Perturbed, I slid back from my desk. It was eight o’clock, and my dad was at his job dealing cards. He worked swing, meaning he started at 4PM and got off around midnight. Of course, he rarely just headed home. No, he would usually hit the bars first, and then stumble in around 3AM. On extra-special-bonus-days, dad would come back bloodied up from one brawl or another. Those days were great. I got to spend the next morning picking up bloodied gauze and wiping down the bathroom. To his credit, my dad could take a beating like a champ. He was always up and about by the next evening, ready for work. I guess drinking that much makes you kinda numb to the pain.
I downed the rest of my coffee and put on my running shoes. Dr. Montgomery had urged me to stick to walking until Christmas. She wanted my punctured lung to have time to heal. So instead of my usual runs, I had settled into doing evening walks. I used to love running at night. During summer, it was the only time you could do it without bursting into flames. Walking wasn’t the same as running, but it got me out of the house.
The air outside was chill and the gusty desert winds were howling. Next door, a set of multicolored Christmas lights lay shattered to pieces on the gravel. I shook my head. Those neighbors had just moved in this fall. You had to make sure to tape the lights to the trees or the regular evening winds would yank them right off. I walked down the cement sidewalk of our cruddy neighborhood. Cheap grey-brown stucco homes lined both sides of our street. The water department had banned sod last year, so Las Vegans had been forced to get inventive. Colored gravel replaced grass. Pokey little bushes that may or may not have been alive substituted for the once healthy trees and shrubs.
At the end of our development, I jumped the fence and landed with a crunch in the open desert. A gust of wind buffeted me as I slid down into the nearby wash. These shallow gouges in the desert covered the Vegas Valley. They ran full of water during each year’s rains, but otherwise they were dry. The life that called the desert home loved the nooks and crannies the washes provided. There they could find the precious shade and water that made living possible. I made my way out across the Mohave following the path that the water had carved. Even though the sun set hours ago, I didn’t need a light. The city pumped out so many lumens that every night was full moon bright—or so I was told, I hadn’t been outside the city since I was a little boy. I got to visit Disneyland once, but besides that, I had lived the past ten years within the borders of this cruddy valley. My dad didn’t like to get out much. He said Vegas was predictable. He liked predictable.
Forty-minutes later, I reached the small crest that I’d been visiting since I was a child. I dug out the blanket I’d stashed and bundled up against the wind. This was my favorite place in the valley. You could see everything from here. In the distance, a squadron of F-18’s lined up to land at Nellis Air Force Base. One at a time, their flickering lights drooped down to kiss the valley floor.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember what flying was like. I was only a boy then. I remembered the funny smelling seats, getting served a little cup of coke with ice, and how it didn’t feel like you were flying through the air at all. I had looked out the window over and over again just to make sure.
I wanted to fly again one day. I wanted to put my own money on the counter and say, “One ticket to Prague, please.” How cool would that be?
Americans used to fly all the time. We used to globe-hop like it was no big deal. It was great. The problem was the rest of the world agreed. Countries across the globe invested in airports and fleets of passenger planes. That was well and good, except for one teensy weensy problem: The supply of the black stuff was running out fast. Big oil was digging deeper and deeper and finding less and less. Economists kept repeating the word “unsustainable,” but the citizens of the world loved their grandmas. They all wanted to visit them, and as fuel prices rose, they decided to start competing for the privilege. It was only then that the United States realized it was way out of shape. Our bloated government, overreached military, and embarrassing lack of exports had turned the Mighty Dollar into a third-rate currency. Our checks started to bounce. Less oil made it to our shores. Two car families dwindled. The two-dollar coin was unveiled. Quarters replaced pennies. The Mexican government collapsed. The Saudis cut a deal with China, and the Great Slump settled in for the long haul.
No normal person traveled by plane anymore. The rich still did, but those folks were immune to everything. The floundering economy, the stagnant job market, the collapsing infrastructure—none of our suffering fazed them. The rich had the skills that the multinationals were willing to pay for. They were hooked into the “global economy.” Waiting tables didn’t pay the rent anymore. You either got yourself a degree or ate donuts for dinner—and I hated donuts.
“What do you want?” I asked myself.
I shifted in my blanket and spat out what came to mind.
“I don’t want to be the sole of the shoe anymore. I’m tired of can’t. I’m tired of impossible. I want a life that matters. I want to walk the world, chart my own path, and take control of my own destiny. I want to define who I am.” It sounded funny coming out of my mouth, but it was the truth, wasn’t it?
I counted it out: 49 words.
