Character, Driven Read online

  We listened to a Dylan song first, chosen by Zach. Another meaningless coincidence. If the song had been “Wallflower,” I’d begin to question the benevolence of the author of my existence. But, being spared that level of synchronicity, I could continue to question, instead, the existence of my author. Wait—considering what you hold in your hands, I’m my author. And my authority. No questions asked.

  Let’s get back to class.

  The song was “Mr. Tambourine Man.” I actually kind of like Dylan, even though he sounds like he’s being squeezed by a medium-sized monster when he sings. After that, we heard a couple rock songs and one of Abbie’s selections, which was an antiwar protest song from the Vietnam Era called “I Ain’t Marching Anymore.” Abbie, of course, first had to talk for five minutes about the incorrectness of “ain’t.”

  Then, totally off the wall, Peter pulled out an album by a guy who called himself Napoleon XIV. He passed the cover around so everyone could admire it. There were some wild titles. I was bummed Peter didn’t offer us “The Place Where the Nuts Hunt the Squirrels.” The song he picked was “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa.” I have to admit, it was nicely twisted.

  “Not politically correct,” Ms. Ryder said. “It’s obviously from a time when less sympathy and understanding was offered to those suffering from mental illness. But humor is one way society tackles important issues, often by crossing the boundary of good taste.”

  Someone in the back let out a fart sound.

  “Point proved,” Ms. Ryder said, giving Marty Brownstain a stare. “I’m pleased you understand the importance of classroom participation.”

  “Or farticipation,” Peter said, recycling his classic joke.

  Ms. Ryder ignored him. I couldn’t help comparing her calm manner with the frantic, overstressed reactions of Mr. Strawbroke, or the incessant shouting of Mr. Tippler.

  “Seriously,” she said, “we should take a look at humor before the year ends. Some of the most memorable political moments in history generated displays of sharp wit in a variety of media—film, editorial cartoons, songs, and stage plays. Satirical humor often displeases the people in power. If you look back at some of the things our government has attempted to censor, you’d be surprised. Try Googling ‘Lenny Bruce’ or ‘the Smothers Brothers.’ The acceptable and forbidden targets of humor at any point in history reveal a lot about a society. But let’s get back to the music. Who’s next?”

  I checked the clock. There was time for only one or two more songs before the period ended. I hated the idea of waiting until the next class. And I had this crazy fear that someone else would offer up Doc Watson before I had my chance. Luckily, Ms. Ryder picked me from among the remaining candidates. I’d narrowed my selection to one of three tracks, all instrumentals. “Nashville Pickin’” and “Nothing to It” were killer flat-picked numbers and the two strongest candidates. “Windy and Warm” was fingerpicked, and wonderful in a fluid, melodic way, but not so much of a showpiece. I figured “Sweet Georgia Brown,” as brilliantly as Doc Watson played it, wouldn’t be appreciated, since it was used so much commercially.

  I pulled the album from the sleeve, spreading my grip wide so I touched only the center hole and the edge of the record.

  “Can I see that jacket?” Ms. Ryder asked.

  “Sure.” I handed the sleeve to her and put the album on the turntable. After a bit more contemplation, I decided to go with “Nothing to It.” As I lifted up the arm and imagined the awestruck faces of my classmates when the dazzling guitar work reached their ears, I heard Ms. Ryder let out a small squeal, like she’d spotted a cluster of kittens.

  She scurried over to me. “Oh, Cliff, I love this song. Play this one!” she said, tapping the back of the cover.

  I saw where her finger rested, and felt a wave of doom and despair erase all my fantasies of triumph and glory. My life was about to come to a tragic end.

  Cherry Bomb

  “THE RIDDLE SONG.”

  Oh, for the love of God, no. Please, no. Not that one. That was the totally sappy song about giving your love a cherry. That was the song that made John Belushi go apeshit in that old movie, Animal House, and turn a guitar into a shower of splinters with a series of marvelous aim-for-the-fences power swings. That was the song I would have immediately deleted from a digital version of Southbound right after I purchased the album. That was the song that would mark me as existing farther beyond the outermost boundaries of pathetic-loser land than anyone should ever have to venture. On top of all that, it was the song with the least guitar work. No hot licks. No lightning-speed breaks. Just treacle and rose water.

