We all have those memories that stand out. The ones that stand up to the challenges of a regenerating cerebral cortex. And as time goes on they tend to melt into a rosy softness. Like watching old movies. And each time we replay them they confirm to us that we are... self. The same self that we remember. If we're lucky enough sometimes... those memories enact physical change upon us.
I was running. I was were those hand-me-down clothes that 5 year olds get from church friends. We were laughing. In the simple and pure way that only 5 year olds can laugh. It was effervescent. And the sound of it glinted of the wooden vaulted ceiling of the sanctuary. I was dashing around on my nimble little legs and darting through clusters of worshipers who were milling about the auditorium chatting about this or that. Middle aged guys who had married too early because they got somebody pregnant. Old couples who like stones... never aged past antique. Frilly fabrics covered in 90's floral patters. Lots of of blues. Kaki pants all over. A suit here and there. And in the center aisle... A missionary was setting up a slide projector. I have no memory of what the missionary looked like. But I do remember dim flashes of Africa and in the half light.
We were always there early. Dad's office was usually a bustle with people who just wanted to chat. To get advice about their lives... or gossip about other peoples life. Either way. I darted in and around the aisles... I was trying to catch up with Gary.... who was way ahead and Dustin was chasing him. Dustin was probably my best friend at the time. And we used to build make believe houses and go hunting for make believe tigers in the woods behind his house.
Then... I tripped I guess.
Something like 48 seconds passing. And I got up. Ouch, I thought. But oddly... it didn't hurt at all. I looked around for where the other boys had gotten off to... But I didn't see them. Maybe they had headed out and into the vestibule? Running had made me hot, so I hardly noticed the my face was wet... for a few moments. Though I was soon away that it was much more wet than usual... a hot stream ran down the bridge of my nose and skipped sticky and salty over my lips. I kept walking and put my hand up to my face. I pulled it away and it was shining and red.
Oh... I thought.
I was aware of people and movement around me... But one in particular caught my attention. Dustin's mom was in the hall. She was my kindergarten teacher. She had taught me how to tie shoes... and she had taught me numbers. And words like 'cat.' She screamed. It scared me... She never screams....
She yelled for my mom. "Laurie! Laurie! Josh is hurt.... Come here!" Things started happening. Everyone had sad faces now. They were shocked at how much blood I was losing. Dustin's mom found something to press against my head. But it didn't seem to help much. It was a dish towel. Dustin's mom is named Mrs. Bates. Darleen I believe.
Mom was here now. I hadn't cried yet... but when I saw her cry, I started crying too. Moms are not supposed to cry... Especially not my mom. Not Laurie.
My mom picked me up. I remember to this day that they chose an obvious option. The hospital. Darleen would drive. Momma carried me out... down the sidewalk. I remember the exact cut and color of the dress she was wearing. A silky looking thing. Mostly blue and floral. We got in Darleen's Jeep. I had always wanted to ride in that Jeep... And I was thinking how lucky I was to finally be getting to do that. I sat on mom's lap on the drive. She held me close to her like I was a baby again. I was still bleeding hard... and as we shifted positions... some blood skirted out from under the towel and rolled beaded down the shoulder of her dress.
"Oh... I'm sorry. I've got blood on you." I told her around the towel.
"It's fine sweetie. I can wash it out." Mom said.
"I hope it does." I said.
Darleen provided much needed distraction.
"Don't you worry about that dress honey! You just stay awake! The dress don't matter a bit!" She said sounding like Scarlett O'Harah. She was waving her arms.
We waited at the hospital for a long... long time. I had stopped bleeding so much. I was playing with toy cars in the waiting room.... Dad was there now. John and Beth were elsewhere. No doubt sleeping over at the Bates'. Lucky ducks.
The nurse took me back to the OR. I could see my mom through the plate glass window... watching. worried. I screamed at them to let her in. I wanted her in there with me. Finally they let her. She had to help them hold me down as they push needles into my head.
When I woke up there were 40 stitches in my forehead. I had cut it to the bone on the corner of a pew.
Ya know all that has cause me to think about pain differently. I mean sure it hurts. But you just might get to ride in that Jeep you've been wanting to...
Showing posts with label Sin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sin. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
quixotic
My blood pressure had been spiking for most of the late afternoon. Cause I knew it was time. I knew I had to make a move, or no one was going to.
