Collusion: Part XXXIV

You know I don't think I minded being left alone. I didn't. Maybe you're one of those people who just wants you to walk past and not say anything. You know... like when you stub a toe... and that hot wave of endorphin rich pain washes over you? I'm one of those people. Id much prefer not to be noticed. If you tried to help me now I would bite your arm off at the elbow and then spit it at your mother.

I've heard from people from back then... the Senators. They've contacted me since... apologizing. Offering 'sorrys' for being 'immature'. Some sent long long emails, some through Facebook. And days after a house fire... they would likely bring me water-balloons and salt water taffy.  We went from spending hours in a big group laughing in the big empty dinning common to nothing. I couldn't speak to them. I couldn't look at them. Don't get me wrong I was mad at them for me... but ever so much worse. I was shocked stupid. I was shocked silent because they brought danger to us. Some consolation all those late dinners together were now...our jokes and snickering catching the attention of the hostess staff in the building, who on occasion would waddle over to make sure we weren't actually enjoying ourselves. Things change. Let's just say if they ran for an office now, I might do some campaigning against them. Not just because they were selfish.... it was because of what they nearly did. They nearly took my family.

Do you know though... I hit upon a little stroke of luck in those nasty times. A gift you might say. I discovered something. The fatal flaw that saved us in the end. Or at least saved us for the time being.

Work was a fuckery. I had a headache that was bearing patiently into the back of my eyes. My eyes were watery from it and I could feel the edges of them burn when I closed my eyes. I didnt have any advil, and there was none at the store. I wasnt shifting that day. Drive through had been steady. It may have been a thursay. It feels like it was that or a Tuesday. As the memory of it simmers in my mind. Either way much lunch break finally lumbered around. I had thirty precious minutes to get to publix, and buy some pain killers. Maybe something to eat and then storm back into work in time to mop the lobby. That was plan anyways.

I had located the pills I needed and was looking for something in a jar, or maybe some soup... ah that was it. I hit on a sub. That'll be fine. Someone was calling. The name on the phone was Laura Thompson. It was rare that she called. I mean she and I were friends, but we only hung out tangentially... whenever I ran into her or saw her at church. She was a very pale skinned girl with big watery blue eyes. Dark wet looking brown hair that always had just too tight of a curl to it. Or perhaps rather a shade too tangled. Some call it the natural look. I do not. She was most notable to me because she was emotionally sanguine and chiefly concerned herself with every lost cause that was just so lost as to be time wasted. She prayed a lot from what I can tell. Im sure she meant it a lot too. She dressed like an English teacher who desperately wanted to be an English person. Alac.
I picked up the phone.
"Hi."
"Josh! Where are you right now...."
"Im at publix... I cant get rid of this headache... Im getting lunch what's up?" I was baffled as to why she would have called me at that hour.
"Josh... we need to talk like right; right now." There was something itchy in her voice it sounded like panic.
"Oh... well we are talking... aren't we? Whats wrong?" I prompted. I had 30 minutes. I could eat or then not eat. I was going to eat.
"Sooo.... Ive been talking with Chris and Ray..."
My pupils narrowed.
"And Josh I cant believe it! You're totally gay... Like you're a homosexual!" She spat into the phone. Her words were making the same sounds children make when they're eating pudding.
"Huh?..." I stood still on aisle 5 at the publix on pelham rd.
" Where are you right now?"
"I just... like I said Im at publix. Ive got thirty minutes to my meal break. I dont know what you're talking about. I have to go."
"OK ok... WAIT... Josh hear me out. Im on the way to where you are stay there. Im coming."
"I uh. Ok..... "

She hung up. Undoubtedly she and her clan of other natural looking people had simply been riding around... guessing where I may be. I mercifully made it to the end of the line at check out and was on my way to the car... Maybe I'd luck out maybe she wouldnt be there.
She was. She called me in the parking lot. I saw the name on the phone but just slid the bar to ignore. She stalked up behind me in the parking lot. Eyes so much the more than watering.
"Josh! I cant believe this!... Why didn't you tell me?"  She squared her shoulders at me. This other girl that was with her hung back like back up. Perhaps its a HAZMAT thing... 2nd stage protocol, in case I escaped.
"Why are you here right now?" The pain in my head was melting away, and I could feel a strange black coldness growing in me. Swelling quickly like a summer thunderstorm. I could feel that behind my eyes now quickly wiping out what was apparently just an imagined headache.
"I have thirty minutes to eat and try to get this headache under control and go back to work. What were you hoping to accomplish here."
"Josh! You're not listening. Ray and Chris... they told me everything. They told me how you and x were together! I'm here because I don't know what to do. I mean I cant just not tell people...You have to know it's wrong right?"

You know those scenes from action films. The ones where a protagonist watches as a large structure falls. The camera pans around and the score drops out... no sound at all. In some cases just a single high pitch is audible in the back ground. This happened then. And just as quickly I knew what must be done.

"What exactly, in as few words as possible did Ray and Chris tell you?" I said quietly, hawk-like.
"Well um.... " She started forming tears. "They said that you two were like together... that you had been for a while, and nobody knew about it. They said that they couldn't be involved with it anymore because... because Ray said that he knew that it was wrong. It's true isnt it!? I mean... It has to be right? Does Amanda know about it? I want to help you!... But i dont know how....Let me help you!"

I stared at her. Remorseless. Feeling out the play. Like I was playing a game of pool. This must strike that. This angle must strike that. A little chalk... a little luck. Go.

"Laura. Im not sure what all people have been saying about me. But to be honest I don't really have time to chat with you. I don't know why Ray or Chris would have said any of that. I have to go to work now. Your concern is appreciable. I have to go now." 

All of the was delivered with a succinctness nearly absent in my other talks with anyone.
I got into my car and drove the less than a mile back to work. I wasn't hungry anymore. I wasnt anything anymore.

I carbon copied three people to a text and pressed 'send.'

Something has happened. Dont speak with anyone. We need to meet tonight. 10:30 I'll come to you.

Collusion: Part XXXVI

What is the human condition? Lately that's all I think about. I don't mean to sound like a stoner. I promise. But the more I think about it, the more I have to say... everything's relative. I'm not talking fringe science or family trees. I'm talking about trajectory. The likelihood that person 'A' will achieve wealth, progeny or perhaps dare I even suggest... popularity. Or to what degree a person would consider said person 'A' would consider a certain amount of pain 'excruciating' and how that's different for every person. I'm only thinking about these things because I was training for a marathon in February. I've been tricked into it by my run partner. She did the NYC a month ago or so. I wonder if I'm capable of those distances. I mean... It has to be like everything else right? You can do it... it just depends how much of yourself you're willing to give away to do that.

I've always thought that the amount of yourself that you're willing to throw into something is the driving factor in the trajectory of our achievements. And it is the degree of cost that we find   outlandish that differs person to person. There are other tangents to consider. But let's be honest... Most people earn what they get and the people that haven't should be shot in public. Or maybe lynched. Maybe I could head an advisory board for lynchings. For worthless people. I digress.

I was signed up for it. Tom Grimble didn't even ask me if it was ok. He said I should do it, and that it would give me a chance to debut the Tan Dun pieces. I dragged a bag of books into his office. His office that always smelled like melted vanilla wax and carpet cleaner. All around the room was little decorative trinkets that previous students had gotten for him. Tacky cursivy things. Thank you for this. We love you for that. I judged him for those trinkets.

"How are you today Josh?" He asked as I came in and plunked my bag on one of the chairs by the wall. "You look... tired."

I wanted to thank him for his observation. How between working full time, and part time grad work, and living thirty minutes from school I hadn't quite had the luxury of waking each morning at 9 am to the paper and a soft boiled egg.

"I'm..... alright." I said rather disinterestedly. "It's... my schedule is tight. Ya know."

"How are things?... With work?" He asked. Tom is such a curious man to describe. He had grown one of those Italian mustaches long ago in the 90's and for whatever reason allowed it to reside on his face. He's one of those larger people, that have an odd grace and fluidity to their movements about a room. So much so that I often thought to myself, that Tom Grimble moved about like the a cloud... Like the Holy Spirit who led the Children of Israel by day through the desert to the promised land.
He was desperately interested in my personal life. Who was I dating. How my job was going. You know, I can't really knock him for that. He was trying to do his job well. He was trying to be a nice guy. He's one of the few people from school that I think wanted me to be happy. Who had thought through what it may be like for me not to be happy.

"I want you to perform for Mrs Gingery. She's doing a work shop this weekend. Are you working Saturday?"

"I.... " thought through my obligations. I was in the middle of memorizing. I would spend an hour on a page. Close the book and try to play through the page without looking. One page at a time. One piece at a time. Performance time was close to an hour. That meant six months of memorization for me. 2 Hours a day with the piano. Me. The piano and a book.
"I think I'm not working until later that after noon? Tell me about Mrs. Gingery..."