+
I would start hearing back from schools in the middle of March. My anxiety was spiking through the roof, so I tried my best to keep busy. I took more weekend shifts at Newmar’s. I added more hours of tutoring. This time it was AP biology and chemistry. December slid into January. January slid into February. The word ‘evolution’ became the bane of my existence, but the pay was good enough. My dad and I needed the cash, too. Another airline went out of business over the holidays, choking off the supply of tourists. The casinos reeled from the heavy losses. They cut 20% of their dealers’ shifts. Our family budget took a beating, and my father—frustrated beyond belief—started drinking even more. His new schedule gave him three days off in a row. He spent most of his time in daylong benders. He got into more fights too. He was coming home with split lips and black eyes on a regular basis. And it wasn’t just my father. The economy was making people plain mean; the sirens never stopped after sunset. Poor men and free time—always a bad combination. Still, I was furious. We needed to be picking through the lint, and instead dad was pissing money away at the pub. We got in an argument about it and redecorated the kitchen. I think my head made a dent in the counter. After that I stopped putting money in the pot. He could buy his booze with his own cash. I took over paying for the utilities and groceries.
Even though he wouldn’t say it, I knew my dad was ashamed, but to have him blowing our money every night was just too much. To make matters worse, I wasn’t sleeping well. I could keep myself busy during the day, but I was having nightmares almost every single night. Tyrone just wouldn’t go away. Everyone else had moved on—everyone except for Dr. Leeche. I visited him once. He’d found work at a nearby private school that wasn’t fool enough to pass up one of the only PhD’s in the valley, but the new job didn’t improve his mood. He truly believed he was responsible for Tyrone’s death. The pain of that knowledge hung around him like a cloud. The bounce in his step was gone, and he barely managed a smile the entire time. It killed me to see him like that. I didn’t visit again. Still, no matter how hard I tried to move on, the nightmares kept coming. At least two times a week, I would wake up screaming, fists clutched, having pummeled Tyrone’s face into the ground yet again.
And then my waking hours started going to hell as well.
As March 15th came around, I started a daily ritual: Every hour, on the hour, I would excuse myself to go to the bathroom only to run to the computer lab instead. The weeks were crawling on without a single response from the colleges. As March swung into April, I developed a set of hives and matching ulcers. My friends had all gotten responses; some were even planning out their new wardrobes. I started calling colleges to check my status. They gave me the rote “your application is still in process” nonsense and told me to be more patient
. Then on April 7th, the first rejection message arrived from Harvard. Rejections from Yale and Northwestern followed the very next week.
“Why is this happening?” I would moan. The guidance counselor had approved all my choices. She said I was going to be a shoe-in. People started asking where I was going next year. I would wave them off saying I had some tough choices to make or that I was still deciding. In reality, I was a mess. When rejections from Stanford and Berkeley came in on the same day, I puked blood. Fucking ulcers. The school nurse sent me home with a prescription for extra strength antacids. She ordered me to bed, but bed was the last place I wanted to be. My world was collapsing. My dreams were crumbling. By the end of the month only Washington University was left on my list, and St. Louis, Missouri was sounding like a fine resort destination. Again and again, my mind drifted to a single thought: I was going to be stuck in Vegas working minimum wage for the rest of my life.
A week later (and ten pounds lighter) I stumbled into the computer lab for perhaps the thousandth time. The proctor placed her oversized glasses on her desk and frowned. She was friends with the school nurse. She was probably worried she’d have to call an ambulance.
I plopped down in a chair and typed in my password. My bleary eyes shot wide-open when I saw two emails waiting in the inbox. The subjects were titled: “Congratulations” and “Aid Package”. I clicked “Congratulations” first. It was from Washington University. I let out a gasp. I had been accepted into something called the Fontbonne Academy for Naturally Gifted Students. Cool! Then my eye tracked to the second paragraph:
Unfortunately, given the current state of the economy, our ability to provide scholarship monies has been severely curtailed. We sincerely apologize, but given your family’s current income, we can only hope to cover half of your tuition. The remainder can be made up in loans through our office of financial…
I sank into my chair. I had already run the numbers. There was no way I would be able to qualify for any loans. Lenders were too wary to give that sort of money to college students unless their parents offered up some serious collateral in return. My father had already refused. “No way they’re getting their hands on the house. It’s all we got,” he had said. “Life’s not fair, son. I can’t carry you through it. Besides, this whole college thing is a giant scam. Your job at Newmar’s is fine. Be grateful for it.”
As much as I wanted to disagree with him, my father’s argument wasn’t baseless. In the past two years, a ton of kids had left college overburdened by their ballooning student loans. They had entered a job market with barely any openings. A great many of them had defaulted, and the banks had gone after their parents’ assets. Some families had been thrown out on the streets. There were newspaper articles about it every week. I had to face facts. Washington University was out of my reach. Dejected, I clicked on the second email:
Mr. Resnick,
Your aid package has been approved. It should arrive via post within the next few days. I apologize for the delay; our computer is on the fritz.
Warmest Regards,
Dean Joseph Albright, III
The proctor crossed herself as I ran screaming into the hall. Two minutes later, I had already sprinted halfway to my house. Arriving at the mailboxes I resisted the urge to knock old Ms. Williams out of the way.
“Oh, hello Dieter,” Ms. Williams said shakily. “You’re home from school early.”
I nodded, gasping for air.
“The mail just came,” she pointed out helpfully.
