by Neovictorian
I hear and feel nothing but men around me, there’s singing far away but too far to understand the words except I know them, I’m part of the words and these men and they are part of me…and then like a window closing the pictures are gone, they’re singing the closing song in the church, and it’s as if I should be sad that the pictures are gone, but I’m not because I have them now inside, I see them when I want to.` I’m with those men when I need them.
We’re in the car on the way home and Dad says, “What’s up son? You haven’t said a word since we left church. Not your usual style.”
I notice that my guts, my ribs, my shoulders are loose, relaxed, more relaxed than they’ve been for a long time—since Miguel slammed me into the dirt. I take a breath that goes, down, down, all the way down to the bottom of my lungs and past them, all the way into my balls. I smile and say “I dunno Dad, I guess for once I got nothing” and we both chuckle.
Mom looks back over the seat and something flickers across her face, the shadow when a jet flies over, so fast that I know she doesn’t even feel it. She knows something, but she doesn’t know; I look her right in the eye, and she looks away.
5. 20 years ago, Santa Maria, California September 17, 12:27 pm
I usually spend half my lunch in the school library reading, I’ve discovered the fiction of Robert A. Heinlein and I’m working my way through his books now, but sometimes I just walk through the stacks and pull something out based on a color or a title, you never know what you’ll get, but it might be surprising and delightful.
Today I feel unusually distracted, for no reason I know, and I snap Red Planet closed and start stalking around, there’s no one in the library but me and Miss Brooks, and she’s used to my peripatetic ways and doesn’t even look up from whatever she’s reading.
I speed up and down the aisles looking for something, unlike my usual random walk—I just don’t know what it is, yet. I feel like it’s a person, a man, I wander the biography section but it’s not there.
I’m scanning, scanning, I see a big book with a white spine and gold letters, a sword thrust through the words: The Book of the Sword by Richard F. Burton. That’s it, I didn’t know that it was it until I saw it. I pull it down from the top shelf, I’m deep in the stacks and no one can see me, I don’t know why I should care but I do, I want to be alone with the book.
My hands tremble a little as I open it.
‘He that hath no Sword, let him sell his garment and buy one. St. Luke xxii, 36.’
The card in the pocket on the inside cover says it’s only been checked out once, ever; return date, November 16, 1955, stamped hard and solid in the very middle of the box. My junior high school didn’t open until 1986.
I check inside the back cover. There’s another stamp there: Received, Santa Maria High School Library, September 20, 1933.
What the heck? I guess they donated it to our library. It’s such a good mystery that I know it is the book I was looking for. I head up to the front desk to check it out.
Miss Brooks looks through the book, then goes to the card catalogue and starts shuffling through the title section, but it’s obvious she’s not finding anything. She says, “Cal, this book has never been entered in our records and it’s not in the cards.”
For a second I feel really disappointed, but she adds, “Why don’t you take it home for a couple of weeks and read it, then bring it back and I’ll make it officially part of the library.”
She smiles at me. “I know how much you love books and I trust you to take good care of this one.”
I feel pride and a hint of something else when she says this. For the first time it occurs to me that Miss Brooks is…pretty. And she trusts me. As I head to my first afternoon class I’m practically skipping.
6. Analog Science Fiction, June, 1974: Heights, the new novel by Phillip Duke (Part 1)
Chapter 2
Page 46
Professor Karsten turned from the black board and swept the class with his good eye, looking for some sign, a facial expression or body language, that at least one of them was thinking a new thought about the world.
Karsten taught that history wasn’t facts, or trends, causes, war and politics, Great Men or the power of the polis; history was a method of wisdom, the deep contemplation of which enriched understanding of men, women and societies. History revealed the gold and the dross of human behavior, and enabled more effective action in every area of life.
There had been a rather smaller number of original thinkers lately, The Three-Weeks War had produced a wave of military-chic, and that was perhaps part of it, but Karsten had noticed the drop off long before. In fact, the semester after the Equality Statutes passed, college students became strangely quiet. Protest marches, shouting down speakers, smashing various pieces of university equipment, all of these had become rare birds.
Today, though, Karsten could see Kenneth Black, the youngest in his seminar by two years, on the edge of his seat straining forward like a dog with the scent of the prey in its nose.
Perhaps it was time to move on the Kenneth project. He suddenly felt the sense of it, doing it now, here, the subtlest way it could be done. In camera.
“Mr. Black. You have something?”
“Sir, when you talk about the expansion of the CIA mission beyond what’s in the National Security Act of 1947, you say that the ‘seen’ contributes so little to state actions as compared the ‘unseen.’ How do we know what to include in what you call the ‘unseen?’ Beyond the quiet conversations in the halls at the CIA, quiet conversations in Congress and at the Pentagon on how it might be used as an instrument of their agency or to forward a personal agenda, what do you mean by the ‘unseen’?”