I was scared though. It would either work or it wouldn't. And to tell you flatly reader... I'd never been kissed.
I'd known 'X' for about three months... Christine was way...way over by then. And Melodie.... I don't think Im gonna get into that right this second. X and I had been playing a delicate little game of 'hint and lie' for something that was starting to seem like the better part of a decade. X is a bit of a wall flower. X had drawn me in with a surprising complexity and the promise of something I'd never felt before. Connection.
Not like 'networking' or 'friendship' or... anything quite so trite as those things. It felt like that rush you feel when you're on the highway and you're dead sure you're gonna tail end somebody because they stopped and you didn't notice. It felt like what a shark feels when there's blood in the water. It felt like enough static to raise every hair on your head and then make all the little blond hairs on your arms stand and point.
We were driving around in the car and it was turning dusk. We were talking about things that didn't matter. And i was rummaging for every hook I could think of to turn the conversation in the direction I wanted with out being blunt and plain and..... childish. I kept rubbing my hands on my khakis... cause my palms were sweating. I felt like I was being hunted. But that was irrational. Of course I wasn't.
"Nothing has to happen at all!" I kept reminding myself. A little mantra I was chanting in my head. "Everythings going to be fine.... you'll see." Maybe that little voice wasn't mine. Maybe it was Satan. Maybe it was worse. Maybe it was lust. Either way it calmed me down and set me just like steel to my purpose.
I don't know how I had let all this come to have such intense meaning. This wasn't skydiving. But just at that second... I would have been less nervous about jumping out of a plane.
I was trying... but you know, honestly there was no way to flip the conversation from "but of course, that was before Bach's wife died...." to... "I want to stick my tongue down your throat."
I took the best route that I knew. I let the conversation die off for a minute.
ME: "So.... I have a confession."
X:.......
ME: " I kinda.... uh. wanna.... kiss you."
X: (laughs nervously)
ME: "I mean.... you know.... just.... if that's ok with you and all..." I had never felt this exact mix of emotions before. It was like tight rope walking 50 ft over a snake pit. Each contraction of my heart was clearly audible.
X: "Um....."
ME: "I mean.... if you don't want to.... " (Stupid! Just stop talking!) I thought.
X: "OK." "Sure."
Well. I guess that was supposed to make me feel better. At least X wasn't opposed to the idea.
X knew an out of the way place. Up a winding road. Up and up the side of Paris mountain. The charcoal silhouettes of live oaks and maples twisted and arched their backs across the sky. They laughed at us and fought back some of the starlight. They must have snickered about how absurd humans must be.
We weren't really talking.
ME: "Where are we going?"
X: "You'll see. I know a place."
Oh X.... you charmer you.
We parked along side the tiny off road leaving just enough space for passing traffic to squeeze around. It didn't matter. There weren't any cars that far up the mountain. Not tonight. Mercifully.
We stumbled like children down the embankment. Tiny souls blind to the bitter broken change. Blind to the way they would soon be broken together. Down the hill they stumbled through the dead hill grasses that came up to their knees all white and gray in the light of the moon and stars.
It was a little flat space. Maybe at one time someone had intended to build a house there, on the side of the mountain. Maybe they had gone bankrupt. Now it was a dump site for extra cement and building materials no longer needed. If you looked carefully the clearing was dotted with crush beer cans... Evidence of low living and bad decision making. I didn't notice though... I was staring out over the edge of the cliff. All of Greenville was stretched out in front of me. I could see for miles and miles and the landscape mirrored the cold diamond sky, with it's tiny lights from all the houses and street bulbs.
Reader... come with me. Follow me to the most beautiful place on earth. X and I were both shaking by now. Inching closer in the grassy desolation. Laughing nervously.
As the breeze swilled around that blue lit perch on the mountain... we kissed. My blood turned to liquid fire as dark methamphetamine scorched its way into my heart.
I laughed...
Me: "That wasn't so bad was it?"
X: (still shaking) "No. No it wasn't."
The deed was done. And we like successful thieves laughed our way back down the sober mountain. I won't ever forget that place or those moments. Come death or starvation. Come the spite of the rest of humanity. I'm sorry it didn't last X. I'm sorry it wasn't forever. I'm sorry that some things that should never have been forgotten... were lost.
I was a changed man after though. I no longer had the fear of god in me. I would trick hell and swim the river Stix if i must. This was what I was born to be. This was the closest I had ever been to perfect.
