Rumble Page 2
“You mean Mizzzzz Hannity, right?”
I interrupt. A change of subject
matter is probably wise. “You know,
if you’ve got nothing more important
to worry about than my essay,
maybe you don’t have enough to do.
So, here’s what I think. You should
petition the Lane County School
District to verify the authenticity
of Ms. Hannity’s birth certificate.”
Consternated. That’s the only way
to describe the look on his face.
Wha—wha—what do you mean?
“Well, it’s obviously fictitious,
don’t you think? Jeez, man, my brother
talked me into watching Gone
with the Wind once and Mizz Hannity
is sooooo not Scarlett O’Hara.”
His jaw literally drops, exposing
a mouth full of fillings. Old silver
mercury-laden ones. When I stare,
he snaps his mouth closed. Shut up.
I mean it. This is really not funny.
“Okay. Look, I’m sorry. Didn’t
mean to offend you, let alone
question the veracity of Ms. Hannity’s
Southernness. I just think this is all
much ado about nothing, to quote
the Bard. An essay should express
an opinion, correct? My opinion is that
it’s inappropriate to allow religion—any
religion—to influence the laws that
govern this country. That’s a valid
viewpoint, right? And even if it’s not
somehow, it’s mine, and I’m allowed
to hold it, not to mention argue it.”
He Tries Another Tack
I watch as his whole demeanor softens,
like gelatin on a hot plate. Matthew,
the truth is, I’m worried about you.
I’m not sure you’ve really processed
Luke’s death. It’s been almost six months.
Don’t you think it’s time to move on?
That fist of pissed again, only this time
it smashes me square in the face.
“Dude, I have fucking moved on.
I don’t call him to dinner anymore.
I don’t think I hear him coming in
the back door. I hardly ever dream
about how he looked when . . .
when I found him. But if you mean
I should accept what happened,
you’re out of your mind!” Winded,
I catch a breath, realize I’ve been
yelling, lower my voice. “I never will.”
Mr. Carpenter studies my face, and
what he finds there—truth, that’s all
he can possibly see—seems to make
him sad. I’m sorry you feel that way,
Matthew. But what happened to Luke
wasn’t God’s fault. Why blame him?
For a Counselor
This guy is awfully dense. “I’m not sure
how you draw the conclusion that I blame
God when I clearly state I’m one hundred
percent certain no such creature exists.”
I don’t understand. His eyes hold
genuine confusion. Maybe even shock.
“I’m an atheist. You know, a nonbeliever.
Considering Lane County demographics,
you must have run into another one before.
I can’t be the only sane person in this school.”
He yanks himself together. That may
be. But the others don’t brag about it.
Blah, blah, blah. The game grows old.
“All I did was state my opinion. Do you
actually see that as bragging? Because
seriously, Mr. Carpenter, I don’t.”
But there’s more. He loses steam.
It’s . . . it’s the tone of your writing.
The tone? Angry? Yeah, but more.
Bitter? Closer, but not quite. Acerbic?
Almost. Caustic. That’s it. Still.
“Everything’s fine. Totally fine.”
It’s a Total Lie
Not sure there’s been a single day of my life
when everything was totally fine. And now?
The best I can say is once in a while I’m not
somersaulting in chaos. I sink into my well-
practiced bullshit-the-shrink tone of voice.
“Look, Mr. Carpenter. It has been a rough
few months. Losing Luke did throw me
off balance for a while, but day by day
it gets a little better. I appreciate your concern.
Ms. Hannity’s, too, and I understand where
it comes from. The truth is, you’re right.
I will never forgive the people who are
ultimately responsible for Luke’s demise.
But I don’t really see why I have to.”
Maintaining your sanity? He gives a tiny
smile. Anyway, be very careful of the blame
game. It can get you into all kinds of trouble.
And it’s always possible that you’re wrong.
Doesn’t Matter
If I’m wrong or right (not that I’m wrong).
All I want is out of here, so I agree, keeping
a perfectly straight face. “I know. And thanks.”
Unbelievably, he lets me leave without another
comment, not even another warning to play a less
provocative game. He’s not stupid, and neither
am I. We both understand what’s at stake,
and it’s more than my sanity. It’s my freedom.
Lockup’s the only thing that frightens me.
The one insistent whisper of fear has kept
my temper mostly in check these past few months.
