Chapter 1 Part 2-- Before The Fall

WELL Day 13 Night 13 Dawn 13 Fiona Fiona Fiona—I’m talking to you in spite of my banishment. I’m saying your name with my lips in the night as I write on pages torn from my WELL Journal by flashlight. I wish Lyron could have been honest with me. With us. With the whole group. I’m sure nobody believes he randomly drew my name out of his hat. (We can bet that every piece of paper had my name on it). Let’s face it—I became a daily and nightly disruption to just about every “group exercise” that he put us through. I mean, if Lyron had just asked me “Oskar, would you please go camp solo across the lake for the next ten days?” I would have agreed to go. Its not like I enjoy being the pebble in his shoe. In our one-on-one Lyron told me he believed I would “flip our group’s canoe” if I had the chance, and he has said that he hopes to help me work through my “oppositional defiance” once we return to school next fall. I told him that I argue with him in front of the group because I at least have the chance of detecting some support for myself, whereas I have no one on my side in a one-on-one with him. Fiona—I know that even you got fed up with me. But is that any reason to side with Blithe? Lyron quoted Blithe to me today, actually. He said the group feels I am “too shallow for the seeds of this experience to take root.” I want depth, Fiona—you know that. I wanted WELL to be so deep for us. MYTHIC! Do you ever—even in a positive light—get the feeling that Lyron wants us to be the ultimate pep squad? Tonight you taught your song. You really got the group on fire, it sounded beautiful. “Amazing Grace.” Each time the refrain rang across the water, I heard you in it, and I found myself really torn up—one moment feeling saved from my tortures in the group, the next moment feeling wretched and alone. Outcast. After you all quieted down Lyron came and visited me. I saw his flashlight approaching like a plodding, dim-witted firefly, so I hailed him on the walkie talkie. He said he had some teachings for me, face-to-face. When he arrived he handed me my pail of water and asked me to dowse my campfire. ‘Why?’ I asked. He

said he hoped I could feel why I should not burn a fire alone at night, and realize that a fire is much safer when a group contains it. ‘I’m keeping my fire very small,’ I responded (especially compared to the infernos that he likes to kindle) and I said that its like a companion to keep me from feeling lonely. He said I wouldn’t feel alone at night if I were asleep in my sleeping bag, and asked me to search in my heart for the big picture—how much the plants animals and people of this forest are depending on me to be safe and humble with fire. ‘That’s what my pail of water is for,’ I said. But what’s the use? Am I all ‘bad attitude’ and ‘no gratitude’? Or do I just have bad chemistry with Lyron? Like when I taught “Knocking on Heavan’s Door” on Day 7: that totally tipped the scales against me. Familiar, Authentic, and Uplifting—that song fits Lyron’s ‘Song Criteria’ perfectly! I wasn’t defying the spirit of the Group! Please, Fiona. And a lot of people were digging it. Like Jesse and Carter: they finally sang a song with gusto! And Cheryl and Roslyn—the way they sang harmony cheek to cheek: their Romantic feelings lost all cover and we all could see how they wanted to go off alone and knock on Heavan’s door together. I mean: for a lot of us our blood was stirring, so then Lyron calls it “the opposite of Uplifting,” stops me cold, and leads us instead in “When the Saints Go Marching In”??!! First of all, its kind of ironic because both songs share the same quest to be let into the kingdom: if you want to be in that number, then how do you get let in the door? The moon casts shadows strangely all over the mountainsides, Fiona, am I seeing things? Does Lyron hate the words to my song for psychological reasons? “Take this badge off of me”, “put my guns in the ground”.... Did I offend Lyron’s deep need to sheriff our young blood around? Always back to his pep rally promenade, full cooperation.... Full cooperation: teams aren’t the only ones who thrive on full cooperation, don’t Nazis demand full cooperation as well? I’ve spied on Lyron in private: and you wouldn’t want to know what I saw. I’d hate to burst your bubble. Okay—its okay. So anyhow here’s what happened... I killed my fire with my bucket of water, and then Lyron shined his light in my face and commended me, so I started taking off my clothes. WTF? He asks me queerly ‘What are you Doing??” all the while

