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Chapter One
Leaving Home
FEELING AT THEIR LAST, BIGOTED STRAW, Steven Colt, Sr.,
and his wife, Lydia, were assessing whether to kick their son, Steve, out of
the house for his drug habit and his chronic scholastic underachievement.
The young man’s inability to apply himself in school was caused by his
general confusion and bewilderment about how to manage his education.
With an undetected learning disability and no fitting mentorship, there was
little to be done to ensure his success. Steve’s efforts were significant, but
without proper guidance they brought him no due success in school. Even
worse, he did not learn how to relate to students or teachers.
Colt and his wife were opinionated, yet vague, when explaining their
agenda to their Steve. They had all but decided that he would have to
leave, but wanted to give him a few last chances to redeem himself, as if
he were the dark horse in a race and might yet win back their favor if he
ran the course well.
So, Steve naïvely attempted to patch up his relationship with his
parents. He wanted to raise their spiritual sensitivity by taking them to see
a favorite guru of his who had arrived from India to visit their town.
During one hot, oppressive afternoon, as they all sat in the living room
discussing the prospect of hearing the Guru speak, Steve’s father said,
“We’ll listen to this Guru of yours talk. But I’ll tell you now, there’s no
need for us to learn about these vain, pagan habits and idolatrous
ceremonies. I don’t think it will help, but we’ll go along with it.” As he
spoke, a globule of spit flew from his lips and landed on the toe of Steve’s
left shoe.
Steve said ardently, “Pacifism is never a vain pastime and the gods of
India, like Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, are fantastically surreal and
interesting. It’s not just idol worship, but true religion!”
“You are an elaborate dreamer with fanciful thoughts; your concepts are
all wrong! I don’t know why you believe in pacifism!” Lydia asserted,
stomping her foot as if to smother Steve’s passion for innovation.
Steve felt stifled and inadequate. He worried, and not for the first time,
that perhaps he was being irrational and the worry made him go pale. He
swallowed past the hollowness in his throat and declared, “The fruits of
pacifist revolution will change the world!”
“Bah! Revolution, insurrection!” barked his father, which killed the
conversation altogether.
Time passed, and the day arrived when the family planned to see the
Guru. Steve’s heart lurched, as the hope that his parents once again would
accept him into the fold swelled within his breast. Steve grew impatient as
he waited to leave. Trying not to sound presumptuous, he carefully said,
“The Guru will start speaking in an hour. Shouldn’t we, maybe, leave
soon?”
As if he were announcing the burning of Rome, Colt said, “We’re not
going. We decided that anybody who preaches pacifism the way this Guru
does must lack tenacity.”
Brazen with sudden rage, Steve shouted, “You never address my
feelings! Can’t you compromise? You say that the worship of Indian gods
seems like idol ceremonies. Well, you are dull ceremony! You must learn
from other people’s ways!”
“Your generation needs to be censured!” Colt interjected. “You
shouldn’t knock the ruling order! You are nothing but a pacifist
Machiavelli rag doll! The only way you have is drugs!”
Trying to comfort his ego, Steve searched for a term in his
unsophisticated mind to define his parents’ rejection. “Isn’t this called
pretentious and pigheaded?” he wondered to himself.
This dead-end relationship continued in a very constricted manner for
Steve during his last days at home. Because he was doing poorly in
school, Steve’s attachment to his parents was very strained. They seemed
to enjoy crushing his self-esteem when he did not meet their expectations.
Steve was not sturdy enough to fight back, so he collapsed under the
pressure. His parents’ derisive campaign caused him to believe that if he
didn’t jump when they said jump, he would never get anything from them.
It was his last year of high school after being held back two years.
School was almost out and he was graduating in a few weeks. He was
somewhat relieved about it, because it seemed as if he would graduate
before getting kicked out of his house. However, his father and his
teachers continued to loom over him like mythical monsters. Their
menacing presence caused Steve to cower, making him still more
educationally dysfunctional. Although he was competent enough to
succeed and graduate, he barely got by because nobody understood and
helped him. He was smart, but introverted. Unaware of any lurking
neurosis, he responded to pressure much like an oppressed little clown,
not only with his teachers, but with girlfriends and classmates.
He suffered an unrecognized psychic or learning disability, through
which only someone who cared could help him. Additionally, he had
incomplete social and educational relationships, being that he had no
teachers or friends who took notice of his problem.
One day, just before he was to graduate — and gripped by the fear
that he would soon be put out of the house — he lashed out and called his
math teacher an ogre. Because the school had no counselors, he was sent
to the principal. Steve was incapable of processing or understanding the
significance of his blunder. He understood only that he had been taunted
by this superior.
Steve walked in the principal’s office and sat down.
“Why did you call your teacher an ogre, Steve?” probed the principal.
Steve responded with a jumble of words. “There’s a conflict between
Mr. Olsen and me — and possibly with other students, too. He treats us
like kids, and we fight back with fantasies about him being like an ogre or
a monster. He’s like some sort of fairy tale person who thinks he has
absolute power over everything. He’s a real control freak.”