I was scared though. It would either work or it wouldn't. And to tell you flatly reader... I'd never been kissed.
I'd known 'X' for about three months... Christine was way...way over by then. And Melodie.... I don't think Im gonna get into that right this second. X and I had been playing a delicate little game of 'hint and lie' for something that was starting to seem like the better part of a decade. X is a bit of a wall flower. X had drawn me in with a surprising complexity and the promise of something I'd never felt before. Connection.
Not like 'networking' or 'friendship' or... anything quite so trite as those things. It felt like that rush you feel when you're on the highway and you're dead sure you're gonna tail end somebody because they stopped and you didn't notice. It felt like what a shark feels when there's blood in the water. It felt like enough static to raise every hair on your head and then make all the little blond hairs on your arms stand and point.
We were driving around in the car and it was turning dusk. We were talking about things that didn't matter. And i was rummaging for every hook I could think of to turn the conversation in the direction I wanted with out being blunt and plain and..... childish. I kept rubbing my hands on my khakis... cause my palms were sweating. I felt like I was being hunted. But that was irrational. Of course I wasn't.
"Nothing has to happen at all!" I kept reminding myself. A little mantra I was chanting in my head. "Everythings going to be fine.... you'll see." Maybe that little voice wasn't mine. Maybe it was Satan. Maybe it was worse. Maybe it was lust. Either way it calmed me down and set me just like steel to my purpose.
I don't know how I had let all this come to have such intense meaning. This wasn't skydiving. But just at that second... I would have been less nervous about jumping out of a plane.
I was trying... but you know, honestly there was no way to flip the conversation from "but of course, that was before Bach's wife died...." to... "I want to stick my tongue down your throat."
I took the best route that I knew. I let the conversation die off for a minute.
ME: "So.... I have a confession."
X:.......
ME: " I kinda.... uh. wanna.... kiss you."
X: (laughs nervously)
ME: "I mean.... you know.... just.... if that's ok with you and all..." I had never felt this exact mix of emotions before. It was like tight rope walking 50 ft over a snake pit. Each contraction of my heart was clearly audible.
X: "Um....."
ME: "I mean.... if you don't want to.... " (Stupid! Just stop talking!) I thought.
X: "OK." "Sure."
Well. I guess that was supposed to make me feel better. At least X wasn't opposed to the idea.
X knew an out of the way place. Up a winding road. Up and up the side of Paris mountain. The charcoal silhouettes of live oaks and maples twisted and arched their backs across the sky. They laughed at us and fought back some of the starlight. They must have snickered about how absurd humans must be.
We weren't really talking.
ME: "Where are we going?"
X: "You'll see. I know a place."
Oh X.... you charmer you.
We parked along side the tiny off road leaving just enough space for passing traffic to squeeze around. It didn't matter. There weren't any cars that far up the mountain. Not tonight. Mercifully.
We stumbled like children down the embankment. Tiny souls blind to the bitter broken change. Blind to the way they would soon be broken together. Down the hill they stumbled through the dead hill grasses that came up to their knees all white and gray in the light of the moon and stars.
It was a little flat space. Maybe at one time someone had intended to build a house there, on the side of the mountain. Maybe they had gone bankrupt. Now it was a dump site for extra cement and building materials no longer needed. If you looked carefully the clearing was dotted with crush beer cans... Evidence of low living and bad decision making. I didn't notice though... I was staring out over the edge of the cliff. All of Greenville was stretched out in front of me. I could see for miles and miles and the landscape mirrored the cold diamond sky, with it's tiny lights from all the houses and street bulbs.
Reader... come with me. Follow me to the most beautiful place on earth. X and I were both shaking by now. Inching closer in the grassy desolation. Laughing nervously.
As the breeze swilled around that blue lit perch on the mountain... we kissed. My blood turned to liquid fire as dark methamphetamine scorched its way into my heart.
I laughed...
Me: "That wasn't so bad was it?"
X: (still shaking) "No. No it wasn't."
The deed was done. And we like successful thieves laughed our way back down the sober mountain. I won't ever forget that place or those moments. Come death or starvation. Come the spite of the rest of humanity. I'm sorry it didn't last X. I'm sorry it wasn't forever. I'm sorry that some things that should never have been forgotten... were lost.
