aaron_the fall of america_chapter_04

Chapter 4

We used to build forts: underground, on the ground and well above the ground. It was one of our favourite occupations. Our supplies came from nearby construction sites, the woods and in the field behind the houses. One such creation was a tremendous tee pee made from logs we had hauled from the woods. For a few days we screamed and patted our mouths like television Indians. Then we tore it down.

All our forts were short lived. Either we tore them down soon after completion or invaders from another housing area destroyed them.

One of our last forts was built on ten-foot lengths of telephone poles. Hours of arduous labour were required to dig four three feet deep holes in the hard clay. With the logs lifted into place, we wedged rocks into the holes to align the poles, then packed the clay back in.

We built a mighty fortress out of reach from the enemy. It was the strongest and most inaccessible we had achieved. With new carpet from a work site, we covered the floor. It was such a castle that Tim's big brother Gary, slept in it at night to guard against invasion. With the rope pulled up and the hatch closed, it was impossible to gain entrance. Short of military artillery, nothing but fire could damage it.

One night we made a fire. While we were enjoying our primal gathering, some local boys were attracted by the light. They ran across the field to pile plastic and wood on the fire.

Reptilian madness abounded. The children were insane. Jamie was the first to rip off part of a wall and throw it towards the laughing gods. Our space had been contaminated; we had to destroy our sanctuary before it poisoned us. In a few minutes the fort was demolished and the invaders, having lost interest, ran back to the new local plaza to 'hang out'. We smothered the blaze and returned to our street.

I was supposed to return to somewhere. That might have been what Richard told me. It might have been my instructions. I am somewhere where I must return from. That I am ready to believe.

I wish I hadn’t watched so many movies. I'm confused as to what it is that is my past and what has been entertainment derangement. I'm convinced that when I get up or out, it won't be from my bed. I must recollect and assort myself. I must gain control of my body.

I remember John telling me something. Maybe it wasn't so important. John was the boss at my last work place. He appeared to me as a peculiar bugger. If the place didn't run approximating a slave labour camp, John started prancing around like a wounded cock with a hard on and no hens. He poked his well-groomed head into trouble spots. I got the impression he had been a well-terrified child, ruled with military authority at home and at his expensive private boys-school. He operated straight out of the rulebook he had memorised. He thrived on the demonstration of his symbolic power.

One day he informed me that it was not good to make unnecessary sounds while working at the terminal. He also informed me that it wasn't proper to put silly messages in the suggestion box. He explained the seriousness of missing a shift. I tried to assure him that it was a one-time incident that had been out of my control.

I considered him absurd. He didn't notice that his job was pointless. Most of the workers knew that the company was a farce, possibly just a tax right off. There was no point in me trying to enlighten him since I could barely afford to live in a small room and he lived in an expensive condominium. He would consider me daft. I would have to silently mock his life as he might also mock my pathetic life. Though I would only support his idea of me with my continued attitude of disrespect, it was my part to disagree. It was usually my part to disagree.

Once in grade five, eleven years old, I was causing a disturbance in class with my smart-ass remarks. The teacher, who I liked, as did all the students, sent me into the hall to cool off and collect my thoughts. I was getting out of control. He wanted me to relax a few minutes.

The only flaw in his method was the unexpected. The one time I had to be alone in the bleak corridor was the same time that an eighty-year old nefarious woman from the other side of the river Styx appeared before me as a nightmarish ferryman sent to bring me back. Death grinned its false teeth at me. It was the principal, the director of authority. Feeling obliged to use the power ordained in her, she took it upon herself to make me her business. She demanded to know why I was in the hall. I told her. She requested that I humbly apologise to the class and the teacher for my outrageous conduct.

I refused.

I was seldom sorry for causing a disturbance. It was a talent I had to practise. Systems had to be challenged. Non compus mentus comes to mind but I don't know why. I'm not even clear of the meaning. But I still believe life needs a balance of randomness to keep order in check. Sorry, I was not. I did not believe the battle-axe had a right to bend me.

Just as John had always done in time of crisis, my faithful principal took me to her office to sit me down in front of her desk. There she acted out her role. I remained as mute as Jesus. She threatened to guide me with pain. She must have believed pain would enlighten me to see things clearly. I could only foresee punishment making me resentful and belligerent. She had called my teacher to the office for some deliberation about the problem. With no solution found, she phoned my mother. She had brought the strap out but made no move to use it.

In silence, we waited for my mother. It appeared the principal wanted all the figureheads to be present before launching a full attack on my little mind. She hadn't understood that the self-preservation instinct of millions of years had manoeuvred me to believe that it was in the species best interests to execute my right to civil disobedience.

Mother arrived. She looked mildly amused and embarrassed. She was too gentle and pretty to play an important roll in any child execution. She allowed that I could on occasion be stubborn. There was nothing she cared to attempt against millions of years of survival. She told them to do what they thought was necessary.

The confusion and tension got to me. Tears escaped from my eyes. The more the event dragged on, the more impossible were the philosophies of the principal. I didn't hear her logic; I ignored her threats. My position remained clear with my silence. My task was to wait.

The tired, fearful, witch-hunter ached for a submission and a confession, my mother wanted to go home and my teacher wanted an end to the exaggerated problem. He finally spoke to end the stand off. He suggested that I had been punished enough and all of us should go back to our previous occupations.

He defended me from the iron maiden. Her shine of authority was slightly tarnished but everyone was careful not to notice the damage. The new age of humanity had little allowance for public torturing of relatively innocent children.

My teacher was the only mediator who could call and end to the stand-off. My mother was out of her jurisdiction, I had gone too far to surrender, and the principal had to protect her position of authority.

Authority must protect itself most of all from doubt. From within. From without. Once the thin illusion has the smallest of chinks, it's power vanishes like air from a balloon in a vacuum.

Though I can't yet remember, my present situation may have something to do with my feeble attempt at creating the smallest of chinks. I'm not sure if they know who I am. I certainly don't know who they are. I've enough trouble remembering who I am.

I can't help from feeling that I'm festering. Perhaps I'm a gaping wound in the matter of being. I will have to attempt to cauterise my melting self. And ooze into sleep to embrace the cold healing hand of oblivion.





read on. book_01 chapter_05



by Joanne B. Washington


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