half blinding me with his stupid flashlight! I mean, if he’s going to just put me in the naked glare of his authority, then I might as well get naked back at him. Get a clue Lyron! Am I not squinting my eyes??? Whatever, I just told him I was getting ready for sleep and he quickly buzzed off, reminding me behind his back to be up with the son. I felt like Lyron might as well just have come and stamped out my fire with his own feet. There’s hatred in his love—be careful around that man! Now begins the story I’m wanting you to hear Fiona, because in some lonesome way I know that you have ears for me. As I lay dying, tonight—lonely dark and cold—I awoke. I watched the stars and felt so small. There was no earth behind or beneath me at all, just more stars in the deep black void of space where Earth is just a speck of dust anyhow. My mind embraced it, and I put myself in that void, floating totally alone, and I wanted to be there all night, a totally small person, a whisp. But later, the moon rose, and soon I heard the call of an owl. “Hoot-hoo-hoo Hoot hoot hooo!” Every 10 minutes or so the owl would call out, and I’d hear the echoes hubbub about the cold rocky slopes above the lake. And I felt very alone again, but alone now on the wide earth, like this owl, like a call in the night that runs its course swift and whispily across the earth just to perish into nothing, no sound. For hours the owl sent these calls out in the darkness, and I felt a total sympathy with the death of this owl’s cries, with this passing into nothingness. The moon had passed its Zenith when all of a sudden a call came back to us! Fiona: the call had found a mate! From some far place, from the very nothingness of the night this call had roused a reply, another owl. A companion. A Companion! Fiona, I cried as the two birds called back and forth to one another: what a miracle it is on Earth that one could persevere for so long, and that somebody might finally reply! Perhaps you are awake, too, Fiona, and from across the lake you have heard these owls in their communion. I’ve drawn a picture for you, and now, before the dawn arrives, I’m going to sneak to your end of the lake and slip this note beneath your pillow. So what if Lyron catches me? What could he do? Banish me?

Hopefully, all will go well and Lyron will find me snoozing at sunup. He’ll shake me with disappointment and inform me that I’ve slept too late. But that is fine! He’ll assign me some asinine task for the day, like identifying 20 kinds of pine cone…fine! I won’t have a campfire for the rest of WELL, and that will be fine! I will remember the owls for the rest of my nights. From beyond the confines of this re-education camp, the mountains themselves have taught me something. So WELL is sitting well with me. All’s well that ends well, right? God bless Lyron, may he find peace in his heart. God knows he needs it. And you, Fiona, you are out there, you have responded to my call, in this darkness on Earth we have found each other, true communion. I will keep calling out in the night. I am not alone. Amazing grace: how sweet the sound…. Yours, Oskar.

You Spare me From Darkness

July 27 Fredo: How the WELL are you? And how the WELL am I, should you ask? Un-WELL. Listen, I did end up finding enlightenment at WELL, but that is another story, and even if I told you the whole story which is making me so unwell at the moment, it would require more paper than I can find around here. So I’m going to tell you one thing that tells all, and my conclusion is this: Mr Lyron is a milk dud masquerading as a Man. Lyron put us through wilderness hoops as though we were to earn merit badges, we were supposed to be disciplined, and what is eating me is this: Most days, we ate lunch at our base camp, and it was ceremonious. We would gather together at the “table rock”— which really is like a big table—and portion out the ingredients to make lunch with. Lyron taught us pretty good recipes (we packed in a lot of fresh vegetables!), and he has some good backcountry cooking tricks up his sleeve. So our directive each day was to prepare the most nutritious, delicious meal possible, working cooperatively as a team. We’d be hungry after the morning’s “team building” exercises, and the rule was not to taste a thing until the meal itself was ready. We’d serve ourselves in line and sit down in a circle, one by one, and when the last person sat down, we’d pass around an empty plate on which each of us was to place a morsel of food from our own plate. This plate represented feeding those less fortunate than ourselves, and there were times when I and others got emotional about it: this was deep stuff. Its called a mindfulness meal. Anyhow, after the passing of the plate Lyron would reach into his bag and pull out a pretty decent bar of milk chocolate. It came in 16 squares, and there were 14 of us plus Lyron. Lyron would pass the bar around and we’d each take a square, and the remaining piece we gave to the plate of the less fortunate. Still, nobody could eat, because next was a quiet moment when we would silently smell our food, forgetting our distractions and giving the meal our full attention. Only then, once the atmosphere was totally mouthwateringly sacred would Lyron take the first bite, and we’d all eat our meals in silence.

Fredo, this was an incredible experience and you’ve got to understand that if I could go someplace to some monastery where they ate like this everyday, I’d go in a heartbeat. As we ate silently together, we were all connected, our hearts beat as one. And it wouldn’t stop after the meal. We’d all get up together and turn to our clean up duties, which we called “work meditation.” So ANYHOW, Lyron would retire to his tent while we cleaned up. On Day Six, my work duties took me past Lyron’s tent. I had to fetch and boil some water for doing the dishes. So I walked past his tent mindfully and I got this burning question in my head: was he meditating in there or what? I crept up to his window and Dude—holy crap! He was chowing down on one of our chocolate bars and reading a Playboy magazine! Was this his idea of DISCIPLINE? I got snagged there: I wanted to see the next page of that magazine, and I wanted to see him gobble the entire chocolate bar, and I did, but then he looked up and saw me looking over his shoulder. His face turned red as a cherrybomb and I was like “I guess we both got caught, sir.” “You’re totally out of bounds, Quentin! Totally out of bounds!” That, my friend, was the beginning of my end at WELL. I’ll fill you in on the details when you get back from Ohio. Oskar