I was a changed man after though. I no longer had the fear of god in me. I would trick hell and swim the river Stix if i must. This was what I was born to be. This was the closest I had ever been to perfect.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Collusion: Part XV
Doubtless you readers might find the preceding happenings a bit difficult to believe. Such a structured environment must be designed to protect its members, no? So I had thought too. I thought here i would have been safe. I would be safe from drunken frat parties. I thought I'd be safe from being labeled anything but a christian. I thought it would be a place for me to grow and experience a sort of society, without having to worry about hazing, or alcohol poisoning, or roofies. Or perhaps being dragged out of my bed in the middle night and lynched for looking queer. Alas. It was not so to be. I say this all with a sort of wry smile on my face... hind sight is a bit less dire.
The great thing about almost bashing someones head in with an oak chair, is that in societies which still operate by rule of the dominant male, (see last 14 chapters) the more a man such as myself can assert physical dominance over the others, the less likely he is to be maligned by surrounding males who are also competing for dominance. Tale as old as time and all that. For a while the bullying stopped. I had learned enough spanish from my classes that I could fire back slurs at the room-mates mothers... calling them prostitutes; and not the classy kind either. Antonio Banderas wouldn't have approved of this tactic, but Antonio was busy filming 'Zorro' with Catherine Zeta Jones.
Control. Always control. I would fight to maintain it. I had divided my life into cubicles like an office space. Piano was in one, Room-mates in another. Running in one, Classes in another. My friends had a space of about four cubicles; one of the largest rooms... but i still wouldn't let them see what was happening in all the others. Everyone hated it here, but I didn't want them to know that I was seriously considering homicide as a legitimate solution to some of my problems. I would check the status of activities in each of my cubicles, and take the positive activity, and weigh it against the things that weren't going so well. Its part of how I managed. I worked hard at my studies. I would even call my Mom and ask for her help in studying something. E-mailing her a copy of a list of terms that I would need to define. I was one way of trying to stay in touch with the family. I would walk back and forth in front of my dorm talking and talking, papers in my hand or reciting a speech. I think my mom liked those long conversations... I had hoped that those phone calls would make here feel less like an era hand ended; even though it had.
Ramon Nieves would spend roughly forty minutes each morning sculpting his very short very black hair into a desired shape. I was unable to comprehend the amount of pride that must be at the back of this practice. I reasoned that no amount of hair gel would change his race, or make him less of an asshole. Either way I refused to give input. I suppose if your hair is roughly the texture of burlap, then your styling options are quite limited. Ramon was curiously vain and most of our conversations consisted of him regaling me with romanticized stories of his academic triumphs and amorous conquests. I supposed that this must have been some sort of attempt on his part to compensate for the fact that he was nearly 5 feet and 2 inches tall... and perhaps also that 60% of the words I used were beyond the scope of his understanding of the English language.
One evenings conversation was particularly revealing of my relationship with him. He stood at the sink preening in front of the mirror as I read an engaging chapter out of my Harmony text book lounging on my bunk. He pulled out a couple of outfit options from one of the three closets he had spread his expansive wardrobe out in.... to get my opinion on them.
ME: "Where are you going? Whats all the fuss about?" I could hardly have been begged to be interested.
RAMON: "Oy, my societies dating outing. Mayn I'm going wid dis girl.... ah Chelsea I think? What do you dink about dis?" He displayed some garishly colored button-down. Latinos are partial to button-downs. Particularly silk button-downs.
ME: "ummmm. Maybe you could mix it with dark jeans i guess. But don't wear the white shoes. It's too much. Especially if you're going to be playing paint-ball."
RAMON: "Oh yeah right! You're good at this mayn..... Brown belt, or the black one?"
ME: "El negro. Es mas simplé." I had taken to assuring the other members of the room that I was learning Spanish faster than they could hope to learn English.
Ramon puttered around for a few more minutes and sprayed himself down with the most god-awful cologne. You know the kind that leaves a dense cloud of musk after? The kind that leaves you licking the roof of you mouth because of the alcohol at the back of your throat. Ramon left in a hustle, more or less content with the way he looked.
