Collusion: Part XXXII

She was trying to stay calm I think. To slip past them... That's what she had been trained for... But in the deadness and the silence... in that black tension, now we would see what would come of the training. She was hiding in the thick evergreens. The trees had begun to clear as she had made her way out of the deeper woods... I felt the fear with her. I sensed instinctively she was being followed.
The moonlight was weak. The clouds above, skeletal and fickle. I had no idea how long she had been running, but she wasn't breathing very hard. I caught a little glimpse at her, pale and thin in the blue light from the sky. She had a decidedly angular face. A thin nose that turned up ever so little at the end... and her eyes were a kind of black that ate in all the light around them.
Black hair hung to her shoulders and she was dressed for running and hiding.
Then before I knew what to think about it... they were around her. The smallest of rustlings back towards the woods and my glance darted towards it with her. Then two of them shot across the clearing towards her.
Dogs... no wolves. They bolted forward. Quick and silent like fish. The woman made no sound herself but dashed from her hiding place and began running. I followed them... Trying to hide myself... I was terrified of the wolves. I had to help this girl though. I ran after the group.
We ran for some minutes... the trees got more and more sparse... And then I stopped quickly, noticing that they had as well. Because there was no longer any land to run on. We had come to the edge of a cliff.
The woman was being yanked around by the two hounds. It was no where as clear an image as I would have liked. The shapes became vague in the half light. They were as big as I was and bent with all sorta of blood lust on killing this girl. I looked on horrified... I looked around for some way to help her. A stick. A stone. Something. But I was forced to look back as I heard a scream. From her. This girl. She had pulled out a little short knife from a boot and stuck one of the dogs in the neck. And kicked the other off of her. But there were more of them... I felt the breath of one of them on the back of my neck and yelled out as it brushed past me into the clearing towards the girl. It didn't hear me. It didn't stop. It made no sign it had noticed me at all.  Now it was five of them darting her way. Swift and silent as shadows across the white sand of the clearing. This time I ran out with them. There were too many. She couldn't get them all.

As I looked on though she had kicked the first two approaching in the face. Kicked them down flat. They struggled to get up. But then as if frightened... the others began to back away from her.
They whimpered and growled and backed away back towards the woods.

I stopped running towards them... and watched the cowering back, wondering at this odd and fortunate chain of events. The growled low... and sat down on their haunches menacing. The stricken ones staggered to their feet and joined the others in a wide circle around the girl... Who... oddly was smiling.

Ha ha ha! She laughed a laugh that sounded as careless as a teenagers. "I saw you running with them... Always sending out the boys after me... How many of them have I killed?'
Her smile was galvanized by the blue black moonlight.

I couldn't see who she was talking to until a moment later. A small thin man... barely as tall as me and much thinner stepped out of the shadow of the woods. He could have been a child for all that I knew... but he was dressed so perfectly as to be unrealistic of his jaunt through the woods just now. A tiny black suit. White french cuffs and a stiff white collar.

"Well this time you took it... Congratulations..." The man said. His voice was cracked and deep and completely disturbing for such a small child like person. "We'll have it back now though, thankyou."
He said this with absolutely no emotion. No inflection. And his voice sounded so familiar. Like someones that I had always known.

The woman did not respond to this except to spit on the ground in contempt. "Ill do what I came here for she said... and with that she flung her little boot knife at the boy... flink. As it nearly struck him in the face he flicked it to the ground....
The wolves grew vocal and angry at this... As if it were an affront to the entirety of their religion and made for the girl once again... And this time they were not alone. The little man rushed the distance between him and the cliff and quickly caught the girls neck making it there before the dogs. Jumping up on her knees to make the distance and then pulling her down with him to accommodate his shortness at the ground.

