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Poetry
Prose |
A Night To Remember By John Gardiner
I sat and watched the kids, though no doubt they'd have resented it had they known I considered them kids. They were intent on their skateboarding, seemingly oblivious to where they were, not paying attention to what might be approaching. The car slowed to a stop as it approached the teens. They continued with their antics, twisting and turning on their boards, ignoring the now idling car. The horn sounded. The teens responded with a succession of obsenities directed at the car's driver, and a couple of them approached and banged their fists hard on the car's hood, taunting the driver, demanding a reaction. The car's door opened, and out came an old man, grey-haired, somewhat gnarled by age. He shouted something, shook his fist. The teens started toward the codger, threatening, challenging, as they came. The senior retreated to the safety of his car. Finally, the skateboarders started to withdraw, issuing a few parting profanities, walking from the street slowly and defiantly, sure they had adequately shown their toughness and superiority to have so humbled and frightened an old man. The car drove off up the street. The scene was a troubling one. And even as I watched it unfold, I felt sadness come into me. Where had it gone wrong that kids should be treated more like responsible adults, the way they had wanted it, but that most turned out to be depraved deliquents when such responsibility was given? My generation had fought for the freedoms that were so much taken for granted in this day and age, but what had started as a simple freedom was now a god-given right -- and that wasn't the way it should be. Freedom was earned, not given. My thoughts were of Tom as I drove home from uptown where I'd observed the incident with the skateboarders. God, how I'd loved old Tom. While I'd cowered on the edge of adulthood, afraid of what was to come, Tom had charged ahead, defying life to try to take him, confident that he could overcome all, that no challenge was too great. Later that night, as I sat in my big, comfortable easy chair in the family room, safe and secure with my wife and children, I continued to think of Tom. My eyes felt heavy. My thoughts were of the skateboarders, taunting the old man. And then I thought I saw Tom as one of them. They approached the old man. The image of my boyhood friend came to the front of the rag-tag band of boarders. He raised his hand and struck the old man down. And when the geezer tried to climb back to his feet, the figure of Tom kicked him in the side, knocking him back to the ground. Then, the other boarders joined in, and they encircled the old man and dusted their boots with him. I awoke suddenly, in a sweat, startling my wife who asked me if I was all right. I told her I was fine, but excused myself and went upstairs and out into the back yard. It was a beautiful, warm summer's night. I stretched out on one of the lounge chairs on the patio. I looked up into the sky and saw the stars blinking there. I felt weary and tired out by life. Everywhere I looked, there was chaos and confusion. I felt surrounded on all sides by greed and avarice, consumed by deceit and deviousness. I lay low in the chair, gazed skyward, and remembered. I let my mind drift. Tom and I had been boyhood friends, but not until the ninth grade, when Tom had moved to the small town where I was busy living my unassuming life with my unassuming family. I'd ended up sitting beside the new guy from the city at the beginning of that first year of high school. Nobody wanted to sit with the new guy, and, as usual, nobody wanted to sit with me either, so I ended up sitting beside him. And the first thing I noticed was the length of his hair. It was long for a guy, down over his collar, the way you saw some of the young guys on television these days; the ones my Mom and Dad laughed at, saying they looked like girls. But something was afoot among those long-haired young people. For some reason, I was sure about that. And often I lamented that they were faraway from my small town and would never come here, because nothing ever came here, and nothing ever changed here, and it was always the same, old thing. But now there was this new guy. And he had longish hair. And he was different. His name was Tom. And it so happened that on the very first morning of that very first day of grade nine, something happened. Our class was sitting relatively quietly while our brand-new teacher, Mr. George, took attendance. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door of the classroom. Mr. George stopped droning out the names of his students, got to his feet and walked to the door where he carried on a conversation in hushed tones with someone out in the hallway. "Class," he said, as he turned back toward us, "I've got to pop out for a couple of minutes. Could you please mind. I'll be right back." And he disappeared out the door. The class, of course, did not mind. Conversation immediately ensued, quiet as the proverbial mouse at first, but gradually rising to what could probably have rightly been described as the proverbial dull roar. And it was at that precise moment that we had the opportunity to meet our new principal. "Quiet!" bellowed the huge man who'd entered the room unnoticed by the deliquent class. And it was suddenly very, very quiet. "Now, then," started our larger than life high school principal, Mr. McQueen. "I don't want to worry you young people, but my office is right across the hall, and I can hear every little thing that goes on in here. So, I think you'd be wise to consider what you're doing before you start doing it." It remained very, very quiet in the room. He turned to go. Stopped. Wheeled and directed his gaze toward the back of the room, near where one very frightened grade niner, me, was sitting, and directly into the seat beside -- at Tom. "You, there," he said, pointing directly at the new kid. Tom made no response. I watched him. Everybody was watching him. "You," said Mr. McQueen. "Have you a tongue?" "Yes, sir," Tom finally answered, getting slowly to his feet, facing the principal who had proceeded partway into the room. "Don't they have any barbers where you come from?" the principal questioned sarcastically. "Yes, sir," answered Tom, his voice flat and even, betraying no emotion. "Well, you'd better see one here," the principal said. "We don't allow young men's hair over the collar . We have to be able to tell the boys from the girls." And with that, he turned to go. "Sir," Tom called after the principal, causing the large man to pause and turn. "Yes," he answered. "I won't cut my hair," Tom said bluntly. "Why would that be?" asked the principal. "It makes me strong," Tom answered, "so I can stand up to windbags like you." "Pardon me?" said the principal, the very surprised look on his face indicating he'd heard very well. "You heard me," Tom answered defiantly. "To my office, mister," Mr. McQueen said sternly, but showing remarkable restraint all the same -- or so I thought. And Tom started to slowly shuffle toward the door, head hanging low, the look of the condemned man. But he shot me a wink and a grin on his way out. I was amazed. I'd never seen anything like that before. He got suspended for three days for that one. And his Dad marched him up to see Joe the Barber where the offending hair was cut well above the collar. I ran into him uptown later that same day. He was sitting on one of the stone benches that were built into the front of one of the old banks on the main street. He smiled when he saw me approaching. He filled me in on the suspension and I could see the results of the haircut. "Why did you do it?" I asked him. "You had to know you couldn't win." "It's not about winning," he answered. "It's about letting the old farts know that we're watching them -- that we're sick and tired of following rules that don't make any sense." "But it just isn't that important," I answered. "Who cares whether you can grow your hair? Who cares about stuff like that?" "You know why it matters?" he said, becoming somewhat more excited. "It matters because we're breaking down the barriers. It shouldn't matter how long your hair is. It shouldn't matter what you look like. That has nothing to do with whether you're a good person. But our parents' generation are all hung up on looking just right, following the rules; like a bunch of sheep." He paused to let this last point sink in. "It's about being your own person and doing your own thing. And not just doing what they say because that's the way it's always been." That seemed a pretty serious message for a young grade niner like me, and I didn't really have much time to consider it before Tom's Dad came out of the bank and he and Tom walked off up the street together, leaving me to ponder the words of wisdom. To this day, I'm still not sure why, but Tom and I became fast friends after that day. His parents had bought a hotel in town -- that's what had brought them and young Tom to our community. And each night after school, he worked in the office of the place booking rooms for the guests who checked into the place. It wasn't much of a job, because the hotel's main business was serving up alcoholic beverages to most of the low life in town, and there were few guests who actually stayed over. Still, it was Tom's job to man the office, and I started dropping over each night to keep him company while he went about his task. He was easily the most exciting person I'd met. He thought different than my other friends. And while it was true that he could be a kid like the rest of us, it was also true that he could act very unkidlike when he wanted to -- he could get serious and talk about all manner of things, but mostly about what he called the establishment, which, I managed to figure out, was everybody and everything that didn't agree with old Tom and the other young people who thought like him -- because it seemed that everywhere young people were talking and thinking like Tom. I saw them on TV. My Mom and Dad and their friends joked and laughed about the long-haired, dirty young people they saw on the news. But you could plainly see that something was coming, that things were changing -- even a hick like me could see it. And when Tom moved from the city, he brought the first little bit of it to our little town. And, for some reason, I wanted to be part of it. My life was great. I had everything I could possibly want. But I was ready to curse the older generation and the establishment for screwing up my life. So, Tom and I became fast friends and while most of my other friends steered clear of