August 1 Alfredo— I swung by Earl’s yesterday. He’s got 17 bikes to assemble and figures he’s going to have to do them himself. The shop is busy! I asked if I could wash bikes for him, he said “on a Blue moon anything can happen.” He hired me! Holy crap am I a lucky dog or what? He’s also got a used Trek mountain bike he’ll sell me for $100, its got a dent, but its nice. Earl says “Hi” to you and “don’t be an idiot” he needs you back in one piece. He also says that Ohio is worse than a sauna in summertime, and that you’re already an idiot to go there for training. But hey, if I had a chance to get out of town I’d go to Houston or Sorona or Death Valley— I’d go anywhere! I’ve also got a job down at Sudsbrushers, but I can’t say why. Is it for the money or is it mainly to steer clear of my father during the day? I wish he would get out of the house and do something with his life! I mean—he’s got his summers off but hardly goes anywhere! I don’t know anyone else whose dad is off all summer, but everybody manages at least a vacation or two anyhow! You know, my mom and dad haven’t gone out for dinner in like 6 years. Every night he’s in his attic. And come summer vacation he’s up there all day! So I keep asking him: have you got a stone yet? Can I see one? He’s never had anything close to being a diamond. He comes down for lunch, and he comes down if UPS drops something off. I think he must spend all of our family’s money on “lab equipment,” trying to make diamonds. You know what our basement looks like—how it smells—vinegar and ozone. The other day he ran the water up there for 6 hours straight! What is he doing? He has no time or money for us, he has no diamonds to speak of—I guess it drives me crazy, Fredo. Is my father a total freak or what? The drain pipe goes right through my bedroom wall, so I had this ‘trickle trickle’ going on in my room all morning. I put some Violent Femmes on and cranked it up, then he barged downstairs, banged on my door and told me to turn it off—not down—off. “I can’t concentrate!” he said and I was like “what are you running the water all day for?” and he said “you can leave if you don’t like it—get a job!”

Well, so I have. Maybe he was right. Anyhow I don’t know if you know what a “Detail Team” is, but I’m on one now. We give cars detailed cleanings, and I had to take a test on the Four Cleaning Formulas—Green, Brown, Yellow, and White. (“I passed! I passed! I’m color coordinated!” “I’m so proud of you!” “that’s sweet dude!” “You’re part of the Team now!”) I suggested to my new boss that our detail team could take Detailing to the next level if he hired us a coach and we trained at Daytona for 6 weeks. He did not think I was joking and got irritated: he thinks I’m a hobo beatnik slacker, “wants to turn me in to the FBI.” But Sheldon works there, man. Do you remember him? He was a Thespian, a couple of classes ahead of us. Oh yeah, I forgot: you hate Thespians—whatever, you Debate snob! The fact is, Sheldon is killing me, man. Sheldon comes to work in character—the Gung Ho Detail Cleaner —and he runs around sweating and polishing the tops of peoples’ antennas. The boss likes him and even adores him. So there’s this thing he did, today, just going “White Formula! I need a refill of White Formula on the double!” and the boss came running up to him with it and Sheldon started polishing this customer’s sidewalls really seriously. He was being an absolute clown and the boss was eating it up! Sheldon knows how hilarious he is to me, so when the boss came running up with White Formula I pissed my pants! tears were coming out of my eyes and I bit my tongue and just struggled my way toward the bathroom but it was too late. The boss saw me staggering away and Sheldon announced to him that I got “stung by a bee,” at which point I crumbled to the ground and crawled around the corner I was laughing so hard, and for a moment my stomach cramped and I thought I could actually die laughing. I had to rinse my shorts out in the sink. But then—guess who pulled up in his Mercedes? Jarvis! He sat there pretending not to despise me. --you know Fredo that, after WELL, Jarvis prevented me from going out with Fiona even once, or ever saying goodbye to her when she left for Ervine? So here’s Jarvis: he tells me he’s surprised to find me ‘gainfully employed,’ and tells me about how Fiona is prospering at the Young Journalists Summer Workshop and how he’s taking the family out to Ervine to see her afterwards and they’ll fly up to

Alaska for a Glacier Bay cruise, and could I work extra hard on the mocha stain on his seat? at which point Sheldon ejaculates “We’ll see to the stain on your seat sir! Come Oskar, come!” and I could not pinch myself hard enough, I backed away from Jarvis and broke down laughing again. “Quentin! Go collect yourself!” Sheldon barked at me, and I stumbled off to the break room. “I’m sorry about my feckless helper,” he said to Jarvis. Sheldon is merciless man, if I show any weakness he cranks it up. What a delerious day! I could have kissed Sheldon, but I hit him on the arm instead. I guess I’m not really working, I’m just hanging out at Sheldon’s mad theatre for money. I’ll buy that mountain bike with my first paycheck. Man: you’re going to be so fit when you get back: 6 weeks of intense training! That is—if you come back in one piece sans brain damage from crashing, sunstroke, or marijuana poisoning. Winners don’t do drugs. Like me and Fiona. We’re winners, aren’t we? I’m sure what Earl cries over the most about your absence is thinking of you out doing the sport he loves while he’s stuck in his shop building bikes for other people to ride all summer long. Viva Alfredo! Go for it Man! It IS about the Bike! --Osk

