"Then Tears"....Draft Beginning

A short descriptive paragraph many years ago became a short story, but it just kept growing.  Now it’s my first attempt at a novel.  Lots still to do.  This may take a very long time.  Here’s some of the beginning of the current draft.  I’m very interested in what you think.

Then Tears

Jake’s butterflies seemed to be at war in his stomach.  He was more nervous than he had been in a long time, but the battered old Washburn six-string felt comfortable in his lap after so many years of bars and coffee houses all over the country.  This time was different, though.  The microphone didn’t smell like beer and cigarettes, and he couldn’t see past the footlights.  Instead of drink glasses clinking over the clamor of several dozen conversations or the grinding whir of a blender crushing ice, only an occasional cough or nearby whisper rose to him out of the silence of the hall.  It had been pandemonium only a few moments earlier, a cacophony of applause and whistles and cheers when his name was announced, but now he was alone on stage, a solitary player before three thousand hushed listeners, eagerly anticipating the first note.  He drew a slow, deep breath . . . and magic happened.

Lines storm across the page

that grows too heavy to hold

stealing away from trembling hands

two lives shatter and grow cold

Then tears.

The music came softly at first, like a warm fog that settled over the stage and then spilled out into the hall, engulfing the crowd row-by-row and creeping up the aisles toward the doors and then rolling back to him.  The notes from his guitar, clear and bright, supported his rich baritone.  The crowd listened closely to his words—some people mouthing them or even singing along—but he was unaware.  His music—his words—as always was carrying him away from the stage and the hall, and he sang his life and his understanding of the world….

*  *  *  *  *

 “Get a job or get out of this house!”

“Fine, Dad.  I’m tired of hiding from you and feeling like a beggar.  I’m gone.  I’d rather be homeless.”  The door slammed behind him as Jake left home…again.  He had no idea where life would take him this time.

They’d been through this before.

*  *  *  *  *

“Jake,” his father yelled from the top of the basement stairs when Jake paused in his practice.  “You have got to turn that down!  I just got home from work, and I need some quiet, please!”

“I have to practice, Dad.  Bud’s band has a gig at The Barn next Saturday night and I have a couple of new tunes to learn before we practice again.”

“Not now!  It’s 10:00 o’clock and the neighbors are going to complain!  That crap doesn’t even sound like music!”

“Andrew!  Stop yelling at him, please!” Gail implored, but her husband was in no mood to be mollified.

“This is my house, and when I come home from work I want quiet, not that noise!  Why are you taking his side?

“Turn it down!”

Andrew stomped down the hallway.  Jake could hear their bedroom door slam and the barely muffled sounds of his parents, his father still complaining, and his mother still trying to mollify him.  Again.  It seemed to Jake as though this happened almost every night, either about his music, his grades, his indifference to his father’s obsession with sports, or something Jake had done wrong at the store.  He’d had enough.

After he could hear only the television in his parents’ bedroom, Jake went up to his own room and threw some clothes in a backpack, grabbed his guitar and gear bag, and slipped out the back door.  He walked to the neighborhood park at the end of the street before taking out the cell phone he’d received from his parents at Christmas that year.  He knew just who to call and where to go.

“Chris?  It’s Jake.  I need a ride.  I’m at the park.  Can I crash at your place tonight?”

About 15 minutes later Chris pulled up in his old pickup.  Jake heard him coming for a couple of blocks and just smiled when Chris told him he’d have to crawl through from the driver’s side because the passenger’s door was stuck…as always.

“So what the fuck happened this time?” Chris asked as Jake buckled himself in.

“Same shit as always. Too much ‘noise’ when Dad came home from work, but that’s only an excuse.  I’m sure he was pissed about my grades and everything else.  He started yelling at me as soon as he came in the door.  Then he and Mom got into it when she tried to get him to chill.”

“Exactly why I left last year, Dude.”