him, probably because their parents told them to, my parents said nothing, and I became his accomplice in all sorts of adventures. One morning a few short weeks after the hair incident. Tom called by for me so we could walk to school together, as had become our habit since becoming bosom buddies. As soon as I came out the door, I knew something was amiss. "You've got jeans on!" I exclaimed. "You can't go to school with those on. McQueen'll hit the roof." And it was so very true that only proper attire was allowed in school, and that included dress slacks and no jeans. "Are you serious?" he asked, standing before me defiantly. "Do I learn better in dress pants?" "You can't wear jeans to school," I said. "You know that." "Yea," he said, "I know that. But I don't give a damned. That rule about not wearing jeans is a stupid one, just like the one about the hair. You know that." "Christ, Tom, you'll get suspended again," I moaned. "Sometimes you have to get suspended in life," he said. "If you don't stand up for yourself, who will?" We stood for a moment in quiet, like we were facing each other down. "It's not a very smart thing to do," I said. "The older generation pushes down everybody that doesn't agree with them," he said. "Look at them. Their lives are stupid. They work and then they die. There should be more to life. We've got to change things." "By wearing jeans to school?" I asked, already knowing the answer. "If that's what it takes," he answered. "You have to know you can't win," I told him, so sure of myself. "You never know," he answered. I didn't know what I was doing. But I went back into the house and put on my jeans. What the heck, I thought. I wasn't exactly filled with the radical spirit to change things. I wasn't really sure what he was talking about. I wasn't even sure that he knew what he was talking about. But what the heck, I thought. Maybe he was right. So, we both got suspended and I had parents who were more confused than angry when I explained to them that I had to be my own person and do my own thing -- and another thing, I was going to grow my hair long. My Dad wanted to know why couldn't I do my own thing in dress pants and with short hair. You just don't understand, I snapped back, before heading to my room. And so Tom and I grew our hair -- and there were others who were also part of the wakening, so that we were not alone. And we all got suspended, and we remained suspended for over a week, all refusing to cut our hair, until a delegation of parents led by my father approached the seemingly unapproachable Mr. McQueen and the rules were changed. And from then on we could grow our hair as long as we wanted as long as it was clean and neat. We had won. The Monday following the great hair victory, we all wore jeans, only this time there were even more of us, so many that we had to be called to the gym to hear the edict from the school administration. Jeans would be fine, as long as they were clean and neat. And the day after that, a bunch of girls came to school wearing slacks, which was against the rule that said they had to wear skirts or dresses. They were also called together into an assemblage and were told that henceforth slacks would be permitted -- as long as they were neat and clean. It was like all the rules were crumbling. It was so cool. And it wasn't like I was really a radical, like the local newspaper said -- that's what it called the bunch of us who first grew our hair long and made that challenge. And there were people in town who told my Dad he shouldn't walk down the street with me. Tom and I and the rest of us were called all manner of unkind things by those who stood against us. But they just didn't understand that the walls were coming down. We were just a bunch of dumb guys growing our hair long, but there were bigger things going on. Even I knew that. So you might say that our grade nine year was a little rocky. Mr. McQueen, who'd seemed so mighty and awesome at the beginning of the year, gave up the principalship and went back to the classroom after it was over. He also seemed to know that more changes were coming, so he did the only sensible thing and packed it in. I squeaked through my first year of high school. I did okay, but my parents were disappointed, because I'd been an honour student in public school. Tom failed -- whatever that means. And he claimed it was because the teachers and administration had it in for him because he'd caused them so much grief over the course of the year. I wasn't so sure. I hadn't seen him crack a book all year. He was too caught up in fightin' for the cause -- whatever that meant. I was never again so rebellious as I was in my first year of high school. I kept my hair long, and I wore my jeans to school, but I maintained a somewhat lower profile after that first year. Tom and I continued to hang together, and he pushed the limits at every opportunity. There was the ceremonial smoking of the first cigarette, and the ceremonial drinking of the first drink, and many other firsts were scored as well, as we wandered our way through adolescence. But I kept a lower profile. I let the others make the noise. I finally stirred in the lounge chair, where I'd been laying stalk still this whole time during the remembering. It was late and I could see that the light in the family room was out. I'd really been lost