One by One

by Nicholas Bush

  Much to my surprise, I am told by the company commander that my disciplinary assignments have been changed due to a recommendation from the infirmary staff to the provost and headmaster. Frankly, I’m pretty often in the infirmary and use it as an excuse to get out of various duties and punishments imposed on me, but I still didn’t see this coming. From now on, I’m forced to stand perfectly still with my face pressed against a wall every time formations are held. On Sundays, after the other kids are marched by, I’m sent to clean the entire three-story barracks, which takes the whole day. Basically, I’m forced to embarrass myself throughout each day and also become a janitor. The physical punishments are thankfully put to a halt, but the cleaning isn’t easy. One time, a cadet who is PT’d (“physically trained”) with me and also forced to wear a raincoat over his heavy gear collapses, never to be heard from again.

  After the kid collapses, I decide to attend the Sunday morning service at the chapel for the first time, in order to get out of having to scrub down the entire barracks on my hands and knees for twelve hours straight. This out is suggested by an officer who supervises the barracks on weekends and takes pity on me, a problem cadet always being punished, better known as someone who has a “red-board rank.” I am allowed to go to the campus church building, which is actually an elaborate cathedral complete with stained-glass windows, priests, pews, a balcony, and a female choir brought in from elsewhere.

  For the first time in my life, I enjoy church. I can sit on something cushioned, close my eyes, and think. I begin going regularly. One Sunday I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, an old Irish priest has his hand on my shoulder. I look around and see that we are alone in the cathedral. He asks if he can sit with me and although I have to be in the dining hall in twenty minutes, I say okay. I am so starved for a meaningful human relationship that I am desperate to connect with this guy who is being kind to me. This Irish priest has a strong accent when he speaks, which isn’t much, and I tell him everything. He asks how I ended up at the school and if I’m interested in joining the military and I tell him hell no.

  We talk until the trumpet sounds for mess hall and then he asks if he can accompany me to lunch so we can eat together. I say okay again and we walk to the mess hall. We sit alone in the back. The priest doesn’t eat his food, but instead listens intently as I get into the nitty-gritty of it all. Somehow, everything comes pouring out, things I’ve never told anyone before, things about the abuse and the drugs and how my life came to revolve around them.

  When I am done telling my story, the priest is silent for a moment and then asks, “How was your faith during all of that?”

  I tell him that all through everything I had to endure growing up, I somehow knew God’s finger was on me, that he was protecting me, but I just can’t understand why he let all that happen to me as a kid, knowing what it would lead me to. I tell him I know God has to be real because evil and darkness are real. I also tell him that the experiences I’ve had on the drugs, through all my messing around with them, have opened my eyes and made me believe in the supernatural. But then I ask him where God has been in all this, just watching me? I don’t get it.

  The priest is very quiet, caring, and respectful. With him, I feel kind of honored, as though he is the one honoring me. We sit for as long as it is allowed, and after all the other cadets have left, I am summoned to return to barracks by my company commander. He yells, “Let’s go, Bush! Come on!”

  “Well, see ya,” I say to the priest, as I stand up to leave and walk toward the archway, where I put on my cap and glance back only to find him still sitting where I left him. He has an intensely concentrated look on his face and his eyes are closed. He looks to be in prayer. I leave filled with a strength and hope that I’ve never known before. I feel as if I’ve just connected with the Almighty and somehow everything will be okay.

  Later that day, as I am sweeping the stairwell, I am told that a cadet from Panama is coming to join me and that we are to work together to clean the barracks. I soon find out that many wealthy Latinos send their sons to American military schools in order to avoid mandatory military service in their native countries, and this guy is one of them. When he walks in, I tell him to start at the bottom stairwell and I will start at the top, and we can meet in the middle.

  When we are nearly finished with this process, I accidentally sweep some dirt that has fallen off the second-floor hallway onto his step. The cadet sees this and begins to swear at me and verbally attack me in rapid Spanish, even though I can’t understand a word of it. I planned on sweeping up the dirt from the top step, of course, which is what I always do when there is spillover, but before I can do so, the guy freaks out completely. I shrug and continue to walk down the hallway, facing away from him and pushing my broom in the opposite direction. The next thing I know, I feel a heavy blow to the back of my head, as the cadet swings a thick broom handle down on me. There is a loud crack as he does this, and I crash down onto the floor. For a few moments, I can’t move or feel the blows raining down on me from above, as the guy kicks and punches me.

  Finally, though, this draws the attention of other cadets who come rushing in from down the hall to pull the maniac off me. I am rushed to the hospital in an ambulance and they tell me I have a fractured T1 (first thoracic) vertebra; in other words, I have a broken neck. My family is contacted and Allison, who is closest, is the first to arrive. My parents follow soon after and inform me that I will be coming home with them, returning to my old high school once again.

  After I am released from the hospital, my father drives me home; during the drive, he calls all my aunts, uncles, and grandparents to inform them in great detail what happened, acting all the while as if he is the victim. He seems to feel sorry for himself and reel in the drama produced by having a son he perceives as being out of control. For me, going home means exchanging one hellhole for another, but at least now I will be with my friends again.