“Well, at least you didn’t split until after graduation.  I still have ia month, and four days until I'm eighteen;  I’m going to have to go into Witness Protection to stay away the next month.”

Chris chuckled and backhanded Jake’s shoulder.  “You know you can stay with me as long as you can, but it’s one of the first places they’re going to come lookin’.”

“Yeah.  They won’t know I’ve split until mid-morning tomorrow.  Dad’ll be up and out before sun-up, as usual, and Mom won’t be far behind.  They’ll assume I’ve gone to school until they get a call from Laughlin that I didn’t show.”

“OK, so where are you going tomorrow that they won’t find you?”

“I think I’ll head up to the northside.  There are so many new venues there that I should be able to get some playing time and make some money, and I can surely find somewhere to crash for a couple of nights.  I’ve got my fake ID and a little cash.  I haven’t played up there yet, and you can bet no one knows the gigs we’ve played around this part of town.”

“Sounds like a plan.  Better turn off your phone, though.  They’ll not only start callin’, but they’ll use it to track you, too.  Pre-paids are pretty cheap, and you can get one at the Mart on the corner by my place.”

“Man, you’ve been watching too much CSI!” Jake groaned.  But thanks for havin’ my back.  I owe you.”

“No problem.  You’re always welcome.  It ain’t much, but it’s mine.  I don’t go in to work tomorrow until ten, so I can give you a lift, too.”

“Solid.”

*  *  *  *  *

Jake told the bar manager that he was eighteen.  The picture on his fake ID was close enough, and Al hadn’t looked too closely.  He was more interested in hearing what Jake’s voice was like and whether or not he could actually play the guitar he was toting.  One song from the stage was all it took.  The kid had a good, strong baritone that belied his youth, and he could really bend the strings on his obviously second-hand Gibson six-string.  He sounded more like sixty.  That night Jake opened for a touring band and played for tips.  His 45 minutes went by quickly and with lots of applause from a usually disinterested Friday night crowd gathering for the headliner.  They paid attention even though he was playing more original music than covers.  His on-the-spot hard luck story (typical for the young troubadours who passed through town looking for work) softened the manager enough to let him crash on a sofa in the office that night, and after Jake helped clean up the next morning, Al bought his breakfast.

Saturday night started like the night before.  Jake played another well-received set and was talking with John, running sound, when a sheriff’s deputy came into the bar.  He scanned the crowd, looking now and then at a piece of paper in his hand.  Eventually he spotted Jake in the sound booth.  During the few moments of relative quiet between songs, he approached Jake, called him by name, and when Jake looked up, informed him that he had to come along with him.  Al stopped them to ask what was wrong.  Upon learning the truth of Jake’s age, Al simply turned back to the bar.

The cop let him grab his guitar and backpack—while watching every move he made.  Then Jake was loaded into the deputy’s squad car and driven home.

 “Jake, my God!  I was so worried!  And then seeing you brought home by the police!  I can’t do this, Jake!”  Gail was beside herself.  The worry and frustration of dealing with her son and her husband was obviously taking its toll.  Jake felt miserable for putting her through it all, but he didn’t know what he could do.  He tried, but nothing seemed to work.  At least Andrew was already at work.  He didn’t have to deal with his father until that night.

This time, at least, Andrew simply ignored him.  That became their solution.  Jake figured his mother had finally convinced Andrew to just leave Jake alone.  The house was always tense when they were both present, but that wasn’t very often now.  If he could just last another month.

Principal Laughlin read him the riot act before school the next morning.  Jake thought for sure he’d been waiting for him.  He’d barely made it through the front doors before Laughlin had grabbed his arm and ushered him into the office.

            “Jake, you’re skating on very thin ice around here.  You’re barely making it through Government.  I’m doing all I can to keep Mr. Davis from just washing his hands of you.  Your Creative Writing grades have always been good—as long as you’re here to hand in the work—so Ms Anderson is in your corner and willing to give you a break.  You owe her almost as much as you do Mr. Griffin.  Obviously he’s overjoyed you’re still here.  He counts on you to get the Jazz Band through the spring contests.  Come on, son.  You’ve got to help us help you out of here.  We all want you to graduate.”

