Body of Immorality (18 page)

It was the last thing I wanted. That’s the point I’m trying to make, the point I’m
still
trying to make. My friend should’ve schooled me long ago, taught me how to handle it. I don’t know if it would’ve done any good, though, because my attitude is shit (sorry dad). Who cares? Maybe he
did
say something, and I just didn’t listen. I have a habit of that. I mean, I can
hear
the words and everything, but they’re not registering. Typical. I don’t mean
not
to pay attention. It’s just the way I am. My eyes glaze over. When people start talking, the words send me into a trance, and I don’t come back for a while. ’Always have to ask them to repeat themselves, which they detest. I’m trying to get the facts straight. My mind wanders. Sue me. It’s my attention span, or maybe nobody has anything important to say. Yadda-yadda-yadda; blah, blah, blah. It’s like listening to Charlie Brown’s parents. If I can’t gain anything from it, then maybe they should shut-the-hell up. Yeah, I’m talking to you.

Once you get to know people, you realize they’re full of shit anyway. Senseless, meaningless chatter. That’s all it is. People take it personally
my
eyes glaze over! It gets tiresome.

I come across as arrogant most of the time. That’s what people tell me. They say I’m opinionated and egotistical, as if I know everything, like it’s
my
fault I’ve heard it all a million times. Should I put myself through the agony of listening to it
again?

It
was
the last thing I wanted, though. I mean that. I never meant to stir up trouble. Hell, I still don’t know how it happened. It’s about persecution or some damn thing. I could tell you everything, sure, but it’s all one-sided. You know, opinions and ego and all that crap. You’d have to hear
their
side, too, I guess. It’s a rather biased story. Coming from me might mean forcing yourself to enjoy my company. God forbid
that
should happen! No one in this town likes me anyway, so listening to my side seems asking a lot. I’m a ghoul! That’s what
they
think, these people here, this town. It makes me sick. Never have liked it, never will, like 7-up, you know?

It’s the mountain air. People go crazy in it. They’re so…protective of one another. Things are peaches, and then someone like me comes along, disrupting the entire flow. “You don’t belong here,” they tell me. “Go back where you came from.” Like something out of
The Twilight Zone.
That’s my conclusion.
I
believe it. Worse than organized religion. Like a bunch of puppets. They get an idea in their heads, and there’s no dissuading them. Or maybe it’s possible I’m
telling
the truth! There’s an idea!

They don’t know what free thought is. They couldn’t think for themselves if they were the last people on Earth. If you programmed them to go their own way, like Fleetwood Mac, they’d find someone else to make their decisions for them. They’re scared. They don’t know
how
to be unique. They don’t question.

I’m still trying to figure out what I did wrong. That’s the thing. That’s what all this is about. How did I get here? Stupid place! Small towns! I fuckin’ hate ’em!

Sorry, dad.

Have
you
ever heard of Idledale, Colorado? Mountain, college town? Like they all have Alzheimer’s. I tell you its
there!
It’s real, and they don’t take prisoners!

Mountain colleges appealed to me. I’d spent years in the city. Some people like it; some don’t. For me, it’s like you spend your whole stupid life trying to cross the street. Fine dining, the sporting events, the social calendar. Give me quaint, quiet, and reflective any day! Take the hotels and the paid parking. Who needs it?

And, let’s face it. Not all our children go off to Harvard or Yale. Some of us don’t get our precious tummies rubbed while our pristine parents feed us candy-colored spoonfuls of perfection. Some of us are
not
chosen! We have to fend for
ourselves!

I checked into several colleges, this being the closest and least expensive. Education is education, right? One should be thankful.

This is the glitch. The college, you know, what they call it…I laughed for hours. Maybe that was the sign I should’ve never enrolled. It’s an extremely well-thought-out name, Idledale’s College. That’s
not
the name. It
should
be. It would make more sense that way. College of Idledale, even. But no. It is, quite inelegantly, instead, University Place.

That’s it. That’s all. That’s the goddamn name.