Having hit his stride, Steve paused for breath and plowed on. “It’s not
just him. Most of the teachers are like that. None of them help us. They’re
like big blocks of ignorance that stand in our way. I don’t understand why
they don’t treat us like real people who have purposeful imaginations and
ideals. And they treat me like I’m the village idiot. It’s way out of line.”
“I think the teacher believes you’re capable of more than you’ve
shown and he’s trying to discipline you to excel. He’s not tyrannical or an
ogre, he just expects more of you,” explained the principal. “If you don’t
watch out, you won’t be able to continue through school. With all the
reprimands you’ve gotten, you still could be expelled before you graduate.
Even with just a week or so to go. You’ve been in here far too often. If I
find you in here again, I might have to hold you back another year.”
“Mr. Olsen makes me feel inadequate, guilty, and cagey. Maybe I would
do better if I had a counselor,” muttered Steve, near tears.
Having covered this ground with Steve before, the principal sighed.
“You know we don’t have a counselor. Don’t challenge me or you’ll find
yourself in more trouble. Now, go on back to class.”
Steve liked to spend much of his time engaging in some sort of private
activity. He often went hiking when he felt lost and unable to deal with his
emotions, or when he felt helpless and didn’t know why. He also liked to
smoke pot during such times, which often made him still more depressed.
It was a Catch-22: he smoked pot because he was depressed, which then
made him feel withdrawn and paranoid, so he smoked more pot.
One day, his friend Charlie, who was studying psychology,
accompanied Steve on one of his hikes. At one time, Steve had shared a
close affinity with Charlie. But when Charlie had begun his university
studies, their relationship had grown distant. It hadn’t been long before
Charlie became Charles — the final act that had transformed Charlie, and
their friendship, forever.
Charles no longer seemed to share anything with Steve, including what
he had learned from his courses. Steve felt Charles had been keeping all of
his newfound knowledge a secret, speaking only in generic terms as if
Steve were too obtuse to understand. But Steve was far from obtuse and
desperately wanted to understand.
While walking together, Steve tried to sustain conversation with his
friend. Charles appeared to be an agreeable shadow of his old self, but
beneath he was cold and aloof. He maintained a distance that made it
impossible for friendly osmosis to exist between them, as it once had. He
was an immovable façade, thought Steve, though somewhat quaint — like
a character in an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.
When Steve tried to explain that he might have to leave home, his
friend’s demeanor made him feel paranoid and guilty, like a stray cat
kicked out of its shelter. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if my parents
kick me out of the house,” he said. “It’s like they think I have instant
karma. Right now, you would never know how paranoid I am. But it’s all I
can do to deal with this mountain path we’re walking on, let alone to deal
with my parents and everything else. What should I do?”
“Maybe you have a real mental problem and should see a doctor,”
Charles said with an edge of disdain, as if Steve were just a pawn in a
private game of knowledge and condescension. “You seem to have broken
some sort of covenant. I’m speaking allegorically, of course, about an
unwritten contract between you and your parents and society. It’s
something you’ll have to learn to deal with. You also have a pact with
those street people, those drug dealers. It’s like walking down a dark
alleyway and not along the straight-and-narrow. You’re making too many
concessions with the wrong people.”
Although Charles had attempted to be sympathetic — a rare thing in
itself, these days — his analytical demeanor grated on Steve’s nerves.
Many years ago, Charles had been sort of hip, but he had turned cold and
diagnostic. Where he had once been kind and sympathetic, Charles now
regarded Steve as if he were a specimen under a microscope. Charles gave
no quarter, only harsh analysis and glancing eye contact.
Unfortunately, because of his limited sense of self and lack of insight,
Steve was unable to comprehend that he was split down the middle by
spiritual austerity and material impracticality. He seemed spiritually aloof,
unaware of how his behavior alienated those around him. Yet, at the same
time, he was controlled by material forces and by the attitudes of people
he did not understand. He was incapable of learning from others and he
could not explain his spirituality in practical terms.
Because he felt so intimidated by the people in his life — especially
Charles — he failed to see the many things he needed to confront and
resolve, if he were to walk the straight-and-narrow path toward
compromise, and spiritual and material success. Burdened by a deep
depression, he was essentially stumbling up that mountain, rather than
walking.
Steve felt crushed by the block that controlled his mind and he
declared to Charles, “I don’t think I’ve really broken any pact or
agreement. I’m doing just fine. At least I don’t deal drugs. I think I’m
dealing with reality just fine.” Even as he spoke, however, Steve flinched
as the lies escaped his lips.
Charles gave him a level look and said nothing.
They continued climbing and the silence stretched between them,
widening the breach that already existed. To break the silence, each made
perfunctory quips to the other, like “Beautiful view,” or “Let’s take a
breather.” But the damage was done — irreparably so — and neither was
able to speak openly to the other.
At home, the situation continued unrelentingly bad. Steve’s small ego
was constantly assaulted by his parents’ demands to change. He walked
around in a funk of adolescent self-pity, convincing himself that all adults
were petty, materialistic egotists who imposed unrealistic demands upon
him.