            “I’ll try.  I don’t have any choice since I’m not eighteen.”

            “That’s a fact.  The law won’t let you by any more than your parents will.”

After he’d actually managed to graduate, he got a job at Dobby’s, the locally-owned music store at the nearby strip mall.  Minimum wage, 25 hours a week, usually weekends and evenings, selling CDs and stocking the racks.  The pay was awful, and the schedule was killing him.  He needed evenings and weekends to gig, and as low man he was expected to fill in for the regular employees, all local musicians and teachers.  Missing work simply made his father angrier every time.  Andrew couldn’t get past the idea of the steady check, no matter how small, being better than tips and an occasional percentage of the door.  Another fight over “growing up” and out Jake went.  It was always the same.

“Cowboy Up!”

I grew up in the 50s and 60s…the decades of the TV Western and some of the classic Western movies.  I watched The Duke become the symbol not only of the American West but of the spirit of American independence and “Can Do!”  He and Paladin, Marshal Dillon, The Rifleman, Rowdy Yates, and dozens of others showed us little buckaroos how real men dealt with adversity, whether it presented itself as a gang of villains, or Miss Kitty and the usual passel of schoolmarms and city women lost on the trail.

We learned about bravery, of course, against all odds.  More than that, though, we learned about conscience, virtue, integrity, moral courage, and the justice of doing the right thing even if no one was looking.  Some of those men even tried to take those persona into the real world (or so they wanted us to believe).  One even became President of the United States.  No matter what your politics, that’s quite a goal to achieve.

I was reminded recently of my long fascination with Arthurian Romance Literature and the cult, I’ll call it, of the chivalrous knight errant.  Despite the real urge to give a history lesson, I’ll forgo that, but I think the connection between that centuries-old mystique is more than responsible for how we have come to view the American cowboy tradition.  The character of Paladin, of course, was directly linked in the TV show to the knight in shining armor, even if he did dress all in black.  All of these heroes shared those qualities, however.  They were champions of the downtrodden, seekers of truth and justice instead of fame and fortune, defenders of the weak, and always gallant gentlemen with the ladies…at least until the late 60s and early 70s.

Historically the American cowboy actually was much like his TV and cinematic counterpart.  The entertainment industry got the ages wrong, except in The Cowboys, and failed to include the hundreds of freed slaves, the would-be cavaliers of the Old South, American Indians, Irish, Russian, Mexican, and immigrants from other nations.  The character—make that Character—of the cowboy, however, seems to be close to those heroes.  Although many were poorly educated, that’s not necessarily a requirement for being a good person.  Most of them believed in the American Dream, worshiped one god or another, minded their manners (although where some learned manners is a good guess), dressed in clean clothes as much as possible (including ties!), and wrote their mothers.  I’d say they’re better role models for our sons (and daughters) than just about any “star” today whether he’s playing a 21^st century role or living his flamboyant life.

 

I always wanted to grow up to be a cowboy like those fellows from my youth.  Most of they boys I knew did, as well, at least for a while.  I’ve known very, very few who accomplished the dream, and they didn’t last long.  It’s a hard life, worse now than at the height of the big cattle drives in the 1860s-1880s.  I still aspire to the principles of my childhood heroes, though.  I’ve always liked the style, too.  So, when you see me in my boots and jeans and cowboy hat, just say, “Howdy.”  But smile when you say it, pardner.  J

“Between the Covers of the Book”

            The curly-haired, middle-aged man with the earring was an actor and playwright who once had a character observe that “All the world’s a stage,  // And all the men and women merely players . . . .” (As You Like It, II, vii, 147-148).  Like the actors who dressed to assume the roles Shakespeare wrote for them, everyone dresses for the “parts” they see themselves playing and may change those roles and costumes often.  High school students do this all the time, so it’s not a good idea to judge them immediately by the way they dress.