Page 47
“The quiet conversations are a good bit of it, Kenneth, but I mean the whole set of factors that we don’t and likely can never know. For instance, we know about a number of Soviet spies that were caught, working on the Manhattan project and secret military projects and the US delegations to Bretton Woods and the United Nations. But what about the ones that were never caught? I suspect a few spies spent entire careers undercover, retired well and died comfortably in their homes in the Virginia countryside. Even if we had every page of the KGB archives in front of us there would be unknowns.
“It’s something like the so-called ‘perfect crime.’ The perfect crime isn’t the crime you get away with, it’s the crime that no one knows has even been committed.
“What historians do is based on records, ultimately. Records in its broadest sense. Many important conversations are never recorded, not mentioned in biographies or memoranda of meetings.
“Look at the Kennedy assassination. Lee Oswald, as far as we know, didn’t tell anyone about his plans to shoot Kennedy. He probably only took the decision to do it a week or so before, when he saw that the route would pass right in front of his workplace. He didn’t write it in his diary, he didn’t have a few beers and tell his buddies. There was no agency counsel to consult, no memoranda to file. That was actual, true, operational security. That’s very, very rare in government, but it may well exist elsewhere.”
Karsten looked intently at the younger man
“The ‘unseen,’ Mr. Black, might even be a group, an organization of sorts, but one that is silent. How would we know what effect such a group has had or is having on history? We know a good deal about Templars, Rosicrucians, Freemasons, the Black Hand and so on, but what if there are other groups around, that are operating in a shadow so complete that they might as well not exist?”
Karsten saw a look flash on Kenneth’s face, the eyes widen and the chin come up. Yes. He knew.
Two of the other students started talking at once, disputing the idea.
Professor Karsten nodded half an inch, in Kenneth Black’s direction, and Kenneth nodded back.
7. 14 years ago, Santa Maria High School, Santa Maria, California May 15, 8:19 am
Mr. White the “Success Counselor” is a kind of enigma to me ev
en though I’ve talked to him a few times this year—he shows up the second week of school after Ms. Scott his predecessor has a “medical emergency” which in 24 hours everyone knows is that she has been involuntarily taken to rehab. The mystery is whether it was the red ones, the blue ones or the yellow ones that were the problem. I look some stuff up in the library and suspect it’s the blue ones.
~
Mr. White is an enigma because he shows up out of the blue, he’s just there in the counselor’s office the day after the day after Ms. Scott is led out of the building, and no one seems to know what other school he transferred from or even if he lived in town before he got the job. He has an MA in psychology from Florida State and a California teaching certificate on his wall, but no family pics or much else that could identify what he’s been doing. The main thing though, the big thing is the way he’s built and moves, so very unlike anyone else on the staff, like an NFL strong safety, about 6’2 220 and his neck is exactly as wide as his head. Everything above his collar is shaved except his eyebrows and when he walks around the halls his blue eyes are always up, scanning, and he looks back a lot like he’s making sure no one is coming up behind. He looks 30 but somehow you just know he’s older than that and he always wears a silk tie—even on Fridays. The kids who’ve gone to talk to him about college or jobs think he’s great, he seems to cut right to the heart of what they want and when they don’t even know what the hell they want he suggests something and what they need to know to get it, how to write an admission essay that stands out or get an electrician’s apprenticeship. He’s convinced a lot of low-achieving seniors to go to the local community college instead of working at the mall, get certificates and meet people. He’s got more vitality than any “educator” I’ve known, but I was already set to go to Stanford before he arrived and we didn’t have much to interact about except early in the year he asked me to talk to a group of juniors about the college application cycle and “Y’know Cal, tips and tricks.” He laughs heartily when he says this and I don’t know what’s funny but he’s obviously really enjoying himself, this moment this conversation this day, I laugh hard with him for a minute and feel really good for hours afterword.
~
I’m sitting in the cafeteria reading The Big Sleep when a shadow crosses the book and Mr. White says, “Hi Cal, have you got a minute?” And the words I just read are:
It’s so hard for women—even nice women—to realize that their bodies are not irresistible.
I’m startled but Mr. White has a way of bringing you along and it takes me just a second to get oriented and I blurt something that sounds like “Ermf, umm, sure Mr. White,” and he laughs.
“Sorry to bother you in the middle of your reading. That’s one of my favorite books, too.” He turns and I follow him out of the cafeteria and around a couple of turns to his office. We go in and he closes the door to a crack, waves at a chair without saying anything else and turns toward a carafe behind his desk.
“Coffee, Cal?” he asks and I’m startled because no teacher or whatever has ever offered me coffee before, ha I think there’s probably a rule against it and he laughs with genuine pleasure at the look on my face and says “There’s probably a rule against it but I haven’t read it anywhere so hell with it” and now I laugh because he’s like a real human being.
“Thanks, yeah I’ll have some” I say, “black.” My mom would be freaking out about now because she thinks coffee and tea are sinful and a bunch of other things too but fuckit, in the last year I’ve been able more and more often to tell my mom “No” and she tried yelling but I just stare at her now without moving a muscle in my face and she’s pretty much stopped that shit. I’ve been drinking coffee before school every day.
