Chapter XXIV: Pour Some Sugar on Me

Youth Song Seven (Chapter 22) : Pour Some Sugar On Me

The next morning was a Saturday. This meant nothing to me but my father got the day off and inevitably started interrogating me while I watched the bottom of the 8^th inning, when Schiraldi gave up the tying run on a Ray Knight fly ball.

“What have I done since I got back from Florida? I've been working on my portrait of John Galt. What else? What are you suggesting, Dad?”

“That you haven't done anything. I don't mind that you sleep on the couch until four. I don't mind that you mope around in the basement. I don't mind that you go out with Vance at night and drive around town. I don't mind that you watch that Red Sox tape all day. But what are you doing?”

“I've outlined my complaints against Reagan. You want to see the notes?”

“Ogden, He isn't even President anymore.”

“Lucky for him. This is a hefty list of crimes and indictments. I don't want him to think he got away with anything.”

My father looked around the room with his arms stretched out.

“Indictments? Crimes? What good are indictments? Even our own Government couldn't convict Reagan. What good are your indictments? And how is he going to learn about them if all you do is sit on the couch? Has he secretly tapped our living room? Ronald? Ronald? Can you hear me? Please come take my son away. Please!”

“Keep mocking me. Keep it up. Maybe he has tapped our living room, Dad. All great people are spied on. Jesus. Even Gandhi. And he also wrote his complaints down. Did I ever tell you about how Thoreau died?”

“Here we go again. Gandhi did more than watch reruns of Cheers all day. He did more than sit on a park bench in Market Square. He did more than watch a five-year-old video tape of the Boston Red Sox losing Game Six.”

“Stop right there. They don't lose until I say they lose, Dad. Stop. Please.”

“He did more, Ogden. Gandhi did more. I'll bet Gandhi even took the lint out of the dLangdonviller screen.”

“Can't you say anything positive? Can't you say I'm doing a good job? You'll notice that Schiraldi is going to strike out Ray Knight soon. Isn't that something?”

I was making undeniable progress on the game. Even though Knight still got the RBI single, Schiraldi's 0-2 pitch was wavering between a ball and a strike.

“I'm not the one who is comparing you to Gandhi, Ogden. I don't expect you to be the leader of a nation. The Time makes the Man.”

Little did my father know my dilemma. It was precisely Time that was my nemesis. I didn't belong to any time, past, present or future. The Timewraiths prevented me. Did that mean I could not be a man? My father went on.

“I won't lie, Ogden. You can't expect to save the world from the couch. You can't expect to save the world at all. I won't pretend you can. That doesn't serve any purpose. Your indictments won't get read. Never. Your manifesto won't ever get published. Never. Not by anyone.”

This statement was a little over the top. How did he know no one would ever read my manifesto on my three-part plan?

“Because it makes no sense, Ogden. It's a riddle. And no one will see your paintings of John Galt as long they are in the basement. Supporting your naive endeavors isn't in your best interests.”

“But, it would validate me, Dad. Isn't that a good purpose? Isn't that in my best interests? Even false validation is better than the constant, endless, interminable nagging. Right?”

“No. It isn't better. I validated Brooklyn and look what happened to him.”

This was a reference to my brother, who went to the Persian Gulf in 1990. You'll hear more about him later.

“What about Brooklyn? He went to Saudi Arabia to kill people so Americans can have Nascar racing, and then he came back. It isn't like he's Ulysses. He's doing fine wherever the hell he is. Why can't I have a little credit?”

“Because you are wasting your life. You sit in the basement and paint cartoons of your friends and never send them anywhere. How are you going to make money?”

Did I mention that I draw cartoons? I guess it slipped my mind because of all the other stuff I'm juggling.

“I don't want money. I want Art. Art is my master.”

“Art is your master? Art? What about baseball? I seem to recall you predicting you would be the starting left fielder for the World Championship Boston Red Sox by now. What happened to those plans? What about Alaska? Was that your master? Huh? And Yosemite? Were you the master of the trash? What happened there, Ogden? It didn't work out as planned, did it? You got your ass kicked, you destroyed your feet and just as I predicted you were back on the couch within four months. You left before your foot was better and now look at you. You don't have a job. You don't have any plans. You don't have a life. I knew you would fail. I warned you.”

I stared at the television as Knight hit a sacrifice fly to tie the game 3-3 in the 8^th inning. Schiraldi could not get the strike out. Mets fans could taste victory.

“Now you're getting nasty. Could we not get nasty for once? I'm going to see Piper when he gets back. He's going to teach me the guitar.”

“Oh. Sorry. I guess you do have plans. Well, I'm feeling better. At least you'll have fun. Have you ever taken a music class?”

“I don't need to,” I said.

“Of course not. Just like you didn't need to wait for the cast to come off your foot before you went to Alaska.”

“But the Timewraiths...”

“And you said you didn't need to study for the SAT. And you said you didn't need a driver's license to drive. And you said you would never come back from Alaska. And you said you were never coming back from Ecuador. And you said you could fix that crappy car that you and Vance bought. And then you said you'd never come back from Florida. What's next?”

I didn't tell my father about my plans to go to Mexico (forever) precisely for the reasons he just mentioned. I didn't want to jinx the trip. If I said nothing then the trip would go as planned and I would never return. Also, he wouldn't be able to criticize me and the Timewraiths might be thrown off my trail.

“I have my reasons. I have everything under control. I'm going to learn to play the guitar and continue my painting until I am happy with what I paint. The Ayn Rand Institute will learn of my genius and ethical technique and offer me a job. I will accept. Until then, I simply hone my talents. I can do anything.”

“Do anything? Could you pass a semester's worth of classes?”

“If I tried”

“I could fart my way to the moon if I tried. Will you, is the question? Will you?”

My dad's a real cut-up isn't he?

“College is for followers,” I said as I watched Schiraldi limp through the 8^th inning. “High school crippled me enough, emotionally. College might turn me into a psychopath. In Alaska I had to get up at seven in the morning every day! Gandhi didn't go to college. Thoreau didn't go to college. Jesus didn't go to college. Not everyone is a conformist like you.”

“Gandhi was a lawyer! Of course he went to college. Thoreau graduated from Harvard! And you are not Jesus.”

“But...”

“You are not, Jesus!” he repeated.

“But they didn't need to go. They only needed love and rationality. That is all I need also.”

My argument even sounded stupid to me, but the alternative was to say, “Gee, Dad. You're right. What am I wasting my life away for? My life has been so misguided and fruitless. You were right all along about my life being frittered away on selfish, shallow pleasures. Forgive me. Now I understand my shortsighted ignorance. Please tell me what to do since it is clear I am incapable of making adult decisions. Please guide me, Father. Lead me to the light of middle-class anonymity. Please.”

Yeah, like that was going to happen. Even if it did happen he wouldn't have shut up so I simply shrugged.

“Why do I argue with you?” he asked as the Red Sox came to bat in the top of the ninth inning.

“To understand your own errors.”

“Whatever. We're going to Queensland tonight. No, you can't get out of it. I want you to see what your life will become if you stay around here long enough.”

Just when I thought the rain clouds were at their darkest, I was off to visit my grandmother.