"What now girl?" Impish boy called to her sweetly as he was crushing her neck... "Give me back what's mine? Ill let you go?" The intensity with which the boy was crushing her neck was devastating to watch... The once gloating smile and taunting look dropped from her face leaving a blank white knowledge in her eye. She had chanced too much. She hadn't run fast enough.
Then there was something else. Something foreign that I'd never seen a human express.
A fastness. A calmness.
A quick snatch and now she had him by his throat as well... She pounced and pushed him onto his back using her height as an advantage. The wolves stood around taught as a drawn bow, but would not apparently challenge the contestants...
"And what of your family? You sister? What of them?" The little man asked his face rigid with the struggle...
The girl pulled out of his grasp and looked down on his as struggled wildly. "I know where they've gone."
"Then you must arrange to see them again! You must arrange freedom for them!" The little squealed at her.
The girl smiled at this, to my surprise, and said..." I'd much rather you visit them for me."
Little man snapped his finger and the wolves shot forward. Just then, though, my mouth fell open as slick black wings opened from the girls back and beat down once and quickly, just diving over the heads of the charging dogs, and over to her little knife in the sand...
She quickly pulled little man by the hair of his head and beat those wings three or so times more to hover over the dogs who were below her now yapping and whining for the leader to be returned.
"Remember this!" She screamed at the dogs. "Remember how there was nothing you could do!" Remember ... remember when you begin to feel safe again!" She laughed a little... I couldn't tell who was evil any more... I couldn't tell who I should help.
She fingered the tiny knife in her right hand and then quickly pulled it across little mans throat...
He en-hailed with a slight chug as she dropped him to the ground and made the smallest of thuds in the dusty sand.
The wolves looked up angrily and she flew off.

I bolted up sweating as my alarm rolled pleated out its tell tale fog horn sound.
Blink. Blink.

"DAMMIT!" Churned through my head like a track on a CD skipping as I jumped down from my top bunk to look for clothing and shoes. It can not be 7:50... It just can NOT BE! Kakis. Check. Ok. Teeth... NO! no. You have 10 minutes! It takes you 6 to make it across from your room! Shirt. Books. .... Tie.
Grrraaaaah! I was mad as hell. How could I have hit snooze that many times! I was stepping out of the room as I noticed and odd sensation... "The carpet is very short here... i thought." Gah! Shoes... I slipped some on and snatched at a very large, very ugly scarf on my way out the door.
:slam!: I passed boys in various stages of un-dress through the hall as I dashed madly for the side door of the dormatory.
"Hi josh!" My hall leader called out brightly. He'd obviously been slowly sipping Turkish coffee for hours.
"GrumN pEeh. Rah." I said as I zipped past him. Tucking my shirt in in the mean time.
I skipped down the stairs to the first floor exit two at a time glancing at my MOTOrazor the whole While. 7:54.
"OK. Alright Mr. Medlin. You're gonne be just fine.... just fine!" I heard in my head.

I shot out of the building forgetting all social graces and a bumped past two senior 'handsome soccer players.'
"Sorry! Sorry!" I offered as they shot me looks of disgust.
"Late... I'm Sorry!"

And then as the fates must have decided. There was Amanda. Even now as I type the name, it brings an utter revolt. So much so that I was required to look away from my typing and stare at a dark corner of the room.
Amanda Huss. Be mindful reader, it was not so then. 'Then' it hardly made a difference when I saw her. But.... the time would come... let it be known.
She wandered past with a group of acads.
"Josh!" She called out from the fray of them.... "Josh! Hi!"
I turned and greeted her happily.
"Hey Manda! Hey nice to see you." I said... Walking backwards away from her towards my classroom.
"Hey... you commin to church tonight?" She asked smiling at me all red haired and jolly.
"Yeah!... yeah... Ill see ya. I've gotta run. Late for Doctrines..." I turned and jogged towards lecture B.

I made it at the sound of the bell. The kids in the seats next to me all seemed rather perturbed at the size of my book bag; but it couldnt be helped. I didn't have time to stroll back to my room to change and fraternize with my friends on the hall between classes. I would be going till 1PM. And then work. So I squeezed in between peoples twice my size. I must have looked like a pack mule.

"Alright students" said the withered old man at the head of gray room.. "Would you please all take out a pencil and some notebook paper... and write for me todays quiz. Word perfect... John 4:24. You will have ten minutes to complete this....