  Chapter 5

  Once I return to my parents’ house, revenge is back on the table. I steal many pieces of their expensive jewelry and sell them at pawnshops located hours away. I also forge checks from their bank account, making them out to myself. Then, despite still being a few months shy of my eighteenth birthday, I leave the house and move in with some older guys. The place is pretty decrepit, but it serves a purpose. My parents try to find me, something I know because I get calls from all sorts of people, though most often from friends of mine and their parents, who tell me to go home so that my parents will stop calling them looking for me. One day the head counselor at my school, Mr. Tollkotch, who is super old and super old-school, sits me down to ask about my living circumstances, so I know they must have called the school too.

  I tell Mr. Tollkotch that if he fucks around and tries anything stupid like reuniting me with my parents, I will disappear and he will regret the decision for the rest of his life. He assures me that my mother only wants to know if I am still going to school. To which I reply, “Tell her I am and that I don’t want to see them ever again.” Mr. Tollkotch surprisingly confides in me that he understands and thinks what they did to me is bullshit, and that he believes they ruined our football season by sending me away.

  Then he says, “Just between you and me, where are you staying and are you okay?”

  I give him a look that says, “I will absolutely kill you if you fuck with me,” but am met with such compassion that I know he is just looking out for me, so I tell him where I’m staying and who I’m living with. I don’t know why I tell him. Maybe because it feels like the first time in what feels like forever that somebody is willing to do something to help me. He leaves me alone and I am in the clear after that.

  The reality is that I’m sleeping on the couch in an apartment of one of the weed dealers I have supplied over the past few years. The guy went to a sister high school and has roommates who graduated from my current school a few years earlier. I continue staying t
here until my eighteenth birthday, whereupon, feeling free at last, I safely return to the Russos, who greet me with open arms. I take my rugby team to the state championship that spring and attend at least a dozen graduation parties. I party through the summer, having fun until I leave for college to play football.

  College football is rough. In high school, football was all about fun; in college it’s all about slavery. The coaching staff treats me like they own me due to the scholarship, and my attitude doesn’t sit well with them. I last a couple months and then start to withdraw from the school and move into Giovanni’s dorm thirty minutes away. For a straight week, we party every night. There are girls, ecstasy, weed, and LSD. Come Friday, I ask what we’re up to for the weekend, but he doesn’t give me a straight answer. Later, he makes a call home and then tells me that we’ll be going home for the weekend, a two-hour drive north, because his parents want to talk to us.

  Francesco comes to pick us up and as we drive back I am a little confused as to why Giovanni is telling him everything we’ve been up to. He doesn’t say much, but I can tell he is disappointed. Eventually he turns to me and says, “You’re making no money and not going to school, so what the fuck are you doing?”

  I laugh and say, “Partying.”

  Francesco turns to Giovanni and tells him my response is the problem and Giovanni says he knows. I can hear all too well from the back seat and in that instant, I know it’s over. Giovanni has to make a choice, to let things continue or to try and get help from his parents, and I know he’s making the right one, but why? We spend the weekend with Greta and Francesco and it’s nice to reconnect with them again. They tell me that if I clean up my act, I can stay at their place, but I can’t stay with Giovanni. They’re going to return him to his dorm in time to get to class on Monday. I thank them for the offer, but am not interested. I don’t want to stay at their home without Giovanni.

  Feeling betrayed, I move back in with Shawn, my old dorm roommate at Carroll University, and spend all my time smoking pot. I have no desire to go to class or get a real job. One day a city detective accompanied by a campus police officer bursts into our dorm room and my roommate nearly shits himself before he jets. I don’t think he called them, but I suspect he had a big mouth and somebody else in the hall did it for him. The detective tells me I can answer his questions in my pot-smoke-filled dorm room or accompany him to headquarters. I elect to stay, and deny having any knowledge about who broke into the newly constructed computer lab and stole all the state-of-the-art Apple computers. It’s a bit funny because I actually didn’t do that, but I am responsible for several other similar crimes.

  I can tell he doesn’t believe me. He then looks around and says, “Your room doesn’t look like you even go to class here.” I laugh. When he begins to interrogate me, asking where I was the night of the theft, I tell him I was probably getting wasted.

  “You may be Mr. Slick, but when I’m done working on this murder case, I’m going to crawl right up your ass, young man.”

  “Gross, can you please leave?”

  Even though I didn’t steal the computers, I have become pretty heavily involved in petty thefts, burglarizing cars and vacant dorm rooms, locker-rooms, and anything else that might contain cash or valuable items to pawn in order to buy drugs and survive.