August 3 Dear Fiona: I’ve found you! Out in Southern California, enjoying your sweet self, as you should be. I know in my mind you’re having a great experience, I can just feel it, plus, your dad told me so, I saw him over at Sudsbrushers, did he tell you? (I’ve got a job there) Anyhow, I looked up your program on the web, and got your address. I was hoping to see some pictures of the campus, but all they had are pictures of smiling students and teachers. So I’ve had to fill in the blanks. I think about you and I make up stories of how its going for you out there. You want to know what I imagine? On the web, in the faculty lookbook, there’s one teacher wearing a Hawaiien shirt, he looks like an ex surfer and was probably there for the Watts riots way back whenever they were—he’s a black guy and I picture him teaching you in a classroom with lots of glass, full of sunshine with palm trees and birds of paradise and bunnies hopping on the lawn outside, and he reads over your shoulder what you’ve written and says “That’s it! You’re golden! run with that idea—put it in lights!” Or there’s this woman who looks Dutch to me. I see her leading a workshop in a tall earthquake-proof brick building high in the LA smog, where the light filters in orangely through the brown cloud, and she is scalding you guys with hot words to awaken you to the terrible facts of the ununited nations, the world of robber barrons and black plagues and everything the Europeans have known about forever, and she’s saying ‘Write me some truth! Write me some truth!’ and inspiring you with her radical Dutch accent and filling you with passion until your blue eyes reflect the orange light, like red flames.... Or there’s a Juan Gonzales who takes you all on a bus ride to the Barrio to interview people you can’t even understand: to interview Mexicans in Spanglish and find out what they think of America—Juan is trying to break open your high school boxes and spill you into the big world of immigrants and illegalized people, and at the end of the day Fiona you’ve written a poem and he says ‘everybody what Fiona has written is news because anything said new about the world is a poem and great reporting is just that—a new telling and saving of the facts from being soundbitten to death!’

I know I’m wrong Fiona. These are my daydreams, a few of them. Write me a letter, tell me how it really is for you. Its been over 5 weeks since we’ve been alone together. The last night that we went out together—before I left for Amsterdam—that night it was like a red carpet started rolling out in front of us as we lay together in my dad’s van—this famous and fabulous way through Life that could roll into eternity like a wedding on its night. I’m not talking exactly about marriage between us, I’m talking about an experience, a song of Soloman that crept over us that night. And then came WELL, and that mystical red carpet got pulled out from beneath us by some violently prude force of the world, and left me stumbling into exile across the lake from you and the rest of Lyron’s flock. Some nights when I get home from work I’ll sit on the porch, gazing at my dad’s van, remembering our night together, and the way you grasped me like a woman. For ten minutes, I swear you were different, you were a full bodied and full blooded woman. Fiona, you became the woman you must become, you were possessed by yourself, impassioned, in possession of yourself. You’ll be back in town at the end of the month—it’s been such a long time, I miss you Fiona. Do you know that your father turned me away from your door the evening before you left for Irvine? He said you were busy packing and that you did not want to see me. Jarvis has no right to such tyrany! Did you know? Are you letting him run your life? “My Father does not know best” I’m sure you remember when you said that to me. Why couldn’t you call me before you left? Your Father can intercept my calls but he can’t block yours! Don’t be so filially pious! I’ve needed to talk to you about WELL. I mean, I know I proved not to be “WELL material” but is that a strike against me? I mean Blithe seemed to think so, and with him sitting next to us on the bus ride back from the mountains I couldn’t very well chat with you both about the “Experience.” And are the ancient roots of the word ‘ostracize’ really so interesting to Blithe? If he cares so much for words then I wish he would spare us all of the uninspirational poetry he writes for the paper. I’m sorry. You enjoyed WELL, and you enjoy Blithe’s company. Whatever our defences I want to see and be more with you, and I hope its the same for you. I know your Father is Bible thumping hairy scary, but maybe God approves of us being together.