Ok. Ok. I don't have to worry about this... but I did. Amongst all the things that Id gathered from my room on the way out, none of them were either pencil, nor paper. I whispered and annoyingly borrowed them from other students in my row... and began to write.


"John 4:24" 
"God is spirit, and they that worship him should worship him in spirit and in truth." 

I signed my name, and passed my paper to the end of the row for grading and then promptly fell asleep. I wandered if I could find out where that girl had flown off to... I wondered if I should follow her.

Collusion: Part XXX

Circle. Moon. Earth. Symbolic of an extraterrestrial sort of intelligence. Thought patters run in them. All sustainable systems burn in cycles. Perhaps the incidents that come to have the most meaning in our lives are those moments when a tangent forces the end of a cycle… and then enacts permanently bonded change. A mother gives birth. Your dog gets hit by a truck as you look on. You remember exactly the moment when… she broke your heart.

But which patterns are healthy ones? It’s hard to tell sometimes.

I have to share reader, that I find writing be a little tangent for me. I can almost hear a bottle cap pop when I begin. Though really Im never precisely certain what Ill be pouring one day to the next. Water? Or Sweet Tea? Blackberry wine? Or Jack? Or Pepsi? To some degree or another. Who cares? I’m dumping shit out.

As I have to some degree waxed nostalgic of a late… I’ll follow this path for a time. As I have mentioned before I was quite a voracious reader as a child. The tiny dusty white library was in St. Matthews. A short drive into town would bring me within reach of the thing that I craved most. Knowledge. It felt more intimate than the sort of statistics that you rattle off when you’re trying to be impressive though. It felt like I could leave the dirt roads and wet heat and soy bean fields beneath me and I could float up and up… To every which way but back down. 

The librarians were a mysterious thing to me. Most of the were nearly fallen into their tombs with age, and their accents were all something Mayberry. I had heard their names many times, but that always slipped my mind when Mom would take us by the place. I was rather a shy child. And you know, there’s nothing at all wrong with that. I suppose at the time I was uncomfortably aware of it though. I always wondered what others thought of me.

My Mother was very scrupulous of what she allowed me to check out from the library. She understood that books are just as dangerous as a loaded gun in the night stand. Perhaps more so. Books are tangents also. The books that we had laying around the house had been read and re read and I arrived at the feeling of curiosity about what other books might have to say. I had first thought that all the reading in our little white library might be only more of the same as what we had at home. Or that the books in the little white library would be a reflection of the building itself. That they would be sinless… sturdy… dusty. This was not so. I’d sooner vote republican.

I chose the books that I brought up to the counter judiciously. Weighing carefully the likely hood that Mom would read the spine, or not be over fond of the cover… and tell me to put it back. I didn’t really understand why should would find some in poorer taste than others… but who can say why, at that age mothers do what they do. Mothers are arbitrary.

Along and Along as we made more trips to and from the little white library I noticed that mom was paying less attention to the books I picked out. She would perhaps be using the computers, or talking with a librarian. And then of course there was John and Beth to be concerned about. I saw an opportunity to use less discretion in my selections… and so I decided to do just that. It was as much fun as throwing glitter.

I was a stealthy thing though. Hmmmm yes. I would pick two or so boring books that I knew Mom would find appropriate… and then slide something in between them. Whichever one I found most intriguing. The one that I would read thirstily and blithely ignore the others. Once I found a treasure trove of a read in Anne Rice’s ‘The Witching Hour.’ So adeptly sensuous. So filled with over wrought emotion. Fantastical tales about witchcraft. And… And women. And shockingly vivid vampires… and sex. There were so many things I thought I understood about the story when I read them. Rice painted. She worked for those words and that story. This little boy thought she was some sort of genius of the criminal mastermind variety.