I was feeling particularly wicked. I slid off my bunk and marked and closed my Harmony text. Vanity is punishable I thought.... and I'd nothing better to do. I opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a liter of hydrogen peroxide. I uncapped the bottle and poured about a half of a cup of the magical bleaching liquid into Ramon's bottle of hair gel... then gave the hair gel bottle a shake to incorporate my mischief. Shake shake shake..... gurgle. plop. I placed the hair gel bottle precisely on the shelf as Ramon had left it, and went back to reading my homework.
The great thing about almost bashing someones head in with an oak chair, is that in societies which still operate by rule of the dominant male, (see last 14 chapters) the more a man such as myself can assert physical dominance over the others, the less likely he is to be maligned by surrounding males who are also competing for dominance. Tale as old as time and all that. For a while the bullying stopped. I had learned enough spanish from my classes that I could fire back slurs at the room-mates mothers... calling them prostitutes; and not the classy kind either. Antonio Banderas wouldn't have approved of this tactic, but Antonio was busy filming 'Zorro' with Catherine Zeta Jones.
Control. Always control. I would fight to maintain it. I had divided my life into cubicles like an office space. Piano was in one, Room-mates in another. Running in one, Classes in another. My friends had a space of about four cubicles; one of the largest rooms... but i still wouldn't let them see what was happening in all the others. Everyone hated it here, but I didn't want them to know that I was seriously considering homicide as a legitimate solution to some of my problems. I would check the status of activities in each of my cubicles, and take the positive activity, and weigh it against the things that weren't going so well. Its part of how I managed. I worked hard at my studies. I would even call my Mom and ask for her help in studying something. E-mailing her a copy of a list of terms that I would need to define. I was one way of trying to stay in touch with the family. I would walk back and forth in front of my dorm talking and talking, papers in my hand or reciting a speech. I think my mom liked those long conversations... I had hoped that those phone calls would make here feel less like an era hand ended; even though it had.
Ramon Nieves would spend roughly forty minutes each morning sculpting his very short very black hair into a desired shape. I was unable to comprehend the amount of pride that must be at the back of this practice. I reasoned that no amount of hair gel would change his race, or make him less of an asshole. Either way I refused to give input. I suppose if your hair is roughly the texture of burlap, then your styling options are quite limited. Ramon was curiously vain and most of our conversations consisted of him regaling me with romanticized stories of his academic triumphs and amorous conquests. I supposed that this must have been some sort of attempt on his part to compensate for the fact that he was nearly 5 feet and 2 inches tall... and perhaps also that 60% of the words I used were beyond the scope of his understanding of the English language.
One evenings conversation was particularly revealing of my relationship with him. He stood at the sink preening in front of the mirror as I read an engaging chapter out of my Harmony text book lounging on my bunk. He pulled out a couple of outfit options from one of the three closets he had spread his expansive wardrobe out in.... to get my opinion on them.
ME: "Where are you going? Whats all the fuss about?" I could hardly have been begged to be interested.
RAMON: "Oy, my societies dating outing. Mayn I'm going wid dis girl.... ah Chelsea I think? What do you dink about dis?" He displayed some garishly colored button-down. Latinos are partial to button-downs. Particularly silk button-downs.
ME: "ummmm. Maybe you could mix it with dark jeans i guess. But don't wear the white shoes. It's too much. Especially if you're going to be playing paint-ball."
RAMON: "Oh yeah right! You're good at this mayn..... Brown belt, or the black one?"
ME: "El negro. Es mas simplé." I had taken to assuring the other members of the room that I was learning Spanish faster than they could hope to learn English.
Ramon puttered around for a few more minutes and sprayed himself down with the most god-awful cologne. You know the kind that leaves a dense cloud of musk after? The kind that leaves you licking the roof of you mouth because of the alcohol at the back of your throat. Ramon left in a hustle, more or less content with the way he looked.
I was feeling particularly wicked. I slid off my bunk and marked and closed my Harmony text. Vanity is punishable I thought.... and I'd nothing better to do. I opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a liter of hydrogen peroxide. I uncapped the bottle and poured about a half of a cup of the magical bleaching liquid into Ramon's bottle of hair gel... then gave the hair gel bottle a shake to incorporate my mischief. Shake shake shake..... gurgle. plop. I placed the hair gel bottle precisely on the shelf as Ramon had left it, and went back to reading my homework.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Collusion: Part XII
Words. Powerful words. They take shape and leave our mouths. Such harmless little things made out of carbon dioxide. Little puffs of a toxin and a bit of vibration made with teeth and tongue. Or little symbols on white paper. These are the tools that we use to fabricate community. How odd that stubby doses of poison should give us so much... should become a deity of sorts making so many choices for us.
