Wednesday, April 21, 2004

Banging Your Heart, Reader-Friendly Revision

This isn't done yet really. I'm going to post it nonetheless. I have some more things I want to cover with it, but since this is going to be my column this month for the Star, I have to make an "abridged" version--which I'm fine with, since I can make my own version that's better--and keep it.

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In Casper, Wyoming. Kid, he’s three years old. Wears glasses. Momma loves him. Momma and daddy aren’t staying together. Daddy and momma are getting divorced.

Kid, few years later. He remembers going to daddy’s one more time. He’s sitting on the couch, watching Lawnmower Man. The TV’s light goes on his face, makes kid look like a pale ghost.

Kid, more years later. Momma’s married a new daddy that loves me really. New daddy’s better. Old daddy still calls sometimes.

“Hello,” says kid.

“Hello,” says daddy. Real daddy. Kid, better be careful. He might be a monster, you don’t know. Monsters eat you.

“How’s school,” asks daddy. “Getting good grades?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you wanna get your blood tested? To see if you’re my son?”

“Maybe,” says kid. Kid, you’re stupid. You don’t know. Your new daddy’s better. You’re lucky you never got your blood tested. Lucky you had a good momma.

Kid remembers having a dream. It was a dream that daddy came in and strangled me. Kid remembers daddy came in when kid woke up, and kid screamed and was scared. Daddy said he had never came in. Kid could’ve sworn it was real. How thin the line is between reality and fiction. Sometimes.

Kid remembers friend’s brother telling him the devil was gonna get him. The thing with horns, it’ll stab you. Kid would lie in bed, scared. Would cry and cry. About the aliens—the kid could feel the aliens coming. And the devil. The devil was gonna get him. No. Kid would kick and scream.

Kid, closer to now. He knows now. Real daddy only wanted to show that you weren’t his real son, so he didn’t have to pay child support. And it’s getting closer. He lives in Utah now. Ryan Pugh is one of kid’s friend. Phillip too. Phillip had a brain tumor. And Andrew. Andrew McDonald.

Old McDonald had a farm, ei ei o. Andrew was kid’s obsession. He wanted to be like Andrew. Andrew was everything. He had everything. His dad was a veteran of a war. Vietnam? Kid wasn’t sure. His mom was Tamara. They had chinchillas. Andrew was fat, spoiled.

Kid would pray to God that he would be like Andrew. He would pray to be fat, and have everything. You’re so stupid kid. So stupid. Ignorant. You’ll learn. Be broken.

Kid moves to Bismarck, North Dakota. He hates it. Misses all the friends he’d had. Kid’s in sixth grade. He’s fat, like Andrew. Has Mrs. Gilbertson as a teacher. Ms. Woodmansee as an aide. Kid doesn’t like school. All throughout school, the other kids have made fun of him. Kid is ugly.

Kid finds new friends. Ryan Cofell. Adam Anderson. Andy Carlson. The friendship with Andy Carlson ends soon. Andy wanted to be something else.

Time flying by. Mr. Doppler, English teacher. Pulls kid aside one day. “You’ve got a talent,” he tells the kid. Mr. Doppler tells kid he’s got a great talent at writing. Kid didn’t listen then. Now he does. Now he listens.

Kid stabs Salem Towne in the back with pencil in Mr. Doppler’s class. Blood. The bell rings. Class is over. Kid walks out, to next class. The stab. In the back and blood. Mr. Doppler, days later, telling kid he did wrong. Kid, you’re so stupid. You’ll never learn.

10th grade, 11th grade. It all flies by. Flies on wings. It’s to now. Kid’s being locked in a cage. The kid’s dying. I don’t want him to die. It’s all pushing down on him. It’s all such a Machine.

“Get a job.” “Get good grades.” “You’ve gotta grow up, Mitchell.” “Jesus Christ, Mitchell, don’t you think?” “You’re a good kid, Mitch.” “You have no ambition.” “All you do is sit on your computer and listen to music.” Kid, can you hear? Are you there?

Beep beep beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Cardiac arrest. The bars in the cage and the cuffs go around. Heart’s bottoming out. Vena cava’s breaking, ceasing to function. Kid, can you hear? Are you there? Hello?

I jabber on about Bowling for Columbine. We are at Cracker Barrel. Dad’s listening. Man is talking, Kid’s inside the wall. Cardiac arrest. Dad seems to listen. Then he isn’t. He seems to tire of it. He still says he doesn’t want to see Bowling for Columbine. “I’ve had enough of your psycho babble,” says Dad.

Psycho babble? This is my heart speaking. . .my heart speaking.

Cardiac arrest. Bottoming out. It’s all psycho babble. Why even say?

“Don’t you think, Mitchell?” Dad standing there. Bleach spilled on bed. It's turning colors. Ones it’s not supposed to be. Feel the tightness in the chest. The Man is there, the Kid’s under cardiac arrest, maybe to never flounder back. The Man explains to Dad that he doesn’t always need to yell. Instead of saying, “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you! Don’t you think! You’re worthless!” Dad could’ve said, “It’s OK, I know you didn’t mean to do it. Just be more careful, and I know you’re beating yourself up about it, but it’s OK.” But no. No.

Mother’s never home. She’s off at the bar. Maybe a cigarette in her mouth. A drink in her hand. She’s just like me—The Man—she wants to be The Kid again. Doesn’t want this here.

Dad, coming in. “It’s really gonna happen,” he says. Doubt it. How many times have you said you’re going to divorce? Many times.

Still hasn’t happened, but the death of all the good things happens sometime. Everything good’s gonna die.

And still, This Man is just The Kid. A collection of books whose spines are worn, torn, broken. Whose books contain “psycho babble.” Whose existence is to be a slave to this Machine—this world where you have to work for money that keeps them away.

I wish I could be alive. But I can’t. When I’m most alive, that’s when I’m least heard. When you speak your heart, it’s “psycho babble,” it’s no concern.

And here you see, in the bowels of me, a kid, in a corner, gazing off, hands held on knees, and he’s afraid. Looking at This Man—this abstract creation of pressure and time—do you see the kid, too? Or am I good enough to hide it? Is it time to tear down the wall? What do you think?

What is there to do when in this world Freedom is Slavery and War is Peace and Death is Life and. And Ignorance is Strength. To be stupid is better. It's the better of the worse. I wish I was dumb. I wish I hadn’t let time do what it has.

All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.

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