"DECEMBER BOYS" PART FOURTEEN: "AMETHYST"

AMETHYST

     The day the entire Ethics class had been dreading finally arrived. No matter how much the students prepared themselves or simultaneously attempted to mentally halt its arrival, the day of Professor Scarfe’s mandated speech assignments was the one class requirement most feared and loathed. It was more than enough to be called upon while seated and face the professor’s scrutiny. Now, each class member would have to rise, face their peers and deliver a speech detailing why they did or did not agree with the Philosopher of their choosing. Professor Scarfe liked to think of this exercise as being sort of one person’s dialogue or debate with a philosopher and that is indeed how it was first presented to his students. In addition, Scarfe wanted to give the class some practice with developing a life skill. “At some point in your lives, you will have to stand and deliver a speech to a room full of people, more of than not, a room full of strangers,” he explained, to which it would not have been unrealistic to have heard mental variations of “You’re out of your fucking mind!” if one happened to be privy to everyone’s thoughts. It was an experience that even Rhett Brazelton was not looking forward to as he naturally preferred to hold a certain anonymity in classes and not call attention to himself. Yes, by now, Rhett had spoken more in his Ethics class than any other from his past, but that was by command. This speech, in comparison, felt to be a task to be presented under duress!

     Regardless, Rhett prepared himself as if he were training for an athletic competition. Discovering that he held a certain affinity for Plato, his specific Philosopher firmly selected, Rhett set about the business of constructing the full content and delivery of his presentation. The writing went surprisingly quickly as Rhett knew exactly what he wanted to say. The hard part was whipping the presentation into shape, where the duration of the speech was not to exceed 5 minutes yet could not be 2 minutes or less. Thankfully, nothing was required to be memorized (so, Scarfe did have a heart). Rhett practiced over and again while facing the bathroom mirror to check his facial expressions and to make sure that he was indeed looking upwards and around the room to his imaginary audience. He set his watch, which rested upon the bathroom sink, to a stopwatch mode to time himself. To allow himself a bit of privacy from his Uncle Denny, who was spending a rare early evening at home, Rhett played, rewound and re-played Jefferson Starship’s “Lightning Rose” for the entire time he rehearsed, ultimately learning the song nearly as well as his material.

     Reaching the point where the timing was perfect (if not the actual delivery, for Rhett was not a polished public speaker by any means), and feeling that he possessed no more energy to give, Rhett called it a night. He was either ready or he wasn’t.

     Amethyst Lessing, however, was petrified.

    

     In some ways, the history of Amethyst Lessing’s life in school was just the same as anyone else’s. There were classes, teachers and school years that she loved—like her year in 5^th grade with her teacher, Mr. Baxter, incidentally the first male instructor in her life, whose top floor classroom functioned as a stimulating learning environment/clubhouse, complete with Knock Hockey boards, student skits (which she enjoyed watching rather than serving as a participant) and a functioning record player on which she and her friend Lacey danced over and again to Michael Jackson’s “Rock With You.”

     There were classes, teachers and school years that she hated—like her Sophomore year of high school when she endured the classroom of Ms. Abernathy, her Geometry teacher who could never fully explain the material she professed to be teaching, including the exams she wrote herself. Yet, she phoned Amethyst’s beyond busy attorney parents to repeatedly inform them of their daughter’s poor performance in her class, announcements that would inspire marathon tag team lectures, after which Amethyst felt worthless and hopeless through no fault of her own.

     Amethyst Lessing’s relationship with her schooling always seemed to depend upon the surrounding circumstances of each specific school year as the process of going to school never felt natural to her. She never felt that she ever fit within the categories of being either a “good” or “bad” student, because all of the parameters of classes, teachers, assignments, expectations and the, further compounded by the social structure of her classmates, were always so unpredictable, therefore making her school experiences typically fraught with pressure and anxiety.

     The longer Amethyst ventured into her schooling, the stronger she felt that how much better off she would be if the academic pressure was taken completely out of the equation. “Just take a moment and really think about it,” she wished to announce from her imaginary pulpit, as her fellow students, instructors and parents would stand, listening in rapt attention. “Just imagine how much actual and valid learning would occur if people could attend classes with the intent and desire to learn instead of worrying about test scores and GPAs. What if school really was an environment where the exchange of ideas and knowledge was the true currency and not the regurgitation of facts, figures and at times, complete falsities, like the lie of Christopher Columbus for example? Why spend time taking a standardized exam, which is designed to not allow you to show what you know or waste time writing term papers that don’t reflect your own personal viewpoints but only what the Professor wants to have tossed back at themselves? What does any of that have to do with learning? Do any of you remember your P.S.A.T. scores? Your A.C.T. or S.A.T. scores? I didn’t think so. And if pressed, I would have the utmost confidence to believe that you wouldn’t, couldn’t and frankly, refuse to even be bothered with the attempt. So…was any of that stress even worth it?”

     Compelling, yes but ultimately pointless as not one person would pay these sentiments any credence, no matter how passionately delivered and felt, especially as the state of education is not bound to change anytime soon—most certainly not for a 19 year old young woman with a severe aversion to the often arduous demands of academic life.

     Throughout her schooling, once homework and grades entered the picture, Amethyst Lessing felt completely out of step with her classmates. It was as if everyone else had been the recipient of some mythical, mystical instruction manual detailing all of the rules concerning the rituals and rhythms of academic life and how to navigate this specific arena, for that is what she felt school had transformed itself into without warning or sympathy. Where school at first felt to be a safe place where she and her classmates existed on some equal footing, school eventually became the place where competition and unfair comparisons (based upon what?) seemed to be blindly accepted by everyone but herself. Amethyst, however, resisted with each passing year to increased stress, emotional strain and futility.

     It wasn’t that she was adverse to the concept of homework and exams in and of themselves, as being avenues to demonstrate what was learned and how well one understood the material. What unnerved Amethyst were the letters and numbers that arrived after the work was presented and how the weight of those letters and numbers carried such a heavy finality that it never felt to be an assessment of the work, but a call of judgement about her overall level of competence, intelligence and her overall character. So, if that’s what school was all about, then Amethyst Lessing wanted nothing to do with it.

     But, of course, not attending school was never a realistic option and if her parents fully had their way, Amethyst would not only obtain her four year Bachelor’s degree, she would attend Graduate School and Law School as well and then, join the ranks of attorney sin the family. All Amethyst wanted to do was to make it through each year, as painlessly as possible, one day at a time.

     She couldn’t pinpoint precisely when her anxiety began to mount. Possibly in the earliest stages of Middle School, but definitely by High School when every exam, regardless of subject matter, brought on waves of nausea. Term papers were a little easier but there was always the waiting game to be played, the period during which her teachers would read, grade and judge.  Waiting for grade reports to be sent home was agony. If the grades arrived in the mail while school was in session, Amethyst obsessed about what would be waiting for her, and most importantly, her parents, once the family returned home for the evening. If her grades were scheduled to arrive while school was on a break, Amethyst would obsessively look out of either the living room or kitchen windows for the mailman’s car, awaiting the envelope like a letterbomb. Should the grades not arrive, Amethyst’s entire body would uncoil and unwind, allowing her to finally relax during the night, only to completely tense up all over again the next morning and throughout the day. If they did arrive, then Lord help her. It was an awful cycle to live through. The only thing worse was when the grades inevitably arrived and as Amethyst was an average student at best, her perfectionist parents would always find something offensive in her marks and react as if their daughter had tarnished the family name in the streets. And with that, the cycle of seeking approval and suffering disappointments consumed her, where even the relative independence of college did nothing to assuage her stress.