Collusion celebrated 1,000 page views this week and I cant think of a better way to slide into Christmas than by inviting my friends and my foes to collude with me. To follow the pied piper. To admit to ourselves if only for those moments that we share with our thoughts and a computer screen that corruption is everywhere. It is who we are. It's the one thing that you can be sure of in any new person that you meet. And why is corruption so pervasive, you might ask? That's simple! because its so delicious.
Christmas break droned on. We chopped wood for the fireplace. A great hulking thing that's the centerpiece of the largest room in my house. Enormous 13 and 15 foot logs my dad had chainsawed into submission were piled up in my back yard at the edge of the woods; and every other day or so my brother, or my dad or myself would take an axe and cut away enough wood for the next couple of cold nights.
I'm from a very close-nit community. In a town that cant have a population of more than 3000 people. Its so rural as to be cliche. As ive mentioned before, people farm there. They have all their lives. Their fathers did, and their father's fathers did. Our neighbors all came to church with us. A church which my father had left the sins of his wild youth to found, and one which he continues to lead to this day. As i consider it, most of my early musical training was intended for use in worship. As a result, I have a mental database of hundreds of hymn tunes that I can play with my eyes closed, in any key. When I was home over Christmas break I fell neatly back into the roles that I had played before. At home and at church as well. All told it was a congregation of about 40 people. The number changed from season to season as southern people tend to have disagreements about such highly important religious matters as women who wear pants and those obviously diabolical members of the congregation who attend movie theaters. No joke. Anyways, our church services met twice on sundays and once on wednesday nights. We all met in a beige corrugated metal church building in the middle of a seven acre field of green lawn, behind one of those stone and metal church signs that you can rearrange letters on. You can make them say whatever you like...
My dad was mostly responsible for these messages. One could always rely on them to be inspiring. The members of the church were the most fascinating group of people on the planet. All ok, plain folks with thick syrupy accents. Loud women who wore too much mascara, and ate too much red meat. And quiet men who sat beside these women.
I liked church. I loved the routine of it all. The ritual. We gather... sing old old songs about christ's blood and its power to make us perfect. We'd pray, or be lead in prayer... and then my father would preach a message about sin. Faith. Or the evils and destructing force of extra marital sex. His sermons were all peppered with his own brand of gawdy obvious humor. I have so memorized the lilting pace of my fathers sermons that i can predict what he's going to say next. It's a type of relationship that not many people have the opportunity to experience with their fathers and as such I feel quite lucky to have grown up that way. Each facet of my fathers belief system was made plainly evident written out in hour after hour of monologue. Layers and walls. A labyrinth of hedges looping and twisting into a maze of 'do' and 'do nots.' Sermon after sermon I received a powerful view of this bank of rules.... Fascinating and complex.
The music leader at my church is named Charles. Charles McMillan. He's a man of colossal girth. I estimate that he weighs very close to five hundred pounds, and oddly enough is still mobile. He's been a friend of the families for as long as i could remember. Apparently at one time he was quite average size, but from what ive been able to gather; a love interest in college left him with emotional scars that he had tried to patch up with lots and lots of brisket. Charles is roughly 46 years old. He has been in charge of all the songs sung, and all the notes played at our little community church for very close to 10 years i suppose. Charles and I had been cordial to one another since I had met him until one day when I had prepared a little piano piece for church, he told me that i was "never going to be a good pianist unless i learned to read music." As you can imagine... the comment did very bad things for a cordial relationship. My playing from sight was remedial at best. Lessons had been cast away patch work things with hit or miss training from country bumpkins who owned pianos. Ah well.
From that moment however Charles and I became mortal enemies. If the both of us were in a room you could feel the temperature drop. The water vapor in the air would instantly crystallize. Charles was part of the reason for my pursuing piano so decidedly throughout highschool... and undeniably had something to do with my two year stint with bulimia when I was 17 and 18.
During holiday services Charles and I danced our icy dance of cordiality and hatred like two quiet little pageant queens; needing attention much as daisies need sunlight. And so i passed away the few days that remained of my break from school. In a very few days i would return to what was sure to be hostile environment. I would be stronger than those boys at school though. They'd see. They wouldn't break me.
