Shakespeare And The Lies

(Here is another story in the Roy Fleming series. Enjoy.)

SHAKESPEARE AND THE LIES

     God, I am so sick of Shakespeare! That's all these excuses for English teachers talk about is Shakespeare! Shakespeare, Shakespeare, Shakespeare! Like there's been nothing else worthwhile written since the early 1600's. That's probably why Hemingway shot himself, I bet. Some windbag of a literature professor ran into him one day and said, "You know, Ernest old boy, your writing is good and all, but it's certainly no match for a four-hundred-year-old dead guy that wrote in a language we barely understand nowadays. Try tossing in a few thees and for art thous'."

     I'd jump in a boat and pull the trigger, too.

     And Beowulf? Come on! You might as well read a thousand pages of doctor's prescriptions. It's all a conspiracy. It is. Why else would teenagers be forced to read that junk? You know why? Because there's a truth hidden somewhere that no one wants us future generations to know. For centuries they've been shoving this crap down our throats and telling us it's meaningful. Maybe it was back then, when people thought witch burning was normal, but it doesn't do much for us now. And even if there are some issues in those dusty old books that might have some meaning today, isn't there a much more modern book that might say the same thing? I know there are, because I've read some. Why won't they let us read those books in class? 

     Salinger would be perfect, but forget about ever reading him in the classroom. Adults tried to ban his books, saying they were inappropriate for us dumb kids because of all the bad language and sexuality. Yeah, we all lead such sheltered lives. I guess they never bothered to read any of that Chaucer they force on us. Really though, what are they thinking? I mean, come on, do they really believe teenagers are sitting around thinking, "I'm so bored. What I really need is some good reading this weekend. But what to get? What to get? Oh! I know! How about some John Bunyan? Yeah! Nothing says fun weekend for a teenager than reading The Pilgrim's Progress!" It won't make any sense unless you have an interpreter, and even if you did, nobody'd want to read it anyway. Except of course, the few phony romantic girls, who at age sixteen, think they actually have a grasp on the language and swear they need no help getting through it. They just want to impress, is all. Get straight A's. Go to college and major in Romance Languages, like there's so much of a calling for that, just so they can sit around with their little girly clique one day and say, "Oh, have you ever read, Beowulf? What a thoroughly wonderful poem! Of course, in terms of emotional content, it's no match for Romeo and Juliet!" "No, of course not!" the rest would chime in, then all release these lofty chuckles above each others heads, sip their demi-tasse, and chain-smoke their extra-long filter-tips. 

     I know it happens, because I've seen people like that. That whole picture could be erased if there only wasn't so much emphasis placed on these out-of-date books. But there is, and I think I know why.

     Part of it is, they want us to live in the past, instead of the present and the future. Youth intimidates them. Them, being the adults. They all treat people like me as if we're idiots with no opinions of our own. And then when we do express an opinion, they act like we're idiots for even thinking it. Then those kids grow up to be adults with absolutely no opinions of their own except the one that was jammed into their heads when they were young: that kids shouldn't have any opinions of their own, and if they do, they're stupid ones. So then they wind up doing exactly what they hated when they were kids, and that's treating teenagers like idiots and forcing their own opinions on them. Hell of a vicious circle, isn't it?

     It's all a superiority thing. That's why they keep alive the myth of Shakespeare being important - as long as kids don't understand the real truth, the adults and teacher can act all powerful pretending they do, and continue to make the kids feel insignificant. Give them all Nelson Algren books. Or Catcher in the Rye, and let's see what happens. There'd be a revolution. Full scale.

     I've kinda felt that way for some time now, about Shakespeare and the lies, but I never said anything about it before. That is, not until today. All the pieces finally came together. Second period. Mrs. Pritzer's class. I sat there the whole time not saying a word. I just waited. I waited 'cause I knew she was going to mention him. And not just once. It was gonna happen a lot. She just loves saying his name.  So I set myself a limit. Ten Shakespeares, and it was all gonna hit the fan. Big time.

     The class goes forty-five minutes, and half of it didn't even pass before she hit us over the head with eight. I said nothing. Didn't even turn a page or take notes. Even if I wanted to, all I'd write was, "She said his name again." 

     A few minutes later she tossed out the ninth one, and I pushed my chair away from the desk a little. Then, and I still don't know what strange dimension of reality this one was pulled out of, but she decided to ask me a question.

     "Mr. Fleming? Are you alive back there? You look sick."

     I only stared at her, 'cause I made that promise to myself not to say anything until the limit was met.

     "Okay, Mr. Fleming, how would you compare what we've been talking about to the themes of Shakespeare's Hamlet?"

     That was it. Not just the tenth, but The Trap. No matter what my answer, it would be ridiculed and considered wrong. Even if I had been paying attention to what they were talking about. That's the way it always was. I was going to put a stop to it, though. Not just for me, but for future generations.