  I gave Ms. Ryder a silent pleading look.

  My silent pleading look sucks. Her silent ooohhh-I-love-that-song look beat me down like paper beats rock. Or stone beats cherry.

  I considered dropping the tonearm too hard, breaking the needle. Nice fantasy, but I was gutless when it came to intentionally ruining things.

  I placed the tonearm where it belonged and watched as the needle followed the widely spaced spiral path that separated songs in the ancient, dusty days of analog recordings.

  After a pleasant but undazzling fingerpicked guitar intro, the first words rose from the speakers in Doc Watson’s melodic voice.

  I gave my love a cherry that had no stone.

  I gave my love a chicken that had no bone.

  By the time the lyrics reached stone, half the guys in the class were exchanging amused glances. By bone, there was unrestrained laughter. I saw Peter make a jerk-off gesture with his curled right hand while mouthing the word “bone.” I knew, given the lyrics that were coming, that this could only get worse.

  I gave my love a baby with no crying.

  And told my love a story that had no end.

  It went on. Hilarity ensued. Clovis Hunt, an incurable brute to his very core, crossed his eyes, turned the rest of his face even stupider looking than usual, and played air guitar. Not electric air guitar, of course, with forward-thrashing head bangs. It was twangy, loose-wristed country acoustic air guitar, with sideways head sways and a mocking leer. I wanted to point at Clovis and shout, He tried to kill Mr. Xander! As tempting as that was, I realized it wouldn’t rescue me from my current torture.

  Peter was laughing so hard, he fell off his chair. Sadly, he didn’t break his neck. Or his bone. Marty was playing along with a hand cupped under his armpit.

  All that prevented me from dropping to my knees right there and piercing my heart with the sharp end of the stick that held the flag of Ethiopia suspended over the THIS IS WHERE WE ARE TODAY sign Ms. Ryder used with her freshman geography class, was the brevity of the song. Three verses. That’s all she wrote. Or he. Or them. No. Not them. No way it took more than one lyricist to create this vat of vapid syrup. Thank goodness it wasn’t a ballad. Some of those had ten or fifteen verses.

  When the song ended, and the last cherry had been left unstoned, I thought about asking Ms. Ryder if I could play another track. Doc Watson could pick the hell out of a guitar. Even a hard-core rock fan would appreciate his skill. But I knew nothing could redeem this moment. Anything I tried would somehow turn tragic in a half-comic and thoroughly humiliating way. Right now, I was standing in front of the class in my underwear. The next step would leave me buck naked with an erection.

  Abbie, ever eager to use the backs of even the lowest of the fallen as stepping stones, raised her hand and pointed out that my song lacked political relevance. That was pretty far down on my list of troubles at the moment. Feeling hellbound, I retrieved Southbound. The record, at least, had the luxury of napping within the comforting confines of a dark sleeve. Not me. I had to pass through the gauntlet of classmates.

  Amused eyes followed me as I oozed down the aisle to my seat. Comments pitched just low enough to avoid being thwarted by our teacher pelted me from all sides.

  “Cherry boy.”

  “Ohhhh, lovely song.”

  “Rock on!”

  Ms. Ryder, in a rare
moment of less than stellar pedagogy, seemed so enthralled by the magic spell the song had weaved in the air that she appeared unaware my classmates were irreparably damaging my self-esteem.

  I was even awarded with a spontaneously composed song parody, courtesy of Peter.

  I gave my love a penis that had no sperm.

  I gave my love a dumb song that made her squirm.

  I gave my love a baby that crapped its pants.

  And told my love a story about eggplants.

  Afterwards, I consoled myself by realizing that, as a song parodist, Peter totally petered out at the end. But that was far, far afterwards, when the universe once again allowed for the existence of elements other than angst, self-pity, and mortification. This was now. And I was eager for now to be over and forgotten.