It must’ve started then, when I found out about the university, and made the move. I remember making some sarcastic comment about it, and someone overheard. After that, things spiraled out of control. Rumors spread fast in small towns. All I said was something like, “What the hell kinda stupid name is that for a bastard school like this in this ridiculous, corkscrew, po-dunk town?” I don’t know why they got so mad.

I enjoyed some light journalism, creative writing. I wanted to expand my literary prowess, get a job on the local paper,
The Idledale Post.
I wanted to immerse myself in it all, become one of them, adjust myself to the flow. I mean, I
wanted
them to accept me. I wanted to be
part
of them.

I found a decent job at a Circle K, got settled into classes in the fall of 2008. I managed to land a not-too-shabby apartment on the outskirts of town. I was lucky to get a few grants along the way, and I used them wisely. I enjoyed the Circle K job because you got to meet everyone in town whether you liked it or not. What a perfect, journalistic approach. Now, I had shelter, a job, ample time to immerse myself in my studies, trying to be a better practitioner of pen and ink.

Things were chugging right along, except for the slip I made about the university. I felt pretty good about everything. My classes were challenging, and I eased smoothly into them. I met a few friends along the way. One of them we’ll get to later. He’s a goofy, high expectation sort-of-bastard.

Creative Writing was the coolest. Freedom of expression is a wonderful thing, and I wanted to take full advantage. Writing can be quite peaceful when it’s not a fucking headache, you know? (Oh, shit! Sorry dad!)

Anyway, we had this assignment near the end of the semester, a short story kind of thing. Pretty cool, if you like that sort of stuff. So, I thought about this tale about a truck driver who hears voices through the radio in his semi. He turns the thing off and the voices are still coming through. The voices are telling him to run people down while he’s driving, trying to drive the truck driver guy whacko, you know? Anyway, the guy eventually goes mad and ends up driving through houses and backyard barbecues, small towns like this one. I called it,
This Guy That Goes Crazy and Drives Through Backyard Barbecues.
In one scene, the truck driver runs down some dude in a blue Ford pick-up. I described the guy and the truck in the story, you know? His hair color, physique, the model of the truck, an American flag sticker in the window behind the driver’s head. I even said the guy’s name was Arnold Raintree. Real descriptive, you know? Lots of detail. Trying to get into it. I got a B+ on the story, so there must’ve been
something
good about it.

Anyway, my teacher, Mr. Hemmersfield, told me he wanted to publish it in the school paper. The story wasn’t very long, but I thought that was cool of The Old Hammer Doctor. Everybody calls Mr. Hemmersfield, The Old Hammer Doctor. He doesn’t mind you calling him that, either. He’s a pretty cool guy.

So, he pulls a few strings and gets the thing published. It was pretty exciting. Everything’s moving along as you’d expect, and everyone’s congratulating me. They’re telling me how cool the story is. Maybe you ought to be some kind of
writer,
Jeremy. Like they’re all a bunch of fucking comedians.

(Ah, hell, dad, just deal with it…)

As they say in the Bible, all hell broke loose, like being struck by lightening! Maybe that
wasn’t
the Bible. Anyway, the walls came a-tumblin’ down. Same thing, really, only John Cougar Mellancamp said it. That I
do
know. If you can’t rely on the Bible, turn to music.

All the way to the fabric of his cotton shirt to the American flag sticker, and the receding hairline, Arnold Raintree is the man in my story, and he is a
real
man living here in Idledale, Colorado, home of University Place.

Could I have a drum-roll please!

He was killed several months ago by a truck driver.

True story.

I know what you’re thinking! Laughing, right? Just like I did when I found out the name of the university.

That’s what I get. Too predictable. I mean, that’s fresh! Well, it happened. I don’t care what anyone says. Ask the Idledale community.

’Saw it in the paper like some kind of sick joke, you know? Like they’d taken my story and ran it as a cover story, no pun intended.

Someone’s out to get me. I don’t even
get
the paper, but I did that day, right on my front porch. That’s the funny thing. Good old Raintree! You sly devil!

Someone put the paper on my porch with the article in plain sight. It didn’t mention the story I’d written. Not that it mattered. The people here knew what was going on. Eyes peered around every corner, suspicious characters following me home. Some carried baseball bats and tire irons. Ladies and gentleman, we have a rotten apple in our springtime basket!