"Well" He was checking his email with his back to me. "She's retired from the music faculty here. I want you to play Tan Dun for her. The pieces haven't premiered at this school, and I think she could be very interested to hear them." Tom always spoke with a kind a lethargy. Due in part to acute back pain from a horrible fall some time ago, and also... That's just how musicians are. They speak as if they are imparting the divine secrets of the universe. It's something that happens as a result of whispering to one another during performances.

"I guess I can do it.."
"Well of course you can do it."

"I'm... just not so sure about some of the rhythms on this page..." I pointed to a folio I pulled out of my book sack. "I've been listening to the recordings for days... and I still don't think I'm getting it right. Can we look at it?" I wouldn't have been happy half-assing it. Workshop or no. Music school is like a quiet pageant. We each take our turns performing at different venues. There are those who get nods from teachers... and there are those who don't.

"Listen. I can't be there either. I'd like to go to introduce you to Mrs. Gingery, but there will be two others from the studio there. She's a lovely woman."

We spent the rest of the hour after praying briefly re-working the rhythm of the first page of the Tan Dun. 8 Memories in water color. Delicate and precise little wood cuts of pieces. Dun had said enough, but not too much. The works were sharp, and they turned quickly from one idea to another. They rushed about spilling money in the street and ending quietly... stealthily even. Reworking the piece was tant-amount to pulling the stitching out of a garment because a line wasn't correct... and re-stitching by hand. Think about teaching yourself to type all over again if the letters swam around and re-organized themselves at will. That's it.

The day was at hand. I was going to be late as well. I tripped up the steps to Stratton Hall and nearly ran around the corner into David Landon who was skittering off on his lanky legs heading towards the Dinning Common.
"Hey Med-head! Just you watch where you're going!" Nasal tall person voice.
"Shut up Landon. Im late for a show."

I was trying to do some sort of controlled panting as I closed the door to the Orchestra Room. There was a echoing 'chunk' from my closing the door and the sound bounced around the room. Eight students sat in chairs around the piano and Mrs Gingery stood one small white hand rested on the piano. She looked exactly like Mrs. Doubtfire. Every last hair. The voice was different though. She was of course a musician. She breathed sunlight from the mountains.

"Mr. Medlin. Will you please come sit down? We're just going to go around the room. And discuss each piece as we come to it." She said this quietly and here eyes sparkled in a watery old-person kind of way.

Each of my associated took there turns. Chin held high. Elbows up. Perfect. Perfect.
As my turn came, I slunk to the piano and announced my piece. Gave a brief description of the artist and genre. Sat down and began. Clipped through the piece like a pony at the state fair.

There was a little stretch where I was applauded. Just a little one.
Then Mrs Ginger began to speak.
"Well... There's certainly some explaining to do here!" She chuckled a little.
"Oh?" I said... I could feel 16 eyes on me. The room was hot. Suddenly.
"Did you perhaps notice... " she began again... "That here and here," She pointed with a red pen... "you botched the triplet patterns."
"Oh?" I felt like I was getting smaller. Like I was shrinking into the leather bench. My eyes widened and my vision glossed. This was gonna be bad.


I was right. It was bad.


She kept on talking. About how my tone was too dry. How my articulation could have been tighter. How if I had been an adequate student I might have performed well. How one day I would ascend to the great heights that she had. As she spoke in my mind she walked up steps... up a high mountain of judgement. And.. I guess I deserved it.

I hadn't prepared like I wanted to. I hadn't checked my performance against a metronome. I wasn't a serious artist. I was a hack. I was a hack in front of 8 of my peers.

Later that week I consulted with Tom. We talked about how I got lynched. And why.
He and I worked it over again. Cut the stitches. Pulled out the thread. Re-stitched the entire piece. Sewed it back together like it should have been.

Later that week, I wrote a piece myself. I learned what it meant to place a tempo as you intended it. Rests where you wanted them to be. And pitches exactly perfect. And then it made sense.

Composers weren't doing this because they wanted to be assholes. They didn't write things because they wanted you to be gap faced at their magnificence. (I'm talking about everyone but Franz Liszt. He was an attention whore. ) They wanted you to feel what they felt about a sound. They wanted you to be convinced that a sound was just as beautiful as they thought it was. They wanted you to believe I think that for a moment, you weren't listing to music. You were listening as an Artist called down sunlight from the mountains, and imparted the divine secrets of the universe.

Collusion: Part XXXIII

It was raining. Those slow... ridiculously mournful rains. The kinds in films about suicide, or genocide. Some sort of 'icide.' I had taken to being the consummate recluse. I had completely devoted myself to my studies, and piano. And to be honest, I was convinced that any day I was going to be called into the Dean of Men's office at school and explain to a perfectly awful stranger, how I wasn't a homosexual.

There was an alcove at the back of the museum that I was fond of. A wooden statue of the virgin Mary stood at the end of a very long very dark hall way. Rooms twisted and split off from it here and there. Here a place to sit... there an ancient set of panels from a church long sunken beneath the grass in eastern Germany. Rooms on and on forever. All half lit, and bruised with the deep reds and purples of thick thick carpet that ate up all the stray sound. I loved this place. I got paid to sit and study note cards for hours. Days on end. There were quite a bit of really great art too. There had already been that falling out with the rest of the members of the Senate, and as a result I had pulled back and cut off all contact with these malicious people. I reasoned that if I had been their friend for this long... and now they were after me... what next? Would they slap a jew? Would they eat their young? I couldnt tell.
So... I stayed away. I read things. I journaled ferociously. In various colors of metallic inks. Angry words. Bitter words. Wounded words. I should have felt sorry for Hannibal. Pressing and jabbing into his spine everything that made me uncomfortable. It wasn't a fair fight that's for sure.

I was terrified. What if... the worst came to the worst? What if... I was expelled? I'd be out a job. Out of an education... and ya know, with the gun slingers in my family ... out in the street.

There was a window that ran from floor to ceiling behind Mary. Double pained plate glass. The rain had caused most of the window to fog. The window was dressed in lengths of wine colored satin that dropped from the ceiling on either sides of the glass. The whole bit was impressive. Serene, I thought.  I stood there staring up at Mary. She'd been cut from wood some time ago, and was beginning to split down the back. No doubt the temperature and humidity had been something of a challenge throughout her life. A fight she wasn't really winning. She was painted. In dark night-black blues. Her face a pearl and varnish color. She looked so very removed. I wished I could have followed her down whatever paths she had taken...

I stood there for some minutes. My expression blank as I thought about all the things that had come to, in the past few weeks. How X and I needed back up plans. And plans to back up those back up plans... Weighing my options with numerous outcomes. At each turn of an idea, there would be another possibility that I hadn't thought of. A new piece of data to add to the algorithm. All of it... had left me... blank. I looked out at all of the limitations of my abilities. My finances and my emotional fortuity. Against it all I felt so very much like a sand castle. No one is just sure when it's going to get swept out. But... It's going to either way.

"Medhead."

I breathed in quick and deep as I heard her voice.

"What are you looking at?"

I didn't reply for a moment. "I was watching the water. It's beading up.... on the window..." I said. Still very much inundated with my own thoughts.

"I haven't heard much from you for a little bit... tell me. How have you been?"

I turned around to face her. Tall. Thin to distraction. Large oval eyes, with heavy lashes... doe-like and inquisitive. A pert face with perfect ivory skin and a tiny little mouth. She was beautiful. Everyone said so. Everyone. And no one could argue. It's just what she was. She always kept a ratty little hair cut that you couldnt decide was more mod, or more lesbian. And she dressed like a gypsy.
Today though she was all in black as dress code required. Her name is Louretta.

"I've... just." I was terrified of this girl. This girl with her mind and her wit. He attention to detail and the sorts of questions she asked. In truth there was a time when I had felt such a kind-ship with her. I loved how painstakingly intelligent she was... How actively her mind begged her to create and how easily she slid from one social group to the next. But as I would learn later, that is precisely what a moth feels before it scuffs a flame and becomes a cinder.

"I've been trying to keep up with my practice regiment." I pushed out. Putting all of my secret thoughts away... far far back on the shelves in case she could read minds as well as she could read a face.

Louretta reminded me of the girl that I had seen in my dreams the other night. They were both thin with razor sharp chin bones.

There were many afternoons since she and I had the fortune to become gallery guards here in meandering halls of the museum, that we would chat pleasantries. We had made a game of things. Surrounded by so much opulence, we had imagined ourselves to be courtesans. The gentility of our conversation was as tedious and as thick as the tapestries that hung mute from the walls and passed silent judgment over the modern era.

We talked about poetry. About what she was working on in her creative writing classes. About her boyfriend Ronny. About whatever. But not so today. Today words had reached her. Today the pleasantries had a different bent. And… what was that new scent that she was wearing? It smelled like…. Malice.

“You’ve seemed different lately…” She said. Leaning gracefully on a door jam. The cocked her head a bit to the side and pouted a little bit. “You’ve been quiet. It’s not like you.”