Doesn’t God smile when his cherubs shoot arrows through our hearts? Fiona, my dad has put his van up for sale and I might buy it if I make the money. Earl has me cleaning the bikes that come in for tune-ups, so I’ve got two jobs now. I mean, you and Fredo are both out of town for the summer, so I might as well spend my time being practical. But I am lonely for you Fiona. I love this picture, here on my desk, of you and I at the Homecoming dance, trying to smile and look comfortable. I had no idea that I would ever be in a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship with you at that time: I was just nervous! You look a little nervous too, but your dress is so gorgeous! Later that night, we took our first bites of chocolate together: that is where the whole milk chocolate vs dark chocolate conversation started between us. The nice vice. We’ve always taken it slow and sweet together. We never even kissed until the Spring Formal. Maybe we should take a step or two back and start fresh when you return. We’ve been a couple now for almost 11 months! I see Irvine is close to the beach. But not too far from “South Central.” You Young Journalists probably go to the beach instead of going to South Central on your time off. Write me back! Go to the beach! Put some sand in the envelope, I’ll get into my swimtrunks and dip my pinkie toe in it and pretend I’m at the Ocean with you. The enclosed chocolate is my own confection. I brought two chocolate bars back from Amsterdam for you, one was milk chocolate, the other dark chocolate. I tried to give them to you before you left, but your father basically closed the door on me. So now I’ve melted them and swirled them together into six eggs, using a plastic easter egg for a mold. You can share them with your fellow journalists if you like. Enjoy your sweet self, and listen to your teachers, they are probably more awesome than I imagine. Yours, Osk

August 14 Fredo: Dig it MAN!!! Its been two weeks and thirteen people at least have come looking: nobody has bought the van. I get paid in two days and I’m going to offer Vincent cash for it. I’ll give him asking price for the van—$300 cash (my Grandpa will front me some of the money). When you get back next week I’ll probably have it! Then I’ll be going up to Charles’ condo in Winter Park: you ought come visit me! Anyhow man its becoming a long summer. Everybody is gone and I’m here working two jobs. Earl is letting me replace a frayed cable here and there, and he’s shown me the wheel truing stand. So I’m glad you’re gone: if I wasn’t replacing you at Earl’s this whole job thing would have sucked! You’ll hate this: in the breakroom at Sudsbrushers they’ve got a tv on all the time! Its like you go in there to drink a pop or eat your lunch and IT is just showing its BOOB at you. Criminy man I tried muting it one day and everybody hushed up as though they couldn’t talk if the tv wasn’t talking and I was like IF Fredo was here he’d tell you all to cut that thing off by its tentacles and don’t even think of being entertained by the crap...but of course you’re not here and I don’t want to get on my coworkers’ bad sides. I think a lot about that Vietnamese guy who gave the talk at school who lost his legs to a landmine. Remember how he said that you have to concentrate on what is here in front of you, like your food, then the sorrow of life is bearable? At work I can hardly even concentrate on a Mountain Dew which I’m drinking with these commercials showing their stuff at me like some Hooker in the Red Light Windows of Amsterdam. So I was in the break room eating my lunch and on the tv they were talking about the “Left Behind” series where everybody who is not righteous and the apple of God’s eye gets left behind during the Rhapture and is doomed to work it out in a World Wrestling Federation Armageddon Cage Fight Smackdown on Earth. And it was like what your dad says: how we’re a culture of winners, how we have to have a lot of losers, and heres this story of everybody on earth dying to get in through the one gate to Salvation, a story written about all the losers and a couple of

winners. (Wasn’t that the Enron story?) WHATEVER! I bet there’s a whole lot of heavens out there and the one these Left Behind guys are jockeying to get in to requires a stick inserted up the butt to enter. Anyhow I turned the channel to Discovery and they were talking about Super Tsunamis. I was like yeah man, here’s a story where everybody dies and its not because they are Losers or Winners, its because Doom Happens Equally to Everybody. Now, I know your Dad likes to tell the Swedish story, where It—the Bad Evil thing—happens to nobody because everybody works and shares a socialist safety net, but hear me out: I was like, at least here’s a story where everybody loses! That’s a good story, right? Haven’t heard this one before! (Your Dad is the Dude man! I’d like to be an Economist like him when I grow up!) Anyhow I’ve got a story, here, about nobody getting saved or even getting left behind, its called something like Everybody Perishes (except the Super-Rich). For your Amusement. Enjoy: Justin Whaler was riding the 7:00 am ferry to his Private High school on Staten Island when the news played on his iPod Plus: TERRORISTS from Amerigobangastan exploded 25 nuclear bombs on some techtonically unstable Spanish Island six hours ago. Everybody on the Spanish Island is presumed dead and the Rocky Mountain Seismograph Center has recorded a Massive Earthquake. Its believed that a large section of the island collapsed in the sea, setting off a Super Tsunami which is due to hit the Eastern Seaboard in two hours. The wave could be over 1000 yards high and go inland as far as 200 miles. Justin’s heart pounds as chaos erupts on the ferry. He knows now why he’d heard all those helicopters at 5 am: the New York’s Rich and Powerful were bailing out! But only now are the nongajillionaires getting the news! There are gunshots in the car bay! Justin hides behind a seat as car passengers swarm up from the lower decks, and then a man with a gun comes up and starts a speech. He says: “If any of you don’t know, a killer tidal wave is coming to reach us in two hours because of some raghead terrorists! If you’re ignorant perhaps you believe you can escape this by running to shore! But its too big! Don’t be Fools! We’re on this boat and we