     I skidded back my chair and pointed directly at her face. "Shakespeare is full of shit! Why can't adults tell us the truth? Why do you think we can't handle it? I refuse to be a prisoner of the past!"

     Now it was her turn to be silent. Man, did I blow her away. I looked around at the rest of the class and I think they were pretty impressed 'cause I saw all the smiles. You could tell they were waiting a long time for someone to stand up and say what they've been secretly thinking. I felt powerful for once, and I knew in that moment what I had to do. "I'm going to start the revolution!", is all that filled my head. All I could think about. I wanted to gather together my peers, show them the truth that had been hidden from us for so long, and march them all to victory.

     There'd be lots of marching. What revolution would be complete without it?



     I guess I got pretty caught up in the whole thing, because somehow I ended up in the library. Kinda like how you daydream in the shower, and then when you're drying off, you can't for the life of you remember if you washed your hair or not. You distinctly remember washing it the day before, but not just two minutes ago. Only this time, instead of having dirty hair, I was in the library. Sitting on the floor between two rows of fiction, and my lap completely blanketed by books. Good books, at least. Suddenly, I couldn't remember where my books were, or how I ended up like this. I figured I must have left them on a table, and came over here to check something. It bugged me though, how I had become this space head. I hate people like that.

     But, I guess, for all the negatives I had stacked against me, like having a lousy memory and being covered by books, there was one big plus on my side. It was real quiet. Nobody talking. Which meant, nobody lying. And, most importantly, nobody mentioning that guy's name. Very tranquil. That's a nice word, isn't it? Tranquil. Just saying it makes you feel all calm inside. It's a naturally soothing word. I think it's the qui part. The same three letters start the word quiet, and I don't think that's a coincidence.

     QUIet...tranQUIl...real peaceful.

     "Roy? Sweetheart?"

     I knew that voice, and it wasn't Mrs. Pritzer. Besides, to her, I'm always Mr. Fleming. No, that voice belonged to my mother. What I wanted to know was, why was she in the school library? I hope it wasn't to give me lunch money, or something. Parent's can be so embarrassing sometimes.

     "Be careful, Mrs. Fleming. I think he's on drugs."

     "He's not on drugs. My god, you people are clueless. And the name's not Mrs. Fleming. It's Ms. Crowley. Now please, let me, okay?"

     Why would anybody think I was on drugs? I was just looking at some books. That's all. Adults are so suspicious. All part of their need for control and power. More lies.

     "Roy...?"

     She was being so quiet. I assumed it was because we were in the library and all, but she could have read my mind and knew about the qui part. Could be.

     "Roy, what are you doing?"

     "Just looking at books. Modern books. What are you doing here?"

     "They called me at home."

     "Who? Why?"

     "Vice-Principal Jensen. He said something happened in your English class today...?"

     I looked at all the titles scattered around me and tried to make some sense out of it, but all I could think of was Shakespeare and the lies, so I just said that to her. A few times. I figured she'd know.

     She reached out and gave my hand a little tug. I knew what it meant: she wanted me to look up at her. I did, and she looked so sad. Now I kinda half wondered if someone died. People always have a different look on their face when someone dies. It might not always be honest, but it is very specific. Maybe that's why she came - to talk about someone dead. Or, maybe even to talk about someone not dead. At this point, it was too soon to tell. Either way, I didn't like seeing her like this, so I turned my eyes back down to the floor. But then this weird thing happened. I don't know whether my ears were plugged up or what, but nothing sounded right. It was like when you jump into a pool. A real deep one. There's noise when you're on the diving board, then you hit water, and nothing. Everything is smothered. Strange that it would happen in a library.

     "Pumpkin, what happened today?"

     Then, like I shot to the top of the pool, everything came back to me. My sound and vision were both clear. And I started crying. A lot. Niagara Falls crying. Like I'd been held in solitary confinement for a year, then released and shown "It's a Wonderful Life". The only difference was, these weren't happy tears, because when I looked back up at her, I wanted to just lash out.

     "Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

     "About what?"

     "Not what. Who! Why didn't you tell me he was alive?"

     "Oh, Roy." I could tell she wanted nothing more than to look away, but I had my eyes locked good and hard onto her, and there was no letting go.

     "I saw him last night. He's very much alive!"

     The muscles in her face flinched a couple times, then she got all whispery. "What do you mean, you saw him?"

     "I mean, I saw him. My father. Last night. I was coming home from Amy's and there he was, sitting there in his car, as calm as can be, just staring up at our apartment."

     "What makes you think it was your father?"

     "Because he said to me, Hi Roy, I'm your father! All 'ya had to do was look at him, and you knew."

     "Why don't we go home, Sweetie?"

     "I don't want to go home!"

     Then the brilliant Mr. Jensen added his two cents. "I'm afraid it isn't that easy. We have to stop at Principal Danker's office first..."

