I recently read Hyperion by Dan Simmons. It is an absorbing book as well as interesting and imaginative. My only criticism is that it’s ending is weak and nonexistent. That may be because the real ending is in the next book The Fall of Hyperion. That only slightly excuses the point, IMO. And I foresee the ending there (if there is one) to be unsatisfying.

But, the one thing I want to talk about in the book is the author character he has in the book talking about his career. He was a hack writer – churning out uninspired prose for steady amounts of cash for the followers of the same after his opus flops. His hack writing is ten novels long following the lives of people over time.

It always seems to me that a long series is usually like that. You read the next book in the series because it is comfortable and because you have developed a sort of bond with the characters. In a sense they become your imaginary friends and you want to know what happens next in their lives, just as you would want to catch up with your real friends whenever you meet them. Also these friends live fantastic lives – not that they are particularly interesting but fantastic things happen to them. Tall, dark, wealthy, experienced vampires find them fascinating despite their extreme ordinariness. Why? Who knows, explanations would only seem contrived.

In Harry Potter (borderline pulp IMO) we have the last scene where the next generation goes to Hogwarts. This is completely irrelevant to the story but fans (myself included) like it because we start to feel a bond with the characters and want to know what happens.

Now, there is nothing wrong with pulp if you enjoy it, but you must recognize it for what it is: imaginary friends and unimaginative fantasy. I enjoy it some, but it is like sugar for me – just a small amount please.

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Short Story: Small Hinges

Ah, junior year of high school – those were some dark times for me. It all turned out well, but it was a close thing.
I was angry with the world and in trouble. I was in trouble with my teachers. I was in trouble with my parents. I wasn’t well liked; the best treatment I got from students usually was just being ignored. I didn’t like them either. In fact my only real friend was Marcus Fonseca. Not that I was a loner, I’d always have a group to hang out with but none of them were real good fits. Soon I’d be moving on, sometimes quietly, sometimes with a lot of drama and hating between me and some of them. I was not really welcome anywhere for long.
At my high school there were only two ways for a guy to get by. If you were white, Asian or some unheard of Middle Eastern ethnicity you played the teachers game of academics and skated safely through protected by authority, rules and the aura of success. If you weren’t, you needed to play the man’s game of toughness and strength of numbers for safety against the other students and for getting around the rules and teachers and boredom.
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For the most part, those who tried the other path played with fire. Prep kids who tried to be tough would be beat down by the real toughs and ignored by the other whites who didn’t want distractions from their path to success. That path was all but effectively closed to most latins, polynesians, and blacks. First such a student would have to overcome the lack of family support and the often anti-intellectual culture that had developed in his community. Then he would have to do something extraordinary to get the teachers attention --- break the numbness and apathy years in the system had given them, just to get them to take him seriously and really help him learn. Of course, once that was done the teachers and counselors would roll out the carpet with assistance programs, tutoring, scholarship opportunities: help for everything. But the biggest problem of all that all these programs were powerless to prevent was that that brown (or black) would be considered a race traitor. He would be doomed to be forever a stranger in the strange preppy culture that did not understand him – he could not ever really go back home.
The problem that defied reformers and integrationists best efforts was that race had come to mean class. Fifty years ago immigrants had been marked as lower class by their accents and peculiar customs. Now the same identification took place on the much simpler basis of skin color. Unlike earlier immigrants the second generation did not assimilate as it acquired the right accent and customs. This meant that assimilation had to happen as the whole ethnicity moved into the middle class and acquired American middle class values together instead of piecemeal like earlier immigrants. Some ethnicities had done just that. The Browns and Blacks at my high school were not among them and there was no sign of that happening while I was there -- although there was always the notable exceptions. Instead they had developed their own culture, with its pride and no interest in assimilating. It was in fact, a culture of the lower class unwilling to aspire to higher classes because that would admit that those classes were better – something that it’s pride could not allow.
Yes, de facto segregation was the order of the day at my high school, no doubt. It wasn’t imposed from the top but rather sprang up from the bottom. It wasn’t absolute; there was the occasional crossover, able to win a place in the other side because of special charm or unique circumstances. For the majority the safe path was sticking with your group.
This system served both groups well—although not equally well. Whites etc. were motivated to prepare for college and the types of success that can only be unlocked there. Minorities on the other hand received invaluable lessons on supporting each other and working together to circumvent authority and rules. These were survival skills of the barrio and ghetto neighborhoods, whether its life blood was providing blue collar labor, selling drugs, or providing organizers and numbers in the local politics. The lesson of stick together against the man or suffer was equally applicable.