     Was it like this for other kids? Everyone else? For so much of her life, Amethyst regarded her classmates with a mixture of amazement and envy because it seemed that school and all of its commitments and pressures did nothing to derail the act of just getting down to the business of student life as well as living life.  Because of this quandary, Amethyst Lessing denied herself the pleasure and therefore, the security found with in having a circle of friends for fear that they would all prove to be a distraction. While this approach proved itself to being counterproductive, she had closed herself off and kept everyone at a distance for so long now that it almost felt natural—even though she was more than aware of how unnatural it was. Amethyst never really thought of herself as “lonely,” but not having friends, being unsure of how to obtain them plus being academically stressed constantly was no way to live.

      By the time Amethyst was nearly eight weeks into her Fundamentals In Ethics course, she was convinced that she had committed her gravest mistake by signing up for the class at all (although this decision was really due to her parents’ instructions as they felt it would be beneficial for her inevitable law degree). It was precisely the type of course that she never would have chosen for herself if she possessed her druthers. The subject matter was not to her approval whatsoever and perhaps even more than her classmates, she felt that drowning sensation all of the time. She knew very well how over-zealous and misguided her highly vocal challenge to Professor Scarfe on that first day of class sounded. She was certain that she came off as a bitch, something she never considered herself, but due to her self-admitted aloofness, she honestly could not be surprised if that was indeed the impression she gave out. As for the Professor, how could he had ever had known that he’d touched an especially tender nerve with one of her own personal political passions? She just reacted.  Badly. And she had her ass handed back to her as a scolding decorated as a “teachable moment.” She was mortified with herself, she felt humiliated and ever since, Amethyst felt that she was pathetically attempting to climb a mountain yet without any of the tools and equipment needed for survival.

     And now, the worst had come.

     Amethyst Lessing had been dreading the day of the speeches from the moment Professor Scarfe informed the class about the assignment. As if the class as it existed wasn’t enough. For reasons that she could no longer remember, Jacques Derida was the philosopher she chose to defend or debate, and honestly, even after writing her speech and practicing for her timing, she really wasn’t fully certain onto which side of this particular philosophical coin she stood. And there she sat, all by herself, without any friends to commiserate with. Certainly, she could have risen from her spot and quietly professed her anxiety to her classmates, who were all engaged in frantic fits of worry tinged with a hearty gallows humor. Even as she stared at her classmates, no one returned her intense gaze. Not even Rhett Brazelton looked her way. Not. Even. Once. But how could she have ever expected him to do so after she had admonished him weeks earlier? Not that he didn’t deserve it because it was more than a little annoying (plus a tad creepy) to constantly spot him making cow eyes at her. Yet, on the flipside, he did seem to be harmless enough, he obviously had made friends and whenever he spoke in class, he sounded completely competent and knowledgeable. If he felt like she did—like someone dangling from the edge of a mammoth cliff, losing one finger grip after another—he never seemed to let it show. Maybe she didn’t react in the best fashion. But shit, in a classroom where even the smallest distraction could potentially derail her, forcing her to face her parent’s unbearable disappointment and the inevitable, endlessly ponderous and soul sucking lectures that would follow from the both of them, Rhett Brazelton’s stares were mere pebbles that still had to be kicked clear from her path. And so, Amethyst turned away from everyone, sadly and nauseously awaiting her fate once class began.

     Forty five minutes in the session, nine of Amethyst’s classmates—including Rhett—walked to the front of the class to stand at Professor Scarfe’s podium (while the good Professor sat at a nearby desk), and addressed their peers with their respective presentations as Scarfe jotted occasional notes to himself for later grading purposes. While her silent wish not to be picked first had been graciously granted, her additional hopes that by perhaps watching her classmates’ performances ahead of her would help to assuage her fears were unfortunately daunted. In fact, Amethyst Lessing descended into an internal panic, which she realized was beginning to physically manifest itself through her increasing heart rate and the sweat that had begun to emerge at her temples, her palms and her back.

     “Ms. Lessing…” announced Professor Scarfe, instructing without any misunderstanding, that it was now Amethyst’s turn to approach the podium. The fullness of inevitability folded itself upon all of Amethyst’s nerves, threatening to snap through all of them as easily as scissors pierce threads. Taking her damp hands and wiping them on her skirt, which she smoothed, she rose from her seat, gathered her note cards and walked to the front of the classroom not once making eye contact with anyone. Unable to delay any longer, Amethyst brushed a curl away from her glasses, sighed quietly while stifling an involuntary sob and finally turned to face the class and her professor.
Copyright 2016 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

"TALES FROM MEMORIAL UNION": THE STATUS REPORT

It has been six months since I have last updated this blogsite and I just wanted to take a few moments to give all of you an update.

The decision to release my novel Tales From Memorial Union within this fashion of a blogsite was no easy decision on my part as I had been writing and writing for many years, somewhat confidant that none of it would see the light of day. And yet, nearly two years ago, I had an epiphany and felt that despite my fears of abject rejection or even worse, complete non-interest, I would post the stories online and just go from there, allowing my stories, characters and most specifically my memories and emotions concerning my college years, to live and breathe outside of myself. Hopefully, and if you have even read only very little, I wish that the purity and efforts of my heart are evident.

When I last left off, I was posting installments or chapters of a story entitled "December Boys." a tale featuring the long wintry night of heartbreak and memories within memories of two young men, my alter ego Craig Hughes and his friend Rhett Brazelton, both nursing wounds inflicted by their respective relationships between Stephanie Deavitt and Amethyst Lessing.

The section that I had last posted from was truly the beginnings of a lengthy flashback detailing the Summer of 1988, when Rhett first met Amethyst during a Summer Philosophy course, which was loosely based upon a class I took myself during my college years.

The only reason that I had stopped presenting new installments was that I had NOTHING typed up to even release! I needed to go away and write for a spell and that is precisely what I did. I wrote and wrote and wrote, nearly filling up a brand new journal given to me by my two co-teachers for my birthday at the start of 2015.

Taking the time to write gave me a great opportunity to figure out not only how Rhett and Amethyst first met but just who was Amethyst in the first place as she was a character not based upon anyone that I had ever known. She was arriving to me out of thin air! Now that she is here, and is still revealing herself to me, I feel much more on firmer ground and ready to release more episodes to you.

But that's where the typing part comes in...

Yup, I have written quite A LOT and it is going to take considerable time to type it up and get it to you. First of all, there are the permutations of my own questionable handwriting as I will actually have to decipher what I have written. But then, there is always a bit of re-writing as part of this process, so that adds another variable to navigate.

But, what I am saying is that I'm not finished and I wish to release more but just remain patient with me...and besides, this extended period away may give you time to catch up if you have been at all interested. And furthermore, I realize that reading a chapter of something is much different than reading a film review or musical anecdote as written upon both of my other blogsites, Savage Cinema and Synesthesia, respectively.

Stay tuned, for I am hoping in 2016, to release much more of the story. THANK YOU ALL for any and all support you have given to me regarding any of my writing, but especially something so deeply personal to me.

Happy New Year to you!!