  One set of eyes in this troubled sea of mockery followed my path but didn’t seem to mock.

  Jillian.

  I looked away when I realized I was staring at her. My face burned even hotter as I entertained the delusion that the song had somehow touched her. Don’t kid yourself. I knew that in reality, one song, a song I hadn’t even wanted to play for the class, would never be enough to get Jillian to glance at me for longer than the fifteen seconds of shame I’d been awarded, or to think of me as anything other than a slobbering spouter of monosyllabic gibberish.

  A moment later, Tim was standing at the turntable, and John Fogerty, lead singer of Credence Clearwater Revival, was howling in his magical semi-indecipherable way about getting stuck in Lodi. Lucky him. I would have killed for that sort of easy-to-solve problem. One way or another, no matter how badly stuck you might be, you can get out of Lodi. Or decide it isn’t so bad after all. Wherever it is.

  At least I wasn’t still in the spotlight. I’d live. But I’d have nightmares. With music in the background. But no hot licks. I’d suffer in a purgatory of slow-strummed chords and nauseating lyrics.

  I didn’t even bother going home after school. I headed out of town, past the bridge over Kilmer’s Creek, and then up the gravel road that cut through the heart of Clark Rismore State Park. There are fields of tall grass on both sides of the road. On one side, the fields border dense woods. The other side leads to an overlook. It’s an impressive view of the valley, filled with rolling hills and vast stretches of forest.

  I saw two people to my left, sitting under one of the trees that were scattered across the field. It was Brad and Christopher. I turned off the road and cut to the right. The woods seemed like the best place to nurse my wounds.

  “Cliff! Hey, Cliff!”

  I looked over my shoulder. Christopher was waving at me. I was surprised he even knew my name. I gave him a halfhearted wave in response. He motioned for me to join them.

  Trick?

  As I approached, I expected them to leap to their feet, shout, Loser! and start laughing.

  But when I got closer, Christopher just said, “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Nothing. Walking,” I said.

  “I love this place,” Brad said. “It’s so full of … nature.”

  “Yeah.” I searched their faces. I didn’t want to assume they would keep talking to me. But they didn’t have that Piss off, pissant! scowl so many of the popular kids had mastered. They were among the minuscule subsection of popular kids who didn’t seem to need to enhance their status by trashing others. “Kind of makes you think,” I said, turning toward the overlook. I inhaled a lungful of scenery.

  “For sure,” Christopher said. “It’s like we’re in this enormous, endless universe. We’re just ants. Or bacteria. But we’re important bacteria.”

  “I know,” I said. “I think about that stuff, too.” Though I also knew that if the universe was endless, it wasn’t necessary to also call it “enormous.” But that was not the sort of observation that encouraged further conversation. I squatted, easing my way toward getting seated on common ground, but still allowed myself room to rise and exit without awkward acrobatics if it became obvious they didn’t want my company.

  “Cosmic,” Brad said. “It just hit me—if you think something and I think something, how do we know we aren’t having the same thought?”

  “We are having the same thought,” I said.

  “No,” Brad said, shaking his head violently. “I mean the same thought. Two minds—one thought.”

  “Like if we see the same piece of pie?” I asked.

  “I love pie,” Christopher said.

  “Yeah!” Brad shouted. “That’s what I mean. It’s like if two people have the same idea, or even the same headache. Maybe it’s one thing. Like they’re sharing it.”

  I wasn’t sure I agreed with that, or even totally followed his argument, but it felt good to have a real, genuine conversation with socially desirable members of our schoolciety. Maybe, if being seen at a concert with me could suck Patricia down among the dregs and sully her image beyond repair, hanging out with Brad and Christopher could lift me up a bit. Or a lot. Even though I sort of resented their inexplicable, intangible luck-of-the-draw popularity, it was impossible not to like them.

  “I’d share my pie,” Christopher said. “Unless it was a small piece. Then there wouldn’t be much point. You need to eat a certain amount of pie for it to really count. A sliver just isn’t satisfying. You need a critical mess.”