Louretta had grown up in Britain. A missionaries child, and every now and then to add salt to her conversation, she allowed a bit of this accent to peak out from behind her vowels. She thought, I believed that it added an aristocratic edge to her presence. And you know, at the time it was a bit intimidating. Whenever she was around I felt too small for my clothes. And I fidgeted ever so slightly with my hair.

“I’ve been thinking about things. Ya know, and practicing an awful lot. I have deadlines… and I’m worried about not meeting them.” I offered fingering the flash cards that I had brought along. 

“Well that’s a very wise of you to devote so much time to your studies. I wish I could boast such fortitude.” She said. She always spoke this way. As if an encyclopedia had slipped on ballet flats and started menstruating.

“Don’t you think you should be investing in a small group of friends? You know, people that you may stay in touch with after school is over?” She asked as she began walking heel-to-toe in a pattern on the thick carpet. She had let those British vowel sounds peek out when she said “you know…” I sighed.

“I would if I found there was anyone worth putting any time into. I would if I felt… certain liberties that do not exist in this… penitentiary.” I offered back to this bleak little fish… swimming in circles in the hall.

“Ah…” “Oh I see,” She said. She stopped her walking for a moment and raised one eye and looked at me. Then she went back to walking.

I had no idea who she’d been speaking to. And like I said. The Senate had wasted no time in speaking their minds about my relationships. Why is everyone so interested in penetration? Who’s getting it. Who’s doing it. So very carnal. People are crass. Especially college kids. Especially college kids who haven’t gotten any in a while.

“Something just seems changed in you… Something’s different.” She continued. Half to herself. I was begging to be a bit tried of her. “Something’s gone.” And with this she looked dead at me. Oh Louretta. Always with the flair for drama.

I have to say, If it was anyone else with these vague concerns. These ominous observances that seem like the types of things  you might say to a stranger after you had tossed a bunch of chicken bones and read their fortune, I wouldn’t have minded. Mostly I wouldn’t have listened. But this was someone different. Someone I felt I could… trust.  

“It’s your eyes.”

“What?” I asked…

“You’re eyes.” She said. “They’re all black now… They used to be green…. There used to be light in them, and now… there’s nothing.”

“Oh…” I guess I hadn’t noticed.

There was a sound of a group coming in the hall. We moved back into the positions we were expected to hold. Statues in black suit coats. Arms folded behind our backs.

I was boiling with mute anger. Someone had spoken to her.

Black eyes. What did she know. There was nothing wrong with me. Nothing.

And if there was… I didn’t want to fix it.

 


 

Collusion: Part XXVII

When in Rome, do as the Romans do. What a curious phrase. Are we to suspect that all Romans behave in roughly the same manner? Are we to emulate these toga wearing hive- minds only when we can amass the small fortune which it now requires to make the pilgrimage to Rome? Is it meant to suggest that what happens in Rome, like things that happen in Las Vegas, stay in Rome? I can't be certain. I do not know the origin of the phrase. But like most things that become cliche phraseology, I am certain that there is some sliver of wisdom down deep in its origins... and that should we wander down the old paths to Rome, we would surely find the thing that inspired such a phrase and we would doubtless agree with the wisdom at its root.

And why do I mention? Well you see. In a sense, Bob Jones is... as I had come to see it, Rome. With architecture no less idiomatic and a populace no less united. I came to see as well that I, like Caesar... in forging a relationship with X, had made new and dangerous enemies in the Senate... and soon by degrees they would join and make a calculated effort to end me. The floor of the Senate however would look remarkably like the Dean of Men's office, and the little daggers that my former friends the Senate would make use of... were short but no less quick little tongues. Sharp. Wet with truth... with one simple desire. My blood. Et tu Jesus? Et tu? 

As that small little coven of my friends washed frenetically through their own irrelevant schedules summer was at the front of everyone's mind. Expulsion was happening at a rate that might have alarmed me had I not experienced it's reality in the years past. Like pop corn that you cook on the stove... one might draw a correlation between the ambient heat of the burning season change and a witless students demise.
I couldn't make it to a recital. I didn't really have time to meet them for lunch. I couldn't have been less interested in their final project for Interior Design 101... Congratulations, you have successfully furnished a dolls house. Certainly this means you were born to win? I could feel it in the looks that I got. Those friends that I was unwittingly making into the ghouls from an espionage film. As I think on it though, I wasn't making them into anything at all. My decisions were simply the catalyst... the one true chemical, the acid that would burn away the charming tarnish of their exteriors and leave them bright and shining... and... a vulgar sort of ugly.

Melodie was taking a class with me called "Story Telling," the main goal of which I think was for her to eventually ensnare me firmly in the vice like grip of the lips of her vagina. A concept which had all the appeal of being thrown down a flight of steps. We spent hours non the less, in a large conference room high up on the third floor of the Gustafson Fine Arts Center. The room looked like the kind of place where you might be called in to do a presentation on global warming or some other mind numbing pig shit.

MC: "I know, but do you think my interpretation of the witches voice might be a little too... scratchy?"
ME: ... I was responding to a text from X and could hardly remember what story she was referencing. Oh.. right Hansel and Gretel. "Uh... well. I thought it was fairly accurate. I mean... I was really convinced that you sounded like a witch." M took this as a compliment, and I'm afraid did not get the sense that I could have been remotely back handed.
MC: "The only thing is... I don't want to go hoarse. If I talk like that for too long.... Maybe I just need to bring a bottle of water to class." She chewed the end of a ball point... distressed.
I've been rather straight forward in my descriptions of Melodie, in the interest of honesty. To be fair, she was unflappably kind to me and I had begun to think about our little practice times as sort of vacation. Up here in the conference room I was mercifully free from prying questions and suspicious member of the Senate. Namely, Ami Jasperson, Eric Inafuku, Christine Dodd, Raymond Swope, Louretta and David Landon... and arguably Tim Johnson. These people are as real as oxygen, and at the time seemed just as dangerous as trying to live without it.

MC: "Joshie! Im just nervous about all of this! I mean, I can talk... you know that! (laughing) But I want to really move people... ya know?"
ME: "You are moving though... Like, I think in a sense.... the goal should be to disappear... and let the story tell itself... right?"
MC: She gave momentary thought to this and then gushed... "You're so right Joshie. I hadn't even thought about it like that."

The conversation bore on... and I was looking forward to getting back to my room and jogging to the Field House for a run on the rubber track up stairs there. Mel started putting away her note books and binders into her big snake skin bag. I noticed she wasn't chitting away like she usually was. I asked her what was on her mind...
She pranced on those ubiquitous black stilettos of hers over to the head of the long dark wood table at the center of the room and firmly gripped the edge of the table as if to brace herself.
She ran her nails through her shiny long hair and tossed it back looking me dead in the eye.
MC: "Well, you know joshie... how you're really my best friend in the whole world. I mean we spend pretty much a lot of time together every day. There's no one that I've been quite so fond of in a while."
ME: "Well I feel the same about you Melly..." I hadn't a clue where she was going...
MC: "Well... seeing that you're not dating anymore... ya know and Im glad about that. That silly Christine was just no good for you..." She was smiling with just a hint of malice...
ME: "Well... that's true..."
MC: "I was just.... I think that there's something between us... Ya know?"
ME: ".... .... (blink) like... the table?"
She laughed at this. Rather cloyingly.
ME: "I guess I don't really see what you mean..."
MC: "There's something really sweet about you! And you're so clever and funny... I've started to have a crush on you... (hair toss) and... I just know you feel it to!"
ME: "I... I. (I was at a loss) I really guess I don't feel the same way. I am... Flattered, that you could feel that way about me, and honored even... but I don't think I can return the sentiment."

There was a silence, and I felt intuitively that I had somehow wounded her. errrrr. uh.

MC: "You're sure... there's like... nothing there? Nothing at all?"
ME: "Yeah... Im sorry... but yeah."

I left the room without ceremony. Congratulations Medlin. Look what you've done. Yet another log on the fire. Yet another sharp knife. At least, I thought as I started my run, when you're on the floor bleeding out... you'll simply have to roll your head to the side to see your own blood pooling ironically around the heels of her gorgeous shoes. 

quixotic

My blood pressure had been spiking for most of the late afternoon. Cause I knew it was time. I knew I had to make a move, or no one was going to.
I was scared though. It would either work or it wouldn't. And to tell you flatly reader... I'd never been kissed.

I'd known 'X' for about three months... Christine was way...way over by then. And Melodie.... I don't think Im gonna get into that right this second. X and I had been playing a delicate little game of 'hint and lie' for something that was starting to seem like the better part of a decade. X is a bit of a wall flower. X had drawn me in with a surprising complexity and the promise of something I'd never felt before. Connection.