There were other books too. There was one titled ‘speak.’ It was by some somebody that I cant remember. In it I was introduced to a 9^th grade girl. Something was very wrong with her… but I couldn’t tell what. This girl didn’t pray or go to church or anything. She cried often, and hardly spoke to anyone at school. She cut herself sometimes. Turns out though it made sense by the end of the book. She had been raped by one of her peers in a broom closet at school. The closing scenes were fantastic! She fought the boy, with his wanton and filthy desires… he was chocking her… and he pushed her head hard into a mirror. It broke. As the fight moved to the floor she snatched a shard of the thing and stabbed that horrible boy in the neck. And ya know? Good for her! I wanted to give her a hug…

I drank up Tolkien. All the way to the Silmarillion. Which didn’t make a lick of sense until I read it again. It was an intoxicating story of … well a sort of retelling of the Greek myths with name changes.

Dickenson. Shakespeare. Blake. Emmerson. Shelly. Some Bible.

I replicated this process innumerable times. I longed to feel… beyond. And so I did. Each new story began something. The marks that those books left on me are permanent.

I wonder if I still have anything that’s due.

One Two Buckle My Shoe

One.
Two.
Nothings provably true.

Three.
Four.
Let yourself j'adore.

Five.
Six.
Learn some better tricks.

Seven.
Eight.
No one's playing straight.

Nine.
Ten.
Regret's the only sin. 

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. 

Collusion: Part XXVI

Every single experience of our lives in a new layer of paint. Some clear like varnish. Some opaque. Some black. Some layers should be chipped off, and some of them should be painted over. All the same they are what makes us individuals. They are what give us color.

But you knew this already. We don't wander around stagnant... forced to stumble into what and who will be our next mistake.

The sun beat down relentless. Kids from the south develop a certain tolerance to heat. Not just heat like a sunny 78 with light breezes. Heat like a fever in the Sahara. South Carolina cares for no one. She believes firmly that it is her job to prepare all the baptists that live within her confines for the strong likelihood that they will at some point forget a prayer before bedtime and thus be sentenced to a little swim in the lake of fire. Oh yeah,  and the humidity cranks up the heat index so that being outside almost always feels like a sweat lodge.

I was one of those children who was almost always out in this heat, and as such was most nearly always sweating and playing happily. It was that part of the late spring just before the first days of true summer where all the wild vines that plundered their ways across ditches along the sides of the roads were gushing blackberries. Big fat, thumb sized remnants of their more gentrified bacchanal cousins, they gushed with a tangy syrupy sweetness. They tempted simple country children to cheat their sharp thorns and if they were so brave, to claim the high prize of their fruit.

My sister and I left the house yelling out to mom that we were going to pick berries and taking with us big squeaky Styrofoam cups from the pantry. We had made plans to pilfer and pluck only the best from this rush of berries and bring them back home... We had planned to make them into pies or tarts. Silly children we were then so easily amused.

The torrential heat and blinding sun were no match for out bright laughter and determined delusions of culinary mastery. We tripped and tumbled and frolicked down the side of the highway looking for the best vines with the biggest berries. Only the best would do for our tarts. Our big yellow dog, Minnie followed along behind us. She kept up well, never mind that she was nearly 12 years old. I think she felt like we were her responsibility and that there would be no berry picking without her.

ME: "Did you buy anything when you went shopping with Ashley the other day?"
BETH: "We got some pizza and road the carousel in the mall... it was really big! It was fun..."
ME: "and you didn't bring me back anything! haha. How dare you!?" I replied impishly...

My sister was eight and I twelve. She's one of the most beautiful people I know... and at that age had flawless sheets of shiny honey brown hair that ran down her back. Bangs that stuck to the sides of her forehead in the heat, and big doey brown eyes that were so brown that sometimes they looked black. We picked through the brambles in our ill fitting pre-adolescent clothing that had been handed down and handed down again. Happy as puppies.

We worked our way from thorn to thorn, and vine to vine. Following the line of ditches that lead from our house over to the church where dad was working.

BETH: "Stop eatin all of em! We're not gonna have enough!"
ME: "Oh whatever... there's plenty... look at all of them!
BETH: "I know but we aint gonna have enough if we keep eatin em all."
ME: "Ha ha.... stop bein a lil mama!"