“Check it out,” Marcus said. He was holding out his hand. On his index and middle finger there were two large gray rings.
“Rings, so?” I asked.
“Nope, Brass Knuckles, except these bad boys are totally legit because they are rings, see.”
“Where did you get them from?”
“Oh, from the janitors closet out by the track.” He said airily. “Just cut a piece off of a steel pipe he’s get in there. Then file down the inside. Then you can administer brutal blows at will.”
“What janitors closet?”
“Come let me show you”, He said with his typical grin.
But when we turned to go we could see vice principal Norwood looking at us thoughtfully.
“Uh, I’ll show you later man.” Marcus said.

That afternoon I went out to see. There was the janitor’s closet and the door was still propped open. Singular! I slipped inside and surveyed the gloomy interior. There was the pipe, there was a hacksaw and there was a vise. It was but the work of a moment and I had two freshly minted rings. I would file the insides later I told myself to smooth the sharp cut edges. I slipped out quietly.
Right into the disapproving gaze of vp Norwood. Zapped. This could be an epic fail, I thought, better come up with something quick. I slipped the rings in my pocket.
“James” He barked. “Aspiring to be a janitor, are we?”
“Uh, no” I said, “I just got confused and mistook it for the bathroom.”
“Really.” He said, giving a doubtful look at my pocket.
I said nothing and he broke the silence. “Your mom was quite upset at the last parent teacher conference.” Oh great, another subject that I didn’t want to talk about, my mom, had already quite exhausted the conversation I thought.
“Anyways, your mom and dad came into my office yesterday and we had quite the little chat.” He gave me a significant look.
“Yes, it was very cozy. It seems that they are very worried about you.” He said. “I’m sure they would be very disappointed if they heard that you had been stealing from the janitors’ closet. The police too might be upset.”
“Luckily there is no reason for them to hear that, as it is not true” I said. Things were looking pretty grim.
“Perhaps they will, perhaps they won’t.” He said casting a meaningful glance at my pocket. “It just so happens we can help each other out. I am the assistant football coach. We are looking for big aggressive guys to be linebackers.”
“Maybe I don’t have a talent for football.” I said.
“It so happens that this semester we are on the lookout for warm bodies too. Our funding comes from how many students are in the program. It so happens this semester that our C-Team is not full and we have a guaranteed spot not matter the talent level.
I look at him mouth agape. This was unexpected.
“Of course,” He continued, “I hear there are plenty of spots open at the juvie home too.”
He reached for his walkie-talkie. “I find I am suddenly very interested in football.” I said. “How do I sign up?”
“The forms for late sign-ups are in the front office. You can come to practice tomorrow morning at 0630. Bring shoes to run in and sweats.” He said, “Oh, and James --- Camera” Pointing to a security camera that was scanning the area. “Hard to see, of course, I know where they are because as chief of security I’m in charge of pulling and reviewing the video---which happens to be why I am here now.”

