Chapter Twelve: Don't Ever Get Married

Without you I was nothing, for I knew—
From the day I met you, you would be mine.
Without you beside me just would not do.
You asked me only that I be wholly thine.
—“Don’t Ever Get Married” (Eric Knickerbocker) Copyright © 1994 Mississippi Madness Right Writers Group.

I did, however, come to school from time to time. I was well known amongst the teachers as a brilliant student who was wasting his life with reckless living. I did not realize how much the teachers kept tabs on me until recently when I was invited to speak to the high school on the topic of drugs and alcohol, relating my experiences to the teens. Being only six years since I graduated, a number of the same teachers remained, despite the high school expanding to a brand new building across town.

Mrs. Lyman, a foreign language teacher that I had never had, was intrigued by my testimony (an abridged version of the account you are in the process of reading at this very moment) and mentioned that I was well known for my mental prowess—and the fact I was in danger of jeopardizing it. I was startled by her familiarity with me (and not just my distinctive name), as I never thought of teachers as exchanging so much information about their students.

Being from a small town and having admirable gifts of communication and writing no doubt played a large role. I’m sure the teachers talked about certain students that could be having problems in an effort to raise awareness and be on the lookout for ways to help, particularly when they perceived a student as having particular ability that was being squandered with wayward indulgence. (And, since teachers are humans too, I’m sure that perhaps they might just happen to get bored and—dare I say it—gossip a bit. Shh! Surely not!)

I soon discovered I had a natural aptitude for writing and was well known by my teachers and students in the English department. The teachers occasionally read some snippet or other of mine alluding to drugs (another harbinger of my future), not to mention noticed the tell-tale cigarette and occasional marijuana smell that permeated my body. No doubt they also overheard my conversations with my peers that often included my obvious interest in the occult and drugs and noticed my peer group. All in all, I would say that it was rather clear to students and staff alike that I was on a path of destruction and wasted potential. At any rate, I was unaware that I had developed so much popularity amongst the staff, but it was no secret I was building a lasting legacy with my peers.

My junior year I penned a poem that to this day still shocks me with its poignancy. It was entitled “Don’t Ever Get Married” and was later published in A Flood of Emotions,¹ a compilation of poetry by area authors. It goes like this:

I got a B+ on it. While it was supposed to be a sonnet, I unfortunately overlooked coming up with enough lines, and as a result it has only thirteen instead of the usual fourteen, hence my B+. Little did I realize how true this poem would become of my life.

It has been said that many authors have unwittingly written self-fulfilling prophesies; I know that I undoubtedly did, deriving much of my fictional ideas from my dreams and reflections of myself and my friends. The teacher pulled me aside and questioned me after reading this poem, but I did not think I had a problem and politely told her so, thanking her for her concern.

We were often asked to write a short paragraph or two on a particular topic, such as something like “The person I most admire is . . .” The teacher would often ask for volunteers to read their assignment out loud. At first I was startled by the reaction to my writing skills. The first several times I read mine the class grew strangely quiet, and the students seemed riveted by my descriptive observations.

By the end of my sophomore year I was inevitably called on to read my writing, and teacher and students alike would form into a semi-circle facing my desk in the back, settling into a strange, religious-like hush as if I were reciting some great, sacred thing. The other students often refused to read theirs after I had read mine, often saying that after hearing mine, there was simply nothing that could be added, as if to do so would have been disrespectful somehow.

I think this stemmed from my God-given ability to capture humanity so candidly and accurately. This was a positive aspect of my sensitivity that I perceived as a weakness. When I wrote I was not afraid to express my emotions, and they often came out as I would read: you could clearly hear the passion I felt for my subject matter. At any rate, this reaction did wonders for my self-esteem and popularity.

And then, in the first English semester my senior year (the entire rest of the class were juniors), there was my faithful critic Craig who refused to believe I might actually have a real heart to fuel my writing. He was always asking me how I got away with so many “scam jobs.”