     That really set off my mother. "Look! If you want to do something helpful, you can clear the crowd of gawkers away from the door, and then shut it on your way out! I'll handle this. Now, go!"

     Being a bartender, she can act real tough like that when she needs to. I wanted to see what Jensen thought of it, but he had already started stomping away like a baby before I had the chance.

     "Come on, Roy." She pulled on my arm to help me up, but all I really wanted was to stay put on the floor. "Roy, please."

     "No! Why did you lie to me? Why did you tell me he was dead? Adults. Lies. I thought you were different, but you're all the same. All the damn same."

     "I never told you he was dead. I told you he was gone. You're the one who assumed gone meant dead."

     "Then why didn't you set me straight? At least then I woulda known he was alive. I coulda kept contact with him, or something!"

     "Roy..."

     "I couldn't sleep. I sat up all night thinking of all the things we coulda done. Wondering why you never told me. I heard you come home from work, but I hated you so much for lying, I couldn't leave my room."

     "I always meant to tell you someday, but..."

     "...But what? What, mom?"

     Now she started crying, too. I swear, it's always about her. "I couldn't. I just...how do you tell your five-year-old boy, or your teenage boy, that his father left because he found another woman that he thought was prettier than Mommy?"

     I was stunned. Stunned to the point of shaking. It was a possibility that never crossed my mind. I figured 'cause she never told me, that it was something she did. Not him. Now I felt stupid.

     She reached into her pants pocket, pulled out a crumbled Kleenex, and sat with me on the floor.

     "So, umm, what did he say? What did he want?"

     "He said he wanted to see me."

     "Mmm. And, why did he say we aren't together? Or did he?"

     "Yeah, he did. He said things didn't work out."

     "Right. Things didn't work out. It's real hard for things to work out when all you do is lie to your wife and tell her you're working overtime when you're really spending the night with another woman. And I suppose he told you he misses you, and thinks about you a lot."

     That hurt. "Yeah."

     "Yeah. Me, too. Every month for about a year, he'd call me and say the same shit. I miss you. But he'd never act on it, you know, never leave her, or even pretend that he wanted to make it all work again. Just, I miss you. And for a while, I believed it. Then I realized that those three words were just his way of controlling me. And a good way  of relieving his guilt. So, I just let go. Letting you believe he was dead was one of the ways that helped me get through it. I swear, I never thought it would hurt you, because I never thought he'd come back."

     "I'm sorry."

     "No no no no. Don't you be sorry. You're right. I should  have told you."

     The very top of my head started to throb. Information overload, maybe.

     "Who was it?"

     That one question totally changed her expression. She didn't seem so sad anymore. Now she looked downright aggravated.

     "It doesn't matter, Roy."

     "What? Another thing you're not going to tell me?" I could get just as annoyed as she can.

     "Even if I told you, it wouldn't mean a thing. You didn't know her."

     "Are they still together?"

     "I have no idea. Didn't he say anything to you about it?"

     "Don't get mad at me. I just asked a question." Boy, she can get snippy sometimes.

     "Sorry..."

     Just when it seemed like she was ready to give in and fill me in on everything, we heard this screaming from clear across the other side of the room.

     "Roy! Let me in, damn it! Ro-oy! Jenny! Where are you?"

     Amy. Great, now I really felt foolish. My mom flashed me this coy little grin. At least I think it was supposed to be coy.

     "My god! What happened! All those books! Did someone push a shelf over on you?"

     I couldn't help it, but I started laughing. So did my mom. Then for some stupid reason, we both started to cry simultaneously. It was like we didn't know what the hell to do. This didn't sit too well with Amy, though. She must have thought we were laughing at her.

     "Well, what then? All I know is Julie Marshall told me you went crazy or something about Shakespeare, ripped up your book, and marched out of the room screaming something about a revolution."

     "Oh, Christ..." My stomach started to hurt now.

     Mom took Amy by the hand. "Can you leave for a while?"

     "You mean, can I cut? Yeah, but my mom won't be too thrilled."

     "She won't know. And if she does, I'll take care of it. Are you okay to leave now, Pumpkin?"

     I nodded, and brushed a couple books off my lap.

     "We can go to Conrad's. Have some lunch and talk."

     By now, Mom and I seemed pretty relaxed, but Amy was still a little fidgety. "So, what happened? Is anybody gonna tell me?"

     "Let's get out of here first," then she reached down with her other hand to help me up. I didn't let go this time.

     "Do you still hate me?"

     "No. I just wish you woulda told me the truth in the beginning."

     "I know."

     The rest of the books on top of me fell off when I stood. They were mostly hardcovers, so it sounded like a big game of dominoes. What I didn't realize until we were almost out the door was that I was unknowingly clutching on to this Vonnegut book. A newer one that I hadn't read before. For a moment I honestly thought about going up to the desk to check it out, but I thought that really would have seemed nuts.