Collusion celebrated 1,000 page views this week and I cant think of a better way to slide into Christmas than by inviting my friends and my foes to collude with me. To follow the pied piper. To admit to ourselves if only for those moments that we share with our thoughts and a computer screen that corruption is everywhere. It is who we are. It's the one thing that you can be sure of in any new person that you meet. And why is corruption so pervasive, you might ask? That's simple! because its so delicious.
Christmas break droned on. We chopped wood for the fireplace. A great hulking thing that's the centerpiece of the largest room in my house. Enormous 13 and 15 foot logs my dad had chainsawed into submission were piled up in my back yard at the edge of the woods; and every other day or so my brother, or my dad or myself would take an axe and cut away enough wood for the next couple of cold nights.
I'm from a very close-nit community. In a town that cant have a population of more than 3000 people. Its so rural as to be cliche. As ive mentioned before, people farm there. They have all their lives. Their fathers did, and their father's fathers did. Our neighbors all came to church with us. A church which my father had left the sins of his wild youth to found, and one which he continues to lead to this day. As i consider it, most of my early musical training was intended for use in worship. As a result, I have a mental database of hundreds of hymn tunes that I can play with my eyes closed, in any key. When I was home over Christmas break I fell neatly back into the roles that I had played before. At home and at church as well. All told it was a congregation of about 40 people. The number changed from season to season as southern people tend to have disagreements about such highly important religious matters as women who wear pants and those obviously diabolical members of the congregation who attend movie theaters. No joke. Anyways, our church services met twice on sundays and once on wednesday nights. We all met in a beige corrugated metal church building in the middle of a seven acre field of green lawn, behind one of those stone and metal church signs that you can rearrange letters on. You can make them say whatever you like...
"POT LUCK THIS SUNDAY!"
or
"DO RIGHT 'TIL THE STARS FALL"
or
"CHCH. WHAT'S MISSING!? U R!"
My dad was mostly responsible for these messages. One could always rely on them to be inspiring. The members of the church were the most fascinating group of people on the planet. All ok, plain folks with thick syrupy accents. Loud women who wore too much mascara, and ate too much red meat. And quiet men who sat beside these women.
I liked church. I loved the routine of it all. The ritual. We gather... sing old old songs about christ's blood and its power to make us perfect. We'd pray, or be lead in prayer... and then my father would preach a message about sin. Faith. Or the evils and destructing force of extra marital sex. His sermons were all peppered with his own brand of gawdy obvious humor. I have so memorized the lilting pace of my fathers sermons that i can predict what he's going to say next. It's a type of relationship that not many people have the opportunity to experience with their fathers and as such I feel quite lucky to have grown up that way. Each facet of my fathers belief system was made plainly evident written out in hour after hour of monologue. Layers and walls. A labyrinth of hedges looping and twisting into a maze of 'do' and 'do nots.' Sermon after sermon I received a powerful view of this bank of rules.... Fascinating and complex.
The music leader at my church is named Charles. Charles McMillan. He's a man of colossal girth. I estimate that he weighs very close to five hundred pounds, and oddly enough is still mobile. He's been a friend of the families for as long as i could remember. Apparently at one time he was quite average size, but from what ive been able to gather; a love interest in college left him with emotional scars that he had tried to patch up with lots and lots of brisket. Charles is roughly 46 years old. He has been in charge of all the songs sung, and all the notes played at our little community church for very close to 10 years i suppose. Charles and I had been cordial to one another since I had met him until one day when I had prepared a little piano piece for church, he told me that i was "never going to be a good pianist unless i learned to read music." As you can imagine... the comment did very bad things for a cordial relationship. My playing from sight was remedial at best. Lessons had been cast away patch work things with hit or miss training from country bumpkins who owned pianos. Ah well.
From that moment however Charles and I became mortal enemies. If the both of us were in a room you could feel the temperature drop. The water vapor in the air would instantly crystallize. Charles was part of the reason for my pursuing piano so decidedly throughout highschool... and undeniably had something to do with my two year stint with bulimia when I was 17 and 18.
During holiday services Charles and I danced our icy dance of cordiality and hatred like two quiet little pageant queens; needing attention much as daisies need sunlight. And so i passed away the few days that remained of my break from school. In a very few days i would return to what was sure to be hostile environment. I would be stronger than those boys at school though. They'd see. They wouldn't break me.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)