To make matters worse, Steve was arrested for marijuana possession.
It was only a small amount, but the police got very serious about it. When
Colt and Lydia bailed him out of jail, his father smoldered with a rage that
made Steve feel like it was the dawn of the Apocalypse. As they drove
home, Colt ranted at him for what Steve regarded as a petty crime.
When they gathered around the dinner table that evening, it was some
minutes before anyone spoke. Silverware clinked against porcelain, and
the sounds of mastication hung in the air like lead weights. It was some
minutes before Lydia glanced at her husband and broke the silence. “Why
didn’t you say Grace, dear? Is the meatloaf that bad?”
Colt’s brows came together in a grimace of distaste as he grumbled
around a mouthful of food, “We don’t have anything to be thankful for
with this misfit in our family.” He jerked his head in Steve’s direction, and
Steve looked down at his plate. “That freak son of ours puts such a bad
taste in my mouth it makes your godforsaken meatloaf taste like a filet
mignon.”
Colt flung down his napkin. As he left the table, he threw a scathing
look at his son. “The sight of you makes me sick.”
Steve sat on the hard, wooden chair with his head bowed, feeling his
heart thud in the thick hollowness of his chest. A familiar desperation
crept in, crushing what thin sense of self he still possessed. Against his
better reasoning, he wondered whether his father might kill him, even
though he was sure Colt wouldn’t, and couldn’t, do such a thing.
Steve lived in a world that felt cold and full of pretentious friends who
hid their real feelings. He had a beautiful girlfriend, Virginia, who flirted
with other men. She led Steve to believe she loved him, but their
relationship was bereft of any closeness beyond youthful, physical
abandonment and sensual pleasure, which Steve always stopped just short
of sex.
She liked to taunt him. Once, she’d kissed another man to the point of
groping each other, while Steve helplessly looked on, wringing his hands.
He’d hoped it was just Virginia’s impetuousness that had sent her behavior
over the edge. He was a naïve cavalier; she, a spoiled prima donna.
Virginia often mocked him and made a fool of him in front of other
people. One day, she abusively teased him during a class they shared. The
day’s lecture raised the issue of Genesis versus evolution.
Steve raised his hand and hypothesized, “Sometimes, I wonder whether
we haven’t actually escaped from a simple, primal consciousness.
Because the larger percentage of society suffers a deficiency of natural
intuition, they are detached from even a caveman’s understanding of his
environment. We sadly wallow in our own untouchability, spoiled by the
gifts of humanity. The gift of the ape is instinct and intuition, and the gift
of humanity in the image of God is being able to bless and be blessed.
“Maybe the Tree of Knowledge gave to Adam and Eve the concept of
our link to the ape, which is our basest form of being. In contrast,
spirituality is built upon transcending our human condition. But to do that,
one must understand one’s lowest desires, too.
“Why would we want to prove that we’re just apes in a static,
unenlightened state? For some reason, since we think we understand good
and evil and suffer an inferior existence, we believe that gives us the right
to condescend to the meek and that we are made of miracles alone. We
don’t seem to possess the knowledge of a collective awareness, or God,
whether we view ourselves as humans, or as apes.”
It was then that Virginia snidely said, “OK, you spiritually
undernourished gorilla, cut to the chase!”
The class laughed, hard. Steve sat down at his desk, fighting the tears
that threatened to spill from his eyes.
On Easter Sunday, Steve and Virginia sat with his parents discussing
destruction. His older brother, Brian, was home from college over Easter
break and had brought his friend, Noah, to visit. His parents wanted him to
go to a prayer meeting where they always preached about the End Times.
This form of Christianity emotionally choked young Steve, causing him to
feel overwhelmed and frustrated by people with whom he did not share
common beliefs and ideals.
“Why should we talk about destruction on the day that Christ was
resurrected? Or when rabbits and eggs are the thing of the day? Or to
listen to a preacher who has no remorse for his own sinning, as if he is
protected from anarchy by his religious mantle?”
“There will be no one safe when the Apocalypse comes!” his father
shouted. “People will be leery of those who are dear to them. The horse
will bolt. God will declare that all people are candidates to receive His
wrath, and the rabbit will be on the run!”
Steve furrowed his brow, uncertain what his father meant. He thought
of his own rabbits living in a cage in the backyard, and imagined a god,
swollen and red with fury, chasing them down for their sins. “You’ve heard
of the Buddha meditating in the Deer Park, haven’t you?” he entreated.
“He believed we should be at peace with ourselves and with nature.”
“That is propaganda,” Colt said, pointing his finger at Steve. “There
was no peaceful deer park back then. The wealthy would have hunted in
that park and killed the deer for food.” Colt said.
Brian snorted. “The rabbit’s on the run, Steve. Get used to it!”
Weary of his father’s intolerance and his brother’s endless teasing, he
stood and held his hand toward Virginia. “I’m going to feed the rabbits,” he
said. “Are you coming with?”
She nodded and followed him outside, Brian and Noah close behind.