Not like 'networking' or 'friendship' or... anything quite so trite as those things. It felt like that rush you feel when you're on the highway and you're dead sure you're gonna tail end somebody because they stopped and you didn't notice. It felt like what a shark feels when there's blood in the water. It felt like enough static to raise every hair on your head and then make all the little blond hairs on your arms stand and point.

We were driving around in the car and it was turning dusk. We were talking about things that didn't matter. And i was rummaging for every hook I could think of to turn the conversation in the direction I wanted with out being blunt and plain and..... childish. I kept rubbing my hands on my khakis... cause my palms were sweating. I felt like I was being hunted. But that was irrational. Of course I wasn't.

"Nothing has to happen at all!" I kept reminding myself. A little mantra I was chanting in my head. "Everythings going to be fine.... you'll see." Maybe that little voice wasn't mine. Maybe it was Satan. Maybe it was worse. Maybe it was lust. Either way it calmed me down and set me just like steel to my purpose.

I don't know how I had let all this come to have such intense meaning. This wasn't skydiving. But just at that second... I would have been less nervous about jumping out of a plane.
I was trying... but you know, honestly there was no way to flip the conversation from "but of course, that was before Bach's wife died...." to... "I want to stick my tongue down your throat."


I took the best route that I knew. I let the conversation die off for a minute.
ME: "So.... I have a confession."
X:.......
ME: " I kinda.... uh. wanna.... kiss you."
X: (laughs nervously)
ME: "I mean.... you know.... just.... if that's ok with you and all..." I had never felt this exact mix of emotions before. It was like tight rope walking 50 ft over a snake pit. Each contraction of my heart was clearly audible.
X: "Um....."
ME: "I mean.... if you don't want to.... " (Stupid! Just stop talking!) I thought.
X: "OK." "Sure."

Well. I guess that was supposed to make me feel better. At least X wasn't opposed to the idea.
X knew an out of the way place. Up a winding road. Up and up the side of Paris mountain. The charcoal silhouettes of live oaks and maples twisted and arched their backs across the sky. They laughed at us and fought back some of the starlight. They must have snickered about how absurd humans must be.

We weren't really talking.
ME: "Where are we going?"
X: "You'll see. I know a place."

Oh X.... you charmer you.

We parked along side the tiny off road leaving just enough space for passing traffic to squeeze around. It didn't matter. There weren't any cars that far up the mountain. Not tonight. Mercifully.
We stumbled like children down the embankment. Tiny souls blind to the bitter broken change. Blind to the way they would soon be broken together.  Down the hill they stumbled through the dead hill grasses that came up to their knees all white and gray in the light of the moon and stars.

It was a little flat space. Maybe at one time someone had intended to build a house there, on the side of the mountain. Maybe they had gone bankrupt. Now it was a dump site for extra cement and building materials no longer needed. If you looked carefully the clearing was dotted with crush beer cans... Evidence of low living and bad decision making. I didn't notice though... I was staring out over the edge of the cliff. All of Greenville was stretched out in front of me. I could see for miles and miles and the landscape mirrored the cold diamond sky, with it's tiny lights from all the houses and street bulbs.

Reader... come with me. Follow me to the most beautiful place on earth. X and I were both shaking by now. Inching closer in the grassy desolation. Laughing nervously.

As the breeze swilled around that blue lit perch on the mountain... we kissed. My blood turned to liquid fire as dark methamphetamine scorched its way into my heart.

I laughed...
Me: "That wasn't so bad was it?"
X: (still shaking) "No. No it wasn't."

The deed was done. And we like successful thieves laughed our way back down the sober mountain. I won't ever forget that place or those moments. Come death or starvation. Come the spite of the rest of humanity. I'm sorry it didn't last X. I'm sorry it wasn't forever. I'm sorry that some things that should never have been forgotten... were lost.

I was a changed man after though. I no longer had the fear of god in me. I would trick hell and swim the river Stix if i must. This was what I was born to be. This was the closest I had ever been to perfect.  

Collusion: Part XXV

I hadn't planned on it happening that way. There's just no good way to do some things though.

Classes were over for the day. A day that had been heavy with the gray brooding weather that drifts across the state in the spring and fall. Rain that rolls down from the mountains and makes the rivers swell and makes everyone change their routes to and from classes. Christine and I had made dinner plans. Or I should say that she had briskly informed me that she didn't want anyone else coming with us to dinner.
"Ok,... that's fine. I only wanted to spend time with you... anyways." I had thought morosely, but didn't say anything.

Something was wrong I could tell. We wandered through the cavernous dinning common, and everyone else in the room seemed like extras on the set of a sitcom pilot that no network would ever pick up. I just got peas. I wasn't hungry and wanted to drag them around the plate while listening to Christine unload. 

ME: "You seem really down today babe... What's going on?"
CD: "Oh, it's nothing.... It's just been a really.... really long week." She said, as if that was all she was really intending room. But we both knew better.
ME: "You know... I can tell somethings on your mind... you've been so so dark lately." The concerned look I was giving her was one I had seen I had seen on the faces of the doctors of ER. It was working like a dream.
CD: "Well... (it's at this point her blue eyes turned all slate and glassed over.) You know how I told you my dad was crazy?"
ME: "Yeah I remember us talking about it."
CD: "Well I don't think I ever said just how crazy.... I mean. Two years ago he converted to Judaism and tried to get my mom and I to stop eating ham. He went on these crazy pilgrimages to imaginary places. He barely spoke to me or mom." I could see it. I could see all the tiny little lacerations in her soul... and you know. I didnt have to look. She was just showing them to me on her own. "He's never told me that he loved me." She said staring me straight in the eye. Metalic.
ME: "Well... damn. Im... I hardly know what to say. You know you mean alot to me. You do. Maybe he's just got a very odd way of showing you that he cares about you?" I searched piteously for things to offer.
CD: "For the Feast of Tents.... he didn't have a ten... So he went out into the yard and lived in a cardboard box for a week."
ME: "See...." I said amused and smirking. "That's starting to sound like a personality disorder."
CD: "Yeah..." She replied. Her voice had turned to gravel and tears slid down her face. Now I felt like a complete shit head. No more smirks. Nothing funny. Lock it up.
For a few minutes nobody said anything. Mostly because i couldnt think of anything to follow up that beautiful little chasm that I had dinted the conversation with... and because whenever Christine is that up set... She just gives up talking. Her voice turns rusty. It's pitiful.
It was in those moments I saw through the layers of collegiate snip that she had developed. She wasn't snarky now. She wasn't dangerous. She was just a little girl. She couldn't be more than seven.

ME: "Babe, you know you're not going to have to put up with that forever... I mean why haven't you and your mom ever moved out?"
CD: "We did for a while.... "
ME: "That sounds like the way it should be always."
CD: "I know I talk about this stuff too much. I let it affect me too much. I let it affect you. Im sorry."
ME: "If it's something you wanna talk about, then we talk about it. It's no big deal.
CD: "I'm just.... so worried about my platform on Tuesday. I still have three pages to memorize. I have to go sign papers with financial aid. Oh and my dorm sup. wants to meet with me and talk about my 'christlike attitude.'"
ME: "Don't even worry about it." I offered with a slow smile. "Ill dress like you and go meet your dorm sup."

That got a little chuckle out of her. But didn't break the mood. I didn't have to think about it too long to come to the conclusion that I just couldn't support the both us. I'm a reasonable guy. But... this was no way to go about a romantic relationship.
It wasn't that I minded her crying in public and getting everyone else to think I had just said something wicked about the way she was dressed. I saw myself more as a care taker. Where's the challenge in that? I didn't say the right things at the right times. We could have a perfectly good date, and at the end of the night, she seemed.... melancholy. Just seemed like she was made out of porcelain, and it was my job to follow her around and pick up pieces that had broken off on her travels... and glue them back on the best I could.

One week later I broke up with her.

I walked her back to her room after another one of those sparkling dinner conversations. We were standing there on the corner in the lamp light.
ME: "I think we need to take some time off, you and me." I said flatly.
CD: "You........ do.........?" She said after a really long pause.
ME: "Yeah. I think it's a good idea."
CD: "So, that's it? walk me home and break up with me?" There was just black anger in her eyes. It sorta cut me.
ME: "Yeah... that's all I got."

I shrugged and without anything more, walked to my room in the dark.

Collusion: Part XXII

Aren't people fascinating? They're all these complex bi-peds (most of them) with need and want and varying degrees of intellect. Some of them are content with food and shelter. Some of them have much more complex needs. Social approval... financial success... a basement full of corpses covered in lime.... Ya just never know with people.

It was a Sunday at school. Sundays were usually the most scheduled day of the week. Required Morning Service to attend, Required Society Sunday School before that... Required Vespers in the afternoon.... You could try to squeeze in some homework somewhere in the afternoon. Snatch some food from somewhere and then pick arbitrarily from one of the seven hundred options for evening churches to attend on Sunday nights in Greenville. Vespers, in case you're wondering was a planned religiously themed program that included drama and music, and usually centered on one main theme. Adultery. Lust. Forgiveness. Dedication of one's life to a higher purpose... such as becoming a missionary to Bolivia. Etc. Etc.