  Brad stared at him. I thought he was going to tell Christopher to stop talking. Instead, he said, “Let’s get some pie!”

  “Yeah.” Christopher shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out some singles and a ten. “We can totally do that.”

  So we went to the diner and had pie. And continued our discussion about our place as ants or bacteria in the cosmic enormousness of a universe where ideas and headaches might be independently existing entities that could be shared, and where the slices of strawberry pie at the Krome Kadillac Diner were big enough that you could share one if necessary, but all the more wonderful when there was no need for subdivision. I noticed that Molly, our waitress, had given me the biggest slice. I liked her. And I always left a good tip. I knew how hard people worked in restaurants, and I knew how much tips helped when you don’t get paid very much. I didn’t get tips at Moo Fish, but I got them when I bagged groceries.

  After the last jellied smears of the pie on my plate had been finger-swiped and licked out of existence, I tossed some money on the table to cover my share of the bill. “Thanks,” I said as I slipped out of the booth. I wanted to stay longer, but I needed to get some of my homework done before dinner.

  “Thanks for what?” Christopher said.

  I opened my mouth. As usual, the words I’d planned to say seemed stupid on close examination.

  Thanks for …

  … talking to me.

  … talking with me.

  … letting me sit in a public place with you.

  … inviting me for pie.

  … sharing your feelings about the universe.

  … treating me like I matter.

  … listening to my ideas.

  “Just thanks,” I said.

  As I left the diner, Maddie and Patricia walked in. Damn. If I’d dawdled for sixty more seconds, they would have seen me hanging out in a booth with Christopher and Brad. Instead, they saw me leaving by myself, as an apparent loner. Patricia looked away. Maddie, at least, nodded at me. We’d long ago reached the point where we could comfortably breathe the same air for a brief period without causing each other undue stress. I no longer lusted after her. She no longer fled and hid. As much as I regretted the missed opportunity to show the two of them what they’d lost when they’d fled from me, I knew I’d have lots more opportunities to shine with reflected glory, now that I’d been invited into the world of the popular guys.

  I headed home, feeling a bit less destroyed by the fierce mocking I’d experienced in Government class. I smiled as the word paisano flitted through my mind. In Italian, it meant “pal” or “good friend.” But I guess it could also, in my universe, mean one with whom you can share pi
e.

  Was it this easy to make new friends? I mean, I had friends. I was glad I knew Robert, Butch, and Jimby, and that I’d gotten to know Nicky. But we all were on the fringe, whether by fate or choice. As much as misery loves company, misery adores acceptance. Maybe I was finally learning how to interact with the popular kids. Maybe I could become one of them.

  * * *

  WHEN I GOT home, Mom was in the kitchen, making a cup of tea. “Your Dad went out for a job interview in East Rutherford,” she said. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

  “I will.” That would be a wish come true. I tried to remember what it felt like to walk into an empty house after school.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  There were no words for the highs and lows I’d experienced this afternoon, so I offered a shrug and a grunt.

  Apparently, the shrug, the grunt, or the two of them in combination communicated more than I’d wanted.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asked.

  I couldn’t take her where I’d been. So I gave her an answer that was equally valid when it came to recounting my problems. “I don’t know. It’s just—I have no idea what I want to do with my life.”

  She looked down at the flour-dappled light brown Maple Lane Bakery apron that she’d worn home from work. Then she flicked her hand across her stomach, sending up a puff of dust. As the cloud dissipated, she laughed.

  “I guess I shouldn’t complain,” I said. I realized Mom had never planned a life where she’d be at work at 3 A.M., making rolls and bagels for people’s breakfast. Or trying to support three people on one modest salary.

  “It’s not bad,” she said. “I sort of enjoy making bread. I like working with my hands. There’s something very therapeutic about bread dough. My coworkers are great. I’m happy I have a job. Especially now, when your father is…” She let it dangle.

  “If you could do anything,” I asked, “what would it be?”

  “Music, I guess,” she said. “But I know that’s not a reality.” She stepped closer and put her hands on my shoulders. “What would your dream job be?”