We made it all the way over to the church and decided to go in and wash the berries and see what dad was up to. He was most days bunkered inside his office. Books spread all over the place and pages of scribble falling off the sides of the desk as he stacked things in piles that only made sense to him.

BETH: "Daddy! look at! Look at all the berries!"
DAD: "I see that. Were ya'll get those?"
BETH: "They're all along the sides of the road!"
DAD: "You're momma know ya'll walked down along the side of the road?"
ME: "I told her where we were going."

Dad got up from his desk and walked us down the long main hall of the church building. Back towards the kitchen. The lights were kept off in the hall during the day to save money... so it was all dim and gray. We walked slowly. I could tell dad was upset. But we were just having fun.

DAD: "I told yall about leavin the house and not tellin momma where you're goin. I don't want you kids gettin hit by a car. You ain't got enough brain between you to look up."
BETH: "We didn't stay by the road very long..." She started cryin a little. That made me angry. Me and my short fuse. Being twelve is sort of a curse.
ME: "It was my idea in the first place... "
DAD: "That's even worse... you should know better."
ME: "Know better than walking into traffic? Well... I do..."

That was just about enough snark from me apparently. Dad turn quick on his left heel as he was walking in front of us slapped me hard across the face. Thwap!
I wasn't quite expecting that... I was walking and trying to make sure not to spill the berries we were going to wash. Slapped or no, I fell down hard on the gray floor.... I tossed the berries and they scattered across the floor...

I didn't say anything. I just bobbled back up and started crying too. I hated when I let myself cry. But I wasn't expecting him to be that angry....

DAD: "Clean those up. I'm calling your mom to come get you."

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.

Collusion: Part XVII

Summer met me when I got home. With hot sticky arms outstretched... welcoming me back to everything I loved the best. To the broad sands of the piedmont. South Carolina's midlands. Long needle pines everywhere and acres and acres of farm land with fresh corn sprouting up and coming now to about 3 feet tall. My brother and I could go back to spending hours and hours loudly challenging one another to passionate and violent games of Super Smash Brothers Melee.
Perhaps the most perfect multi-player video game of its time for venting sibling rivalry... and destroying the boredom that is understood to accompany living in the middle of a forest. It was certainly more entertaining than collecting four leaf clovers and looking for gnomes. Characters from at least a decade of different Nintendo games all got together and tried to punch and kick each other off of a stage... flinging lighting bolts and rocket punches. Hours and hours I spent with my brother challenging him to face my undeniable prowess. We had played so much that the joysticks on the handsets were starting to become less responsive due to repetitive motion wearing.

"Oh Oh! Right.... now you trash talkin! What about that!!??" John would yell quickly laying 80 or so damage points on me in a skillfully played chain attack which ended in his guiding Luigi to do a back flip and punt my poor little Pikachu skyward. It was at those precise moments that I realized exactly how invested in these little matches I was... and an little vein would pulse at my temple. I've never liked losing. Which is to say... I rather enjoy severing my falling opponent's head, and displaying them on stakes along the side-walk in front of my home. I liked playing with Pikachu. In the game he was one of the smallest and fastest characters... and could pull lightning out of the sky. I strangely identified with this powerful little creature, who looked about as dangerous as a kitten... but was actually quite a challenging opponent. Game play was almost always loud, and neither of us really ever blinked during a match. My devotion to winning was more than a hair psychotic and I'm sure that thousands of my healthy neurons are now crawling around my head... with broken backs and sprained ankles. 
"Oh! Whatever! Come one! Best two-outta -three!!!???" I demanded as John leaned back on his bean-bag chair obviously content with his victory.
"Why? It's not like you're gonna win?" He shot back, but played me again anyway. This was how a large portion of my leisure time was spent. Wasted time perhaps... but at least it was positive interaction with one of my family members. Im betting I could still challenge my brother to one of those games, and I think he'd probably play.