I hated being drafted into football. Practices consisted of a lot of sweating, pain and getting yelled at. I wasn’t that good. I barely knew the rules and I didn’t know the plays. My body wasn’t used to the heavy physical exertion. It also took a lot of time. Practices were at least two hours a day. Maybe becuase of this, I stayed with my current group (orchestra nerds) a bit longer than neccesary and discovered the only thing football was good for: getting sympathy from the girls. I’m not talking about the cheerleaders or football groupies—they aren’t going to go for a newbie third stringer like me, anyways. That’s ok though, because the type of chicks that I digged were the smart artsy ones. I’d tell them how I got drafted (in vague terms, cause I didn’t want details to get out---I’m sure those tapes are still there somewhere). Then I could complain about the idiocy of the coaches, the players and the sport --- a subject I was very passionate about. Sympathy would flow, lips would lock, and my hands would roam.
Of course, what happens after that is entanglement. The girl calls you tomorrow and wants you to come over and hang out. Your blood is still hot and you want some more action. You go over and before you know it, she owns that chunk of your day and other girls think she owns a piece of your soul. If you try to recover your free time or chase other girls, tears flow, you feel like a jerk and (at least for me) all hell breaks out. (which is why I stopped hangin with the orchestra nerds). Now don’t get me wrong, getting entangled has been a very rewarding experience for me at the right time (Not High School) and with the right person (took me time to know it).
Anyways, that was how I got entangled in such a manner with a girl named Ashanti about a month after being drafted into football. She had beautiful chocolate skin and a fiery personality. She was in my English class and very opinionated. She was in the group that I had just gotten with, whom I called in my own mind, ‘The angry and political’. So we were all hanging out, one night after practice.
We were playing one of those dance/music games that were popular then. I was sore from practice, and wanting some fun. Ashanti looked hot, moving to the pounding beat, just starting to glisten. She was exotic and desirable---I wanted her. I wondered what it would be like to kiss those soft lips and caress her silky ebony skin.
I got up too and started to dance on her pad behind her. She exaggerated the moves popping her hip. This was all the invitation I needed. I grabbed her around the waist and started to grind on her and she started moving along in the same pattern. Some of the other kids started to hoot and so we exaggerated for their benefit. Soon, we had messed up enough times that the game was over and it was someone else’s turn. Of course they danced provocatively too---continuing the joke.
But Ashanti and I set down, close together. This was the crucial part where you have to talk the girl into deciding that her physical excitement is love or a potential for it. I played the football sympathy card, (I was expert at it by now, having worked it before - and not just with the 1st violinist), and Ashanti ate it up. Ashanti called football players “sweating pigs” and the coaches “power drunk little men” whose “souls were shriveled” along with choice parts of their anatomy. It was music to my ears.
We left, got some ice cream, made out in the park and then went to my place. Mother and Dad weren’t home. I think they were at the symphony. They haven’t liked to be home much, ever since the accident when my brother died. We talked a little, I told her about my family situation…
We slept together. I’m not proud of it now, but then I was exultant. She was exotic, different and I wanted to see just how different it would be---and it was. I felt like quite the man. It was the fastest I had ever scored. The violinist had been a long chase culminating in a drunken acquiescence that I could barely remember. Before that, was my girlfriend, back when I was on the achiever track. She dumped me soon after the accident, saying I was changing and I needed to decide who I was.

In truth, what I said to Ashanti about football was all true: I was really struggling. The sport itself wasn’t so bad, although it was difficult to learn the plays, the techniques and for my body to acclimatize itself to the sport. Mainly though, it was the people. I didn’t want to be there, I wasn’t one of them and they could tell. I was a pariah. That meant that all of the football players that were not-so-good and not-so-popular would constantly harass me. If I left my equipment unattended, it could end up in the toilet---or in some other creative condition. They would shoulder check me as we passed each other in the hallway, spill water when I was about to get some, and dish out the usual taunts and insults. The worst of these was a red haired kid, whose pasty white skin looked like it was decaying off of him. Unpopular, not reconciled with his social standing, angry and short made for a nasty combination. His name was Rory, and he was the informal leader of the wannabes. When not trying to one up each other they would gang up against their powerless victims. Occasionally the football elites would join in, but they would as often discipline the wannabes and shut down their hazing.
I wasn’t sure if I could make it. Norwood did have the goods on me, but I was starting to wonder if perhaps I should have just taken the punishment and gone with it. I started fantasizing scenarios where I stole the evidence, or intimidated him just as he had intimidated me. It was no good, though. Now, if I quit, I would make enemies with the whole football team as their funding would suffer. The time to have taken my lumps was in the beginning---the worst would be to suffer being on the team, then arrest, and then the enmity of the football crowd. As bad as it was, it sure beat having a record and my car being smashed. I didn’t really understand why they needed 100 people in that program, but nobody asked me.