More than once, I thought about taking a dead-
of-night slow cruise through certain neighborhoods,
drawing a long bead on designated silhouettes
shadowing their bedroom windows. One squeeze
of my Glock’s trigger, and BLAM! Eye-for-an-eye justice,
just like their Good Book calls for. But then that
niggling little voice would ask me to consider life
walled in by concrete and metal bars. That would
do me in, and I’m not quite ready to check on out
of here yet. I’ve got some living to do. Hard living.
First Things First
And right now, top of the list is simply to make
it through this day, which bumps right up against
a nice extended weekend. Time off the rat race
to celebrate the life—and death, I suppose—
of a charismatic black leader. Carpenter gives
me a pass back to class, but I’m not in a huge
hurry to use it. I only took physics for Dad.
I suppose some of it is fascinating enough,
but what would I ever use string theory for?
I time it so I’m mostly in my chair when
the lunch bell rings. Perfect. It’s a dreary,
soggy day, de rigueur for the Willamette
Valley in January. Sometimes I bring lunch
and eat outside. But not in winter. Juniors
and seniors are allowed to leave at lunch,
and I usually jet as soon as I can round up
Hayden. But today I can’t seem to locate her.
She’s not at her locker. Not exiting the gym,
hair wet from a post-PE shower. I try attendance
office, just in case. She’s not here, but a flyer
in the window reminds me where she must be
right now. YOUTH MINISTRY MEETING,
11:55 A.M. FRIDAY IN THE LIBRARY.
Guess I’m Eating Solo
Angers shimmers<
br />
red hot
white hot
silvery hot.
Not because
I can’t stand
eating alone
thinking alone
immersing myself in alone.
But because
she knows I hate
her church
her youth group
her condescension
when she goes
all fucking missionary
on me. Not talking nouns,
talking adjectives
moralistic
preachy-whiny
holier-than-thou.
Okay, I Know
That’s not exactly fair.
That she’s truly worried
for my immortal soul.
That, in itself, is rather
endearing. And so is
the fact that she loves
me at all. Little enough
of that in my life. So if
she wants to believe
the source of our love
(and, indeed, all love)
is some all-powerful
wizard with wings or
whatever, hey, what’s
the point of arguing?
As long as she lets me
sleep in late on Sundays
while she wastes time
in church. As long as
she lets me kiss her how
I like, warm and steaming
and barely breathing and . . .
A Sudden Uncomfortable Tug
Just south of my belt buckle reminds
me that a locker-heavy hallway is so not
the place to think about such things.
Glad I wore Jockeys today. Still, I feel
like everyone is staring at my groinage.
I glance up at the clock on the wall. Damn
it. Lunch is half over. If I leave now, I’ll be
late to American Culture, a class I actually like.
Skip lunch? My gut growls in answer.
The deli cart beckons, and I’m halfway
there when someone taps my shoulder.
Okay, more like semi-punches it. I spin,
ready to defend myself if I must. But it’s
just Marshall. “What the fuck, dude?”
His goofy smile reveals way too many
teeth in need of straightening. Hey, man.
Don’t get all defensive. Just wondered
if you’re going to Freak’s party. My car died.
“Again? Jesus, why don’t you bury
the goddamn thing already?” He winces
slightly. “What? Did I offend you
somehow? You don’t think that car
should be junked?” He just shrugs and
now the clock says I’ve got less than ten
minutes until the bell. They’re probably
packing up the cart, but I start walking
that way. Maybe I’ll get lucky. “Come
on. I need food. Anyway, let me talk
to Hayden about the party. I planned on
going, but I should probably check in
with her before I agree to play chauffeur.
I’ll text you.” He makes a one-eighty,
heads the other way, and I’m pretty
sure I hear him mutter, Pussywhipped.
A soft haze of anger lifts, mushrooms
when I reach the empty deli cart. Shit!
Great
All I can think about now is how hollow
my belly feels. In Culture, Mr. Wells
gives a great lecture about how modern
American eras can be defined by their music.
Normally, I’d be totally engaged. Instead
I keep thinking about foods that start with
p. Why p? I seriously have no idea.
Pastrami.
Pancakes.
Plums.
Pinto beans.
Pretzels
Provolone.
Prosciutto.
And a slight variation—Pesto on sPaghetti.
Great. Now I’ve got that going on.
sPinach.
sPam.
sPaetzle.
sPring rolls.
sProuts.
sPumoni.
sPumante.
Yeah, I realize spumante isn’t a food,
but it seemed like a reasonable segue.
It’s how my brain works when I go obsessive
and, yes, I understand that’s exactly what it is.