I had some fun with him, though, playing into the role he cast me in. I half convinced him I could read his mind, and to “prove” it, I had him pick a number between one and ten, and naturally I had him write it down so we could verify without doubt that I was accurate. What he did not realize due to being a bit gullible, incredulous, and distracted by my sharp wit, acting skills, and intense faces was that I had a few other students wise to the game that would look over his shoulder, flashing me the right number of fingers for the number he had written on his paper.

I stroked my scraggly beard and stared off into space as my eyes lost their focus in “intense concentration” (catching a glimpse of the all telling fingers while I was at it, of course) and would intone—if it was the number six for instance—“I think the number is . . . [long pause] Seven. No! No! That’s not right.” And I had a blast playing it out, always eventually settling with absolute surety on the correct number. After growing increasingly stupefied with my correct guesses and repeatedly putting it to the test, he finally caught one of my helpers peering over his shoulder, and we all (except possibly for him) had a really good laugh. Poor guy.

My junior year I had fluffed off and flunked out of a half semester of English, so I had to take it again the following year. The school officials only let me take the half semester and then I was forced into another English class for the remainder of the year. I chose Speech and for a totally unprepared, often stoned individual I had an uncanny ability to pull off good grades and timely presentations.

Being a disc jockey helped, as well as the fact that I was part con artist and also a naturally gifted public speaker. Most of my lost grades in that class were due to lack of notes and missed assignments. I usually lucked out though—coming back the day the speech I hadn’t even known about was due, so I’d hop up ad-lib, and I’d put at least another “B” in the bag. I never enjoyed that class as much as English because I never wrote anything.

When I was in grade school and junior high, I tried everything I knew to fit in and be well liked. I’d never felt like I had many friends and was desperately hungry for companionship. It seems ironic that when I stopped worrying about popularity and settled into the stoner clique, my confidence rose, and with it, hidden abilities emerged from their camouflaged trappings. All those years of being picked on as the bookworm suddenly transformed the strange, ugly duckling into the “strong sensitive type.”

There were other factors that contributed to my popularity as well. I was becoming increasingly well known as a proficient guitarist and would soon be famed for Hypnosis, an all original band in which a couple of other Family members and I relieved our angst. The long hair and the independence achieved by my loner’s necessity also contributed to the elusive standing.

To provide another brief sample of my high school writing, and to further describe my passionate emotion and solitary status, allow me to share an excerpt of a poem that was also later published in A Flood of Emotions. This is one of the few samples I have left and the last stanza of a poem entitled “The Loner’s Lie.”²

I would soon develop into a miniature megalomaniac, which caused me to “cut my nose off to spite my face,” as the old cliché goes. It is safe to say that all those years of hard-fought attempts at fame went to my head once they started being realized. This, of course, was fueled by my ever-growing inferiority complex, particularly when my ego started to push away everything that—and everyone who—had true value and meaning in my life.

I had not yet learned (lived) that the craving to be number one was fleeting and joyless, and its endless pursuit would not fill the hollowness inside, no matter how successful I might happen to be on the outside. And being on top today doesn’t ensure what tomorrow may hold. You can lose everything in such a short time, and if you have pursued only temporal things, what do you have to show for it? Maybe a little more wisdom, if the saddened fool you’re shown for has any remaining sense.

You know, it has been said that a wise man is only a fool with a good memory. The strange thing about life is that it has a funny way of teaching people the truth—one way or another. In my case it has always been the hard way when the highway ran out. The fast lane is wide, and many people are racing full bore ahead, blind to anything but themselves and the immediate moment.

Still, I am getting ahead of my story. I knew that I had a real talent for writing, but I was still pretty compassionate and considerate to others. My priorities were clearly defined, and my life revolved around The Family and our activities together, though I did enjoy being looked up to by other peer groups at school.

Then there were the girls who sought after the guys with long hair, and in particular Sylvester. He and I were spending an ever increasing amount of time together, and we were bored one evening, which was so typical for us. I was the one who craved excitement the most, I think, and that goaded him into action. For being such a shy chap, he was becoming strangely uninhibited.

