Rebel Without a Cause

by Robert M. Lindner

  When I was younger I used to get in different moods. I’m not that way anymore; at least since I started this treatment. When I got in that kind of mood I didn’t want to talk to anybody, sometimes maybe for a week. I’d agitate myself and keep in that mood. I wouldn’t even talk to my mother or my sister, and when she’d say something to me I’d just ignore her. Then she’d get mad and remind me of my mood.

  One time I went away and stayed away for about three weeks. When I came back one night I didn’t go home. I went to my grandmother’s and slept there. I didn’t want my father to see me coming home so I waited here until he went to work. Then I left my grandmother’s house and met my sister on the street. She was waiting for a bus and she gave me hell right in front of everybody. She was hollering at me for staying away. I didn’t say much to her. I just asked her if my mother was well and if everything was good at home. When my father came home that night he gave me such a look … I didn’t like that look. I just didn’t like to be around my father. He works so hard. I guess I don’t blame him. If a man works hard and has a son old enough to work who doesn’t want to work … He didn’t even like for my sister to buy clothes for herself. If she bought a dress or so for ten or fifteen dollars he was mad if she told him the right amount. If she said it cost two or three dollars then it was o.k. They always had to lie to him. My mother always lied to him. When she bought something she always said that it was cheaper than the real price she paid for it to avoid arguments. Sometimes he’d find the sales-slip with the price marked on it. Then he’d really holler! Why did she have to lie to him? and things like that.…

  L: ‘Harold do you feel that your father’s attitude was the same to the rest of the family as it was toward you?’

  He used to talk to everyone else more than to me. I didn’t see him much the last few years. Every time my little sister Anna came home from school she’d play on the street and she’d wait for my father to come home from work. Then he’d play with her all night. My oldest sister didn’t pay any attention to him. She told him a number of times to shut up.

  L: ‘Did you ever say that to him?’

  No, sir! O, no. I never said that to him. He’d really kill me then.

  L: ‘Did you ever steal anything from your father?’

  Only a pen knife, I think. That’s the only thing I can remember.

  L: ‘A pen knife?’

  Yes. He had three or four pen knives in the garage. He used to keep them in the garage where he had a big bunch of tools. The pen knives were lying around there so I took one of them. He knew it was missing so, if I remember this right, he looked through my drawers and found it, and he started hollering at me, “Why the hell don’t you leave your hands off my things?”

  L: ‘Was there any special reason why you wanted to take a pen knife from your father?’

  No. There were three or four of them there. I—I wanted—I wanted it to cut some wood …

  L: ‘One time you took his razor, did you not?’

  Yes. He really gave me a beating that time.

  L: ‘Did you ever steal any money from your father?’

  No; but I used to steal quite a bit from my mother. Sometimes when I was broke I’d steal maybe as much as five dollars. My mother wouldn’t say anything. I’d give it back to her. I only owe my mother about twenty dollars altogether. I wouldn’t care if it was my mother’s last five dollars; I’d steal it all when I wanted to get away, even her last dollar.

  L: ‘Did you ever take money from your mother and use it to buy a gun?’

  Yes. One time I took eight dollars from her and bought a gun. Three days later I put it back. I guess she was madder when I put it back than when I took it in the first place, because she thought I must have stolen it.

  L: ‘In that accident of yours, Harold, did you use a gun or a knife?’

  A gun would have made too much noise. I don’t know—why I was … I used the knife. It’s quick and just as effective as a gun. It didn’t make too much noise—and—well … I didn’t use my gun.

  L: ‘Where did you get the knife?’

  It was a hunting knife. I’d had it for a long time. I guess I stole it from my father. I remember one time I stole a lot of stuff from the garage and somehow or other this hunting knife was among them. I liked it: it had a leather sheath. It cost only a dollar or so. I kept it and when I’d go up to my aunt’s house I’d take it out there with me. I’d practice to throw it, make it stick in a tree. It was a good knife, healthy, well put together, sturdy. I didn’t want to use the gun. The gun would have made too much noise. I didn’t like to make too much noise. It had nothing to do with my taking his pen knife. He always had them around. He used to cut leather patches with it, patches for his tubes and tires and things. I just took one. I took the best one I guess. He was sore about it. I remember when I took his razor blade. It was a straight razor. I wanted to find out how sharp it was. I was about eight or nine. I remember it as if it was yesterday.

  L: ‘Harold; now think carefully. This hunting knife, when you got it did you ever intend to use it for anything? Did you ever make any particular plans for its use?’

  No, I didn’t. It—I took it when I was about thirteen and I kept it around the house. When I left school and went up to my aunt’s house I took some things that might come handy on the farm.

  L: ‘And you never planned to use the knife on anyone?’

  No; I never did. No. No. I don’t think I would ever use it on my father. I don’t think so. I wouldn’t have done a thing like that. That way the whole responsibility of the family would fall on me.

  L: ‘Did you ever think about that?’

  Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t. I guess—I guess—I planned—one time—I planned on getting rid of my father, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was thinking of my mother and my sisters. I would have done it without their knowing it but I didn’t want the responsibility of the whole family falling on me. Even if I didn’t like him, my mother must have for some reason or she wouldn’t have lived with him. She intended leaving him several times and taking us kids with her. But I couldn’t bring myself to do anything to interfere with the security of my mother and sisters.

  L: ‘What was your plan, Harold?’

  I was going to buy a big rifle with a telescope sight and a silencer on it—that would run to about fifty or sixty bucks—and go somewhere out of the city. I’d get out in one of the suburbs somewhere and fix this gun up and then shoot one or two people: first I was going to shoot one in one part of the city, and then another one in another part, an entirely different part. I’d shoot several people, and the third person I’d shoot would be my father. In that way I’d cover myself up so that nobody would know. I’d file the barrel out—you have to file the barrel out—so that nobody would be able to tell that the bullet came from it.…

  L: ‘Who were the other two people to be?’

  O, just anybody … Just to cover up, you see.

  L: ‘How would that cover it up?’

  Well, when somebody would get shot, and then somebody else, there would be no connection between the three of them; there would be no connection between me and the other two, and no connection with my father. He wouldn’t know these people and nobody would tell why; they wouldn’t even know themselves.

  L: ‘When did you think about it?’

  I was about seventeen or eighteen then. I just couldn’t do it, even if he was mean to me. That was nothing. I didn’t care. He kept my mother and my sisters … This is not a pleasant thing to tell you. I wouldn’t hurt my father now.

  L: ‘Was this plan inspired by any special or particular occasion?’

  I don’t remember much about it. I don’t know whether my father disliked me more, or whether I disliked him more. I just couldn’t stand being in the same house with him. That was one reason why I’d leave home and do a lot of things to get away from everything. But I don’t know … When I got arrested for stealing once it got into the newspapers and my mother destr
oyed the page it was on so he wouldn’t see it. Somebody stopped my father on the street and told him about it. When he came home he talked about it with my mother and she said she knew nothing of it. She said she thought it was just that I had by some way violated a probation. He really gave me a beating that time. When I came out of jail after eight months and came home he gave me another beating for going around and stealing things. He was mad. He hollered at me, “Get a job or get the hell out of the house!” So I went up to my aunt’s.

  L: ‘Was that when you conceived the plan of doing away with your father?’

  Yes. I forgot. I even forgot about this plan. I don’t even know how old I was when I had it. It was the time after I got out of a jail and got a beating for it. I stayed around home for a while and then went up to my aunt’s place.

  L: ‘That must have been around the time your accident occurred.’

  Yes. I guess it was about that time. I don’t know … About two weeks after I got out of jail that time everything was upside down. I didn’t know why I was there, what I was doing there, at home, in the whole world, everywhere. Everything was wrong. To please my mother—she was asking me to stay at home nights—I stayed at home. My father was home and he saw me. And he’d blame her, start a lot of those arguments. Two weeks after I got out I thought I just couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t control myself. I hated him. I wanted to get rid of him. Then I started thinking, after all he … I hated him enough to get rid of him, still I liked my mother and my sisters. My sister was working but the little one was going to school. Even though he picked on me … The reason he picked on me was that I didn’t want to work. I started stealing things. But I don’t know … If he was somebody else then maybe I would have carried out my plan …

  L: ‘As a matter of fact, Harold, you did carry out your plan, didn’t you?’

  Nooo … My father is still living. I never shot anybody with a rifle. I don’t know what … I—then—I—started drinking. I—I forgot everything. He—he called me a—a lying mother–f——r. For no reason. I started to agitate myself. It agitated me, but I could have stopped it if I wanted to. It just—just happened. I didn’t see …

  L: ‘Why should what the man called you have agitated you so much?’

  Why—I—told you. You have me in a funny position here. I—I don’t know what to say.

  L: ‘Why?’

  I don’t know … I—I—why—when I was outside sometimes when I used to feel like I do now I would want to forget about everything so I’d go away for two or three weeks—but—here—I can’t go away from here. I have to stay here. I—I feel—so—uncomfortable. I guess I am afraid.

  L: ‘Afraid of what?’

  I don’t know. Afraid of myself I guess. You can say anything you want to. I’m more afraid of you than you are … O, I won’t hurt you. I’ll never tell anybody. I’ll never even admit to myself that I told you this. I wanted to change something and I changed it: I went away. Here I can’t change it. I was going to forget about it as quickly as possible. But now I’ll go through with it. This fellow; I guess I hit him accidently, with a cue stick. We were playing pool and I drew the stick back real quick and hit him in the elbow. He turned around and started cursing me. I said I was sorry. There was no reason for cursing me. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. Then I got started thinking about it. My father used to curse me out; even when I said I was sorry when I did something he’d still curse me. Maybe he appeared to me—O—O … Yes; the fellow reminded me of my father in many ways. Yes; he did. I see … If he said what he said and then told me he was sorry I wouldn’t have … My father did things like that. One time I called him to eat. He wanted to hit me with a hammer. I don’t know what I said to make him mad. I said I was sorry. He started cursing me. I didn’t know what to do. I just went away. He went home and told my mother about it. He told her something or other—and—when this fellow—he … When this fellow started cursing me I imagined that it was like when my father … I don’t blame my father for this. If he had stopped when I said I was sorry … If my father hadn’t … It would have been all right. He cursed me even after I said I was sorry. My father used to jump on me that way because I didn’t have a job. “Get work, you bum!” He would call me a blind bum and a liar. I don’t know why I did it. I couldn’t help myself I guess. I had forgotten about this plan. The plan came back to me …

  L: ‘To dispose of this fellow in the same way?’