I wrote the stupid story long before it happened, but that didn’t matter to
them.
They just wanted me to know
they
knew, and that I’d better keep an eye out if I knew what was good for me.

Trying to be a good student, mind my own business and
this
is the thanks I get!

That’s what they thought. They weren’t about to let me get away that easily. They’d make me sweat a bit. Even the police drove slowly behind me in their cars as I walked through town.

I
had killed Arnold Raintree,
not
the lunatic truck driver, and there was no changing their barricaded minds.

How’s
that
for business? Pree-ty scary. I wanted to wave my hands in the air, shout, “Hey! What’s with this
story
business! That’s all it is! You know that, don’t you? That’s
crazy!
If I killed him, why would I
write
about it? Why would I deliberately publicize my plot and proceed as planned? Someone’s trying to blackmail me, set me up. Someone here doesn’t
like
me!”

None
of us like you,
I heard them reply.
You’re a
lunatic!

Stranger things have happened. I’m not the only one with a story like this. This has happened to you, too, right?

I’m hanging by a thread here!

I couldn’t go to work without receiving the same evil glares. People wouldn’t come into the store and let me ring up their Suzy Q’s. The manager was about to let me go before I begged and pleaded. Old lades hissed at me, “Murderer!” when I walked by. “Probably poisoned all the Twinkies, put petrol in the Gatorade!”

The only support I had was from Ricky Lee Handly, the goof I mentioned earlier. He’s a music major. Ricky Lee Handly. Ought to be in lights, right? He wants to be the next Mozart or something. Sounds more like a country western singer, if you ask me. Ricky Lee, from po-dunk Idledale, ladies and gentleman, is about to perform Mozart’s Piano Concerto #5 in E major.

I don’t know anything about Mozart. I don’t know what piano concerto
is.
I’m winging it here.

Ricky watched out for me at least. He thought all this was crazy, too, the reactions I was getting. He was the only person who showed any enthusiasm about my truck driver story. He’s a pal, despite the name.

Even school harbored the same hostility. People deliberately sat away from me in class. The teachers never called on me, and whenever I asked a question, they pretended not to hear, and looked somewhere else.

I love the hospitality of these towns. For the first time, I was seriously contemplating moving out.

One minute I’m an out-of-towner trying to mind his own business, the next, I’m the neighborhood psychopath! Truth, Light, and the American Way! No wonder I’m so popular!

If I had written a love story, they’d all be pissed I got two people to live happily ever after! ‘Those two people aren’t supposed to
be
together, Jeremy! What in God’s name’s the matter with you?’

Make lemonade, right? These are big lemons.

The police never stopped by, which seemed strange. Wasn’t I their number one suspect? A little
too
accurate in detail? It wasn’t proof, I guess.

After a while, Ricky hinted about me packing up and moving on. It made me wonder about his friendship. ’Started to question and doubt that cowpoke every time! Had he turned against me, sided with
them?
He was a native of Idledale, so I could believe it.

But I couldn’t just up and leave. That would be, like, admitting to the crime. I had to validate myself, prove my innocence. I accepted the leers, the angry, stinging remarks. I smiled through it all because there’s only one person who knows I’m innocent, and that person is me.

The longer it went on, though, the harder it got. I was an outcast. I didn’t belong here, and they let me know it in every gesture, word, and glance. Was I just gonna keep living this way?

Maybe I should write
another
story. Then when nothing happens, they’ll
know
it was all a fluke. I could do something obvious, something that happens everyday: a wife bashing her husband’s head in with a rutabaga, maybe.

I put on a second face. I had to ignore it as best I could. This was a backwards, narrow-minded town. They had their own way of doing things. I had to mold myself to their groove, take advantage of everything I could to prove I was one of them.

When people approached me, thinking I was a murderer, I replied with: “I
know
you think I’m a murderer. But I’m
not!
And
you
ought to be ashamed of yourself! What about judgment, quick to wrath? Tsk-tsk says the voice of God, looming over you, a fallen child.”