This evening just happened to be a school dance. We did not even like school dances. We never went. We did not even know how to dance. But we were bored, and we decided it was something to do. The fact that it was so unusual for us gave it the spark of excitement. I mean it’d be like seeing a fish walking on land. Everyone knew the unwritten rule—stoners weren’t supposed to go social—especially not these two. And so we went.

We did not take it seriously at all, more like kids intent on crashing the party. When we arrived, there were a few girls that gave us both, and Sylvester in particular, a ridiculous amount of attention. These girls were not ones we were interested in. In fact, we avoided them. They went out of their way to drape themselves all over us and made virtual fools out of themselves in the process. Tonight was no exception.

I remember that there was some pretty cool music being played, though some of it left a lot to be desired. Sylvester ended up dancing for a tune or two in spite of himself. I don’t remember if I danced at all. It was just totally absurd for us to do such a thing, which is one reason it stands out in my faulty memory so vividly.

I do, however, remember being chased by some of our female admirers through the hallway. We actually spent more time in the hall than on the dance floor, which was held in the auditorium in the elementary school. If memory serves me correctly, it was a Halloween dance, because I think that was the occasion that the booth was set up. We had to reach our hands through the slitted construction paper into a cardboard box to feel the unknown, labeled “brains” or other such nonsense.

In reality, we found ourselves fondling the likes of a plate of spaghetti or gelatin (we lifted the boxes to peek), though we couldn’t see it, our sense of touch the only form of sensory input available. I’m sure you can imagine some of the reactions—just think of groping around in the dark and accidentally reaching your hand into a plate of moist spaghetti you did not know was there.

I also remember asking one of the teachers who was chaperoning if we could come back in if we went outside. As I recall, we weren’t supposed to be able to, but typical of our rebellion we said, “Screw it!” though not in so many words. Besides, smoking a cigarette was more important than a stupid dance.

So we went out anyway. While we did not much care for the dance, we were bored, and it was really chilly outside. After we finished our cigarettes, our options were to go home, or go back in. We went back in.

The only other detail I remember about this silly evening was that my beloved friend Shonda was there. I think it was through that evening that we learned that she would be having a birthday party at her house in the country. Regardless of how we were made aware, we soon found ourselves at yet another dance—this one in the countryside at her house.

She had an elaborate party and the barn on her place was converted into a dance hall complete with a professional DJ. My friends and I were disappointed that it was a strictly non-alcoholic event, but we got over it. There were a few people who snuck some bottles in, and they suffered the wrath of Shonda, who told them to leave on no uncertain terms. I would imagine that they did, though I don’t remember. She was one woman who was not afraid to speak her mind.

The party was a smashing success with a large number of people in attendance. Most everyone, including myself, willingly complied with Shonda’s policies. Considering my well-known dislike for her, I surprised us both and Sylvester too, by my respect for her rules. I just remember that I was concerned about wearing out my welcome and was not wearing my usual air of defiance. In fact, I was a little upset by some of the people who pushed the issue and felt a sense of vindication when Shonda pounced on their sorry butts.

Being a non-smoker, she wasn’t expressly pleased with our smoking our cigarettes outside, but as I remember we were not asked to leave the party. We did not, anyway. She was amazingly civil to me, especially considering the fact that I was an uninvited guest.

I remember it was extremely chilly that night too. I don’t know the exact date of Shonda’s birthday, but as I mentioned previously, I know that she was a fellow Scorpio. (Scorpio ranges from October 23^rd to November 21^st—during the fall months of the year. I’m thinking her birthday was sometime in November.) I had a pretty good time, though I did not dance that night either.

I just never grew up dancing and had no real desire to learn. To this day, I think I have tried dancing with a girl only once (I’m thinking at the Halloween dance), and I remember so little about it (much less who she was), you might as well say I never danced at all, if that is what you’d care to call my pathetic attempts. I would imagine I got conned or was dancing with one of the twins. It kills me I can’t remember.