need to get it out to sea beyond where the wave forms! Come with me and tell the Captain that....” A cop shoots the man at this point and he falls over Dead. The deck is swarming, people are crying, there is hollering everywhere: “My baby! Get me back to see my baby one last time!” “We’ve got to get out to sea, its our only chance!” “Has anybody seen this wave? How do they know its coming?” “My cell phone is dead! My cell phone is dead!” “Drop me back to shore, we should head for high ground!” And around the dead guy, a group of people are arguing. “He’s right, we need to get to sea!” “He’s wrong! We need to get as far from the ocean as possible!” “I’m going to the captain!” “no I’m going to the captain!” The people begin brawling and low and behold, more than 33% of these Americans happen to be holding firearms! The two camps shoot it out and the “Out to Sea” camp is the WINNER! The others are all dead and dying and they are the LOSERS! The cops have sat this one out. An older man next to Justin who appears to be a Socialist economics professor says to people around him: “Why are we killing everybody? This is not the way to save ourselves!” and one of his crowd says “maybe we can make it out to sea quick enough.” And the professor says “Do we even know how much fuel is on board the ferry? Could we make it out to sea at our fastest speed anyhow? Would that be far enough?” “Yes yes!” this 6 foot tall handsome football player kind of man exclaims with a Hollywood voice, “that would easily do it! The continental shelf is only 20 miles away! Then it gets DEEP!” And everybody including the professor is like “only 20 miles away?” and the professor follows the Winners as they charge the Captains tower. There are three cops and three ships officers outside the door with guns and they fire a god’s plenty of warning shots over the crowd. “Take us out to Sea! Take us out to Sea!” shouts the group. The officers say that they will follow the captain’s orders and not the mob’s. Then the professor shouts “we request an audience with the Captain!” Everybody is quiet.

The professor shouts “I have reason to believe we’d all be safe if we sailed 25 miles offshore before the wave hits. I need to know: do we have enough fuel?” The officers look around. One officer decides not to shoot himself in the head just yet. They have a conference and tell the professor to come up, but yell the rest of the mob to stay back. The professor asks the captain if he knows how far off the Continental shelf is. The captain says “Whose shelf?” and the professor explains that if they could reach the deep water twenty miles offshore, it would be their best chance for survival. “Yes,” says the Captain, “we have enough fuel for that. Our speed, though, depends upon how light we are. It’s going to be a tight one!” So the Captain turns his Ferry out to the open ocean. The water is crowded. A lot of ships are going that way. The professor returns to the crowd. He explains that the ship could go faster if it is made lighter, and he recommends dumping all the cars into the water. The group turns from the captains tower and takes over the Chief Stewards cabin, where they have access to the megaphone. “Now Hear This!” a man announces. “This is The Posse! We are taking this ship out to sea and require all cars to be dumped for greater speed. Please return to your vehicle and surrender it to us Authorities at once!” (The armed Posse will continue announcing mad and conflicting orders to the rest of the people for the duration of the “cruise.”) Justin hears gunshots in the carbay and sneaks down to see the happenings. Many car owners are refusing to let their cars be sunk, and some are shooting at “The Posse”. The Posse outguns every individual who defends their property rights, and soon cars and dead bodies are diving into the New York waters like wrinkle-nosed trout. Other car owners, who did not brandish their guns, sit on the floor of the car bay, weeping for their loss. For the next two hours, Justin wanders the ship like a ghost. He sees, but he is not seen. He watches people ransack the concessions stands, one man violently apprehends about 9 hotdogs and runs off to eat them by himself. Justin sees an old man sit there and read his paper. He sees a young brother and sister playing jacks out on deck. He sees crowds of people around

