and my eyes. I was happy. More than happy. I was soaked in happiness.... I was swimming in happiness.
I called my mom. Speaking too fast... so excited... more electricity in my voice than the cell phone.
Rounds of congratulations.

My dad congratulated me, but there was no way for him to understand the momentousness of the situation. I had conquered Rome.... but to him i had just gotten my drivers license. Ah well. I didnt need him to understand exactly.
There were woodland creatures following me around and singing. There were milk-maids dancing in the street.... all the hills were alive with the sound of music.

I levitated back to my dorm room to find Larry in a predictable position. Coiled in his bottom bunk whispering to his cell phone. I often wondered what the possibilities were of having a conversation with anyone for the lengths that Larry had with Gypsy Girlfriend. Spoiler alert.... the relationship ended. Surprise. It lasted for a few eye-roll inducing months. The other room-mates were out and about. I was sure they were out vilifying some of the least popular members of the student body.

As i settled into homework there was talk on the hall of an Artist Series fast approaching. What was an 'artist series?' i wondered... I had practice to do. I had new repertoire. I didn't have time for anymore wastes of time.
Night settled on the campus. The lighting under the maze of covered sidewalks glowed yellow... transforming walkers into tired performance art. Up-lights bathed the campus oaks in a ghostly blue white light. Bells rang. We skipped prayer group. Larry was still on the phone. (yawn)....
More bells. Lights out.

Collusion: Part IV

Each next day was a mirror image of the last. The nice thing about monotony is that time seems to slip by more quickly. The ants were busy about their work. Everyone i met had plenty to say about where they were going... but nothing to say about who they were. Another aspect of society in the ancient puritan tribe i had supposed.
During the flurry of activities and people to meet my name was shuffled in a database. An archaic machine with punch cards was at work selecting what campus job i should have. With a chink, and a ding... a small card with my name and new station dropped onto a slate floor.

Josh Medlin

"Cook"

Dinning Common Staff

I had signed some paper somewhere... quill pen. red ink. According to the rules of my scholarship, i would have to work at least 10 hours a week at a campus job. Ten hours. Nothing to it. There was a work meeting and a power-point presentation about chemical safety. Cartoon characters with overly theatrical reactions to situations involving bleach and turpentine. In one of the booths that had been set up during my arrival, one of the smiling faces had asked me if i wanted to cook. Of course i wanted to cook! At the time when i was asked, the question conjured images of myself and seven or eight other smiling post adolescents in bright, clean, white aprons, icing cupcakes and making sculptures of swans out of chocolate. Out of thick glossy black chocolate. Jokes would be made... Someone would throw a handful of flour... and then we would all frolic about with as many cares as a daisy has. 

 Of course i wanted to cook! 

As usual, my imagination was my most well developed mental faculty. I had not yet seen the dinning common. Just like all the other buildings at school it was made of that same shade of yellow brick. That color like faded sunshine. A color that would take the place of a red curtain in this progressive academic theater. Order. Clarity. An un-assuming color. 

There was a work meeting that I attended in those first days. And after rising and dressing with care and a nod to AH, i walked the distance of four or so city blocks from my room to my new employ. 

The dinning common had at one time ages and ages ago been a grocery store... and the long long front face of the building was pock marked with a row of roughly fifteen double-doors. Identical to the ones everywhere else at school. Black metal. Plate glass and little black security panels to the right of each one. Green light, un-locked... Red light, locked. Through the one door that had a little green light. Those doors are heavy. A long, expansive lobby ran the length of the front of the building.... It would take you three minutes to walk from one end of the room to the other. Bent rectangles of light poured in through the fifteen metal doors and spilled all over the blue gray carpet. Opposite the wall of doors of the front wall, was another wall that ran the length of the room. This time there were 15 wooden double doors.... one of these was open. There were computer printed sings motioning me forward to the main event. 

I had never seen a larger room. Four stories or so to the ceiling i guessed.... It was like the Romans had bricked up a soccer field... and wallpapered it in the largest blue paisley print they could manufacture. Wrap-around windows in a recessed portion of the ceiling continued the idea of an 'inside-outside.'