Things were sort of awkward with Ashanti the next day. They always are after something like that. You aren’t sure exactly how you are supposed to act around the other person or if they’ve had second thoughts or something. I always hate that phase of the relationship but there is no getting over it, you know you have to talk to them otherwise you feel like a jerk and they get upset. So I went over to her table.
“Hey Ashanti.” I said, trying to be casual. The group of girls she is with were suddenly giggling and whispering behind their hands.
“Hey white boy.” She said with a saucy challenging look on her face.
“You wanna go eat lunch with me outside?” I asked.
“Sure, I guess.” She said.
After sitting down at a small table and setting up our lunches, commenting on each others food, tasting the more unusual items the conversation grew more serious.
“It’s always kind of awkward,” I said, “you know the day after.”
“Awkward? What are you talking about white boy?”
“Well, you know, things are different, you don’t really know what to say to each other, how to act.”
“Are you asking me if you have to be my boyfriend?”
“Uh, well, I guess it would be good to know where we stand.” I stammered. Her directness took me by surprise.
“Listen, if you want to go, go. I half expected you not to talk to me today in fact.”
“So, you aren’t all that interested in me?” I asked perplexed. “Last night didn’t mean anything more than itself?”
“No, I like you white boy. I want you to stick around. It’s just that for a girl like me, you expect guys like you to be in for the thrills and then out again just as quickly.”
“Girls like you? Guys like me? What are you talking about?”
She sighed. “White guys don’t usually end up with black girls.”
“So it’s an interracial thing? I see plenty of interracial couples that work out.”
“Yeah, what black-white couples do you know?”
I named the five that I knew of, and she told me that she knew of three others.
“…and how many of those couples are black girl, white guy?” she asked.
“Uh, just two of them” I said seeing what she was getting at. “But I’m sure that is just coincidence. It makes no sense that it wouldn’t work out the same either way.”
“That’s cause you don’t have to live with it. Me, I know that if a white guy is showing interest, he just wants a little exotic action but he probably isn’t that in to me and probably won’t stick around long.” Time for a subject change - this was a little too close to home.
“So why did you do it, you know, last night?” I asked.
“I’ve decided that the fullest life is to be open to all experiences… at least once.” She said, “Also, I like sex. It feels good. And for a girl, you are the center of that guys attention, you are the center of his world if he knows that if he plays it right he might get some. That is quite a feeling, when his eyes are fixed on your body with amorous intensity---hard to resist if you like the guy.”
“So, you like me?”
“Yes.” She said, with a look on her face saying ‘duh stupid’. Then more seriously, “Yes, I really do like you and I’m glad you talked to me today.”
“So we’re together now, then?” I asked.
“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess.” I said.
Her face lit up in a smile and she said “Then, yes”
We talked some more and the subject wondered back to football. I was complaining again about it and she asked why I didn’t just quit. I explained what had happened with Norwood and why I couldn’t. Melanie lectured me a bit, but settled down to just occasional sniping that I brought this on myself by just wanting to take the easy way.
Ashanti and I were then an item, and I have to admit it was pretty good. She was pretty good – adventurous, willing to try new things with me, interesting to talk to - probably because she was so opinionated. It was nice to be in a relationship again.

About two weeks later at football I had one of the most satisfying experiences of my life. Rory was being particularly hostile, hurling insults, randomly tripping me and covertly shoving me. Later someone peed in my locker when I was warming up. I’m sure it was him. Anyways at practice we were doing a scrimmage and I was across from him in the line. Profanity and disparagement of my manhood, my family etc., flowed from his mouth without stopping.
I was so angry. I just wanted to hurt him, make him cry in pain, make him bleed. When the play started, I charged and knocked him back. While he was still surprised by the onslaught I grabbed his shoulders, pulled him close and knocked helmets. He started to push himself off of me, trying to get away. I helped him in this by shoving him hard. He flew backwards and slammed into the ground with a satisfying thud.
Norwood blew the whistle and came over. “I like the aggression level, James, that’s exactly what we need to see in a linebacker. But holding will get a penalty called on you. Don’t do it in practice or you’ll get the habit and do it in a game.”
It was the sweetest thing in the world. Rory stretched out, moaning, only slowly recovering, shaking his head, still woozy and out of it. I loved it.
Later in the locker room, one of the starters mentioned the story in passing. He laughed at Rory to his face, and referred to it as “a nice piece of takedown art”.
Later as I was walking down the hall, chin up, eyes defiant and chest out as Rory came from the other direction. He saw me, looked as if he was going to challenge me for a moment but then he looked down and slunk past—giving me a lot of room to get through instead of his usual shoulder check. Things had changed; I was no longer the pariah that all the losers could vent on. I still didn’t like football, but at least it had given me this moment, and it wouldn’t be accompanied by so much abuse any more.