My days stared early. Six or so.... Id get up while it was still cool and damp in the morning and head over to my neighbors house to climb into his huge white utility truck. Ed Sweatman owned a painting and repair business and had enlisted the help of myself and my brother to repaint apartments after a tenant had moved out. The complex was not aging gracefully. We took the hour drive to big dirty Columbia and Hampton Courts, which sighed and creaked towards collapse. Eddie is a broad shouldered man of a perpetual crew cut and nefarious past. He was incredibly hard working. He had to be. He had three kids. Twins and a little chatter box named Brelynn. (Bree-lin) His wife Samantha was a short little wisp of a lady who stayed home and took care of the kids, her advanced degrees from Columbia College not withstanding. They lived right next door and our two families sort of formed a little village, switching houses to have dinner in a couple of times a week.

The ride to work was more or less un-eventful. Somewhere along the way Eddie (who we referred to as Mr. Eddie... its South Carolina y'all.) would either discover a liter sized Mountain Dew that he had brought along, or we'd stop ad some petrol station for it. It was essential that he have this in the morning. I am convinced that the majority of his central nervous system was mostly built from components in the urine colored soda. I was content with coffee. Black.... and too hot to drink more of a 1/18th of an ounce of at a time, with great caution. It was understood that we would not speak to one another, and that no great noises would be created until Eddie had consumed at least half of his urine soda and one or two of the doughnut cakes that he had brought along in a little cellophane package. The dark lord 'Little Debbie' and her consorts had spent years perfecting the recipe for these particular chocolate covered doughnuts, and they had been scientifically engineered to shave a decade off a typical human life span.

We would arrive at the complex and wait in the truck while Eddie would go into the club house with the pool around back, and the vapid, overly manicured secretary and get a list of the apartments that were empty and needing re-painting. And then off we would truck to the building in question. Unloading gray five gallon buckets full of sand colored paint. They were heavy. You had to get used to the weight. An awkwardly large pneumatic paint sprayer. The machine had a very precise fan of spray... it would make a particular glick-glick-glick sound as it sucked the latex paint into its bowels and every now and then the air compressor would click on and roar for a while. We had pretty much accepted tasks that we were each supposed to fulfill in the each little empty house. After John had stretched and awakened from his slumber in the back of the truck, (he almost always slept on the way to work.) he'd start taping everything off and taking off outlet plates and throwing them in the sink. Sometimes we found things that the tenants had left behind. Once a love letter. A little green stone Buddha statue once. Things college kids leave behind. There were quite a lot of USC students who stayed there during the school year, but would move back home after the school year was over. Leaving behind little pieces of their lives. An earring. A bean-bag chair. Panties. Hair brushes. And even less pleasant things. What an odd way for humans to live, I remember thinking, living so close to people they don't really care to know. In a hive. It seemed unnatural to me.

The days would get hotter and hotter as summer pushed towards its apex. Every day dense sticky wet heat that rolled in from Charleston and didn't cool down as it past through the pine trees and over the sandy fields. Without fail, at atleast one point during the long summer we would have to scrape and re-paint the decorative wrought iron fencing around the pool and by some of the main entrances. The spindles in the rails were about the size of your smallest finger, and they stretched a distance of seemingly 300 miles around the pool. First we'd take metal brush scrapers and try to knock off as much of the cracked old paint that we could. The next step was to coat small paint rollers with an oily so green-that-its-nearly-black paint. The hours I spent on those railings were excruciating. And I would always tackle the task with the equivalent angst you might find in any song by Evanescense. Think 'the open door' album. The ambient heat would dry the viscous inky paint on the hot metal within hours. Irreversible skin damage has been done due to the amount of time I spent in the sun. This is how mexicans must feel. Poor mexicans. 18 year olds will do anything for a buck. It's probably because of these summer times that I lack respect for any able bodied person who lets their parents buy things for them. I reason that they should still let their parents change their underpants after an 'wiw axi' and stick a pacifier in their mouth whenever something doesn't go their way. Worthless slothful miscreants.