"DECEMBER BOYS" PART THIRTEEN: "LA CHANTEUSE"

LA CHANTEUSE

     By July, the informal meeting of the Fundamentals In Ethics study group were held in earnest twice weekly either within the confines of Der Rathskeller or surrounded by the open air of the Union Terrace. Where the meetings began with three sole members in mid-June, by midsummer, it would not be uncommon to witness up to as many as thirteen classmates huddled together and engulfed by a collection of papers, texts, refreshments and intense conversations which often disintegrated into bursts of laughter that bordered from jovial to downright maniacal due to the difficulty of the course work. By this time, the work load now included weekly mini term papers and would soon include an oral report or rather, what Professor Scarfe had decreed to be a “speech.” (Thankfully, that is depending upon whom you asked, exams were counted for very little in this class—even the percentage of actual attendance counted for more of one’s final grade as Scarfe had a stronger preference for participation than pointless regurgitation.)

     On one vehemently continuous downpour of a rainy evening, Rhett Brazelton, soaked to the skin just from racing into the Union after parking his Uncle’s car, shook his wet hair and entered Der Rathskeller to find several of the usual suspects bunkered in a corner. Ralph Ising, 20 year old Sophomore (undeclared). Young Lee, 19 year old Sophomore (English major). Cathy Joplin, 20 year old Junior (transfer student from UW Eau Claire, Women’s Studies major). Leslie Copeland, 19 year old Sophomore (undeclared). And finally, the two resident 21 year old Junior Liberal Arts majors, Marcus Ridenhour and Klaus Berkhoffer. The collective all greeted Rhett warmly, with raised glasses and the polish of Steely Dan flowing luxuriously from the jukebox.

     For a flash, Rhett’s astral brain contemplated the scenario in which friendships were so quickly and intensely formed only to dissolve at semester’s end. What combination of molecules were in place that somehow knew precisely which other molecules were needed to live and thrive and for such a finite period that it all felt natural or even pre-determined? Regardless of the duration, Rhett reminded himself that it was always good to know when people were happy to see you. Within the group, he had forged a nice reputation for himself with regards to his writing and his ability of taking such esoteric concepts and being able to re-frame them into something tangible. While Professor Scarfe never expressed as much in words to Rhett, his high marks on papers were all that needed to be said.  For his classmates, Rhett became a strong sounding board, offering suggestions whenever thoughts felt to be too muddled or incomplete or just plain bullshit. For himself, Rhett enjoyed hearing everyone’s ideas, especially as he was wrestling with his own and the often conflicts of opinions continuously forced him to really sharpen his understanding of the material. Returning to his thoughts of molecules, it was amazing to witness how symbiotic these relationships truly were, and in doing so, his spirit felt a brief lift.

     This rainy night was a Monday, which meant that this night was also Open Mic Night, when aspiring student performers, singers and musicians claimed the wooden stage for themselves to a mostly indifferent public. But, once in a blue moon, an individual was somehow able to cut through the din of alcohol infused frivolity and forge a connection. This night was one of those nights.

     After a couple of hours of studying and having reached the point of where not even one more idea could be forcefully inserted into their brains, the Ethics class study group decided to cast their work aside and actually experience Open Mic Night in earnest (and besides, nobody was terribly anxious to head back out into the rain just yet). As for this evening’s collection of aspiring performers, some were decent. Others, not so much. But thankfully, this night’s audience was more receptive than rowdy, therefore keeping a certain inattentive yet respectful warmth in the atmosphere. Once the Ethics study group heard four performers, the last of which was so somnambulant that two group members came dangerously close to falling asleep. “Man, that guy made James Taylor sound like Public Enemy,” groused Cathy Joplin to whomever was alert enough to hear her.

     “Uh oh…here comes one more,” uttered Marcus Ridenhour. “If she’s anything like the last one, toss me a blanket and I’ll just curl up right here.”

     “Shit yeah,” grumbled Ralph Ising in agreement while giving his arms a mighty stretch. “Who said that acoustic guitars had to be equated with narcolepsy?”

     “Just give her a chance,” offered Young Lee. “You just never know. What if we end up seeing the next Joni Mitchell?”

     “Or the next Sally Nicholson,” said Marcus.

     “Who’s that?”

     “Precisely my point.”

     Young chuckled softly. “Well played, sir. Even so, let’s not heckle.”

     “It wouldn’t be ethical,” Ralph interjected.

     “You know,” Cathy began to wonder openly and for obvious comic effect, “How could one heckle ethically?”

     “’The Ethical Heckler’?” quipped Ralph.

     “Sounds like a new ABC series,” joked Marcus.

     “Would that be on before or after ‘Doogie,’?” Ralph asked.

     “After,” Marcus answered. “Definitely after. ‘Doogie’ is the lead-in.”

     While Rhett was enjoying the banter, he politely shushed his friends as the next singer began to get settled upon the stage.

     The girl was waif like, as if she emerged from a Dickens novel. She practically screamed for a shawl, as her thin (though some would say “under-fed”) frame looked as if it was afflicted by a perpetual chill. So it was not to anyone’s surprise when she pulled a sweater from her guitar case before actually producing a guitar. She gingerly climbed upon the stool, crossing one skinny black tight covered leg over the other and after taking a few stray blonde strands and tucking them behind her ear, she fiddled with her guitar tunings momentarily. She soon cleared her throat and leaned closer to the microphone.

     “Bonjour!!!” she announced somewhat nervously but loudly enough to capture the full attention of the room. “Thank you…Merci beaucoups…,” she continued is her thick French accent. “Thank you for being here this evening or at least for choosing to stay dry with me in here instead of swimming with the fishes in the street outside. I appreciate you rating me so highly by not leaving.” She then elicited a warm chuckle, when combined with her accent, considerably elevated the audience’s attention. Noticing a flurry of heads and eyes turning to face her suddenly, the girl performed an exaggerated pop of her own eyes in mock surprise, causing herself to unleash a forceful guffaw into the microphone, which itself caused a shocking yet brief shriek of feedback. “Excuse moi!” she said demurely before bursting into another guffaw—this time, away from the microphone. “I have to say to you that that was much more feedback than I would have requested.” And as she continued to laugh her loud, boisterous guffaw, the entire crowd of Der Rathskeller became completely charmed.

     “Bon soir!” My name is Karine and as you can tell from my accent, I am from Wisconsin!”

     More enthusiastic laughter from the crowd.

     “I’m joking, of course. Really, I am from Montreal and what brought me here to this University in Madison is…oh well…it’s a story to be true. This first song that I will sing is a sad song. So, very, very sad. It is about a man. A lonely man who goes upon along journey. He goes here. He goes there…and it is all so terribly sad because he discovers that nothing is ever quite as it seems.”

     “Good grief!” Cathy expressed though a lengthy exhale of disdain. “I really can’t wait to hear this now. Oh and did she happen to mention that the song was sad?”

     To be fair to Karine from Montreal, Rhett felt increasingly annoyed with the wisecracks emanating from his friends. Yes, it was mostly due to their fatigue that their filters had set themselves into the “OFF” position. But there was something rather flighty, yet fetching, about this girl who would soon be performing, an act, truth be told, no one of the members of his study group would be brave enough to try themselves, so why not squash the rudeness and just listen?

     The first strum of Karine’s guitar was crisp and fragile, instantly creating a mood of longing. By the time Karine began to sing, the audience Der Rathskeller became entranced. While Karine sang entirely in French, her song was instantly received by her audience just as she had described. The melancholy permeated the room like a light, descending mist—almost pleasantly cool but nothing to drown inside of. For Rhett, he was filled with an unquestionable yearning that surfaced from who knows where. Regardless, the feeling existed ad it made his heart gently ache as he watched and listened to Karine.