This room was another machine. Massive common room for one of life's most basic needs. Food. Rows and rows and rows of tables and gray metal chairs covered in some blue rubber. You could seat eighty full sets of Brady Bunches... and all of Elizabeth Taylor's exes. 

In that momentous moment of being wowed by architecture.... it hit me. I would not be sculpting swans out of chocolate. I would not be chasing my friends around throwing flour on them. There would not be any cupcakes. Alac. A sous chef... I was not.

There was a flurry of staff meeting in the center of soccer-field-ish room. Tossing papers around...Writing students schedules around work. Helping them fill out their forms and papers. 

I walked up to one of ladies... and said.... "I think I'm a cook?" and "I don't know what these papers mean....", gesturing with a handful of papers that would become my schedule for the next three months....

She gave me one of those.... "oh, you poor little lamb...." looks. And with a grace and dexterity i had yet to observe amongst the other staff.... wrote my schedule and otherwise allayed my concerns about how i should set out my life for the next little bit. 

The kitchen i would discover was a fur piece more industrial than my imagination had lead me to believe. Cement floors. Rolling carts of staples.... Stainless steel everything. Glossy white paint everywhere... and the central feature was a row of fifteen 100 gallon stainless steel steam powered cooking pots that were all bolted to the floor. This would be what i did. 

I would make macaroni and cheese 100 gallons at a time. I would melt 65 pounds of cheddar that i had grated myself with a machine that would eat your hand off if you weren't careful.... 

I would shoulder 60 lb bags of rice... and the white apron from my imagination would be replaced a full uniform, apron included. all white. Even a pleated white hat. We can't have hair falling into macaroni. The cook staff that i worked with was quite a lot different from the american eagle models in my imagination. There were student workers.... who were mostly mute aside from their tasks at their stainless steel work areas... and then there were the the staff cooks.

Mr. Smith had worked in the kitchen for nearly 40 years. So i think that made him close to 70 something. He didn't know any of the student workers names. Those were the things that had changed the most here, and so were the last things on his list of important things to do. You could tell that he'd been taller at one time. Less bent. But the type of work to be done here was wearing. What was left of his hair was all white... he'd likely been in one of the wars. Korea maybe?

Mr. Rae. (We must always refer to them respectfully.) Mr. Rae was exactly like the kinda guy you would imagine owning a pizzeria in Naples. Prodigious man. Gargantuan. Italian. And jolly mostly. Given to moods. Because of his size, his joints were in bad shape. I swore i could feel the cement floor shudder a bit when he walked past. I liked working with him. This volatile colossal man with his black mustache and sing-song moods. He accomplished his tasks passionately.... and made conversation with the student workers.
There were rumors about him selling an heirloom pasta recipe that had been in his family since they left Naples.... but I don't think he ever will.

Mr. Balentine. Aggressively friendly. A short man with graying hair, large spectacles and a gray brown mustache. Quirky and bright... hard working. I worked with him mostly. He reminded me of a tinker. I had never met a tinker, but i had imagined that if i ever were to.... Mr B. would be one. He moved about in the bowels of the machine... stirring here with a 5 ft wooden spatula... skampering to one of the 60 ovens.... He liked to laugh.

It was grueling work. But it wasn't something that i minded. I made friends there. And the way that my life here had been divided into neat little rows and boxes.... work now. sleep now. read now. pray now.... it was therapeutic. It helped me balance anxiety and ambition. It focused my efforts into my studies.

During high-school i was a runner. I continued this tradition here. Back home i would run 4 or 5 miles along dirt roads.... through trails that four-wheelers had cut into the woods.... Here i ran around a track. Seven times around makes a mile.... and late at night there would be old people walking around the track; swinging their arms bent at the elbow and chatting with other old people.....
I ran around them.... I ran every day and i let the running drown me. The sweat and the repetition and the thud of my feet lulled my mind into a kind of rest. Each lap around the track pulled one of the tangles out of my head and assured me that i would make it here...
After running i slept soundly.