On this weekend I had done my best to noodle about in the city, not having a car. I thought it was important to get a feel for the people who lived outside the walls of my confines.... and perhaps the places where they spent their lives. As I was soon to discover, however, my native talents do not include walking, and so by 'exploring the city' I mean that I wandered the streets around school looking like the victim of a natural disaster. Wide eyed at the simple processes of crossing the street at a light and fascinated by homeless people.

I had managed to find my way to an Asian food store. You know the kind where you can buy bulk Asian foods for the restaurant that your Philippine family owns? I wandered into the store beset with the smells of quasi-fresh fish, Mongolian vegetables, and small pastries shaped like domesticated animals. I can't remember what the place was called, as I had spent all of my energy walking to the store, and thus was un-able to form new memories. My weariness did not however, prevent me from purchasing eight pounds of rice, a very large bag of fortune cookies and a tin can full of quail eggs. Quail eggs I reasoned would be an interesting and tasty alternative to the products of their more well known cousins... chickens. I had no needs for these food-stuffs.... but this was one of those obvious facts that like so many other things at the time, was lost on me.

So on this Sunday.... this fateful Sunday, I decided after morning service requirement that I would make a delicious stew out of rice, new onions, and quail eggs. I would cook these ingredients together in a small Crock-Pot(TM) and reveal the product to my roomates. They seemed to have a never ending need for sustenance, and it was part of my plan was to win their affection by providing them with a curious, yet delicious evening meal. I left the mixture cooking all afternoon without supervision... assuming of course that anything you cook in a Crock-Pot(TM) should require this sort of cooking method.

Five hours later when I returned from evening service.... I was greeted on the first floor by the most amazing smell of my life. It smelled like a mortuary.... and onions.... and pan fried human excrement. High jinx ensued. The roomates and I experienced much laughter as we poked and prodded at the cement like mixture in the Crock-Pot(TM).... and then we scraped together what we could of the mixture... poured it into two shopping bags.... and then threw it under my hall leaders desk.

Collusion: Part XXI

Christine and I had a conversation later that evening about just how little she liked the amount of time that I had been spending with Melodie Cappoccia. We were walking back towards her room after dinner. About as much practice that was going to be done that day, was already done, and I could tell she was in a bad mood.

CD:"I just don't understand why you like hanging out with her.... She's fat... and obnoxious and she smells like cherry blossom rape." She said flatly.
ME: "I mean.... It's not like I'm trying to make her into a best friend or anything... She just always seems to show up whenever I'm practicing."
CD: " Well.... why don't you practice somewhere where you don't usually practice.... like the basement of the dorms."
ME: "I would, but those pianos are complete crap.... I mean, some of them are missing legs!"
CD: "Well, I just think that you probably like the attention...."
ME: (sighs) "Ya know, she just seems like a nice person...."
CD: "She seems like a skank. Just a nasty big breasted skank."
ME: "I'm not even remotely attracted to her! Her boobs are bigger than my head!.... It's a public nuisance..."
CD: "And another thing! Every time I have a conversation with her, she's always going on about how fantastic you are! It's friggin' annoying! YOU ARE SPOKEN FOR! And she needs to keep her hands off you..."
ME: "She hasn't had her hands on me.... ewe. She's just got a crush... it's no big deal!"
CD: "Well. I don't like it. And I don't like her. She's repugnant. And I think you should stop hanging out with her."
ME: "I mean... if it really makes you that unhappy.... (eye roll) Ill make sure to to instigate anything with her.... ya know. Disengage."

We were quite for a while after that, and just walked without speaking, in the half light back to Christine's room.

CD: "Well.... I dunno. Maybe Im just being a total bitch about all this. We just don't get to hang out as much as we used to."
She started to tear up a little bit, and I leaned in to hug her. Just a quick one though. Ya never know who might be watching from a window in the dorms and find the need to punish you for a harmless gesture of affection. Christine, by comparison to Melodie... did not smell like bathroom cleaning liquid. She smelled like a normal girl. Like skin, and shampoo.
ME: "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it bothered you all that much. She's starting to get on my nerves too.... And you're right.... She smells awful."

She was right about us not hanging out as much anymore... I'd transferred out of the Dining Common work force and begged a job from the people at the Museum & Gallery. Which is honestly the quietest easiest job anyone could ask for. I spent afternoons dressed in a simple black suit, and blue button downs and usually my own choice of an hideous tie. My tie choice was never ever calculated.... and most of them were yard sale purchases. All refugees from the seventies who had managed to not be thrown away or burned due to kitsch. I would study note cards and write poetry whilst wandering around in the thickly carpeted dimly lit rooms. Rooms filled with archaic and post Renaissance paintings. Huge... wall encompassing works in which the Virgin Mary would look down peacefully at her christ child son. All works on thick topics like sin, or death.... or the devil. The whole place couldn't have gotten more than 12 visitors a day. And that was fine by me... I loved the luxury of the quiet Bach string quartets on repeat on the PA system.... and the dusty emotionless atmosphere. It was nice. It seemed like a place between places.... Peace and quiet, only occasionally interrupted by the occasional group of antique humans there to look at the antique art.
Because of the new work schedule though... whatever free time I had to spend with Christine had been ganked around so that our schedules no longer coincided.

After our sad little fight, I trudged back to my room, planted myself in my bed, and stealthily put in my ear-buds. Like so many other convenient personal items, earphones were considered contraband. Being discovered with them could land you an easy 50 demerits. Presumably because you could be listening to any of the many types of music forbidden from student consumption... Such as rock, r&b, rap, jazz, soul, and polka. Whatever. Id had a bad day, and I'll be darned if I was going to chill out in my room listening to negro spirituals. No sir. All the other roomies were busy about the lords work.... So I cranked up some tunes and did a little homework reading.

::Knock Knock::

Who now? Uhn. I ditched the ear-buds and my ipod.... tossed them way back onto my bunk and jumped/slid into the chair at the desk. Just in time.... In walks Danny Callahan. Danny is a tallish troll-like creature. With rudimentary spacial perception and infantile logic skills. He's 6'1'' with a blond crew cut and a face like an Irish potato. Also, his accent was something like 'The Real White Trash of Boston Mass." Also, he was this years hall leader. So in addition to being obtuse, it was his job to make sure that everyone was living or dying by the Almighty Handbook.

DC: "Hey."
ME: (I look up from my text book and slowly blink at him.) "Hello Daniel."
DC: "So.... what are ya doin?"
ME: "I'm trying to decided if you got your polo out of an egg machine."
DC: "uh..... ok." He said wondering about the room. He was delighted to discover Roland's soccer ball in the corner and began punting it around. Callahan was, of course, a soccer player.
DC: "So... they've got you rooming with Roland. I wonder why that is...."
ME: "I haven't the slightest. I can only assume it's because Roland is so very fond of me..."
DC: "Ha..... funny. You should be nice to people. They'd like you better."
ME: "I have no intention of being in-genuine with people to win their affection. Besides, soccer players are all the same... Once you've met one, you've met them all." I finished dismissively returning to my reading.
Callahan continued to mill about the room until spotting the ipod, tossed aside.
DC: "So.... who's ipod is that?"
ME: "Oh that old thing!? It belongs to me.
DC: "Well you need to turn it in.... You could get in trouble for having it."
ME: "Yes, thank you Daniel.... I am aware of regulations. And.... Ill turn it in.... I'm just waiting for Hell to freeze over."
DC: "Hey!" He said, pointing at me with mock anger. "Not funny."
ME: "You're right its not funny! How am I supposed to get anything done listening to the air conditioner run. My tunes help me concentrate!"
Danny apparently had lost interest in the conversation, or had rediscovered how fun soccer balls really are... because he was back to his punting. I have always been fascinated by obtuse people. Much as Pavlov was fascinated by dog saliva. It's not that Danny wasn't friendly, or that he was doing his job too well. It was just that I had serious doubts about his being a Counseling major. How could he possibly be good at that? Weren't most of his people lobster fishermen anyways?
DC: "Don't you ever get tired of playing the system?" He asked in a sparkling moment of clarity and relevance.
ME: "Well.... yeah sometimes." I said with earnestness, and then with a passionate intensity.... "But if I do not play this "system".... I ask you.... How then shall it be played!?"
Danny was not impressed with my theatrics. And decided to leave without ceremony....
DC:" You're weird." He said popping his head back in the door before leaving....
ME: "Thank you!" I sang merrily back at him.