This was how that first summer past. With that particular rhythm. Sometimes we would hike out to a pond nearby and go swimming because we just couldn't abide the tropic heat anymore. I kept up a little with people from school... but not a lot. I talked to Christine often. Mostly just let the quiet routine of work and sleep wash over me and heal the little bumps and nicks that school scratched in my soul... Sand and heat and pine trees are good medicine. Oh, and sometimes swimming in ponds.

Collusion: Part XIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




 

Collusion: Part XI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Collusion: Part X

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

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

Flash backwards ten years:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Collusion: Part IX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tom sits at the desk:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Collusion: Part V

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Collusion: Part II

Before Collusion: Part II begins, I owe a shout out to Kaki Meyers. My delightful co-worker. She is pert. She is bright. And there is a certain something about her that calls to mind a song by Fiona Apple.

With any luck, most of you were able to stagger through that somewhat exhausting look at some of the types you can run into at any given time at ye olde schoole.
Housing. How shall i describe it.....
Well the way i discovered it i suppose. The dorms. Five nearly identical buildings. Three stories high.... Long rectangle/shoe box shaped buildings made out of dusty yellow brick. The lay one after another in precision on either side of one of the side streets of the campus. All around them were ancient box-woods that had been trimmed on exactly the same schedule, and in exactly the same shape for something like forty years. They were designed for efficiency. Not comfort.
Before stopping here though, in another building of long corridors, campus staff had set up little booths and tables and so had incoming students stop at each to gather pertinent information.... We were all given a number. An ID card. Little blue plastic things. And each new student got a complimentary thumbnail photograph of themselves on the card as well. I was thrilled to discover that everyone's ID picture was exactly the same shade of candid and usually revealed exactly how unfortunate each student could look.
Pamphlets. Papers to sign... bla bla. A copy of the schools calendar, complete with schedule for the rest of the year. And a copy of Almighty Handbook; which i learned to my immense pleasure held the keys to my success here. The Book i learned outlined each and every rule that i would be required during my new life here. My parents came along with me on this journey down the hallways. Up stairs. Around and around...Smiling faces at every turn. Welcoming me.... Sign here. Pose here. Smile! Everything's going to be fine.
My nervous system was doing odd things. It knew i wasn't supposed to be in the same room as that many people. It wasn't meant to process all of these variables. I was meant to join a convent of Keebler elves and bake cookies in a tree somewhere... not discover a remedial school for the emotionally imbalanced, products of religion's 'hitlers youth.'

I would conquer this though. I would make it work. I said my goodbyes to my family. My mother was crying. What is it about your mother crying? Why does it make you feel so pathetic? When my mother cries it regurgitates every sad memory I've ever had. When my mother cries... for a little while my soul hits an iceberg and starts to take on water. I must cry with her. It's an imperative. Other directives are lost. My dad shook my hand. More wood on the fire. Goodbye family.

Alright. Enough about that. Embarrassing. In the next ten hours I would attend 16 meetings. About where i would work on campus... one where i found out about financial responsibility for this academic foray... one where I learned about the penalty of sexual activity during my stay here (a large man with a black sack on his head axes off your right hand).... and one with bagpipes, when all the freshmen marched down the aisles of the largest auditorium to stand at attention as the Sorting Hat shuffles us into the proper Societies based on your how well you fit into one level of the Cast or another.

My housing. Oh dear. According to one of the packets of papers i was handed by a Jane Doe Groupie... I found my room. All but one of the beds were taken. I wasnt surprised. Meet my room-mate? Join me, wont you?
There's Larry. Larry is a senior. A large, large, rotund Hawaiian man, who had somehow managed to endear himself to a host of Handsome Soccer Players, despite being about as athletic as a boulder. I think he had managed this particular addition to his popularity level because he knew all the rules to every conceivable sport... and therefore reffed, and because no one can think of anything to dislike about Hawaiians. I was greeted with polity... and a big girthy, Hawaiian handshake.... and allowed to arrange my things on the one remaining bunk. (Since when is everyone shaking my hand? Who started all this? oh yeah.... thanks dad.) I would soon learn that Larry would spend 11 percent of his time eating odd asian foods made from seaweed, and 89 percent of his time talking on the phone with his gypsy girlfriend. I never met her. She lived... Elsewhere.