in myself during that remembrance. It was sort of an eerie feeling. I got up and went into the house. I made myself a tea and then went back out onto the patio. Those had been exciting times, back when we'd been pushing the limits. But I wondered now if we'd been right. Maybe it was better when there was orderliness to life and everybody knew their place -- before everybody started doing their own thing -- because when those first few stupid rules crumbled, it seemed that the whole foundation of society was shaken. I sat back down in the lounge chair. I coddled my tea, slowly rotating the spoon in it. I remembered back to the last time I'd seen Tom. He'd dropped by about ten years back, married to an oriental girl and had a couple of kids, and the whole kit and kaboodle dropped by right out of the blue one Saturday afternoon in the summer. My wife was pissed, but I invited them for a barbeque for old time's sake, and that was a mistake because Tom unloaded a couple of cases of beer from the trunk of the old jalopy he was driving, and the party was on. I drank pretty well beer for beer with him for the first while, but I couldn't begin to keep up, so I slowed to a stop, while he kept right on going. His wife sat quietly by, minding the kids, while my wife showed her general disapproval of the situation by giving us all the cold shoulder for pretty much the whole day. Finally, it was over. Old Tom passed out, right in the corner of the living room. My wife went to bed. I sat quietly with his oriental wife. "He's quite a Tom," I said, regarding my friend as he slept curled up on the floor of my living room. "He's not well," his wife almost whispered. "What do you mean?" I asked, concerned. "He's drinking too much," she said. "He's always drank too much," I answered, perhaps not seeing her point. "But it's different now," she said. "Now, he drinks all the time." "Is he unhappy?" I asked. "He's very unhappy," she answered. "Why?" I asked quietly. "It didn't turn out like he wanted," she said. "He gets drunk and cries about it." I didn't understand. I was silent. "It's a mess," she said. "And that's not the way it was supposed to be." "What does he say when he gets drunk and cries?" I finally managed. "He says he knows now that he couldn't win," she said softly; "people can't change -- they are who they are. He wanted things to change, but they can't." "They did change," I said quietly, perhaps feeling obligated to defend the way things had turned out. "All of the unimportant stuff changed," she said. "The important stuff never changes." "Like what?" I asked. "Like who's in control," she answered. "That never changes -- and that's why poor, old Tom couldn't possibly win -- at least not the big ones." I sat in silence. I regarded my friend who sat in an unceremonious heap in the corner of my living room. It was a damned shame, I thought. He had been so full of life, but it had beaten him, so that what remained was nothing more than his shell. I helped his wife get him out to the car, and she gently woke the two children and got them into the front seat beside her. "Take care, " I told her, as she prepared to drive off. "You too," she answered, smiling for perhaps the first time all day. "And take care of old Tom," I said, looking over to where he slept, for once not concerned by the state of the world and what it had come to. "I love him," she said. "I wish I could show you what he was," I said. "He still has his moments," she said. "Take care of him," I told her, and I really hoped she would. She offered me another smile, then drove off into the night. I never saw old Tom again. He died a couple of years later away up north in some godforsaken hell hole of a place where broken-down people like him gather to reflect on their misery. His oriental wife phoned me a couple of weeks later in the middle of the night and we wept together for him. My tea was cold. I set the cup down on the patio and climbed out of the lounge chair and stood, stretching out the middle-aged kinks that had settled in from staying in one position for too long. I thought back to the skateboarders I'd seen earlier in the day and the utter disrespect they'd shown the old man. We had unleashed that disrespect all those years ago. We'd intended that those little changes would lead to the bigger ones that would bring the peace and prosperity we sought for our planet. But only the little changes happened. Today, you can grow your hair long and you can wear jeans pretty well wherever you like. But life is still the same old bullshit -- only worse. It's still the same old unfair thing it always was and we follow along like the sheep our parents were -- only worse. The kids today know that. They know that when push comes to shove you can't change a damned thing. That's why they're so angry all the time, ready to pick a fight with the first old man who comes along. At least that's the way I see it. I went to bed. I was tired. And even as I closed my eyes to end the day, I was filled with profound sorrow at what had happened. So, I wept for myself. And I wept for Tom. And I wept for all of us and for all of those who will come after. Then, I slept. |
John Gardiner (no bio available) |
| Edited By Jim Chandler & Haze McElhenny Site Design & Cover Graphics By UrbanDecay.Org |
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