     Was it different for girls?  Rhett wondered to himself that very question as he pondered if girls responded to the sound and tenor of a boy’s voice in the same way that a boy responded to a girl’s. Rhett thought about how Craig was mesmerized by the tone of Mariah Esposito’s rich, low voice. And now, Rhett felt himself taken in and touched in the deepest chambers of his heart by the timbre of Karine’s singing. While he didn’t want to resort to well-worn clichés about Karine having the voice of an angel, it would be truthful to note that a description of that quality was not terribly far off. There was a purity to her voice. An effortless, unaffected clarity of compassion and empathy yet so knowing of the pitfalls contained within emotional wounds. In a way, Karine’s voice reminded Rhett of someone’s like Karen Carpenter’s but without the goopy arrangements and in French, of course. Karine’s voice was direct and honest. Not even one note sounded false and her audience could connected fully. Rhett was convinced that he was the most touched as he was so swept away in the song’s lush embrace.

     And then, the song ended.

     The currency of quiet in a place like Der Rathskeller is often unattainable and sometimes, impossible. But, on this rainy night, the Union was pin drop silent. Whatever musical alchemy had occurred over the last several minutes held a magical afterglow, as if some form of pixie dust hung in mid-air for a moment before falling to the ground. As for Rhett, he felt that the silence was actually part of Karine’s song itself.  

      Then came the applause. Fully enthusiastic, not as grudgingly polite as responses tended to be on Open Mic nights. Karine beamed at her audience and then, once again, came the explosion of loud, hearty laughter, which then made the audience, including Rhett and his friends, applaud harder and laugh along with everyone else. If Rhett knew how to place his two fingers inside of his mouth and whistle, he would have done so.

     “WOW!! MERCI!!!!” exuded Karine, blushing from the approval and looking around the room at all of the faces. Rhett hoped for a split second that she would catch his gaze and hopefully receive his message that her message was received in turn.

     “With that, I am thinking that I should quit while I am …in front? Is that correct? No? Maybe one song is enough,” she teased to a round of “boos.” Karine laughed again and then said, “Well fine, as you have requested, I do have one more.” The crowd’s voices then began to soften.  “This next song is a little like the first one, as it is about a man—not the same man, I assure you—but this man is all alone on a boat in the sea, under the skies, the sun and the stars. But he is a lonely, sad man who begins to realize that nothing is quite as it seems.”

     After a momentary chuckle to herself, Karine, just as before, began singing entirely in French and crafted from the same wellspring of sorrow and delivered through her exquisite voice.

     Rhett Brazelton was even more entranced the second time around, mentally pinching himself of his good fortune at being a part of this audience on this rainy night with Karine’s voice and guitar as the guide through the storm.

Copyright 2015 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

"DECEMBER BOYS" PART TWELVE: "NINETEEN, CLUMSY AND SHY" (2nd section)

NINETEEN, CLUMSY AND SHY
(2nd section)

     For the remainder of that first week, life inside of Fundamentals In Ethics continued upon its fascinating yet intense path. As with past semesters, Professor Scarfe ensured that the reading material remained dense in content if not mountainous in quantity. Rhett, with his astral brain eager to soak up new forms of pretzel logic ready to be studied, wound and unwound Moralists, Consequentialists, Egoists, Nihilists and Hedonists. Utilitarianism. Epicureanism. Altruistic Hedonism. All of this and more fit perfectly inside of Rhett’s wheelhouse as he read and at times, willingly re-red class assignments. For whatever inexplicable reasons, all of this arcane and definitely difficult material felt natural, as if he was reading an obscure language and yet was able to translate it to himself. However this is when he mused over the material solely to himself.

     For Rhett, all feels of arduousness purely existed within the classroom itself when Professor Scarfe’s meticulous knowledge cast an immense shadow, making it difficult to emerge and distinguish oneself positively. As with his classmates, the professor’s sneak attacks of calling on seemingly unsuspecting students remained a tremendous obstacle and soon became a source of frustration for Rhett. All of the concepts that made sense inside of his brain when reading the assignments at Uncle Denny’s, either outdoors in the yard or indoors with his head between the stereo speakers when he played his Uncle’s Traffic or Jefferson Airplane albums, all felt to phase into the ether when in the classroom. Professor Scarfe still rattled him and when called upon, it was as if language itself failed him, like his brain was on strike, determined to not send the correct information to Rhett’s mouth. When the information was indeed finally sent, the content emerged as gobbledygook. If only Rhett could just write papers and submit them silently, then Professor Scarfe would be able to easily see that not only is he grasping the content competently, that even the professor could spot a particularly strong astral brain at work. Philosophical brothers-in-arms or at least, Rhett could one day convince the man to compose a recommendation letter for grad school. But for now, he had to get through this class and he would not accomplish this feat through readings and the writing of papers alone. He had to learn how to think on his feet within a public forum. He had to find his voice for how else could he even conceptualize being a Philosophy professor if he was unable to address his instructor now? And for the remainder of June, Rhett’s difficulties began to feel increasingly daunting at best and discouraging at worst.

     And then, there was the matter of Ms. Lessing.

     Amethyst Lessing, whose first name Rhett would discover through a covert peek at Professor Scarfe’s class roster, only continued to mesmerize. Before each class officially began, Rhett anxiously awaited the sound of those rusty, dusty cowboy boots to aggressively march down the hallway into the classroom,, where he would then find himself lost in the sight of her striding across the room to plant herself in the very same seat she claimed on that first day. Amethyst Lessing was unquestionably a strikingly attractive young woman but the aura that surrounded her felt to be especially formidable, if not impenetrable. Rhett noticed, that unlike himself and other classmates, amethyst made no attempts to ingratiate herself to anyone. She always entered and exited the classroom alone and brusquely, she held no friendly conversations with anyone and when she did engage during class, she tended to come off as either brittle or combative. And so, everyone granted her a wide berth. But, Rhett could not help himself if he tried, for the sight and presence of Amethyst Lessing captivated him so.

     Under normal circumstances, Rhett would have avoided an individual as seemingly unapproachable as Amethyst but somehow, he surprisingly found himself drawn into her atmosphere. During class, he often caught himself stealing long glances at her as if she were a scientific curiosity that begged to be studied because honestly, did they really make people who looked like this?! Other times, he even found himself unable to look at her, for her beauty was so piercing that she seemed to not be designed for the eyes of mere mortals to withstand. Her hair was so thick and luxurious. The rich details of her face only continued to reveal themselves. And her figure…well…that was spectacular. I contrast, her expressions were so harsh and nearly one month into the course, Rhett was certain that he had never seen her smile or at least elicit a grin. Essentially, Amethyst Lessing was impossible to read, her veneer of perpetual malcontent notwithstanding. Rhett had no knowledge of where she came from in order to attend class and he furthermore had no idea at all of where she went after she left the room, with the sound of her rusty, dusty cowboy boots marching out of the door, down the hallway and down Bascom Hill. Did she have a summer job? Where did she live? What were her interests? None of those basic questions, and others like them, provided any discernable answers as Amethyst did not seem to have any friends—also the truth of which was unknown but it was all Rhett could even begin to assume, because whatever walls Amethyst created around herself felt to be ten feet thick as not one classmate approached her, let alone spoke to or with her. “Perhaps she’s just painfully shy,” Rhett wondered. “It’s clear that she is not going to make any moves in order to ingratiate herself to anyone else. So maybe, it’s up to someone else, specifically me, to make that first move.”

     Just as Professor Scarfe predicted to himself based upon semesters and years past, the students of his summer Ethics course, banded together to form a study group that congregated in Der Rathskeller. For Rhett, joining the group was a no-brainer as he knew that even a brain as astral as his would certainly not be so arrogantly foolish to refuse any input of understanding from his peers. And to meet at the Union—again, a no brainer. Since Amethyst was not a part of the group in any way, why not invite her to join, Rhett thought to himself. She leaves the classroom so quickly that she has never once been privy to any post-class discussions during which the study group was originally formed.