Collusion: Part XX

Saturdays would come around at school and I couldn't be more relieved. It was the one day during the week when it almost didn't matter what I did that day. I would end up having dinner with the clan and then spending the rest of the night practicing in the big gray fine arts building either way... getting there early so that i could commandeer whichever piano I had taken a liking to. Every piano has a different personality. A different way of talking. Some of them have been played for half a century and had their keys worn until there are almost imperceptible concave depressions along the center of each one. You might not be about to feel these depressions unless you were blind or perhaps a shade visually impaired, and you could almost certainly not see them, but they were there. Some had complicated etched patters in front of the key bed where over the years a nail would catch on the shiny wood and chip away a little of the veneer. Microscopic evidence of human interaction. No piano has a life apart from human interaction... and if they do, they fall short of their purpose. Pianos are not so different from us. Some come from wealthy families and never have to work for a living. Some of them get handed off from one slip-shod attempt at a young child's musical education to another. Some are even relics of a time before itunes changed music from a participatory pass time that knitted together a culture, to an alienating insulation to pad our interior worlds. Earbuds. Skull candy. Independent listeners. Loners, stoners, and dancers. But most importantly... alone. Some pianos, but rarely mind you, develop an affinity to a particular performer. Through hours and hours that they spend together they learned about one another. Pianists are a different kind of musician. They're not like violinist, or cellists, or even wind players. They can't develop monogamous relationships with their instruments. Sadly a piano you've developed a friendship with just can't be carried around with you. No matter how much you've enjoyed the amber-rose colored resonance that you could coax from the rich velvety keys south of C3, and no matter how much you get goose bumps from the quick and flawless Japanese action... unless you're touring in concert and have money to burn, you have to move on. Maybe to have a few short hours to get to understand a few of the subtleties of a new partner before displaying your work together. Its sad. And I speculate that it's why pianists hold romantic commitment in high regard.

I had favorites. I can't lie. I was more than partial to the flawless action of a Yamaha, and I couldn't have cared less that it was a fat little studio model. It responded to me. None of that messy worn out soft-hammered Kawai nonsense. I wanted crisp responsiveness. I was a demanding little prick, and couldn't just work with any old keyboard. As it was, my favorite was different from all of the other pianos in the fine arts building. I didn't have permission to practice on it because it was intended only for performances. More than once though I was chased out of the room, offering excuses to the pudgy female hall monitor. It was an inky black 9 foot Steinway. Worn and tuned to a certain kind of perfect. You could feel how much work it had done by running your finger along the simple curves of its body. It was kept elevated off of the white laminated floors on a low wheeled steel frame, so it could be easily moved about the building. The room was large and diamond shaped. The same room we'd had Introduction to Music Literature in. The place had a much different feeling after dark though. Devoid of all the students and the shifting white noise that they make. Papers shuffling and the scuff of bags and purses on the floor. None of that after eight pm. It was empty. Soulless. Begging to be filled with sound. The most perfect acoustics... when you stood in the room with its white white walls and empty chairs all around you could feel something that was a rare delight at school here. Absolute quiet.

I would slip in some nights when the room wasn't being used for rehearsals. I would just flip on one row of lights. A simple dance with a silent partner. It was delicious... to fill up that empty lonely room with Mozart. With Beethoven. With Bach. And listen for the ever so slight reverberation at the pitches of that perfect tuning rolled off the reflective surfaces in the room. I was my own little secret Mecca. I offered up romance and ancient glamor and heart rending stories to a blank room; I loved it all the same.... even more so because there was no one to listen but me.

This particular Saturday I had decided to go to the mall by myself. Christine and I weren't getting along. It seemed like all she wanted to do was tell me how much she hated he dad, and how much she was afraid of failing platform, and sometimes she liked to talk about the slut bucket girls that lived on her hall. I would sit across from her and listen and poke at my salad during a meal, waiting for the endless complaining to stop. But apparently she would not be ebbed. She didn't like Melodie. She hated having to tell people that I wasn't a fag. She wasn't even hungry. She was thinking about dying her hair. She didn't like what she had picked out to wear to the next Artist Series. It was enough to make me research pipe bombs on the internet.

So to the mall I went. I realized how slightly antisocial I might have seemed to climb on the white bus that ran too and from the mall all day and sit by myself and watch the buildings and roads pass as the buss creaked and moaned its way to the stores. But it was nice. To wander into a sea of people that saw you but didn't notice or care who you were or what you looked like. It was soothing. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I wanted to be invisible.

I found the nearest Hot Topic and bought black and white checkered shoe laces. A pin for the school bag that said something ironic, and then headed back to my room.

Roland was there getting ready for soccer practice. You know, putting on those awful looking knee socks.

JR: "Hey man! What's up? How's your day going."
ME: "Its fine I guess, Ill get to get a lot of practice done tonight." Roland had a knack for making conversation about nothing... and then making it drag on.
JR: "Yeah, I'm super pumped about our game tonight! Ya coming to the game?"
ME: "I don't usually go to the games. It's loud and I don't like soccer."
JR: "It could be good for ya! You should come! You can't just practice all the time!"
ME: "Yes. Yes... I can. And I don't think it's necessary for me to fake entertainment in a communal activity to achieve diversion. I have sufficient supply of diversion."
JR: (Shakes his head lacing up a shoe.) "Dude. You gotta relax some time."
I disagreed with him, but decided not to labor the point. I pulled out a pair of my chucks and started to replace the laces with the ones that I had gotten at the mall, tossing the black shiny bag from Hot Topic onto the floor.
Roland gave a hawk-like glance to the bag. Then sniffed the air, as if expecting a stench.
JR: "Those are some pretty interesting shoe laces ya have there.... " He started in. What now. Christ.
ME: "Yeah.... they help keep my shoes on my feet. That's incredibly interesting."
JR: "Where did you get them?" He prodded, ignoring my attempt at humor.
ME: "Oh... It's a novelty store called Hot Topic..." I said gesturing to the bag on the floor. "Have you heard of it?" (Polite smile.)
JR: "Yeah.... " His voice thickened with concern. "Are you sure that's the best place for you to be shopping?"
ME: "Well I think there are places that are certainly less likely to fill my specific needs. Such as, Catherine's Plus Sizes."
JR: (Un-amused) "Isn't Hot Topic black listed?"
ME: "What is 'black listed'?"
JR: "I thought Hot Topic was on the list of unapproved places to shop?" Wholesome concern showing on his face.
ME: "Have you ever even been in a Hot Topic?"
JR: "Yeah. I went in one, one time. They sell pornography."
I controlled my amusement. Even though I wanted to double over with laughter. The idea that pornography could be legally vended in a public mall was about as likely as milking butterflies for profit.
ME: "Well I looked all over the store and couldn't find any pornography...." Smirking.
JR: "I'm just concerned. As your rooms spiritual leader I want to help you move in healthy directions."
I could hardly believe the gall of this creature...
ME: "Well thankyou, Roland dear.... but I promise not to start killing hookers and abusing heroine on the weekends if that makes you feel any better."
JR: "Ha...." (un convinced.) "Well we can talk about it some more tonight...."
ME: "oh kay!" I replied with mock interest and headed off to practice. Chuckling.

Addendum

I have a tiger in my chest, 

It's cage was spun from silk.

Woven daily, and precise,

It purrs, I feed it milk.

The cage that I am weaving,

Keeps the tiger hidden deep.

But at night his playground- jungle,

Is my mind while I sleep.

This monster of my keeping,

Is strong and swift and white, 

He was not meant for taming, 

but for murder in the night. 

With new rope I hide em daily, 

sew him out of sight and thought, 

The isolation keeps me living, 

but the peace is labor bought. 

I found him just a kitten, 

I took him to my house to play, 

But now, he's grown to prowl and hunt,

And break and kill his prey.

I have a tiger in my chest, 

containment, lust and lies.

So mend the fence, and lock the cage,

and if he's loose, we die.

Collusion: Part XIX

What is beauty... exactly? No... seriously. Think about it. I don't mean a definition. What is it to you? Is it balance? Is it symmetry? Is it perfect? Is it that exotic balance between right and wrong? Maybe not any of these things. Not exactly anyway. It's not perfectly constructed personal grooming. Nor is it the product of rampant orthodontia is this country. Beauty is perception. It's our believing, however foolishly, that something is perfect. Balanced. Innately circumspect.

Year two started, and my brother requested to room with me. It was fine... despite his poor sanitary habits, I had grown used to his idiosyncrasies; seeing as we had shared a room for the better part of 2 decades. Through some odd twist of karmic fate, Josh Roland was one of our room-mates. I could hardly wait for the enlightening conversations that might await. This semester was going to be like a season of Dynasty... without the creepy long nails and big hair.

Classes and schedule got set without a hitch and I threw myself back into the work. I was checking performance class times on the bulletin board in the main hall of the Fine Arts Building after chapel on a Tuesday... when someone stomped up behind me smelling like a Bath and Body Works. A heavy wave of Japanese Cherry Blossom rolled into my sinus passages... storming the beach like weather hardened Marines. Desert Storm. First strike. I don't discriminate against ladies who like to wear perfume... but to be frank, there's no reason to drink it for breakfast with your morning coffee. Almost immediately my sinuses clamped shut in defense of the invader.

