Collusion: Part XIV

/kəˈluʒən/ Show S[kuh-loo-zhuhn]

                                                                                                     –noun

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

  

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

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

Dear Parents:

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

Most Sincerely Yours in Christian Love, 

Josh Cupcake

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

 

Collusion: Part XII

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

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

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

"POT LUCK THIS SUNDAY!"

or

"DO RIGHT 'TIL THE STARS FALL"

or

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

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

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

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

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

Collusion: Part VII

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

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

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

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

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

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

Introduction to Music Literature.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: “Well…. Hm…. Wanna go with me?”

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

“Sure.” She said.

Click.

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