     Despite her impassable demeanor, Rhett hopefully began to muse that perhaps Amethyst Lessing was more approachable than she appeared. Maybe she was so uncomfortable in this class that maybe (again) she needed some solidarity, some friends…or just a friend. It was decided. Rhett Brazelton would muster the courage to ask Amethyst if she would be interested in joining the study group. No strings. Just putting it out there as an invitation as well as a possibility. His plan was to somehow excuse himself from class before her so he could speak to her outside—and preferably without the audience of his classmates. The possibility of at long last being able to speak to the girl who so supremely unearthed him filled Rhett with an intense anticipation. He actually began to feel a bit of an inner swagger along with his fleet of butterflies, so much so, he almost began to see the inevitable meeting as a sought out challenge. If anyone could melt the ice around Amethyst Lessing, it would, and only could be, Rhett Brazelton!

     At the end of June, just before the 4^th of July holiday break, the day arrived. Rhett rehearsed what he had planned to pitch to Amethyst countless times, therefore he knew what he wished to express fluently. If captured and tortured by nefarious evil-does, as if in an action thriller, never would he reveal to anyone else the contents of what he wished to say for it was too personal and private for others to discover. Besides, if he were to be successful, then wouldn’t he look as if he developed a certain magical touch in making contact with such an impossible figure?

     As always, Rhett’s inner radar sprung to attention at the first click-clack of the rusty, dusty cowboy boots, which entered the class carrying the remainder of Amethyst to her preferred perch at the far end of the room. Rhett was struck dumb even greater than before, partially due to his own elevating nervousness and mostly due to the fact that never had Amethyst Lessing ever appeared as heart stopping before this day. A long, flowing floral print skirt glided through the breeze, transfixing Rhett’ eyes which followed the skirt upwards to see Amethyst adorned with a linen over shirt that resembled a baseball jersey, which surreptitiously covered a low cut white tank top. She took her seat, removed her sunglasses and brushed a curl of hair out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear as the rest of her glorious hair rested in a bundle on the top of her head like a crown. Once she placed her notebook readings and pen upon her desk reading herself for the demands of the next 75 minutes, Rhett remembered to exhale.

     Perhaps due to the impending holiday, Professor Scarfe seemed to be in an unusually languid mood as he recounted his own beginnings with Philosophy and ethics. It was a more informal day, and while the students appreciated this rare glimpse into the Professor’s personal life—like hearing a superhero’s origin story first hand—they also knew not to become too relaxed for one never knew precisely when or how one would be called upon. Yet, throughout it all, on this day, Rhett Brazelton stole one glance after another of Amethyst Lessing, hoping to burn the image onto the hard drive of his memory.

     Once Professor Scarfe officially dismissed the class and bid his students a safe holiday, Rhett, with back pack completely filled and closed, quietly bolted from the classroom to wait for Amethyst’s arrival outside on Bascom Hill. Outdoors, with a steady breeze that offered slight relief from the rising humidity, Rhett waited patiently while pretending to scour through his back pack for some missing or lost item. Thankfully, none of Rhett’s new friends stopped by to visit—either reading his silent messages to not approach today or they were all ready to begin their respective holiday breaks—moves all of which he appreciated in these highly anticipatory moments.

     Then she appeared.

     Amethyst Lessing stepped out of the School Of Education building and instantly squinted in the blinding sunlight. Just as she was about to place her sunglasses onto her face, she spotted Rhett kneeling by his back pack and rapidly marched in is direction. And Rhett noticed nervously, that she did not look as if she was approaching him in a friendly manner whatsoever. If he possessed the speed of Carl Lewis, he would’ve taken off right then.

     “Why do you keep looking at me?”

     Like an undercover spy unfortunately discovered at the crucial late point of an espionage film, Rhett Brazelton stood frozen when faced with Amethyst Lessing’s vehement confrontation, for that is exactly what this moment was. Rhett was caught and she faced him head on.

     In a perfect world, Rhett would have taken this moment and just have explained the truth. That Amethyst was undoubtedly the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in the entirety of his life and he only wished that he knew how to approach her to just ask her for a date or even to just share a drink and some popcorn at the Union, study group or not. But, in a perfect world we do not live in, therefore making the truth impossible to speak. So, what Rhett actually did say, and feebly at that, was the following: “Uh…um…you looked familiar and I…uh…just haven’t been able to…uh…place you…?”

     “I have never seen you before this class began, which means that there is nothing familiar about me whatsoever!”

     Oh, if she only knew, Rhett thought to himself, hoping to prove the fallacy of her statement but he remained quiet for fear she might publicly throttle him.

     Amethyst, with one final death ray blast from her eyes, exclaimed a definitive, “Now…STOP looking at me!” and then, turned upon her heel and marched down Bascom Hill leaving Rhett Brazelton thunderstruck and immobilized on a warm and humid summer’s midday at the end of June. 

Copyright 2015 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

"DECEMBER BOYS" PART ELEVEN: "NINETEEN. CLUMSY AND SHY" (1st section)

NINETEEN, CLUMSY AND SHY
(1st section)

     Even before Rhett’s official new summer schedule began, he immediately understood why everyone he spoke with feel so hopelessly in love with Madison in the summer time. It was as if the sharp decline of the student body allowed the campus and the city itself to breathe and to also luxuriously present itself at its most inviting and lustrous. When he wasn’t taking advantage of a few lazy days lounging around Uncle Denny’s house and exploring his vast record collection, Rhett strolled around with a languid stride that he typically did not have the time for during the school year. There was no firing gun to begin the season in a frenzy. It was more like phasing into the next chapter of his life.

     The healthy seasonal glow remained in the atmosphere around him even after his summer school classes began. The Sartre class was perhaps a tad too dry for Rhett’s personal satisfaction but he wasn’t one to usually complain about those sorts of matters (however, on one torturous occasion, after enduring the vomitus arrogance of a particularly fatuous Professor, Rhett would write on an end of semester class survey, “…knowing that this man remains in your employ seriously depletes my image of this University.”). On the contrary, Rhett’s Fundamentals In Ethics course was the game changer that he had secretly been hoping for via three distinct levels. First, was the impassable veneer of his new instructor.           

     The forty-ish Professor Stewart Scarfe, with his medium length just beginning to gray at the temples hair, medium build which remained fit from swimming laps three days a week and the stereotypical casual yet professorial wardrobe of blazer, button down shirt (always ironed) and necktie undone by the collar, blue jeans and sturdy loafers, was certainly a non-threatening sight. What was unnerving was his cold, emotionless stare which seemed to burrow a hole clean through whomever happened to be the recipient of his hard gaze. This combined with his tendency to address students solely by last name and with a formal “Mr.“ or “Ms.” preceding the name would have been intimidating enough. The most insurmountable aspect of Professor Scarfe’s Fundamentals In Ethics course was his formidable mind.