Introductions to 1/4th of the rooms remaining members being done... I settled in. I know i started talking a bit about the dormitories and then skived off into other topics. I return to the issue now. As i mentioned before the exterior architecture wasn't anything you'd expect to see on the cover of Architectural Digest... more like what i imagined hospitals from the 50's might look like. I dragged all of my things in through the heavy metal and plate-glass doors in the front of the building. Smith i think it was called... and was immediately over-powered by a smell. I would have had no idea how to describe it then... but now ive come to remember it as the kind of smell left by 200 hundred plus post adolescent males living in the same building. Damp. Salty. Animalistic. Not a powerful smell. Which is to say, it isnt the kind of thing that would turn your head... like say a ladies perfume... as she brushes by. But the kind of smell that you always associate with a place. Like your aunts basement... or a wood shed or something.

I hardly know how to describe the oddness. Parents left. New lay-outs to navigate. And a new and constant proximity to society. There was also a new awareness of perception. (perhaps that will be a topic touched on post-collusion.) An awareness that each new face forged and instant opinion of me. An indelible stamp... They each regardless of their place in the Cast made mental short-cuts for how they should consider me. The way i dressed. Walked. Talked. All of it carried intense meaning under this new system. There were lines and lines of social code that i hadnt been programmed with... but everyone here was already running on. I was mesmerized. But I adapted quickly.  More meetings.

Back to the room at night.  Time to meet the rest of the room.
There's Ramon. (Maybe it's spelled with an 'e' on the end. I don't remember.) As the name indicates.... this dude is of latin origin. Sort of a Puerto Rican guido. 4 inches shorter than me. And as I'm a lofty 5'7'' that speaks volumes. Introductions were cordial enough. Accent thick like glue. I could tell straight away that this kid was used to getting whatever he wanted... and that the Almighty Handbook would be something that he worked around... rather than towards. I kicked myself realizing how much time i shouldve spent watching spanish soap opera. Conversation with Ramon was alot like fencing. DNA, or something even more powerful, like fate perhaps had decided that he and i were to be opponents. The room we were graciously provided with, was something like 20 feet long and ten feet wide, and making space for any of my things made me feel like a conquistador. Die Incas. Die.
He majored in something like Recurring Revenue and Claims Auditing? I dont remember exactly. Ramon's time was divided as such.... 25% preparing his hair for presentation with a variety of fossil fuel based products.... 10% spent in ricochet spanish conversation with our other room-mate debasing me... 50% being arrogant.... and 15% butchering english with a dull knife.

The last member of the room is was relieved to discover would not be a direct problem for me. Chester. I realize the name probably calls to mind a host of jokes about molestation. This fact was not lost on me. Chester was mute for all i could tell. 6 feet and some change... and built for one of those ancient Roman 'kill or be killed' sports. Chester only ever spoke to Ramon... which was fine by me. There was some sort of un-spoken agreement that I should observed and avoided. That i could deal with. Chester was from some part of the Dominican Republic. Living there apparently makes you immune to humor, communicate only with peoples of like interest in blood sports, and turns your skin coal black. Fascinating land. I imagined that at his birth, there was a celebration where the natives spent a week hunting for the largest boar they could find... then after spearing it to death they roasted it on a spit while chanting praises to their devil gods.

This first day had turned out to be exhausting. This didnt prevent me from having insomnia though. One of the social laws of the Almighty Handbook required that each room meet together and sit in a circle at precisely 10:30 pm to read scripture and pray; and perhaps share observances on the day. And so we did. I love the word 'and'. Larry led this practice. He had been elected to be what is referred to as an Assistant Prayer Captain.... each room was designated one per the Almighty Handbook. As such it was his job to organize these little prayer sessions and also to take a sort of spiritual temperature of the room. I was relieved to find that he would not view this as one of his priorities. Chatting with gypsy girlfriend took priority on most nights.

Day one ended... I took three bendryl. I fell asleep.