the pay binoculars, scanning the horizon. He sees a young couple making love behind a row of chairs. He sees another couple bickering about who burnt the roast last night. Some people are praying. It seems like everybody is doing what they really want to do. Justin wants to pray. But he feels silly asking to be saved. So he kneels and says “Oh Lords of Heavan and Sea and Earth, help me face my fate without intolerance or disdain, and thank you for my girlfriend and my Grandfather and my parents. And my brother. And if you must, then wash us all away.” Justin stands up and walks about. He wonders if he really had to do what he has always been doing. Did he have to be going to school this morning? Couldn’t he have walked out his apartment door and gone to Greenwich Village? Couldn’t he have been playing his guitar instead of attending these last 3 years of high school? Justin spends a couple of good odd hours, witnessing the horrible procession of the panicked and the placid, while feeling a fire of hope burning in his soul where he has been touched by the words of the tall handsome man: “and then it gets deep!” Then something new starts to happen. The boat begins to seem to be moving faster, as if it, and all the fellow boats around it, are being sucked out to sea. Unfortunately, this is exactly what is happening. He hears the professor giving a report. “We’ve made it about 32 miles offshore, but this doesn’t look so good.” The surface of the water gets all black and full of seaweed and rippelly like a river. Soon they are hitting bottom, skimming along the mushy sea floor, and as the waters recede Justin notices a nuclear submarine is running aground next to the ferry. People are screaming, couples are either hugging or totally separated from one another, kids are saying that they don’t see any wave at all. People are clamboring from the ferry on ropes and anything else at hand. Some are letting down the lifeboats, but the lifeboats have a long way to drop after the end of their rope. People are plopping down to the sea’s bottom and drowning there in a sort of quicksand. The air stinks like a dumpster in an alley behind a sushi shop. Then the hatch pops on the submarine and a couple of seamen hop out. They scurry about the deck. Their commanding officer

comes out and draws his gun and orders the men back into the boat. They refuse and soon are drowning in the mud, and the officer shoots at them. In the distance comes a din, a sucking roar, and on the horizon: a black line. The officer quickly empties his clip, leaves his men bleeding in the sucking mud, and jumps back into the submarine. Justin finds himself shaking and crying. He remembers his girlfriend. He wished he’d asked her out long before he actually did. He remembers his Grandpa. He wishes he’d carved that cane for his Grandpa. He looks at the blue sky, and it is familiar as ever. The sun shines, the clouds make shapes. He sees a scythe, he sees a wheelbarrow, he sees a dragon. How sweet it is, Justin feels, to long for and love the sky and clouds. Someday soon, perhaps a couple of hours from now, people will be scared of the clouds and the radiation in the sky. ‘I don’t want to live in a world where the sky brings poison. Maybe we who perish today are the lucky ones?’ He watches people around him. We are all like babies, so helpless, he thinks. Our mothers always dreaded a day like this might come upon us. Then Justin is suddenly very angry. He hasn’t seen the tall handsome football player ever since he announced two hours ago that the continental shelf was nearby. Was he just full of crap? Did he jump ship? Or was he even real? Was he a figment of everybody’s desparate imagination? For a moment, Justin loathes that man-angel-demon more than he has loathed anybody in his entire life. Why must somebody always tease us away from facing our own ruin? “I’ve just wasted the last two hours of my life hoping I would live!” Justin is thinking, “I could have spent that time preparing to meet my death!” Tears drench his face, then he looks about once more. He sees the professor telling his people “Wait! Stop! Don’t go below! Stay with me!” The old man puts down his newspaper, rubs his eyes and ears, and stretches out as if for a nap. Some of the Posse shoot each other in a mad grab for extra lifejackets. The suicidal police officer throws his gun overboard.

Then, Justin sees the wave. It is a growling beast. It is a Yak and a Dragon, drawing a Plough. I am ploughed over, Justin thinks, I am fodder. God does not pick winners or losers, not today at least. For a moment, Justin relaxes. He realizes he will not have to witness what all the American posses, armed to the fangs, do in the aftermath of this thing. Justin has expected the wave to be burning, nuclear hot. But it comes on him, on the ship, on all the scattered mudsunk vessels, with the cold black breath of the Grave, so high. There are no more clouds. No more sky. For God so Loved the Worldly, that nobody was raised above its politics, nobody sealed beyond its fate, not even the champions of Selective Salvation, the SS, as it were…. The End --Osk

August 19 Dear Grandpa I had a good time visiting you yesterday. I’d never heard that story about your grandmother being born on the Oregon Trail. They wouldn’t even stop the wagon! I keep thinking about that. Has it always been rush rush rush? Of course back then they were rushing from “Indians” and today we’re rushing for fast food. You were born in the days before fast food: how weird! Doesn’t modern life bum you out at all? But about yesterday: PLEASE Grandpa don’t talk about your nurses aid when she’s in the room with us. I mean yes I do think Stacy is sexy, but you can’t say that these days, or at least I can’t. From you maybe it’s a compliment: but I’m not an 84 year old man who can say whatever I want! I don’t want Stacy to hate me, OKAY? What the hell is wrong with that IV machine, with its alarm bells calling in the nurses every 5 minutes? This happens every time that either of you—you or your roommate—are having an IV! Those beeping machines must drive you out of your mind! I guess they keep you alive, but anyhow it was too crazy, I’m sorry, we didn’t have any privacy and I couldn’t tell you what I came to say. My problems with life are a little bigger than normal, Grandpa. I’m going away from high school for a while and I’m going to move somewhere. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to visit you. Hopefully a lot if I stay close by. Sometimes I think I’ll go up to Bend and see where you grew up. Now that I have the van, I basically have a camper to travel in. Why am I going? First of all: Fiona my girlfriend isn’t my girlfriend anymore. She’s never said “I’m breaking up with you” or “Here’s why I’m not seeing you anymore.” Ever since we went on the mountain camping trip its like I’ve been blacklisted and blueballed. And it was our school counselor who was behind the whole thing! Fiona was almost my lover! Do you have any idea what that means? I wish I did! I told you a secret once, you said it was “lusty.” Let me tell it again. If you still remember it, well, it won’t be a secret this time.