     Stewart Scarfe was simply one of those rare individuals who seemed to exist about five minutes into the future when compared to those who happened to be around him (most specifically, his students). The sharpness of his intellect was evident even when he casually allowed his students to debate each other, moments that sometimes exploded into full blown arguments that he always knew how to instinctively halt before tensions eroded the purposefulness. When he called on a student, in his soft, clipped voice, it felt like a bolt of lightning had miraculously discovered your whereabouts indoors! Many a student had been struck dumb and frozen solid when called upon by Professor Stewart Scarfe as if being zapped by the “whammy” for no one in his class wished to ever sound unintelligible or unknowledgeable publicly as well as in the presence of the professor who demonstrated his knowledge of Philosophy and Deconstructionism intricately and easily. It was as second nature to him as games of Hackey Sack was to his pupils and attempting to reach the bar he set was indeed a struggle, yet typically inspired his students to band together in solidarity. It was as if they were equally trying to save each other from drowning. Even though Professor Scarfe was unquestionably demanding, he was a benevolent leader—to a degree—which does bring us to the second most challenging aspect of his course: the readings.

     To keep pace with Professor Scarfe, one had to stay on top of the voluminous readings, which were dizzying in content and also made the standard shortcuts of casually skimming the material a direct bee-line for one of Scarfe’s trap doors. Unlike some instructors who regurgitate the same content year after year with a level of dispassionate interest over time, Professor Scarfe honestly loved the course he taught and therefore, the content it contained. Every year and summer session, he would completely overhaul his syllabus and in doing so, he prided himself on his self-made reputation of his intellectual and educational diligence. Simply stated, Professor Scarfe knew his material inside and out, as if he shared a few pints with Plato, Kant, Descartes and Socrates at the Union Terrace in the evenings.

     Fully remaining cognizant of the demands of students’ complete course loads during the school year, Professor Scarfe paced and spaced the duration of the class reading assignments as he knew that any sense of overload would be counterproductive to any actual learning. However, in the summer, with fewer students and considerably smaller course loads to bear, he did all he could to ensure that his student’s mental muscles did not weaken just because of the inherent warmth of the season. How it actually tickled him to sometimes witness his students bunkered down in sections of Der Rathskeller surrounded by popcorn, drinks, books, papers, notes and those aforementioned readings and the intensely feverish (and to the untrained eye—panicked) conversations just trying to make heads or tails of all of this head spinning material. “Mission accomplished,” Professor Scarfe would muse to himself as he ducked out of sight before being spotted.

     For Rhett Brazelton, the class was precisely what he had wished for as a real test of his academic prowess as well as determining if his epiphany was more than fleeting. While he did feel that drowning sensation as students of the past and his present experienced, he quietly enjoyed the readings and homework, his third eye proudly regarding those mental boxes filling up and being properly filed. The sense of completion and accomplishment was spirit lifting and the content fit his astral brain like a glove.

     Even so, there was one more and easily the most insurmountable obstacle in Professor Stewart Scarfe’s course, so much so, and for quite some time, it nearly derailed Rhett. And that obstacle was her.

     On the first day of the class, Rhett Brazelton walked halfway up Bascom ill and entered a small classroom inside of the School Of Education building with anxious anticipation. He found twenty chairs with attached arm rest/writing desks all arranged into a semi-circle. Rhett quickly chose a seat to the right of the mid-section, closer to the door. After seating himself and settling in with his notebook, he began to view his new classmates entering the room, making mental notes of the demographics. And then…

     Footsteps.

     Purposeful, metronomic footsteps.

     Whatever anticipatory thoughts Rhett had inside of his brain concerning his class were scattered away like fluttering butterflies at the sound of those footsteps. Raising his head towards the direction of the approaching sound, Rhett’s eyes quickly raced past the arriving students and zoomed in on a pair of rusty, dusty cowboy boots and panned upwards to reveal the sight of her.

     Rhett’s heart stopped beating for a fraction of a second, and then, as if remembering its sole duty, began beating a gain yet at triple speed before settling into a somewhat normal rhythm. Yes, it was her, the girl from that spring day on Bascom Hill. The girl that Rhett eventually relegated to fantasy. But, this time, she entered the classroom and she was clearly not a dream. She was even better than a dream. She was real.

     Autumn brown hair that appeared to have the consistency and sheen of silk. Olive skin that looked like the healthiest suntan yet lasted for the entire year. While her resting face was certainly not what one would describe as “warm,” (in fact, some might view it as “petulant”) Rhett could not take his eyes away from it, especially her large-ish nose that attractively held her very smart glasses in perfect place. Sensing his gaze like a Jedi Master, she flashed her eyes at Rhett’s, commanding him to look away, an order he promptly obeyed by turning his head downwards towards his desk. Still, he took a peek to see that she had taken a seat on the furthest corner of the semi-circle on the opposite side of the room, her footsteps reverberating in his mind long after she sat and settled herself. 

     She was more striking to regard as she sat at rest, Rhett thought to himself. While not one to be so easily swayed at the sight of a pretty girl, as that tended to be Craig’s endless fascination, Rhett was blindsided by the dark luminescence of the girl from Bascom Hill. Fearing that she would become the apple of everyone’s eye (and seriously, how could she not be?), he covertly investigated his classmates’ faces to see if they were as visibly thunderstruck as he was. When he noticed that not a single person was staring in her direction, he allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief.

     Snapping him out of his reverie was the entrance of Professor Stewart Scarfe, who strode into the classroom and towards his podium where he set down a few note cards and finally, to his desk where he laid his coffee and sunglasses. “Good morning,” said the professor as he wrote his name upon the blackboard then turned to face his class while holding the student roster. “Welcome. This summer, just as the title of this course states, we will be exploring the fundamentals in ethics. We have a tremendous amount of material to cover over these next several weeks so time, as much of an illusion it actually happens to be, is indeed of the essence. So…Mr. Brazelton, what exactly are ethics?”

     And so it began. Not even one full minute had elapsed and Professor Scarfe had everyone’s complete attention for fear of being randomly called on to answer a question even before having their notebooks out of their backpacks yet. Rhett was immediately at a loss for words. Being so unprepared (and truthfully, how prepared could one actually have been on the very first day) had transformed Rhett’s brain and all of the contents within it into a bowl full of jelly. Words failed him as did thoughts but he knew that he had to produce something and quickly.

     “Um…ethics…um…ethics…, “ stalled Rhett as words began to formulate from the gelatinous pool of his mind. “Ethics are an individual’s personal belief system of what constitutes ‘right’ and ‘wrong’?”

     “In its broadest definition, you are not terribly far off, Mr. Brazeton,” said Professor Scarfe approvingly yet distantly. “Yet, let’s see if we can get ourselves a little closer. Mr. Ising, how would you build upwards from Mr. Brazelton’s statement?”

     Kevin Ising, 20 year old Sophomore of currently undeclared major, was immobilized. Like Rhett, he never figured that he would be called upon so swiftly but before he even realized he began speaking. “Are ethics basically like…well…uh…like principles to live our lives by?”

     “I am seeing a variation of a theme,” Professor Scarfe expressed without feigning either approval or disapproval. “Ms. Lee?”

     Young Lee, 19 year old Sophomore also of undeclared major yet was internally fluctuating somewhere between English and Journalism, was a hair more prepared to hear her name after witnessing the professor’s alacrity with engaging with his students. Even so, her heart raced upwards into her throat. “Well…” she began shakily. “We all have ethics…”

     “Do we now?” interjected the professor. “How do you know? By any chance, do you happen to know the intricacies of your classmates on an intimate level, Ms. Lee?”

     “Well…no…” answered Young Lee, beginning to wilt in her seat and a quiver in her voice. “I’m just…well…I would assume…”

     “Never assume,” Professor Scarfe began. “Don’t panic either,” he continued with a splash of an encouraging tone. “Just re-think and re-phrase. You cannot assume anything, especially whether all of these individuals possess ethical behavior. They could all be immoral hedonists for all you know, for only they know where they were and what they did last night,” he concluded slyly, which of course, continued to keep the nervous Young Lee off balance and peppered the room with equally nervous laughter.