There are so many little details that are vague, so many little gaps in my memory. There might have been other times I was duped into dancing too drunk or doped to remember—I don’t know. I guess my love of partying, lack of tolerance for all the pot I smoked, plus the stress of my frustrated, destined-for-failure obsession with Evon contributed to my hazy recollections, at least in part.

Shonda’s dancefest is the last major incident I remember about that fall and winter. Sylvester and I limped through it, occasionally partying together when the boredom got too high. Sylvester was very conscientious of his parents’ guidelines, and truthfully I think it was often an excuse to be the good, responsible kid that he actually usually was. What better way than to blame the folks for your “prudishness?” A rebel can’t be bad all of the time, and out of the two of us, he was generally the least reckless.

On one occasion, I remember I rode my bicycle down the three mile stretch from Mom and Dad’s house to the river so that I could go into town with Sylvester and his older brother Kevin, down from out of state for the time. That day, his folks had said he wasn’t supposed to make any extra trips, and he took them at their word.

I was bored and lonesome, so that was cool by me, and I rode in the freezing weather, occasionally sliding on the ice and wondering if my fingers would ever thaw by the time I made it to Jefferson Bridge to meet them. Kevin took pity on me and gave me a ride home afterward. I don’t remember what we did in town, if anything, but it was something to do. (I’m thinking now that they were returning some movies or something like that.)

Another time, Sylvester had some leftover alcohol stashed from a party his parents let him throw at their place. They did not care too much if he drank, so long as they knew what he was up to. They said they would rather have him doing it in front of them, than behind their backs. His two younger brothers were also at the party, and they got rather smashed.

I remember that barn party quite well. It was an all-nighter, and there was a rope swing in the loft which we swung drunkenly from. Sylvester’s folks stayed in the house and left us to our fun. I think we went into the house only once toward morning when the twins, being modest girls, needed to use the bathroom, or something like that. We were all pretty wasted and had a blast.

Sylvester’s dad and stepmom were pretty cool with us. They were really liberal, laid-back people who understood the rebellion of young people. Even though his dad reminded me of my dad in some ways, particularly in looks and personality, the two were actually quite different.

My father believed in, and practiced, his Christian values. He was rather strict with me, though I don’t think ridiculously so at all. He and my mother had high values, but they were very down to earth.

So were Sylvester’s parents, for that matter. His father respected my family, and an issue of concern with the barn party was not telling my parents. In fact, he also, (like myself) liked his earrings and had his left ear pierced all the way up the side.

I never saw him wear any earrings for the longest time. Sylvester later told me, no doubt because he was used to being judged by those who claimed the name Christian, that he would jerk them out when he’d see me pulling up the long drive to their secluded house. He apparently thought I’d look down at him. Ironic, isn’t it, that I often wear six of my own: four on the left side and two on the other.

But we’re forgetting Sylvester and his left over alcohol. He invited me over, and I managed to borrow the car from Mom and Dad. That evening his folks had gone into town for some alone time, and he had free reign of the house. We were watching some old Beatles’ videos he had that did not make a whole lot of sense at first, but seemed to make profound sense once the wine kicked in (the inexpensive Strawberry Hill was our standby). I was intrigued by their oddly brittle, dry English humor.

If I thought long enough, I could probably tell you which videos they were, but I don’t feel like the effort right now. :) Actually, one about Ringo getting a huge red-stoned ring stuck on his finger that belonged to some genie or other bent on regaining it at all costs stands out in my mind. (I can see some of you smiling to yourselves, movie title planted firmly in place in the forefront of your mind, feeling rather smug you’ve “one-upped” me. Ah well and alas, the abuse my poor, despondent self must suffer from his lack of research and unfamiliarity with the Beatles, of all people.)

Eventually, the winter months passed, and things began to thaw. Like so much of my memory, it is all a blur. When things had begun to fall through more with the twins, I found myself isolated and lonely quite often and started sinking into a deeper dependency on chemicals to escape the pain of my loneliness. The winter months did not help much, and in that frame of mind, my defiant tendencies mellowed to a desperate willingness for any company or activity to pull me out of the rut. Sylvester was a perfect candidate, as he did not have a great overwhelming social life either.