  After the detective’s visit I change my mind and decide to take the Russos up on their offer to stay at their home, but I don’t seriously pursue finding a job until one day when that same detective shows up at their front door. I’m the only one home at the time and he arrests me for the marijuana I had on me in the dorm room. He hauls my ass downtown and books me, throwing me into jail in full garb, naked underneath a tattered orange jumpsuit. I am placed in a holding cell and forced into solitary confinement for hours, holed up in a dim light as I wait to be interrogated. The clothing I’m issued and the process I’m subjected to while being booked lead me to believe I’m going to be here for a long, long time. It’s shock incarceration; I’m wearing orange rags, with bits of my buttocks and thigh showing through, as well as both knees. Immediately I feel I’m being made to believe that I am a criminal and the state’s judicial system is giving me what I deserve.

  After what feels like an eternity, I am taken out of the holding cell and led through an area with inmates who are watching television as they await transfer. As I am paraded by them, they glance over and started to laugh at the sight of me, handcuffed at the ankles and wrists, my ass visible through the jumpsuit. I’m put in a room for questioning and even though I’ve been brought in for the weed charge, I’m questioned in great detail about the Apple computer theft.

  The detective is clearly frustrated with me again, even though this time around I’m no longer laughing at him. I simply refuse to answer questions and instead ask for a public defender since I’m well aware that I could be charged and incarcerated up to and through a jury trial. Even though this means I’ll get a court-appointed lawyer, one from the district attorney’s office, I know it will at least bring an end to the interrogation. To my astonishment, I am released at midnight, after being interrogated for hours. I’m let off with a possession fine.

  When I get back to the Russos and tell them what happened, I am subjected to Francesco’s anger. A scary man on a normal day, he threatens me with a large knife by holding it up to my throat and making it very clear that I am never to summon the police to his home again.

  I think Francesco knows I’ve never really taken his lifestyle seriously, since I’ve never asked him for serious advice concerning criminal matters the way Giovanni does. If I had, in his mind, this never would have happened, and he’s right.

  To me though, it seems that there must always be a way out, a way to get around the rules and the people who enforce them. If you have to pay somebody, you pay him. If you have to kill somebody, you either kill him yourself or have him killed.

  Fear can be a powerful motivator, and I suspect that’s why he goes so far as to threaten me with a blade, and it works. I will never again make the mistake of not taking him seriously, and he will always be in the back of my mind when I make a new move. Our relationship has always been, and will always be, pretty surface level anyway, never really going beyond the fact that I am extremely grateful for his including me in the family and that I respect him immensely by showing him great loyalty.

  I’ve always been hesitant, though, to commit to his way of life because it just doesn’t feel right. Something in my heart blocks me from diving into that realm of darkness and deliberate, calculated servitude. Deep down, I hate the evil that has been tormenting me since childhood and I am not about to willingly partner with something that has a dark and sinister air. Besides, I am too proud and not a fan of authority. I can get by on my own without help from anyone.

  When faced with the choice, I elect to apply to the college Giovanni is attending rather than find a job, but in while I’m at the bank to apply for a loan, I run smack into my father on the way out, right there on the bank steps, as he is entering the building. We don’t notice each other until we’re face-to-face and when we do he steps to the side, wanting to avoid any conversation. He’s holding a folder and I can tell something is off, “What’s going on?” I ask. I haven’t really seen him since stealing a bunch of their stuff and then leaving.

  “I’m getting all these checks you wrote removed from my account and sending your ass to jail where you belong, you son of a bitch.”

  “Oh, Dad, please! Don’t do it! Please don’t send me to jail!” I beg. Little does he know, I’ve just come from there and know what kind of hell it is. I drop to my knees and people start staring at us.

  Embarrassed, he says, “Get up,” and I can tell he has changed his mind.

  “I need help, Dad, and I’ll get it.” I know he won’t take me at my word, and that I have only a few seconds to get out of more time in jail. “I’ll come to the house and pack a bag and have you guy
s drop me at rehab if that’s what it takes!” This is the first time I’ve mentioned my problems with drugs to my parents. They know I steal from them, but we’ve never talked about addiction. Instead of having conversations about how I can get better, they’ve always treated me like a lost cause.

  “Jesus Christ, just get the hell away from me,” he says, as he continues to back away and head into the bank.

  “I’ll see you at the house! I’m going there now!”

  He doesn’t say anything or look over his shoulder at me as he goes inside. I know he might have the cops go to the house, but what can I do? I go home and my mom already knows the full story. She doesn’t weigh in on it. Instead she says, “We’ll see what your father decides to do when he comes home.” When he comes home he says he was able to recover the lost funds, about $700, without having to involve the police. This calms him just enough that I am allowed to go to rehab instead of jail.

  Two days after admitting myself, wouldn’t you know it, Gavin comes strolling into the rehab house. Before coming in, he was up for days on speed. He went out every night until he was so wasted that he crashed his motorcycle, even though he had been driving a straight line on the freeway without any other vehicles around. He and his motorcycle tipped over, rolled, and then skidded to a stop one or two hundred yards away. He has scabs and cuts all over his body, especially on the back of his head, his neck, and his back. I don’t know if his family sent him here, or if he’s here because of a court order, but I’m glad to have a friend with me.

  Gavin and I have a blast making a mockery of the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, which, next to counseling and medication, is the primary form of treatment, by telling ridiculous made-up stories during open sessions and farting loudly at inopportune moments.