When I told Ashanti about it though, she didn’t share my joy. I had altered the story a little bit, saying that Rory had done some physical stuff, right then, that I had to respond to. I though this would help her to better appreciate where I was coming from, and why what I did was necessary and justified.
But her look of sympathy at describing Rory’s antics quickly turned to disgust when I got to the part where I knocked him to the ground. I think that there was just a tad too much exuberance in my voice.
“And you think you are some big guy now?, just cause you can knock someone around. You think you The Man now?” She said, now in full attack mode.
“No, it’s just…” I tried to defend myself.
“All you guys are always the same. Who gets to beat up on whom? Thumping on your chest like a bunch of gorillas. Well, let me tell you something, white boy, all that testosterone and aggression doesn’t impress this girl. It doesn’t take any special talent to hurt someone. It isn’t like it some kind of accomplishment you should be strutting around about like some dumb rooster.”
“Look Ashanti, Rory had it coming. I’m happy that I am not on the bottom anymore. I thought you would’ve been happy for me. Aren’t you the one who is always saying that we shouldn’t take people’s crap and we should fight back.”
“Standing up for yourself isn’t the same as beating someone down. ‘On the bottom’? Your language reveals your attitude. You don’t want what is right, you want to be on top. A person who is just fighting for his rights won’t be talking about tops and bottoms – he would wish that whole rotten system would be done away with.”
“It just isn’t like that on the football team, Ashanti. I have to make a place for myself there.”
“Fine. Make a place for yourself there. Don’t expect me to be happy about it. And while you are doing it, do you really need to hurt people and show them you are the boss?”
“That’s the only type of language a guy like Rory understands.” I said.
“Maybe that’s the only language he knows because that’s the only language any body ever spoke to him. Did you even try anything else?”
I sighed. It was impossible to talk to Ashanti once her black and white filters were on – er – I mean, the battle lines were drawn and she had decided who the enemy was. To her everything was either absolutely right or absolutely wrong – no middle ground. The problem was that this time it was something personal, something important and I didn’t feel like backing down.
“Ashanti, you just don’t understand. We don’t live in a fairyland where everyone treats everyone with respect and tolerance. Most people don’t want to live that way. If you give them an inch they’ll take a mile and laugh at you while doing it. Rory is simply one of those people. And you know what? I’m glad I did what I did. He had it coming and then some.”
“You seriously take pleasure in knowing that you pushed someone around?”
“You know what? Yes, I did. I enjoyed it Ashanti. I did not do anything wrong.”
“You are so arrogant and full of yourself. Why don’t you try and think about someone else for a change?”
“Ok, fine. I think Rory will benefit from learning that he can’t just push people around. I think a little taste of his own medicine might do him a little good.” I was pretty angry by now, with the unexpected attack that Ashanti had launched on me.
“You really feel that way? I don’t feel like I even know you. What kind of person are you to say and do things like that. I’m not sure I could be with a person like that.”
“I’m not sure I would want to be with a person who always sees things from the side of the people who are making my life difficult. I’ve been there for you, why can’t you take my side. Maybe we don’t really go well together. Maybe you’d be happier with a guy who doesn’t stand up for himself. I wish I had a girlfriend that would take her man’s side.”
“Fine, white boy. Go off and be a man. Go off and try and fight and dominate the world. You ain’t going to be happy living like that, all by yourself.”
And I turned and walked away, knowing this might be the end. Mainly I was pretty angry, but I had also been missing all the stuff that I had used to do before I met Ashanti---so I was like, what the heck and just walked away.