While Steve tended to the rabbits, Virginia and Noah murmured and
laughed together. When Noah started to tickle Virginia, he said over her
shrieks of delight, “Let’s leave this rabbit lover and go someplace we can
have some real fun!”
Brian chortled.
Confused and hurt, Steve said, “Virginia, why are you as loose as a
Chinese wonton?”
Barely comprehending Steve’s confusion between a wonton and
wanton behavior, Virginia said, “I’m sick of you being such a pansy! I’ll
watch you feed the rabbits, but then we’re leaving.” She glanced at Noah
and rolled her eyes.
Steve’s face colored and he glanced down at his hand. “I forgot the
rabbit food,” he muttered. “I have to go get it.”
He walked toward the garage where the rabbit food was kept, his
footsteps heavy in the new spring grass. A few minutes later, he located
the rabbit food behind the lawnmower and returned to the cage. Brian,
Noah and Virginia were already gone. When he opened the cage to get the
food dish, two of the rabbits were dead. He picked one up, its head
hanging loosely from its neck. Gently returning the rabbit to its cage, Steve
stalked back to the house looking for the three culprits.
Once inside, he found Brian in his room, a mean, gloating smile
stretched across his face.
“Who killed my rabbits?” Steve demanded, his body shaking with rage.
“I killed one and Noah killed the other. I guess Noah left the rabbits
out when he built the Ark,” said his brother in a self-satisfied, mocking
tone.
“Who do you think you are?” Steve shouted, shoving his brother
roughly.
Brian fell over the desk chair behind him. As he hit the floor, a sharp
crack pierced the air. An inarticulate cry of pain ripped from his throat and
he swore savagely.
Steve looked down at his brother in astonishment. One elbow was bent
awkwardly beneath Brian’s body.
“You broke my arm! I can’t move! Dad’s gonna get you!”
Hearing the commotion, Colt charged up the stairs and into the
bedroom. “What’s going on in here?” he shouted over Brian’s wails.
Kneeling over his fallen son, he assessed the damage.“This is the last
straw!” he said to Steve. “You claim you’re a pacifist and then you break
your brother’s arm. And just the other day, I had to bail you out of jail for
possession of pot. What’s next? I should kick you out of this house right
now! You better watch your step, son. You’re on the edge.”
“It was an accident!” shouted Steve. “You aren’t my real parents!
What real parents would treat their kid the way you’ve treated me?”
Colt turned to his younger son, his face a mask of rage as he stabbed
his finger in Steve’s direction. “Sinners don’t have excuses!” he shouted.
“You’re not wanted here! You’ve got three days to pack up and get out!”
He turned his back on Steve and returned his attention to his older son.
Steve decided to go to San Francisco. He figured if he had to sleep in
the open, California had the best climate to do so. As he prepared to
leave, James, a neighbor with whom Steve had once smoked pot, invited
Steve to his house for a drink. There, the older man gave Steve five
hundred dollars to keep away the wolves for a while.
“What are you going to do with yourself, Steve?” James asked.
Steve ran his hand through his hair and looked down at the floor that
creaked beneath his weight as he shifted from foot to foot. He sighed and
said, “I don’t really know.”
James poured himself another gin and tonic. “Would you like one?”
“No, thanks,” Steve said. He didn’t like liquor.
James shook his head slowly, sipping his gin and staring at Steve. “Do
you really believe those people are your parents?”
Steve stared at James, stupefied. “What do you mean?”
“They’re fakes, and you know it.”
Steve frowned. “I… I suppose it’s possible. But most kids think they’
re adopted, at one time or another.” He glanced at James who watched him
blandly. “Don’t they? Why should I be any different?”
“They threatened me once,” James muttered, his voice slurry with
drink. He stared into the middle distance, but said nothing more.
“Who threatened you? My family?”
James’ gaze focused on Steve again. He waved his glass around as if
erasing the words he’d just spoken. “Forget about it, kid. Forget I said
that. I’ve had too much to drink. I don’t want to go on and on.”
The grown-up world that James belonged to was so different from his
own that Steve didn’t question what the older man said. Later on, however,
he would think often about James’ conjecture while contemplating his
parents’ apathy. He came to believe that James’ supposition might be true,
and the possibility sent a frisson of something he couldn’t rightly identify
through his veins.
“What’s your first memory of them?” James asked.
Steve wasn’t certain whether James was serious or not, but said, “The
first thing I can remember is when my parents told me I was two years old.
I remember being surprised, because my birthday was coming up and I
thought I was five. When I tried to tell them how old I thought I really was,
they wouldn’t listen and told me to shut up. I used to wander out to the
woods a lot and they would chase after me, calling my name. What two-
year-old goes for a walk in the woods?” He shrugged. “I just don’t know.
If they really weren’t my parents, I guess I’d have to have better proof than
that.”
He stared out the window, his hands shoved into the pockets of his
grimy jeans. “They don’t care about me, that much is obvious.”
He said good-bye to James and left town almost immediately after that
meeting. He was about to embark on a journey that would lead him
through a strange, new life.
