by Arthur Bliss
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Arthur Bliss
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/.
First edition October 2016.
"Anybody who has watched the House in this Debate knows perfectly well why we are met here, and why we have to sit here. It is because various Gentlemen below the Gangway sitting in one quarter of the House desire to express their views to us. We know perfectly well this is not a Debate upon the tremendous national issue brought before us earlier in the day. Nominally we are discussing the same subject, whereas the House of Commons, in its strength, was called together this afternoon to hear an exposition of policy upon an occasion to which there has been no parallel in our lifetime, and may be no parallel in the lifetime of those of the next generation. What we have been having tonight are the very dregs and lees of the Debate, in no sense representing the various views of Members of this House."
— Arthur Balfour, August 3rd, 1914
The Ghost of George Washington
The bus stop was empty when my mom dropped me off. I hadn't noticed how insufficient the sole streetlight's lamp was until dusk had come. Five other students had crowded into the tiny plastic shelter, escaping a rain that seemed to grow as each person arrived, mostly dropped off by half-sorrowful, half-relieved parents much like my own.
With practiced obliviousness, smart phones glowed in our hands like votive candles, our eyes entranced by the portal we had opened into the real world. Clinging to the warm white light, we knew we were not not alone. We were never alone.
I switched off my iPhone and dropped it into my pocket, shifting my shoulders in an awkward stretch that meticulously avoided either bumping into or directly acknowledging my peers. The green light swaying in the wind a hundred feet away switched to yellow then red, and a pair of headlamps turned towards us at the intersection.
It had been several minutes since the last vehicle had passed so I allowed myself a moment of hope. But the headlamps didn't slow and the minivan passed. A few seconds later, the van's brake lights came on and its engine slowed. It made a u-turn back towards us and we collectively looked up as the rusty Dodge Caravan pulled up to the curb. The passenger side window lowered with dying battery slowness.
"Are you the kids going to the mountain?" the driver said in a scratchy voice, continuing without waiting for a reply, "Throw your stuff in the back and hop in. We're running late."
I hesitated a moment and exchanged glances with another student. How did we know this guy was with the college? But she thought better of questioning the opportunity and just rolled her eyes at me as she hopped off the bench.
I slid my backpack off my shoulders and lightly placed it alongside the others, then swung the rear door closed. "MERICA6" read the license plate alongside a grimy College of the New America bumper sticker. Everything would be fine, I forced myself to think as I scooted onto the worn vinyl passenger seat my peers had wisely avoided as they returned to their Internet rituals in the back seats.
The driver monotoned his introduction while staring blankly at the road ahead, "Hello. My name is George. It's a four hour trip to the top of Mount Liberty and we'll be stopping along the way for a bathroom break. It's a windy road so if you have to throw up, tell me so I can pull over. Any questions? Good."
The van lurched forward and we were soon out of the city and on the highway in the country. As the straight two lane asphalt beckoned us forward into the darkening night, I pondered sleeping but was distracted when George took out a crackling candy wrapper from his jeans.
Balancing the steering wheel between his knees, he ripped the wrapper open and pulled out a golfball shaped lump, filling the cabin with the smell of stale peanuts and chocolate. Despite watching too closely out of the corner of my eye as he bit the chunk in half, my stomach growled and I tried to think of the food that would be ready for us when we arrived.
Orientation was reportedly just getting weirder and weirder. The weekend at Mount Liberty was supposed to be a bonding experience for freshmen, a way for us to lose our old selves and form a new family. Rumor had it that it was also a kind of evaluation by professors and department heads where they'd decide their future favorites based on how we did in different group activities. Twelve years of school, countless extracurriculars, forty-thousand dollars a year in debt, and now a circus performance. What a privilege.
As George loudly finished off the dark lump, the wrapper tumbled to the gear shifter console and momentarily reflected the lights from a gas station we were passing. BudNutBar read the label, decorated with conspicuous leaves. I discreetly shifted towards it to get a better look, but George nonchalantly brushed the sticky wrapper off to the dark, dirty floor.
I looked up at George but he ignored my stare, smiling at the road ahead, "We're reaching the base of the mountain. It's going to be curvy so y'all might want to just take a nap."
"You know, I went to college," George continued to the silent van, "Was a music major. Ended up working in the studio with some pretty big names. Rare Earth, Coven, Television, Blue Öyster Cult..."
"Blue Öyster Cult? Like 'Don't Fear the Reaper'?" a poor soul in the back took the bait.
"Yeah, man. I went to Hobart with Eric Bloom. I worked on the mix of 'Reaper' back in 1975. How cool is that?"
"Did it need more cowbell?" someone snickered.
George continued, "Man, Eric and I had some good times. This one time Buck Dharma, Eric, and I all went out to the Dutch Country and found this Amish girl hitchhiking around. She was doing this thing, rumspringa, you know, where the Amish kids try the wild life and decide if it is for them. Listen, we took her with us to this party in Pittsburgh and..."
For the next two hours the van glided up from the foothills into the deep woods of the mountain as George regaled us with his warmed-over tales of debauchery and degeneracy. Mile by mile he became more and more animated, draining a liter of bottled water and then half of another one before he blurted between hurried breaths, "5-minute bathroom break, toilet paper is by the door."
Pulling over suddenly, he almost jumped out of the car and jogged a few paces into the woods. I opened the door a crack and stretched my legs, debating whether to actually walk around in the pouring rain. The van side door slid open and the other kids shuffled out, a few wandering off behind trees.
We hadn't seen another car since reaching the turn off for the summit an hour previously and the forest was devoid of the sounds of civilization, despite the loud whistle of wind in the trees and the patter of raindrops. I decided to get some air and stepped out into the rainy wind just as George returned from the trees.
He was panting and stretching his arms so rapidly that he looked like he was flapping wings. He hurriedly ran his bony fingers through his long, greasy gray hair and took a deep breath of air.
"I think we're going to need to take a little longer bathroom break. Just for a moment. I don't..." he stopped with his jaw tensely open and looked at me with startled, wide eyes.
His hands pressed onto his chest and anguish filled his face as he stumbled onto his knees.
"Help!" I cried as I ran to him and caught his fall.
His gray eyes focused on mine for a moment and I realized with shock that he was handsome once, long before he had trifled away his life. His eyes shifted upwards
and then blurred into the distance as we crowded around him. We held him up, but could do nothing for the blockage in his heart. His life faded in front of us and seconds later he became twice as heavy. One by one we let go of him, until he was lowered on to his back in the muddy ground, blankly staring into space as the headlights dimmed.
I was frozen, staring at him as he laid on the ground. I could hear crying around me and one guy was repeating "oh my God" over and over again. A girl brushed George's eyes shut and then she turned to me, a suspicious scowl on her brown face, and asked "What the fuck just happened?"
"I don't know. He ate some kind of candy called a BudNutBar. I think he overdosed," I replied.
"You can't overdose on pot, you idiot," said a guy to my right, his face squeezed in disapproval at my ignorance, "He had a heart attack. It was just shitty luck that it happened here in front of us. Let's get him to the van."
"I'm not fucking touching him," insisted a guy with dark curly hair that trembled in the cold, wet air.
"Whatever, pussy. Come on, someone open the back of