            Before the first bell at Lincoln High one morning in the late 1980’s, the students in the third-floor hallway were getting their books, discussing the previous night’s activities, and planning the day to come.  Suddenly a wave of laughter and incredulous exclamations rolled down the hall and the crowd parted to reveal an amazing sight:  a tall young man—about 6’ 6”—dressed in motorcycle leathers and chains, striding through the boisterous students, reveling in their astonishment and attention.  Outlandish as it was, what was truly unusual about his appearance was that atop his black leather frame protruded another 10 to 12 inches of hair, thirteen rigid spikes, to be exact, arranged in a row down the middle of his otherwise bald pate, and each gelled horn was a different, bright color.  Drug-crazed motorcycle gang member?  Rock star?  NBA forward?  Maybe.  Shortly after the bell rang to start class, he was asked by his 1^st period English teacher to read the poem he was to have written as an assignment for class that day.  In a clear, rich bass, he read to his peers, his teacher, a student teacher, and a visiting college professor a sensitive and word-rich description of how much he loved his mother.

            The petite girl so engrossed in her studies at the library table is easy to overlook.  She never draws attention to herself either by her actions or her dress.  In classes she is always prepared and—every teacher’s dream—participates without much coaxing in class discussions and projects.  Although she doesn’t volunteer right away, she can always be counted on to take part in projects and help enthusiastically.  Bright, sensitive, caring, almost meek in her demeanor, it would be safe to say that she’d “never hurt a fly.”  Talk to her soccer teammates or, even more telling, to her opponents.  They’ll describe a dynamo who flies down the field to deliver vicious tackles or blistering kicks, demoralizing any who would challenge her and charging her teammates to match her play.

            Watch in the halls at the local high school and question someone who knows the students passing by.  The skateboarder with the bowl-cut hair and baggy pants does computer technical support at a local business after school.  The clean-cut gentleman in button down shirt and chinos is a roadie for a local punk rock band.  The cheerleader is a black belt and her little brother, the one with the black lipstick and eye shadow, is the captain of the school’s chess team.

            Everyone dresses for the parts he or she plays in life, but those roles can change for any number of reasons.  More often than not, however, people dress the way they feel like dressing at the moment.  High school students are involved in many different activities as they negotiate that time in their lives when they’re trying to discover just which script fits them best.  Ask a teacher who keeps an eye on things, like the fellow in the suit and tie over there.  During his summer vacations he’s a rodeo clown.

“A Recipe for How to Make a Bully” [posted to Facebook 01-21-2014]

One of the writing prompts I used to use in my Creative Writing classes was to have students create "recipes" for abstract qualities like Love, Faith, Hate, etc.  I gave them this as an example.

“A Recipe for How to Make a Bully”

                                                      4 parts Ignorance

                                                      2 parts Brutality

                                                      1 part Mob Mentality (Peer Pressure)

                                                      Passion to taste

            Begin with a “clean,” uncorrupted container.  Do not add Education or Experience that would dilute the Ignorance.  Add to the Ignorance, 2 parts Brutality and 1 part Mob Mentality and stir, seasoning with Passion.

            This mixture creates one human Bully at any age above 2 years.  Starting early increases the yield; it grows with age.

            Serves one or a multitude; historically, has led to one-on-one playground battles, gang fights, lynchings, witch hunts, clan feuds, border wars, civil wars, and World Wars.

            Goes with all forms of Prejudice and is usually served any time opportunity arises, usually when something does not go as planned, and someone—other than oneself—is needed to Blame.

            Also known as Racism, Ageism, Sexism (all other “–isms” of this nature), Bias, Bigotry, and, sometimes, plain Stupidity.

            Taken in large doses, this mixture can produce Insanity, Torture, Capital Punishment, Coup d’Etats, Genocide, Cultural destruction and other forms of human perversions.