  I came in here and I settled down and everything quieted down. I seemed to forget everything, even in here. I know you would never say anything to anybody without consulting me, Doc. If something happened to you …

  L: ‘Do you want something to happen to me?’

  No. No; but I’m worrying what’s going to happen to you.

  L: ‘Now, Harold; you have already demonstrated to yourself how, in disposing of this man, you were in reality doing away with your father. The name he called you; why should it have made you feel that way? The reason, Harold, is the same reason why you hate your father. And why did you hate your father? Let us go back to B——. What was the origin of your hate for your father?

  I—I … You know. That—what—I saw … My mother and my father … He was—hurting—her.

  L: ‘You saw him having intercourse with your mother. He was hurting your mother. You knew he was hurting your mother. Now this man was accusing you of doing the same thing your father had done, of hurting your mother, accusing you of wanting your mother. The man reminded you of your father, whom you wished to get rid of, put out of the way, so that you could have your mother to yourself. Even his looks reminded you of your father. Is the picture beginning to clear?’

  Yes; it is. I see now …

  L: ‘I think you will find that this theme has been running through everything you have ever done, through your whole life.’

  I see it does. I can’t say anything … I want to do—something I haven’t done for a long time—and that’s—cry. I—I—don’t know—why …

  Here Harold began to cry and sob and for a period of ten minutes or so was incoherent.

  L: ‘Do you feel better now?’

  I feel like a better person. I know so, in fact. I really don’t hate my father now. Maybe I still dislike him, but I understand the whole thing. I love my mother. That’s one reason why I didn’t carry out my plan. And I didn’t want the responsibility of supporting my mother and my sisters. If I carried out my plan I would have to do that. I used to tell myself that there were cases in the world where the son killed the father. I cared too much for my mother and I disliked my father. This is the first time I—I faced the facts; the first time in my life. It’s true. It goes all the way back …

  L: ‘We are going to go on facing facts, facing them!’

  You know, Doc … This is the first time in a long time, in a long time, since the accident happened, that I feel relieved. My shoulders are not so heavy: my arms are lighter. Maybe I just imagine they are … but they feel lots lighter …

  THE THIRTY-NINTH HOUR

  L: ‘I think we have now reached a place where I can explain to you the meanings of all the things you have told me, as well as the things you tell me, as they come up. You will tell me, for instance, of the dreams you may have or, in fact, anything that comes into your head, and at the proper place I’ll give you the necessary explanations. By the way, I am very well pleased with the improved condition of your eyes.’

  Yes. That’s true. When I look at a book I still have to hold it close to my eyes sometimes. I guess it must be a habit, because the other day when I was sitting down with a book I held it about ten or more inches away from my eyes, and I could read fine. But after a while it started to swing back: it started swinging back to my eyes, close to my face.

  L: ‘You mean your arms swung the book back, don’t you?’

  Yes; yes …

  L: ‘That is because over many years you have formed the habit of holding books and anything you wish to look at close to you
r eyes. Now you must break that habit. There is a simple way to start breaking it. Do you usually read in bed?’

  Yes. A good deal of the time I lie on my back in bed and hold the book.

  L: ‘Well, one good way of starting to break that habit is this; if you are reading in bed, prop the book up on the pillow. In that way the book remains fixed. You see, your hands have developed the habit, they are used to bringing the reading material close to your eyes. These habits of manipulation go along with seeing. Holding your books close to your eyes was all right when your eyes were very bad. Now that they are somewhat better you’ll want to change your habits.

  Yesterday something hit me. Last night, I mean. I haven’t had a feeling like that for more than two years. It’s something like a mood. I used to get them on the outside. I remember back when I was twelve or thirteen when I was in one of these moods I’d run away from home, see? To illustrate—the one I had yesterday … I was walking in the mess hall and the sun was shining in through the windows, and the sunlight, it started to move or something, move from one place to another; and I knew I was going to have a—a spell. I didn’t eat nothing. I just sat at the table and I closed my eyes because they were burning. And then I had like a day dream. I imagined that I was in a big room, with about three or four hundred people. They were all in the room. They all had tin cans or something and they were making a lot of noise. Some of them seemed to be jumping up and down, and some of them were sitting at the tables, a few at each table. They were the kind of tables people have in homes, round tables, with only four people sitting at each one; and on one table, the one where I was sitting, there were only three people. I was sweating all over, just sweating.