     “OK…well…we all have the capability of having ethical behavior,” she began again.

     “Some do. Some don’t. But better.”

     “Um…well…if we did all have the capacity for ethical behavior, are the ethics themselves concerned with why we think of things as being good or bad?”

     “Ah…”considered the professor. “Now, we find ourselves more into ethical theory. Or even, theories for that matter, as there are several. Or, to probe further, there are various ethical theories that are of a more descriptive quality as they solely describe people’s actions, be they ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ But, even that depends greatly upon a certain validity within those descriptive ethical theories because we need to understand if those descriptive theories do in fact correctly describe what people do and how we consider and identify those actions as being ‘good,’ ‘bad,’ ‘right,’ or ‘wrong.’”

     By this very early stage in the course, all 20 students, already on edge for fear of being called upon, sat in collective confusion as they eyes blankly blinked like a group of cartoon mice. It was a look Professor Scarfe knew only too well…and secretly enjoyed, for that matter. Suppressing a light chuckle, he continued.

     “When you stop your car at a stoplight, is that action necessarily ‘ethical’?? Is it necessarily ‘good’ or ‘right’?”

     “It is if you don’t want to get in an accident,” offered one particularly brave soul.

     “Yes, an accident would certainly be a consequence of that action but that doesn’t equate itself with being ‘good’ or ‘right.’ Especially if you happened to be a nihilist. What about theft? Is that inherently ‘wrong’? What of something like rape? How could you argue ethically and prove the inherent wrongness of that act?”

     “How couldn’t you?!” announced a sharp voice that sliced through the air. Rhett’s eyes shifted towards the direction of the comment and was most intrigued to find that the girl from Bascom Hill was its owner.

     “Hmmm…” muttered Professor Scarfe. “Ms….your last name please?”

     “Lessing.”

     “Yes, the very impulsive Ms. Lessing,” he began. “Yet, this is precisely the core of what we will all be examining this summer. We will be exploring a variety of subject matter of which all of us have formulated, at least, some opinions—some of which, like what I am gathering from Ms. Lessing’s comment, will be passionate and even specifically individualistic, and perhaps even traumatic. My contract that I offer and extend to each of you is to ensure that all topics will be handled with respect and sensitivity. If any of you are at any time still feeling uncomfortable with the topics discussed, or how I am presenting them, I openly invite you to make an appointment to voice your concerns with me during my office hours.

     “Yes, this class will be challenging and possibly upsetting but ultimately, it should prove to be enlightening, because this is not a course about opinions. This is a course about ethics and what we can prove or disprove based upon philosophical theories as well as the principles of the philosophers themselves. So, Ms. Lessing, going back to your statement, I ask you your own question. How could you prove the inherent wrong-ness of rape?”

     “What kind of a…,” began the identified Ms. Lessing with visible anger rising from her face and voice.

     “Remember, I am not asking for your opinion. I’m asking you to prove your viewpoint ethically,” interjected Professor Scarfe.

     “Well…it’s…,” she began, her palpable fury becoming rapidly flustered. “’Ethically’?! But…this is rape!”

     “Yes.”

     “In this country alone, a woman is…”

     “You are about to quote a statistic. That has nothing to do with ethics. Mathematics are not a part of this course.”

     “It feels as if they are since you want me to prove something through some formula, as if that is going to present a definitive answer, like some Math problem! I mean…really…ethics regarding rape?! Isn’t it obvious?!”

     “Morally, yes and I feel that none of your classmates would argue with you on a moral level. But, again, and as the title of this class states, we are dealing with ethics and the fundamentals of ethics and ethics alone. So far, each one of you has happened to define ethics by in fact defining the nature of morals, for morals strictly adhere to the individual whereas ethics strictly adhere to an external source like the rules of the workplace or codes within various religions or the rules of society itself. We are going to spend this summer exploring issues through ethical theories, principles and philosophers and I would urge all of you to begin to understand that if you are going to try and prove the inherent rightness or wrongness of anything, including rape, a petulant ‘Rape is wrong because it is!’ or ‘Rape is wrong because I say so!’ will not get you out of the starting gate,” said the professor coldly, which made the girl from  Bascom Hill bristle but yet, she remained quiet. “What will, however, get you out of the starting gate is what we are all here this summer to learn.”

     Rhett Brazelton, with his pulse racing due to the intensity of his class’ first few minutes (was that really all of the time that has passed?), internally sighed to himself. Finally taking his eyes away from her, Rhett internally sighed to himself for a second time, mentally turning the name “Ms. Lessing” over and over again. She was definitely real. 

     She had a name.
Copyright 2015 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

"DECEMBER BOYS" PART TEN: "THE DOOR INTO SUMMER"

DECEMBER BOYS

"THE DOOR INTO SUMMER"

     If people’s perceptions of Craig Hughes as an introverted, heart-on-sleeve, naval gazer were correct (and they typically were) then Rhett Brazelton’s level of introspection was downright astral. Not careless, scatterbrained or chemically enhanced by any means. But, whenever Rhett found himself deeper and deeper in thought, he became mesmerized to the point of becoming absent. This peculiar personality trait had been a part of Rhett since infancy, when people from various sectors—family members and friends, teachers, complete strangers—would remark at how tranquil the little one seemed to be, as his bouts of crying were unusually rare and his eyes seemed to be peering into a world unseen by anyone else other than himself. “He’s just taking it all in,” his Mother, a university Botanist, would explain plainly and always full of inquisitive delight.

     Rhett found himself in that exact state of mind on an early warm spring morning, shortly after his pilgrimage with Craig and Mariah Esposito’s weekend visit. It was precisely the type of morning his Mother had actually warned him about one beautiful summer day before he embarked upon his Freshman year in Madison. As Elizabeth Brazelton sat at their kitchen table, toiling over home finances and monthly bills, Rhett sat blankly nearby, watching/not watching MTV videos playing in the background while holding a magazine in one hand and the presence of a novel sitting closely on the kitchen table. Elizabeth Brazelton ran her hands through her then newly shorn, closely cropped hair and in a voice that displayed an atypical bout of weariness, she declared, “These days will definitely find you.”

     As if being yanked from the ether by a strongly pulled tether, Rhett returned to the present and murmured a somnambulant, “Hmmm?”

     “Rhett, in no way am I even beginning to condone this particular behavior, especially as I am about to fork over an enormous amount of money to fund your education, but the days will come for you when you simply say to yourself, ‘No.’”

     “What do you mean?” he asked, intrigued.

     “You will one day find yourself waking up to face the day. You will ready yourself and even make all of the necessary plans to meet the duties to which you are obligated. And for some unknown reasons, you will say, ‘No’,” she answered tiredly as she returned the cap of her red pen from end to ink point, set it down upon the table and rose while stretching her athletic body. “So, right now Rhett, I’m saying ‘No’ and am wondering if you would like to join me for a walk or should I just leave you here to your thoughts and videos.”

     “No. I’ll say ‘No’ too. Let’s go out.”

     And off they went, Mother and son, to spend a warm afternoon “taking it all in.”