Leaving Home
FEELING AT THEIR LAST, BIGOTED STRAW, Steven Colt, Sr.,
and his wife, Lydia, were assessing whether to kick their son, Steve, out of
the house for his drug habit and his chronic scholastic underachievement.
The young man’s inability to apply himself in school was caused by his
general confusion and bewilderment about how to manage his education.
With an undetected learning disability and no fitting mentorship, there was
little to be done to ensure his success. Steve’s efforts were significant, but
without proper guidance they brought him no due success in school. Even
worse, he did not learn how to relate to students or teachers.
Colt and his wife were opinionated, yet vague, when explaining their
agenda to their Steve. They had all but decided that he would have to
leave, but wanted to give him a few last chances to redeem himself, as if
he were the dark horse in a race and might yet win back their favor if he
ran the course well.
So, Steve naïvely attempted to patch up his relationship with his
parents. He wanted to raise their spiritual sensitivity by taking them to see
a favorite guru of his who had arrived from India to visit their town.
During one hot, oppressive afternoon, as they all sat in the living room
discussing the prospect of hearing the Guru speak, Steve’s father said,
“We’ll listen to this Guru of yours talk. But I’ll tell you now, there’s no
need for us to learn about these vain, pagan habits and idolatrous
ceremonies. I don’t think it will help, but we’ll go along with it.” As he
spoke, a globule of spit flew from his lips and landed on the toe of Steve’s
left shoe.
Steve said ardently, “Pacifism is never a vain pastime and the gods of
India, like Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, are fantastically surreal and
interesting. It’s not just idol worship, but true religion!”
“You are an elaborate dreamer with fanciful thoughts; your concepts are
all wrong! I don’t know why you believe in pacifism!” Lydia asserted,
stomping her foot as if to smother Steve’s passion for innovation.
Steve felt stifled and inadequate. He worried, and not for the first time,
that perhaps he was being irrational and the worry made him go pale. He
swallowed past the hollowness in his throat and declared, “The fruits of
pacifist revolution will change the world!”
“Bah! Revolution, insurrection!” barked his father, which killed the
conversation altogether.
Time passed, and the day arrived when the family planned to see the
Guru. Steve’s heart lurched, as the hope that his parents once again would
accept him into the fold swelled within his breast. Steve grew impatient as
he waited to leave. Trying not to sound presumptuous, he carefully said,
“The Guru will start speaking in an hour. Shouldn’t we, maybe, leave
soon?”
As if he were announcing the burning of Rome, Colt said, “We’re not
going. We decided that anybody who preaches pacifism the way this Guru
does must lack tenacity.”
Brazen with sudden rage, Steve shouted, “You never address my
feelings! Can’t you compromise? You say that the worship of Indian gods
seems like idol ceremonies. Well, you are dull ceremony! You must learn
from other people’s ways!”
“Your generation needs to be censured!” Colt interjected. “You
shouldn’t knock the ruling order! You are nothing but a pacifist
Machiavelli rag doll! The only way you have is drugs!”
Trying to comfort his ego, Steve searched for a term in his
unsophisticated mind to define his parents’ rejection. “Isn’t this called
pretentious and pigheaded?” he wondered to himself.
This dead-end relationship continued in a very constricted manner for
Steve during his last days at home. Because he was doing poorly in
school, Steve’s attachment to his parents was very strained. They seemed
to enjoy crushing his self-esteem when he did not meet their expectations.
Steve was not sturdy enough to fight back, so he collapsed under the
pressure. His parents’ derisive campaign caused him to believe that if he
didn’t jump when they said jump, he would never get anything from them.
It was his last year of high school after being held back two years.
School was almost out and he was graduating in a few weeks. He was
somewhat relieved about it, because it seemed as if he would graduate
before getting kicked out of his house. However, his father and his
teachers continued to loom over him like mythical monsters. Their
menacing presence caused Steve to cower, making him still more
educationally dysfunctional. Although he was competent enough to
succeed and graduate, he barely got by because nobody understood and
helped him. He was smart, but introverted. Unaware of any lurking
neurosis, he responded to pressure much like an oppressed little clown,
not only with his teachers, but with girlfriends and classmates.
He suffered an unrecognized psychic or learning disability, through
which only someone who cared could help him. Additionally, he had
incomplete social and educational relationships, being that he had no
teachers or friends who took notice of his problem.
One day, just before he was to graduate — and gripped by the fear
that he would soon be put out of the house — he lashed out and called his
math teacher an ogre. Because the school had no counselors, he was sent
to the principal. Steve was incapable of processing or understanding the
significance of his blunder. He understood only that he had been taunted
by this superior.
Steve walked in the principal’s office and sat down.
“Why did you call your teacher an ogre, Steve?” probed the principal.
Steve responded with a jumble of words. “There’s a conflict between
Mr. Olsen and me — and possibly with other students, too. He treats us
like kids, and we fight back with fantasies about him being like an ogre or
a monster. He’s like some sort of fairy tale person who thinks he has
absolute power over everything. He’s a real control freak.”