"Josh Medlin!" yelled a raspy little girls voice behind me. I turned around to a familiar cow eyed round face. Shoulder length black brown hair that was shiny enough to shift around the salty white gray light from the industrial strip lighting in the hall way. A quick survey showed a floral print button down top with frills and a stocky little mandarin collar. Grey pencil skirt and ice pick black patten leather stilettos. Cleavage. Cleavage. Cleavage. This girl is what any self-respecting rapper would call 'thick.' Big old faux alligator skin shoulder bag held most of the library and a laptop.
"When's the next time you play in perf class?" She asked... tossing her hair back in a easy little flick.
What is this girls name? Crap. I've seen her all over the place prancing around like she invented music. We were in at least three classes together. All of which I was sure she was acing.
"Ahhhh. October? Apparently?" I answered... looking for her name on something. Anything. Nothing. I forget this isn't like kindergarten.
"Oh really!?... that's a long time! I've been dying to hear you play something!! Like... anything! What are you working on?" This girl was hard core.
"Oh.... ah. You know. Bach. Some stuff from the Well Tempered Clavier. Tom's wanting me to do a concerto, but I'm not so sold on the idea just yet. Ive got Mozart and Beethoven sonatas in the works... and Ive recently gotten really interested in Edward McDowell. The Sea Pieces, and the fireside tales. Do you know the works?"
"McDowell? Oh! I did his concerto in high-school! Totally love!" She pranced around me and traced down the list of performances and students' names until she found the two dates she was performing. Melodie Cappoccia. A musician named Melodie. Cute.
"How do you say your last name?" I queried... Looking for other topics.
"Oh! Yeah everyone always asks me that! Ha Ha! It's CAP....OH.. CHA! It's Italian..."
Already I was convinced that this amount of vivacity was un-natural.... and that I should begin to inquire who her dealer was, and if he was accepting new clients.
"We should totally hang out sometime! What's your schedule look like? Where do you work?"
I would discover she was always like this. Militant. Aggressively friendly.
"Well... Im a cook. Ya know, in the dinning common." Eye roll. "And I dunno... Im free for lunch today.
"What a coincidence!So! Am! I! I used to work in the dinning common. All the little academy kids who work there had the biggest crush on me." She exclaimed, winking.
She rummaged through her bag and pulled out an over-sized compact and did a little touch up.
"Wanna go now? I've got fourty-five minutes or so until I accompany?"
"Well I... thought I was just gonna skip lunch and practice or something."
"Oh come on! I won't bite! (hair toss... another wave of Japanese Cherry Blossom.)
"Ok.... sure..."

We walked briskly to lunch. To my surprise I found her a bit charming. After you get past the perfume and the mascara.... She was pretty ok. She kept telling me stories about how very 'Italian' everyone in her family was. How she had perfect pitch, how she was trying to lose weight. I really didn't know what it meant to be 'very Italian.' Did she have mafia ties? Was her family life like watching Everybody Loves Raymond? She chatted on and on...

During lunch I noticed a text I had missed. Christine.
CD{R U Free for lunch?}
hm.... this could get interesting.
ME{I found someone to tag along with!}
CD{Oh?}
ME{Yeah. This chick named Melodie... ya know her?}
CD{Oh. Oh yes. I know who she is. She smells like Bath n Body Wrks?}
ME{Yes! And she has enormous boobs!}
Christine and I talked about everything. And everyone... No one was safe from us.

"Is something wrong?" Melodie asked, salting a single pea.
"Oh. Oh no.... Just chatting with my girlfriend."
"OH! Ha!" Blank big eyed stare.

CD{Uh. I hate that girl.}
ME{I dunno... she seems nice enough.}
CD{Nice enough? No one can be that happy all the time.}
CD{Oh.. and she's a skank.}
ME{How do you know that?}
CD{Ill tell you at dinner. Deal?}
ME{KK.}

We finished lunch and said our 'see ya laters.' Why the heck was up with Christine? It was just lunch. Geez. Whatever. Id find out at dinner. Work in fifteen minutes.

Untitled.

Five hours a day,

That's the way,

A week to lift the spirit,

Sit in Green or Red or Blue, 

That gum, you must not chew it.

This way that, 

Don't wear a hat,

Please "Get in the building."

Sing with the rest, 

and you'll be blessed,

Your morals need the gilding. 

Please, please come in, 

and let's be friends, 

Fear God. Give us your money.

And laugh and laugh at all our jokes,

Though they're not all that funny.

Fundraiser for the Christian right...

Loan us your bleedin' pennies.

It's a spectacle of majesty, 

Are not our splendors many?

Save your lofty rhetoric,

I'll wait until you live it, 

The ushers reek of razor-speak,

Push and demand and pivot.

Believe! Believe! and 

Follow us to metal euthanasia!

No thanks....

I'm good.

I'll see ya.

Collusion: Part XVI

It snowed that spring. So unusual for our state. Our state which is so much the more famous for philandering republicans and topless biker rallies in Myrtle Beach. Classes were canceled for that day. All the gang got together and scraped snow off of cars to throw it at each other in parking lots. Snow isn't something Im used to seeing. Being from south-central SC means that I could have potentially interacted with snow about once in a decade... and the last time I had seen 4 inches or so... was never. Im sure the other members of the gang must have found my child-like delight with the stuff.... juvenile. But I was a long ways from caring, and was the main instigator in all of the snow time mischief.

The campus is such a different place covered in snow, and unfettered by academic constraints. Especially the kind of snow that we get in the south.... short lived and muddy looking four hours after it's fallen. All of the sculpted hedges which under during normal weather look so perfect; Stately even, in the snow they look foolish and comic. Garish characterizations of themselves. The sidewalks which were so clearly defined before became a patchwork of dirty browns and asphalt. Icicles don't always hang from ledges in pristine and exact repetition. Nature mocks us. Nature knows no morality.

I believed very strongly in right and wrong. I believed that my heart was desperate, and wicked... and that as a person I should seek the restraints of Christianity if i was every going to find and sustain happiness. Although now that I think about it... at the time, whether i was aware of it or not.... Id never experienced long-term unhappiness. I hadn't experienced very much at all. Who knows why I believed these things. I mean... doubtless hundreds of thousands of hours of Sunday school and Bible studies could have had something to do with it. Maybe it could have been because my father was so passionate about keeping me out of trouble. Away from alcohol and loose women. So passionate about all this so that I wouldn't make the same mistakes that he had. I knew he felt like this.... Ive known it since I was very young. I felt the tension and power that high expectations can have on a person. Even from my earliest childhood memories I recall a singular concept. "Holiness leads to Happiness." The more that we can separate ourselves unto mystic hebrew god.... the more we can lead fulfilling lives. This is exactly what I aspired to. I wanted this contentment. Even though, oddly enough, I wasn't discontent.

It was after dinner on a cold February evening. I wasn't more than 16 years old. My brother John, and sister Beth were milling about, 14 and 12 respectively. Something was wrong with the parents. They weren't making their usual in-roads into popcorn production and television before bed. They had an announcement.... and so gathered us children together. We took places in the dinning room using chairs from around the table or standing curiously beside them. My dad is a short stout man. Given to loudness and being opinionated. He likes firearms to distraction... and at any given time has 186 long guns, and a smattering of handguns that he shuffles through his collection by selling them off to rural people who like killing woodland creatures for sport. He's not a man to be trifled with. He pulled up his chair for his announcement, and mom took her place behind him at his right shoulder.