One of those things was hanging out with my friend Marcus. He’d been telling me about this new video game he had – a squad based shooter which sounded interesting. Ashanti of course had been more appealing – then. She was hot, alluring and nice. An angry girl, of course, is to be avoided at all costs. So I called him up and was soon learning the ropes, tricks and features of that game.
We raided the kitchen for some eatables and started talking. He of course asked about Ashanti and that led into the trouble we were having. I told him about our recent conversation.
“So you guys are done, then?” He asked.
“Maybe.” I said, “we’ll see how things play out.”
“Ahh, the good ‘ol relationship chicken. Who will flinch first and apologize.”
“Hey,” I said, “this is serious. And I know I sure as hell ain’t going to be the one who tries to patch things up. She was the one giving me a hard time, let her apologize.”
“That’s right, man, be strong. Bros before hoes.”
“’know it.” I said, “So what’s new in the world of Marcus Fonseca?”
“Man, it’s the worst. You got your football troubles. That’s nothing compared to my affirmative action troubles. I’m working on a group project in humanities, and one of the guys is a real prick. He is a power hungry little f---er. I didn’t like him trying to run things and said so. He has been after me ever since.”
“Oh? What does he do?”
“Stupid stuff: Whenever I suggest something he tries to make it sound stupid. If I’m talking he tries to start another conversation so no one listens to what I am saying. It sucks, because there are some boobs in that group that I would like to be chatting up, you know. Hot big ones. Instead I am stuck in a stupid pissing match with the worlds smallest Hitler.”

“Yeah, man.” I said. “What a prick. He sounds like a real douche bag. Maybe Rory and he should get together— fight it out to the bloody end and remove themselves from the gene pool.
We laughed. (This was cruel, but we were teens— being funny was more important than being nice.)

“Yeah.” Marcus said. “Lately though he has a new trick. He has started saying that I am an ‘affirmative action baby’.” He says I am ‘…only in the Humanities class because it was too white and the administration felt embarrassed.’ He also goes after my father saying that he got promoted in his job as an actuary just because he is Hispanic. He says he is an affirmative action hire. This is the worst thing of all, because it makes everyone race-conscious. Now everyone in the group is thinking “us and them” even if they are determined to be colorblind. And what if he’s right?”
Marcus’ dad walked in. “Marcus, you need to stop worrying so much in how people see you and focus on being, in truth, man that can respect himself.”
This was a full out fatherly broadside and I could see Marcus going into battle mode, face flushing heart rate up and mind racing to spew out arguments.
“What?” Marcus interrupted, “I respect myself. Just because I care what people think doesn’t mean I don’t respect myself.”
“‘What if he’s right?’” His Dad mimicked. “If you don’t know that you are not an affirmative action student than you are not studying sufficient to gain the self respect. You should try harder in school so that you know that you have right to your placement.”
This looked like it was going to be a monumental parental lecture--- I began to edge toward the door.
“Self respect doesn’t flow from the teachers’ grading marker. I know plenty of A students who don’t really respect themselves.” Marcus said.
“Then tell me, son, from where do you think that comes self respect?”
“When people have to take you seriously, you know you have self respect. People that everyone despises don’t have self respect.”
“No, son. You have it backward. When you respect yourself, then, other people will start to respect you too. Not the other way around. That is the problem with affirmative action. People won’t take you seriously if they think that you are there without merit. Affirmative Action is only a way of getting rid of guilt. People make offerings to relieve guilt but they never let go of the power they have to sin. You need to let off playing video games and start studying”
“That’s not what I am talking about Dad. I don’t really care which class they put me in. I don’t care that much about school stuff. I respect myself, and my grades won’t affect that one way or the other. Because I respect myself, I care about what people think, unlike you.” Marcus said.
“Listen to me. Your work in school is the foundation of your life’s work. What you do is what makes you. When you do not create value at work you feel yourself without value. I know that my position is due to my hard work, diligence and the value I create for the company. I’ve denied promotions that I thought were due to affirmative action.”
“That’s dumb, dad. Why turn down salary and prestige? I’ll work to make living, not live to work. If people want to pay me more because of pigment, I’ll take it, just as if I was born with higher IQ or, uh, height.”
“It’s the principle” His Dad said “I refuse to be the poster boy showing off their ‘post-racial enlightenment’.” Then he launched into a lecture, which seemed well worn, about how the Fonseca family (before they had to leave their small central American republic and seek political asylum in the United States) had always been respectable people, hard workers etc. ad nausea. I have to admit that my mind wondered a bit, but not as much as Marcus’ who sat with glazed over eyes. Then Marcus Dad cell went off and he left, much to our relief.