Having hit his stride, Steve paused for breath and plowed on. “It’s not
just him. Most of the teachers are like that. None of them help us. They’re
like big blocks of ignorance that stand in our way. I don’t understand why
they don’t treat us like real people who have purposeful imaginations and
ideals. And they treat me like I’m the village idiot. It’s way out of line.”
“I think the teacher believes you’re capable of more than you’ve
shown and he’s trying to discipline you to excel. He’s not tyrannical or an
ogre, he just expects more of you,” explained the principal. “If you don’t
watch out, you won’t be able to continue through school. With all the
reprimands you’ve gotten, you still could be expelled before you graduate.
Even with just a week or so to go. You’ve been in here far too often. If I
find you in here again, I might have to hold you back another year.”
“Mr. Olsen makes me feel inadequate, guilty, and cagey. Maybe I would
do better if I had a counselor,” muttered Steve, near tears.
Having covered this ground with Steve before, the principal sighed.
“You know we don’t have a counselor. Don’t challenge me or you’ll find
yourself in more trouble. Now, go on back to class.”
Steve liked to spend much of his time engaging in some sort of private
activity. He often went hiking when he felt lost and unable to deal with his
emotions, or when he felt helpless and didn’t know why. He also liked to
smoke pot during such times, which often made him still more depressed.
It was a Catch-22: he smoked pot because he was depressed, which then
made him feel withdrawn and paranoid, so he smoked more pot.
One day, his friend Charlie, who was studying psychology,
accompanied Steve on one of his hikes. At one time, Steve had shared a
close affinity with Charlie. But when Charlie had begun his university
studies, their relationship had grown distant. It hadn’t been long before
Charlie became Charles — the final act that had transformed Charlie, and
their friendship, forever.
Charles no longer seemed to share anything with Steve, including what
he had learned from his courses. Steve felt Charles had been keeping all of
his newfound knowledge a secret, speaking only in generic terms as if
Steve were too obtuse to understand. But Steve was far from obtuse and
desperately wanted to understand.
While walking together, Steve tried to sustain conversation with his
friend. Charles appeared to be an agreeable shadow of his old self, but
beneath he was cold and aloof. He maintained a distance that made it
impossible for friendly osmosis to exist between them, as it once had. He
was an immovable façade, thought Steve, though somewhat quaint — like
a character in an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.
When Steve tried to explain that he might have to leave home, his
friend’s demeanor made him feel paranoid and guilty, like a stray cat
kicked out of its shelter. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if my parents
kick me out of the house,” he said. “It’s like they think I have instant
karma. Right now, you would never know how paranoid I am. But it’s all I
can do to deal with this mountain path we’re walking on, let alone to deal
with my parents and everything else. What should I do?”
“Maybe you have a real mental problem and should see a doctor,”
Charles said with an edge of disdain, as if Steve were just a pawn in a
private game of knowledge and condescension. “You seem to have broken
some sort of covenant. I’m speaking allegorically, of course, about an
unwritten contract between you and your parents and society. It’s
something you’ll have to learn to deal with. You also have a pact with
those street people, those drug dealers. It’s like walking down a dark
alleyway and not along the straight-and-narrow. You’re making too many
concessions with the wrong people.”
Although Charles had attempted to be sympathetic — a rare thing in
itself, these days — his analytical demeanor grated on Steve’s nerves.
Many years ago, Charles had been sort of hip, but he had turned cold and
diagnostic. Where he had once been kind and sympathetic, Charles now
regarded Steve as if he were a specimen under a microscope. Charles gave
no quarter, only harsh analysis and glancing eye contact.
Unfortunately, because of his limited sense of self and lack of insight,
Steve was unable to comprehend that he was split down the middle by
spiritual austerity and material impracticality. He seemed spiritually aloof,
unaware of how his behavior alienated those around him. Yet, at the same
time, he was controlled by material forces and by the attitudes of people
he did not understand. He was incapable of learning from others and he
could not explain his spirituality in practical terms.
Because he felt so intimidated by the people in his life — especially
Charles — he failed to see the many things he needed to confront and
resolve, if he were to walk the straight-and-narrow path toward
compromise, and spiritual and material success. Burdened by a deep
depression, he was essentially stumbling up that mountain, rather than
walking.
Steve felt crushed by the block that controlled his mind and he
declared to Charles, “I don’t think I’ve really broken any pact or
agreement. I’m doing just fine. At least I don’t deal drugs. I think I’m
dealing with reality just fine.” Even as he spoke, however, Steve flinched
as the lies escaped his lips.
Charles gave him a level look and said nothing.
They continued climbing and the silence stretched between them,
widening the breach that already existed. To break the silence, each made
perfunctory quips to the other, like “Beautiful view,” or “Let’s take a
breather.” But the damage was done — irreparably so — and neither was
able to speak openly to the other.
At home, the situation continued unrelentingly bad. Steve’s small ego
was constantly assaulted by his parents’ demands to change. He walked
around in a funk of adolescent self-pity, convincing himself that all adults
were petty, materialistic egotists who imposed unrealistic demands upon
him.
To make matters worse, Steve was arrested for marijuana possession.