If I let myself wander into compulsiveness,
too, I’ll have to go back and alphabetize.
Hmmm. No, better not. Mr. Wells
is already giving me a quizzical look.
Quizzical. Cool word. I like q words.
Quiche.
Quinoa.
Quince.
eQuus.
Okay, I wouldn’t actually eat horse,
but a giant cheeseburger would sure
go down well right now. . . .
Matt? Am I boring you or what?
I spent a lot of time preparing this talk,
and I thought it was pretty good.
The Tips of My Ears
Feel like someone just blowtorched
them. “Sorry, Mr. Wells. My mind
must be somewhere else right now.”
Obviously. Do you think you can return
it to this location, at least until the bell
rings? He’s smiling, anyway. Good thing
he and I have a decent teacher-student
relationship. “I’ll do my best.” I do, and
actually get caught up in the whole
Vietnam/Bob Dylan/Buffalo Springfield
thing. Not to mention Richard Nixon
and J. Edgar Hoover vs. John Lennon.
Damn. If I had any ambition, I think
I’d try to be a cult hero. Are there college
courses for that? Can you get a degree
in cult heroship? Never mind. Pretty
sure that wouldn’t satisfy my parents.
Not that what I’m planning to do after
graduation will. Oh my God. There goes
my brain again, wandering elsewhere.
I think I’ve got a serious case of ADHD.
Toward the End
Of class we have (by design, I’m sure)
circled back to the late 1960s and MLK
Jr. Beyond Vietnam protests, the civil
rights movement was also making
headlines. Snickers in the back of the room
underline the fact that not everyone here
is what you might call enlightened.
So what kind of music defines that?
sneers ever-the-dick Doug Wendt.
Hip-hop? Rap? Gospel? Or maybe
back then it was spirituals?
Mr. Wells quiets the ludicrous back-row
giggling with a single look. In a way, yes.
Spirituals informed the music that would
come to be called “the blues.” Sort of like
how Moses’s exodus story informed MLK’s
“Promised Land” speech. He’d figuratively
climbed to the mountaintop, viewed the place
where his people belonged, and believed
God wanted them to get there. . . .
“Yeah. And how did that work out
for him?” The question slips past my lips
without my even thinking about it.
And So Does
Mr. Wells’s answer. He knew he wouldn’t
reach it, Matt. He knew with absolute certainty
that his death was more than possible. It was
probable. But he didn’t back down, didn’t
back away from his plea for nonviolent
protest. Without his unshakable faith in God,
and the creator’s determination that all men
truly are created equal, Dr. King migh
t very
well have retreated to the safety of his pulpit.
“And he’d probably be alive today,
sitting in a rocking chair somewhere,
enjoying his grandchildren. If there really
was a God, one who wanted Martin Luther
King Jr. to lead his people toward equal
rights, why would that God allow him to die
before the task was accomplished? It makes
no sense. His people continued to suffer,
and he was just dead. Martyrdom is stupid.”
That came out stronger than I meant
it to, but I’m not going to take it back.
Wells frowns. I’m sorry you feel that
way, and I’m pretty sure most of Dr. King’s
followers would disagree with you. His voice
gave them strength and shone a spotlight
on their cause, one the world couldn’t ignore.
Sheep
I make the mistake
of saying it out loud.
“Sheep.” And, of course,
that jerkwad Wendt has
to expound, Yeah. Black
sheep. And the room erupts.
Idiot.
Right on.
Dick.
Shut up.
Word.
Oh my God.
Until, finally, Mr. Wells
yells, Enough! Settle down.
Look, we’re about finished
here. Enjoy your weekend.
As everyone gathers their
stuff, he adds, Hey, Matt.
Can I see you for a minute?
Shit. Shit. Shit. What now?
I’d Try the Ol’
“I’ll be late to my next class” excuse,
except for a couple of things. One,
the bell didn’t even ring yet, and two,
I’ve got a study hall prior to Wood Shop.
In a way, I’m surprised they let me
around saws. “What is it, Mr. Wells?”
I saw your God essay. . . .
Jesus. Teachers actually share these
things? “My English essay? Really?”
Come on, Matt. We both know there
were some, uh, concerns. But I wanted
you to know that while I don’t agree
with everything you wrote, your thoughts
on religion are remarkable. I’m impressed.
I have to smile. “Glad someone’s
impressed. Thanks, Mr. Wells.”
You might consider taking comparative
religion in college. I think you’d find