Fiona and I were out late on our last date before the camping trip. It was moonlit and we walked all around DeHallivand Park, holding hands and kissing, watching the reflections in the creek, the trees, the sky… I didn’t know quite where we were. Our mood was so exact, to the magic of the hour. We were in a lovely land. I’ll just say that we were enchanted. We lay down on blankets in the back of the van. Fiona’s breath was so warm and fragrant and her body gave off this perfume of perfumes (Fiona doesn’t wear perfume) and she began kissing me like a woman. I was kissed by a woman that night, I’m sure of it Grandpa, and here’s what she said: she took my hand up her shirt, cupping her bra, and she said “Oskar I want to open my life to you.” The moonlight in the van—the moment is so clear to me —our eyes met and I felt as though I were swimming over fathomless depths, and she said “Oskar I want to open my life to you: my soul, my body, and yours.” There was a tear in her eye, and I held her, there, and we breathed in each others air and for ten or twenty eternal minutes. Grandpa: that is my secret: I know in my heart we were meant to be lovers! I got her home a half hour after her curfew. Jasper came out— Jasper is her father—and he said “Your tail-light is out.” I had been about to apologize for being late, but the tone of his voice totally threw me. I guess for a moment right then I knew that I might never see Fiona again. I don’t know what he said to Fiona, but I think he must have talked to our trip leader too, that counselor. I just can’t figure out how this can be, that at the highest point of the highest night in my life, I suddenly became a shadow of all that light, and ever since…. Fiona is a woman! Nobody has the right to coerce her back into a girl’s shell! It is her right to become a woman! And they’ve conspired with her virginity and won her back! I seriously don’t think high school helps people grow up, Grandpa, at least not these days! Our ‘superiors’ have no idea how they’ve dulled our life! One week in Europe taught me more about the world than three years of Social Studies! When Dad finds out I’m not going back to school, he’s going to try to crack down on me. Grandpa, I don’t know why. When my mother moved me out of Charles’ house to live with Vincent—my ‘real father’—why did I

like you right away? Why have I never liked Vincent? I’m not saying anything bad about your son, I’m just telling you that when I don’t feel welcome in the world, I think of you, and then I do. You must feel so confined in your bed at the nursing home. I’m sorry. Your strokes may have killed parts of you, but the real you is still here. Maybe you don’t need your brain at all, and your heart has just taken over your thinking for you. For me, sitting at your bedside and talking to you, that is the place where I feel the least hassled, where the world seems to have a place for me at the table.

I’ll see you soon and don’t be surprised when I hand you $100. Remember: you lent it to me last week. FOR THE VAN. Love, Oskar

August 25 Winter Park, Colorado Fredo! I’m sitting out here on the balcony feeling crazy. I just watched you hop in your car and head back for Denver. I could hardly climb the stairs back up to the second floor: that was a Bike Ride! School starts for you tomorrow and here I am in the mountains: Left Behind! Is being left behind such a bad thing? “Oskar’s behind in school,” “Oskar remains behind his peers.” I’m sure Blithe is glad that I’m not making it to the senior year kick off, so he can put me behind him. Then he doesn’t have to have it on his conscience that he is such a tame match for Fiona. He’s whipped white as snow. AARRGH Fiona! You don’t want to hear any more about it, Fredo, I know. Okay. I knew you’d like mountain biking. I thought I might keep up with you. What a fool am I! I thought we’d just ride the bike trail up the valley and back. But no. I really thought you were joking when you said that we should ride up the old railroad grade to the Continental Divide. Your words keep ringing in my ears “Just two more miles, Oskar!” Sorry man, two more uphill miles may be nothing to you, but it was like a knife in the guts to me. Come back next summer and maybe I’ll make it to the top with you. My legs are so sore, I think my bones are blistered. If we weren’t best friends I’d sue you for the near suicide you forced upon me. So there you go down the road, on your way to the state Debate Finals again this year, I presume. You’re the man! Whatever Lyron thinks, you can count on it that I’ll be taking Life by the Horns this year. And watch out around that guy. Trust your instincts, man. Don’t let Lyron “guidance counsel” you into applying for a college that is not right for you. He always thinks he is right. He doesn’t even know how not to think he’s right. So here’s to both of us! Fredo, may we take on life like we would take on a woman: eye to eye, skin to skin, close enough to breathe her horny breath! Later, Fredo! --Osk