It was only a small amount, but the police got very serious about it. When
Colt and Lydia bailed him out of jail, his father smoldered with a rage that
made Steve feel like it was the dawn of the Apocalypse. As they drove
home, Colt ranted at him for what Steve regarded as a petty crime.
When they gathered around the dinner table that evening, it was some
minutes before anyone spoke. Silverware clinked against porcelain, and
the sounds of mastication hung in the air like lead weights. It was some
minutes before Lydia glanced at her husband and broke the silence. “Why
didn’t you say Grace, dear? Is the meatloaf that bad?”
Colt’s brows came together in a grimace of distaste as he grumbled
around a mouthful of food, “We don’t have anything to be thankful for
with this misfit in our family.” He jerked his head in Steve’s direction, and
Steve looked down at his plate. “That freak son of ours puts such a bad
taste in my mouth it makes your godforsaken meatloaf taste like a filet
mignon.”
Colt flung down his napkin. As he left the table, he threw a scathing
look at his son. “The sight of you makes me sick.”
Steve sat on the hard, wooden chair with his head bowed, feeling his
heart thud in the thick hollowness of his chest. A familiar desperation
crept in, crushing what thin sense of self he still possessed. Against his
better reasoning, he wondered whether his father might kill him, even
though he was sure Colt wouldn’t, and couldn’t, do such a thing.
Steve lived in a world that felt cold and full of pretentious friends who
hid their real feelings. He had a beautiful girlfriend, Virginia, who flirted
with other men. She led Steve to believe she loved him, but their
relationship was bereft of any closeness beyond youthful, physical
abandonment and sensual pleasure, which Steve always stopped just short
of sex.
She liked to taunt him. Once, she’d kissed another man to the point of
groping each other, while Steve helplessly looked on, wringing his hands.
He’d hoped it was just Virginia’s impetuousness that had sent her behavior
over the edge. He was a naïve cavalier; she, a spoiled prima donna.
Virginia often mocked him and made a fool of him in front of other
people. One day, she abusively teased him during a class they shared. The
day’s lecture raised the issue of Genesis versus evolution.
Steve raised his hand and hypothesized, “Sometimes, I wonder whether
we haven’t actually escaped from a simple, primal consciousness.
Because the larger percentage of society suffers a deficiency of natural
intuition, they are detached from even a caveman’s understanding of his
environment. We sadly wallow in our own untouchability, spoiled by the
gifts of humanity. The gift of the ape is instinct and intuition, and the gift
of humanity in the image of God is being able to bless and be blessed.
“Maybe the Tree of Knowledge gave to Adam and Eve the concept of
our link to the ape, which is our basest form of being. In contrast,
spirituality is built upon transcending our human condition. But to do that,
one must understand one’s lowest desires, too.
“Why would we want to prove that we’re just apes in a static,
unenlightened state? For some reason, since we think we understand good
and evil and suffer an inferior existence, we believe that gives us the right
to condescend to the meek and that we are made of miracles alone. We
don’t seem to possess the knowledge of a collective awareness, or God,
whether we view ourselves as humans, or as apes.”
It was then that Virginia snidely said, “OK, you spiritually
undernourished gorilla, cut to the chase!”
The class laughed, hard. Steve sat down at his desk, fighting the tears
that threatened to spill from his eyes.
On Easter Sunday, Steve and Virginia sat with his parents discussing
destruction. His older brother, Brian, was home from college over Easter
break and had brought his friend, Noah, to visit. His parents wanted him to
go to a prayer meeting where they always preached about the End Times.
This form of Christianity emotionally choked young Steve, causing him to
feel overwhelmed and frustrated by people with whom he did not share
common beliefs and ideals.
“Why should we talk about destruction on the day that Christ was
resurrected? Or when rabbits and eggs are the thing of the day? Or to
listen to a preacher who has no remorse for his own sinning, as if he is
protected from anarchy by his religious mantle?”
“There will be no one safe when the Apocalypse comes!” his father
shouted. “People will be leery of those who are dear to them. The horse
will bolt. God will declare that all people are candidates to receive His
wrath, and the rabbit will be on the run!”
Steve furrowed his brow, uncertain what his father meant. He thought
of his own rabbits living in a cage in the backyard, and imagined a god,
swollen and red with fury, chasing them down for their sins. “You’ve heard
of the Buddha meditating in the Deer Park, haven’t you?” he entreated.
“He believed we should be at peace with ourselves and with nature.”
“That is propaganda,” Colt said, pointing his finger at Steve. “There
was no peaceful deer park back then. The wealthy would have hunted in
that park and killed the deer for food.” Colt said.
Brian snorted. “The rabbit’s on the run, Steve. Get used to it!”
Weary of his father’s intolerance and his brother’s endless teasing, he
stood and held his hand toward Virginia. “I’m going to feed the rabbits,” he
said. “Are you coming with?”
She nodded and followed him outside, Brian and Noah close behind.
While Steve tended to the rabbits, Virginia and Noah murmured and
laughed together. When Noah started to tickle Virginia, he said over her
shrieks of delight, “Let’s leave this rabbit lover and go someplace we can
have some real fun!”