"There's something that your mom and I have been needing to tell you kids for a while." He started in. I had never seen him unsure of anything he had to say... and was almost immediately struck by the comedy of this 'intervention' style announcement.
"Back a long time before i was saved... when I was 20... I made some bad decisions. I got a girl pregnant, and we got married. We had a daughter. Her name is Heather. I think you met her one time, Josh, at MawMaw's house. She's all grown up now." (Saved is the term that persons in our particular stripe of religion use to signify the moment that we aligned ourselves with the saving blood of christ... and began following the teachings of mystic hebrew god.)
We all just stared at them blankly. We are all brown eyed children, and as such I imagine that a unified stare from the three of us might have looked a bit soul-less and creepy. Dad had rubbed his knees and coughed in one of those gestures of tense discomfort.
"Oh wait... wasn't she that cheerleader girl? The one that was in college?" I asked... I had remembered meeting someone at my Dad's Mom's house years and years ago... and for whatever reason instantly thought of her.
"Yeah.... that was her. I think you were only six then. You remember that?" Dad returned.
The other children were as silent as lambs. I can only assume that they didn't know how to react. Or in the case of my brother... didn't feel led to react. My brother is a follower.
For seconds we all just sat there.
"We wanted to tell you... before you heard it from someone else. Other people know about her. People in the church. All the deacons know about it. We needed to tell them so they wouldn't be surprised about me being divorced." Dad continued on with his heavy southern accent. He plodded forward... telling us about what he considered the biggest mistake of his life. I found my footing rather quickly. Even at sixteen I had a tongue like a knife.
"So.... why did you wait until now to tell us? When other people know about it? When quite alot of other people know about it?" I asked. Not angry... just blank. Logical. Curious. Who was this girl. And why hadn't i been allowed to have contact with an older sister who was obviously cool enough to be a cheerleader.
"We wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand. Sometimes... Even grown-ups make mistakes.... We do things that we wish we hadn't." My mom cut in... sensing that she could phrase the answer better. She took a tone that she might have used to explain the method of discovering the surface area of a rectangle.
"But... didn't you think we would understand before now? I mean... Im... nearly sixteen." I countered... Immediately finding flaws in their reasoning, as all clever children are want to do with their parents.
It was hard to argue with that reasoning... even though it seemed like the worst timing ever. A new CSI was coming on tonight... and you know I bet no one was going to feel like watching it now. I loved CSI. Everyone was so stylish and intelligent on that show. And they solved the most complicated crimes in 45 minutes. Props CSI. Props.
Well I did perhaps the most irrational thing that anyone in my situation could have done. I didn't reassure my Dad that we didn't think any less of him for the deception. I didn't remind him that we all still loved him and thought that every word that dropped from his lips was weighty and truthful. I laughed! One of those short little.... "Oh my gosh! I got it!" laughs. My father had a secret life! One that he didn't like... and one that he had clearly wiped clean like a chalk-board and started over with mom. And then with us. Wow.

I was probably this revelation that brought about the most fundamental change in my reasoning. A secret life! How exotic! How.... romantic! And so very close to home. In-fact. In my home. It was all so magically laughable. And.... as I've stated... Laugh I did. They didn't understand my wonder and fascination with it all. They told me I shouldn't laugh. It was a serious matter.
"Oh.... well. Sorry." I said. But I couldn't wipe the comedy out of my expression. Especially my eyes.

I learned then that the truth is a much more nebulous concept than my sixteen year old mind had allowed for. That my parents were complicated persons of depth and mystery. And most importantly... they were without a doubt. Human. Their judgment was compromised. I couldn't say with 100% accuracy that they would always be right. I was time to start questioning everything.... and making choices for myself.

Toggle back to the end of the school year in 2004. Everyone was heavy with the desire to get the school year over with. I had packed all of my belongings into the suburban. That hulking vehicle. I was absolutely ecstatic with the idea of staying at home... away from here for a few months. I'd had enough of all of the fake friendliness and all to real discrimination. It had been a few weeks since I had poisoned Ramon's hair product. The effects were plainly visible. The tips of his hair were turning beige-orange. He had begun to notice too. I can't deny the pure delight I had to mask when he asked me if i noticed it too.
"I don't get it? It mus be this campus water mayn? What would make my hair do dis yoshie?" He had asked one night in the week before school ended. Ramon could not pronounce and english 'j'.... and so always had used the name of a Nintendo character. Almost endearing if I haddn't been convinced he was an evil serpent.
"Dude... I don't even know. You have to be careful what kinds of shampoo you use... and there's alot of chlorine in city water in the US." I would shrug and stare at him wide eyed.

All of my things were tucked away safely in the suburban. I knew that sooner or later he would have caught on to what i was doing. Low IQ, does not equal no IQ. I had left one bag of mostly pencils, pens and notebooks in my room. It was the last thing I'd have to retrieve before walking away from school. I thought about that bag as I sat through the graduation service. I sat with friends but thought how that one item of my personal belongings was left un-protected from last minute pranking. As soon as the service was over I ran back to the room to find no-one there.... but in the middle of the floor, there was that little brown canvas bag. Someone had up-ended an entire bottle of hair gel on it. Poop.

I scraped off what I could and joined my family for the trip home. "What's that on you're bag?" Mom had asked as I climbed into the car looking slightly angry and perhaps a little odd. I was still wearing the suit that was required for the end of year services... and carrying a canvas bag covered in blue goop. "Oh... it's.... nothing. I accidentally broke open a bottle of hand sanitizer on it...?" I said un-convincingly. They didn't challenge my story. I asked that we stop at a little community car-wash that we saw on the way home. So i could spray the bag off. I dumped the contents of the bag out in the floor board and marched over in my suit to ask a stranger if I could borrow her hose pipe. I did so with an un-blinking expression and the tone of voice that suggested i was on an important mission for MI6.
We drove home and talked of other things and I closed the door on the cubicle that I had put bullies in. Goodbye school.

Collusion: Part XV

Doubtless you readers might find the preceding happenings a bit difficult to believe. Such a structured environment must be designed to protect its members, no? So I had thought too. I thought here i would have been safe. I would be safe from drunken frat parties. I thought I'd be safe from being labeled anything but a christian. I thought it would be a place for me to grow and experience a sort of society, without having to worry about hazing, or alcohol poisoning, or roofies. Or perhaps being dragged out of my bed in the middle night and lynched for looking queer. Alas. It was not so to be. I say this all with a sort of wry smile on my face... hind sight is a bit less dire.

The great thing about almost bashing someones head in with an oak chair, is that in societies which still operate by rule of the dominant male, (see last 14 chapters) the more a man such as myself can assert physical dominance over the others, the less likely he is to be maligned by surrounding males who are also competing for dominance. Tale as old as time and all that. For a while the bullying stopped. I had learned enough spanish from my classes that I could fire back slurs at the room-mates mothers... calling them prostitutes; and not the classy kind either. Antonio Banderas wouldn't have approved of this tactic, but Antonio was busy filming 'Zorro' with Catherine Zeta Jones.

Control. Always control. I would fight to maintain it. I had divided my life into cubicles like an office space. Piano was in one, Room-mates in another. Running in one, Classes in another. My friends had a space of about four cubicles; one of the largest rooms... but i still wouldn't let them see what was happening in all the others. Everyone hated it here, but I didn't want them to know that I was seriously considering homicide as a legitimate solution to some of my problems. I would check the status of activities in each of my cubicles, and take the positive activity, and weigh it against the things that weren't going so well. Its part of how I managed. I worked hard at my studies. I would even call my Mom and ask for her help in studying something. E-mailing her a copy of a list of terms that I would need to define. I was one way of trying to stay in touch with the family. I would walk back and forth in front of my dorm talking and talking, papers in my hand or reciting a speech. I think my mom liked those long conversations... I had hoped that those phone calls would make here feel less like an era hand ended; even though it had.

Ramon Nieves would spend roughly forty minutes each morning sculpting his very short very black hair into a desired shape. I was unable to comprehend the amount of pride that must be at the back of this practice. I reasoned that no amount of hair gel would change his race, or make him less of an asshole. Either way I refused to give input. I suppose if your hair is roughly the texture of burlap, then your styling options are quite limited. Ramon was curiously vain and most of our conversations consisted of him regaling me with romanticized stories of his academic triumphs and amorous conquests. I supposed that this must have been some sort of attempt on his part to compensate for the fact that he was nearly 5 feet and 2 inches tall... and perhaps also that 60% of the words I used were beyond the scope of his understanding of the English language.

One evenings conversation was particularly revealing of my relationship with him. He stood at the sink preening in front of the mirror as I read an engaging chapter out of my Harmony text book lounging on my bunk. He pulled out a couple of outfit options from one of the three closets he had spread his expansive wardrobe out in.... to get my opinion on them.

ME: "Where are you going? Whats all the fuss about?" I could hardly have been begged to be interested.
RAMON: "Oy, my societies dating outing. Mayn I'm going wid dis girl.... ah Chelsea I think? What do you dink about dis?" He displayed some garishly colored button-down. Latinos are partial to button-downs. Particularly silk button-downs.
ME: "ummmm. Maybe you could mix it with dark jeans i guess. But don't wear the white shoes. It's too much. Especially if you're going to be playing paint-ball."
RAMON: "Oh yeah right! You're good at this mayn..... Brown belt, or the black one?"
ME: "El negro. Es mas simplé." I had taken to assuring the other members of the room that I was learning Spanish faster than they could hope to learn English.

Ramon puttered around for a few more minutes and sprayed himself down with the most god-awful cologne. You know the kind that leaves a dense cloud of musk after? The kind that leaves you licking the roof of you mouth because of the alcohol at the back of your throat. Ramon left in a hustle, more or less content with the way he looked.

I was feeling particularly wicked. I slid off my bunk and marked and closed my Harmony text. Vanity is punishable I thought.... and I'd nothing better to do. I opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a liter of hydrogen peroxide. I uncapped the bottle and poured about a half of a cup of the magical bleaching liquid into Ramon's bottle of hair gel... then gave the hair gel bottle a shake to incorporate my mischief. Shake shake shake..... gurgle. plop. I placed the hair gel bottle precisely on the shelf as Ramon had left it, and went back to reading my homework.

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.