I stood there panting as her knobby old hand struggled to get key to keyhole. Would they give me a full-ride? Super-rigorous be damned. Giant forest bears be damned. If Elliot would cover my tuition, I was officially a future woodsman. As Ms. Williams hobbled away, I nearly tore the mailbox from its hinges. Who the hell sent stuff by post these days? And “our computer”? As in singular? I peered into our box. Hidden behind two weeks worth of overdue bills and one trillion coupons was a thick manila envelope. Extracting it, I sat on the curb stared.
Gently, like an archeologist unearthing a tomb, I peeled open the seal and pulled out the contents one-by-one: instructions to campus, meal plans, an order form for linens. I handled each page like it was made of glass. My heart beating against my chest, I found the one I was looking for. A simple letter printed on that fantastically expensive paper. “Letter of Admission to the Elliot College,” it read. I forced down the excitement and flipped to the next page. An acceptance didn’t mean anything if I couldn’t afford to go. The second page contained a chart of expenses. Huge, mind-blowing numbers built up like boulders as my eyes ran down the column. The yearly tuition alone could serve as a down payment on a small country. Each semester cost double my father’s salary. I leap-frogged past the horrors titled “student health insurance” and “student activity-fee” until I finally reached the scholarship section below.
My heart skipped a beat. There they were, the two magic words, the words that meant I could leave this dust bowl, the words that said my time in front of the deep fryer was over. I read them thrice over and then collapsed into a heap on the neighbor’s front lawn—that a field of sharp, pointy rocks had replaced said lawn was only a minor annoyance. This summer Dieter Resnick was going to college.
Part II
ON THE ROAD
Chapter 4
BIG BLUE
“Go west, young man, and grow up with the country.” That was the start of so many great American stories. Ah, those were the days. Back when rich rewards were promised to those who dared strike out for new lands and new opportunities. And seek them we did…till the water ran out, the oil dried up, and all that endless bounty became someone else’s property. Now the West was owned, occupied, and dying of jaundice. So instead I headed east on a mighty blue steed.
I threw on my work boots, midnight-blue jeans, and a ridiculous red plaid western. My uniform wearing days were over. I even sprung for a brand new pair of dark Ray-Bans (because even though he couldn’t sing, Dylan was awesome). My entire life stuffed into a military surplus duffle, I headed forth into the asphalt wilderness to seek my fortune. I tried swinging the overloaded green mass over my right shoulder, but my elbow started throbbing. I ended up dragging it by my side, trying to cover the artificial limp with the neutral expression of the Seasoned Traveler. I noted that other people’s luggage came with wheels and bit my lip. I had hoped that my ensemble screamed road warrior only to be undone by my baggage. I felt like a Cro-Magnon man stumbling out of a cave. Now the veterans would see me for the travel virgin I was. I imagined them descending on me like a pack of wolves, stripping me bare of the travel-sized toiletries I had just purchased at the drug store.
A little voice told me I should be more focused on not missing my bus.
Riding the bus was the new national pastime. To cross our grand country, I was in for two days of it. To be fair, bus travel has improved a great deal since when I was a kiddo. You get your own TV mounted into the seat in front of you and a decent amount of leg space. The cross-country lines are even nicer than the regionals (they have cup-holders). It wasn’t all that bad if you didn’t mind sitting still for two days straight.
I was riding the LCN Line. The bus started in Los Angeles and traveled to New York City via Chicago. Once I got to New York City, I needed to transfer to a regional line for the last leg of the trip up to New Haven. I was so afraid of being late that I arrived an hour before departure. I made my way onto the bus—banging into seat-after-seat with my duffel—only to be told that you could put your luggage under the bus before you get on. Red faced, I took out what I needed and stowed my duffle down below.
Only a few folks had boarded in Los Angeles, so the bus was still relatively empty. I noticed that about two thirds of the way back there was a window seat with a busted TV. I smiled. Very few Americans would be willing to give up TV for a two-day trip. I grabbed the aisle seat next to it and patted myself on the back for my cunning.
I never understood how people
could watch hours of TV. The images were always a bit out of focus, and watching it gave me headaches. I came prepared with a copy of Ulysses instead. The bookstore by my house had always displayed Joyce’s book like some sort of thermonuclear device. Even the paperback version was given a wide berth on each side. I had passed by it countless times but never built up the nerve to read it. And it was a beast. I flipped through all 818 pages of it. The binding was tenuous at best. I was concerned it might hit critical mass and explode all over the floor if I dared to break the spine. On the bright side, I could use it as a blunt weapon if the need arose.
I bought Ulysses for a specific reason—it felt collegy. I was feeling a tad intimidated about starting school, especially at a college that was advertised as the academic equivalent of ancient Sparta. I half-expected to die naked on a mountainside, term paper in one hand and an empty vial of whiteout in the other. I decided I needed to psyche myself up. I told myself that if I could get through a monster like this, I was surely ready to tackle college courses. (I know, it was totally stupid, but I’m prone to performing ridiculous rituals, and it’s better than biting my nails.) Getting locked on a bus with a bunch of people I didn’t dare make eye contact with was the perfect time to attempt the challenge.
Zero Sight Page 6