Brian chortled.
Confused and hurt, Steve said, “Virginia, why are you as loose as a
Chinese wonton?”
Barely comprehending Steve’s confusion between a wonton and
wanton behavior, Virginia said, “I’m sick of you being such a pansy! I’ll
watch you feed the rabbits, but then we’re leaving.” She glanced at Noah
and rolled her eyes.
Steve’s face colored and he glanced down at his hand. “I forgot the
rabbit food,” he muttered. “I have to go get it.”
He walked toward the garage where the rabbit food was kept, his
footsteps heavy in the new spring grass. A few minutes later, he located
the rabbit food behind the lawnmower and returned to the cage. Brian,
Noah and Virginia were already gone. When he opened the cage to get the
food dish, two of the rabbits were dead. He picked one up, its head
hanging loosely from its neck. Gently returning the rabbit to its cage, Steve
stalked back to the house looking for the three culprits.
Once inside, he found Brian in his room, a mean, gloating smile
stretched across his face.
“Who killed my rabbits?” Steve demanded, his body shaking with rage.
“I killed one and Noah killed the other. I guess Noah left the rabbits
out when he built the Ark,” said his brother in a self-satisfied, mocking
tone.
“Who do you think you are?” Steve shouted, shoving his brother
roughly.
Brian fell over the desk chair behind him. As he hit the floor, a sharp
crack pierced the air. An inarticulate cry of pain ripped from his throat and
he swore savagely.
Steve looked down at his brother in astonishment. One elbow was bent
awkwardly beneath Brian’s body.
“You broke my arm! I can’t move! Dad’s gonna get you!”
Hearing the commotion, Colt charged up the stairs and into the
bedroom. “What’s going on in here?” he shouted over Brian’s wails.
Kneeling over his fallen son, he assessed the damage.“This is the last
straw!” he said to Steve. “You claim you’re a pacifist and then you break
your brother’s arm. And just the other day, I had to bail you out of jail for
possession of pot. What’s next? I should kick you out of this house right
now! You better watch your step, son. You’re on the edge.”
“It was an accident!” shouted Steve. “You aren’t my real parents!
What real parents would treat their kid the way you’ve treated me?”
Colt turned to his younger son, his face a mask of rage as he stabbed
his finger in Steve’s direction. “Sinners don’t have excuses!” he shouted.
“You’re not wanted here! You’ve got three days to pack up and get out!”
He turned his back on Steve and returned his attention to his older son.
Steve decided to go to San Francisco. He figured if he had to sleep in
the open, California had the best climate to do so. As he prepared to
leave, James, a neighbor with whom Steve had once smoked pot, invited
Steve to his house for a drink. There, the older man gave Steve five
hundred dollars to keep away the wolves for a while.
“What are you going to do with yourself, Steve?” James asked.
Steve ran his hand through his hair and looked down at the floor that
creaked beneath his weight as he shifted from foot to foot. He sighed and
said, “I don’t really know.”
James poured himself another gin and tonic. “Would you like one?”
“No, thanks,” Steve said. He didn’t like liquor.
James shook his head slowly, sipping his gin and staring at Steve. “Do
you really believe those people are your parents?”
Steve stared at James, stupefied. “What do you mean?”
“They’re fakes, and you know it.”
Steve frowned. “I… I suppose it’s possible. But most kids think they’
re adopted, at one time or another.” He glanced at James who watched him
blandly. “Don’t they? Why should I be any different?”
“They threatened me once,” James muttered, his voice slurry with
drink. He stared into the middle distance, but said nothing more.
“Who threatened you? My family?”
James’ gaze focused on Steve again. He waved his glass around as if
erasing the words he’d just spoken. “Forget about it, kid. Forget I said
that. I’ve had too much to drink. I don’t want to go on and on.”
The grown-up world that James belonged to was so different from his
own that Steve didn’t question what the older man said. Later on, however,
he would think often about James’ conjecture while contemplating his
parents’ apathy. He came to believe that James’ supposition might be true,
and the possibility sent a frisson of something he couldn’t rightly identify
through his veins.
“What’s your first memory of them?” James asked.
Steve wasn’t certain whether James was serious or not, but said, “The
first thing I can remember is when my parents told me I was two years old.
I remember being surprised, because my birthday was coming up and I
thought I was five. When I tried to tell them how old I thought I really was,
they wouldn’t listen and told me to shut up. I used to wander out to the
woods a lot and they would chase after me, calling my name. What two-
year-old goes for a walk in the woods?” He shrugged. “I just don’t know.
If they really weren’t my parents, I guess I’d have to have better proof than
that.”
He stared out the window, his hands shoved into the pockets of his
grimy jeans. “They don’t care about me, that much is obvious.”
He said good-bye to James and left town almost immediately after that
meeting. He was about to embark on a journey that would lead him
through a strange, new life.
| The First Chapter of: "Little Bird Told Me" by John F. Rhodes. Click on the picture at left to buy book or click the URL below to go to the serial podcast of this novel at: http://littlebirdtoldme.podomatic.com |
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