“Wow” I said to Marcus after his dad had left. “That was quite the lecture.”
“No kidding. He is always going after me. He works like a slave and thinks I should to. What has all that work got him? He has an ok house but he never does anything fun.”
We returned to the game and played for a while but didn’t get very far before Marcus’ Dad returned, the interruption proving to be fairly temporary
“Marcus.” He said, “Turn off your video games. It’s time to do homework and study. James,” he said, turning to me, “you’ll have to forgive, but Marcus can’t play now, you will have to return in another occasion.”
Marcus protested but to no avail. I was quickly hustled out the door and as I walked to my car I could hear the law being laid down to Marcus.

After which I had nothing to do. I went back to my house; with it’s feeling of emptiness, of hollowness. My parents were not home, as usual, but even if there were it still would have felt like there was no living thing there.
I played some music to banish the quietness, but it made me uneasy, that I wouldn’t be able to hear it if someone was trying to break in. In truth I was scared to be by myself (during that empty time in my life) and various fears flashed through my mind – from random robbers to Rory wanting revenge.
The time weighed heavily on me and I started thinking about things that had happened. One of these was Ashanti. I remembered things that we had done together and things we had talked about. I remembered how she looked, moved and the expressions her face would make sometimes. Memory, like it usually is, was tricky and it would show me her features clearly at first but then it would fade as I would try to focus on it and I couldn’t clearly remember what she had looked like. I suddenly had an intense longing for her to be around. I wanted to talk to her about the conversation between Marcus and his Dad; I wanted to laugh about it with her. I wanted even to talk about Rory with her, although even if she was there, it was unlikely we could have an open talk, as that was a touchy subject.
The next couple of days continued like that. Football practice, and then I would go home to an empty house---or at the most a house with only empty people in it. After trying to distract myself for a while without finding anything that would hold my attention, (I even pulled out my old Lego sets and played with them for a bit) I decided that it was no use and that I should just call her and try and repair the rift.

“Yes, James?” She answered her phone.
“Hey, Ashanti, listen I missed you and I just wanted to talk to you and see if we could not have this fight.”
“We weren’t fighting. What we were doing was not talking to each other. I still can’t be with someone who has such authoritarian attitudes and you apparently think that being the man is more important than being with me.”
“Look, I was trying to protect myself.” I said meekly. “I don’t want to beat up on anybody.”
“You sure sounded like you did.” She said.
“No, no, not me. I was just trying to protect myself anyway that I can. I was just fighting back against those people who have been making my life hell.” I said.
“You know what I think about that. You should never have allowed them to force you to join the football team anyways, and then you would never have had to put up with this crap in the first place.” She said. “You took what seemed like the easy way out and now you are paying for it. You can never submit to injustice without becoming unjust yourself.”
“It’s not that bad anymore.” I said. “I got respect on the team now. The players don’t mess with me like that anymore. I don’t have to fight anyone now to keep from being beat up on.”
“I’m glad things are better for you now, I really am. But don’t you see? The way you handled it was wrong. You should have found a better way to get respect than to resort to violence and intimidation. I have to wonder: if you turn so quickly to violence to get respect if you won’t use that same thing to get respect from your girlfriend?”
Now she was worried that I might be a beater? I didn’t understand the way she was thinking at all. “I’ve never done anything to you, Ashanti. Why would you worry about that?”
“Well, I didn’t think you were a violent person, either, but I was wrong about that, apparently. I just don’t feel like I know you, James.”
“I just feel that you are being mad at me unfairly. You should be mad at Rory for putting me in this situation, not me for defending myself.”