“Good because that’s the only kind I’ve got,” he says and hands me a thick white ceramic mug with some symbol that I don’t recognize on it:
I’m contemplating this and he says “Cal” in an urgent/serious/commanding voice that doesn’t really fit with the whole scene and I look up startled again off balance because there’s suddenly a meaningness in the room; in my mind I actually hear the words: “This is a no bullshitter.”
His eyes lock in and there’s a warmth and humor still there in the way they crinkle at the corners but the eyes themselves seem bigger, there’s more white showing around the bright blue and now I’m locked in too, ready to get the message.
“We’ve got about 40 minutes until you’re due in class, did you have any other plans before that?”
“No.”
“Okay. Let me ask you a question—you’ve been working on the Valedictory for next week, have you had any problems saying what you really want to say, versus what you think people expect? Don’t answer, I can see it in your face.”
So I don’t and he pauses and looks right into me for a few seconds, smiles and continues “Like I thought. Do you have the word diversity in there somewhere?” and I think I should be working on hiding my reactions, it’s like a reflex but I can feel a micromovement of grimace across my face and even my body and he smiles again, it’s a genuine, amused smile.
“Of course. Listen carefully: I am going to suggest that you keep the word in there, keep everything else that you put in there because you think it satisfies the silly ideas and prejudices that people have picked up in school and on television and newspapers and the Web.
“You’re going to study electrical engineering at Stanford, correct? Going to design supercomputers?”
“How did you know that?”
“I’ve been paying attention.” He gets up and goes to the door, opens it and looks both ways, closes it back to a crack.
“Cal, you and I both know that you not only have the highest IQ of anyone in this school, you probably have the highest IQ of anyone in this school district. You skipped 7th grade and you could have been out of here another year sooner but your parents told the principal that they were worried about your social development. Which was bull, because your social development is fine.
“The fact is you can do anything you want, engineering, physics professor, design computers, design drugs.”
“What I really want to do is go to Mars!” I blurt out. I’ve been thinking about this but I haven’t told anybody, and for some reason Mr. White’s talk makes me want to tell him. He nods.
“Good, if and when that happens your EE degree will be helpful. But here’s what I really want you to remember from today.” He’s focused in now, his pupils are bigger and blacker and I know that yeah I will not forget.
“Being at Stanford in the engineering school won’t be as bad as at some other places, but if you want to go to Mars, or decide to do some other big thing like Supreme Court Justice or billionaire investor I want you to strongly consider in advance how you’re going to interact with and react to people with different political and social views. For instance, what if one of your professors spouts some crap about redistributing the wealth and not allowing parents to teach religion to the kids? What are you going to say?”
I giggle a little and my face gets warm with embarrassment for the giggle because I’m thinking I tell her she’s full of it, that historical experience completely disproved the workability of socialism and he knows that already I see in his face and with one lithe move he’s up and shuts the door tight and back in his chair he slowly takes a sip of coffee looking over the rim of the cup, I realize I’m still holding mine and take a quick gulp it’s warm but not hot but terrific coffee and I’m about to thank him for it when he slowly begins to set his cup down, for some reason I don’t want to interrupt him and he begins to speak, strangely more rapidly than before but clear perfectly clear oh so clear—
“You don’t need to speak Cal I know what you’re thinking (tiny nod and hint of a smile and I know that yeah he does and now I know the next thing he’s going to say) and I see that you now know what I’m thinking too so here’s my take, you’re a big boy you make your own decisions (and the room lights seem to be dimming) bu
t—“
“Don’t show your cards” I blurt out loudly as my eyes suddenly stop seeing gray and I’m looking at him clearly. His voice was so clear that I was falling asleep.
His eyebrows snap up a fraction and I know that he’s used to showing the world the face that he wants to show at that moment, for his reasons. The eyebrow snap was a rare occurrence.
“Ha!” he laughs a genuine happy shout of a laugh and smiles. “So you came up out of that on your own, eh Cal?” and gives a little bob of his head. “Well done. I was using some simple techniques to make sure that you really understood and remembered what I was going to say. I see those aren’t necessary.” He leans forward.
“As you said, ‘Don’t show your cards’. There are people and institutions in the United States and around the world that become rich redistributing money, wealth, power to someone from someone else. And “privilege,” you’re going to hear a lot of that at Stanford because some of those people work there. The redistribution of “privilege” is the biggest racket of all.
“Naming this fact is considered very unsophisticated. So I’d suggest that at school you walk by the chanting leftists without telling them what idiots they are, don’t get involved in protest on any side, write excellent papers that stroke a few of your professors’ obvious prejudices without actually lying about what you really think. You’ve got mostly math and science anyway. The rest of it—I’m sure, Cal, that you have the ability to make most people believe what you want them to believe.”