She said, “Listen, what he did was wrong too but I am mad at you and not him because I care about you and also because I expect better from you. You should know better. You should understand.”
There was a long pause. What could I say? She didn’t seem to be willing to relax her position one bit.
“Ashanti, I’m sorry about what happened. It may be that you are right and that there where better ways to handle it. Still, I can’t go back and undo what happened.”
“Yeah, but you can be sorry for what happened and have some determination to do better in the future.” Ashanti said. “Can’t you see? You did the exact same thing that you hated in him – used violence and intimidation. You put yourself on the exact same level as he was.”
She had me there, I was good and boxed. Evasions and excuses had floundered, I had to make a choice – see it her way or go away. “Perhaps you are right,” I said, “No, you are right, I should’ve tried other ways of handling it besides resorting to my fists.”
“Damn straight.” She said. “Let me just ask you one question James. Did you actually enjoy hurting him?”
“No-I don’t enjoy hurting people.” Which was true – Rory, of course, was an exception. But I answered the question this way because that’s what she was wondering, judging by her comments.
“Well, you made me wonder when you were telling me about it. Your expression made me think you enjoyed doing it and it freaked me out, to tell you the truth.”
“No---I’m not a sadist; I can assure you of that.”
“Ok, then. But not just sadism is wrong but the whole idea of dominance and pecking orders. Is it really important to you that you are ‘above’ Rory in the football team food chain?”
“It’s important to me that he can’t maltreat me.” I said.
“But not that you ‘above’ him, otherwise?” She insisted.
“Right.” I said, “I don’t really care about the football team that much, nor if they think I am the most important or whatever.”
“Ok. That was what made me think we couldn’t be together. I’ll come over if you want. Be good to see you again.”

She came over. We had a lot of catching up to do. I told her about Marcus Dad. She told me about some drama in the orchestra. Intimacy was re-explored with a sharp intensity as if to deny it’s ever having been absent.

At this point my life began to improve slowly but ever more rapidly. My relationship with Ashanti was sweet and it gave me something to look forward to and someone to talk with when I was feeling down. She was supportive the way only girls can be.
Football began to be important to me. As I mastered the plays, my teammates started including me and counting on me to be with them. I learned of the joy of mutual effort leading to success and triumph – a lesson that has always stuck with me. With increasing participation on the field came motivation to academic success. If I wanted to play I had to have the G.P.A. Not only did I have to reach the minimum G.P.A. to be eligible to play, I could also bring up the average G.P.A of the team itself – which allowed us more selection on who to play. So I had to work to bring up my grades as high as I could.
As you may guess all of this took up a lot of time and it began to conflict with Ashanti. She was upset about all the time that I spent in practice and in tutoring some of the guys to get their grades up. She especially disliked my burgeoning interest in football and would make snide comments about football and the ‘meat-heads’ who played it.
I was expecting this all to come to a head and for her to deliver an ultimatum that I could either play football or be with her but not both. I did not know what I would have done if that had been the case – and I still don’t know what I would have done. As it was, she was wiser than I (I can see now) and she broke it off w/o the ultimatum.
She explained it to me like this, “Don’t get me wrong, James, I like you and for the most part we’ve had good time together, but I have a whole life to live – we are in high school. There are so many things I want to go see and experience, though. I don’t think it is my time yet to be tied down to someone – and ultimately for you and me; we can decide to stay together or not---there is no where else that this can go. And that would still be the case, even if we didn't have this football issue.”
That was a tough time for me. I missed her a lot and went around with an empty hollow feeling in my chest. Luckily though, I had football to keep me busy and surprisingly Coach Norwood would take me aside to talk about things with me whenever I started feeling too down. If I had to do it over again I don’t know if I would have gotten so attached to someone that I wasn’t in a position to stay with. Being intimate and spending so much time with someone who is basically a good person makes it really hard to live without them. It is true that she helped my life regain some of its luster---but I am convinced now that there are less risky ways to do that.
Still wounds mostly heal with time---this one did. I am happy to say that I am engaged to be married to my beautiful fiancée Melanie next month and just found out I have been accepted to my hoped-for-grad school.

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