     Returning to the morning at hand, Rhett Brazelton indeed woke up at his usual time, showered, purchased his morning orange juice from Pop’s Club, collected his books and materials for his morning classes, as well as his headphones, for the morning walk to Bascom Hall. But there was one notable difference. While waiting for his turn to check out at the registers, Rhett spied a discarded copy of that morning’s Chicago Tribune, which he instinctively picked up and began to peruse. After skimming through the comics, his eyes sped back towards the advice column and onto the daily horoscopes, a section he generally paid no credence towards but with all things, as far as Rhett Brazelton was concerned, he didn’t rule anything out. The prediction was swift yet carried the force of a bolt of lightning as it stated…

“Today is a 9! On this day, your heart will fall in love. It will be someone you have never met before. Act quickly. Act wisely. For it will never pass this way again. Have a wonderful day!”

Rhett scoffed at the prediction and yet found himself reading it again and again, transfixing himself upon the words and the suggestion that he absently stood in line and was eventually goaded onwards by the rightfully impatient students behind him. After offering a feeble apology, Rhett discarded the paper and headed off to class.

      Rhett Brazelton strode up the massive monolith of Bascom Hill, being succulently stroked by the breeze and sunlight, and still buzzing with the horoscope he had previously read. After reaching his destination, he walked inside Bascom Hall, trotted down the hallway and reached his classroom, only to open up the door, see his classmates gathering themselves for the day’s new material and without warning or provocation, Rhett quietly said to himself, “No.” He then shut the door, exited Bascom Hall and found himself a gorgeously shady grassy spot on Bascom Hill, left to his own devices with his headphones and his thoughts. Rhett sat, letting the wind of spring caress his spirit, as he stared into space, regarding everyone who walked past him, again pondering the obvious spirituality and interconnectivity of all of the people who had previously and will one day walk this hill. Soon, like a television channel clouded with electronic snow, the image of all before him began to fade into a cloud of colorful dots. And then, it happened…

     Footsteps. Almost metronomic paced footsteps sent waves of sound from the here and now directly into Rhett’s reverie. It was like listening to a static filled radio station when suddenly a song from who knows where bursts through, announcing itself, demanding to be heard. Rhett turned his head towards his left, and emerging upwards from the direction of Science Hall, he saw her and instantly, he was gone.

     The first item Rhett noticed were the dusty, rusty colored boots, the source of the metronomic beat, which almost needed a bass guitar and fat handclap to make the effect even more complete. Trailing his gaze from the ground upwards, his vision revealed the sight of a tallish, olive skinned girl with wavy, shoulder length autumn brown hair walking with a not too fast, not too slow, decidedly not a strut but definitely aggressive stride that was commanding. This girl walked with a comparatively heightened sense of purpose to her fellow Bascom Hill walkers yet seemingly no one on the entire hill seemed to pay her any stitch of attention. That is, except for Rhett who was happily dazed and confused, feeling a sudden and overwhelming sensation of ardor that he could swear he could feel all the way into his eyebrows as he turned his head to watch her sumptuously phase through his field of vision. The girl continued to walk past, towards the Liz Waters and the Lakeshore dorms, until she was completely out of view, and her eventual disappearance suddenly returned Rhett to reality. He laughed to himself. Shrugging his shoulders and re-adjusting his headphones which displaced themselves during his act of obvious rubber-necking, Rhett Brazelton laughed to himself for this sort of behavior was atypical as it was just not in his nature to stare or to, at least, call attention to himself for staring—which he seriously hoped that he hadn’t done. To no one in particular, which therefore meant to everyone around him on Bascom Hill, Rhett exhibited a theatrical “Hey, what can I do?” motion and took one last futile look over his shoulder with hopes that perhaps one final glance at this stunning sight could be witnessed again. Seeing that she was indeed completely out of view, Rhett stood, sighed and smiled to himself and began to walk down Bascom Hill to points unknown, only armed with the full intent of enjoying the day ahead, no matter where it took him.

     The memory of the autumn brown haired, olive skinned girl with the dusty, rusty boots and the commanding stride was never far from the forefront of Rhett’s mind as he neared the end of his first year of college. With the presence of the continuing warmth of spring slowly building upwards in the heat of summer, the campus blossomed and bloomed into its tremendous final stages of excitement before the students’ eventual departure until the Fall. From the foliage of the trees, flowers and plant life to the increasing amount of people spending time outdoors, life in Madison near the end of a school year was a feast for the senses, especially amorous ones. For a brief spell, Rhett kept his eyes sharply opened for another sighting of the girl, even going so far as to return to Bascom Hill, headphones firmly attached to his ears and playing the exact same music he listened to that day, as if to magically conjure her reappearance. Unfortunately, she never arrived. 

     Rhett’s more logical reasoning chalked up this girl’s apparent disappearance to just being “one of those things” that invariably occurs on a campus this size and with a student body this immense. It is simply not unreasonable to catch a full view of the most strikingly attractive girl on campus and then never see her again. It was akin to being surprised by a shooting star or better yet, waking from a glorious dream that you impossibly try to physically grasp and keep forever. When presenting himself with the concept of a dream, however, Rhett’s astral brain went into overdrive. What if he had actually dreamt that entire morning on Bascom Hill? And if it was a dream, then it would stand to reason that the sight of the girl immediately after reading the romantic predictions of the horoscope was equally invented as if it arrived from a wish. At the contemplation of this notion, Rhett shuddered, feeling a quick icy wave race through his body. For if the day of Bascom Hill, including what he was beginning to assume was nothing more than his fantasy girl, was only a dream, then what was his real life? Where did his mind or even all of him go to once he went to bed each night? Feeling more unsettled than he wished at the sudden thought of life as he knew it was somehow a product of his sub-consciousness, Rhett waved away the dark fantasy and fully returned to bright reality.

     When Rhett Brazelton began his life in Madison, not even one firm plan concerning his academic future ever entered into his brain. All that he ever initially wanted was just to have the opportunity to simply take everything in (again and as always) and get a lay of the land. What surprised Rhett about himself, at least regarding his education, was the seriousness with which he approached his classes and all ensuing assignments. While always a good student, Rhett admittedly never felt himself to have been truly academically challenged in high school. During those years, he felt as if he had some mental muscles that weren’t being put to use properly. Yet, by the time he received his first college assignments, those very same mental muscles were indeed put to the test. Where many of Rhett’s peers and classmates grumbled and stressed, Rhett welcomed the often intense quality, quantity and frequency of the work, especially relishing the times when his mind would arrange the hours of his day, compartmentalizing his tasks as if his third eye could visualize a series of boxes to be organized and placed onto their exact spaces upon a shelf.

     During this same period at the start of his college experience and growing stronger throughout the year, Rhett discovered just how perfectly in tune he felt with the cycle of the school year. Despite the worldwide celebrations announcing the arrival of every new year, there was just something about the beginnings and endings of a school year that felt more natural to him. His spirit was inexplicably in sync with that sequence, so much so, that he wondered just how he would function after college in that seemingly so far away and monolithic sounding “real world” without the September staples of ‘Welcome Week,” football Saturdays and midterm exams, for instance. For Rhett, the less said about the interminable middle section of Winter, the better and then, Summer was just…Summer, a languid and healthy slice of sunkissed bliss that felt like it existed as its own entity.  As Rhett made more friends with either older students or with people who hailed from Madison, more and more, he heard stories about how perfect the city was in the summer. People’s faces would begin to naturally glisten while their eyes would fall into a dreamy haze as they all expressed variations of the same theme, “Madison is so beautiful in the summer,” over and again.

     And then, the pieces began to form together or rather, Rhett’s astral brain with its mental boxes were beginning to find their exact spaces upon the shelf.

     It was near the end of Rhett’s Freshman Year when he began to entertain the idea of becoming a Philosophy professor, a career where his sense of academic diligence, love of the school year cycle and his more astral leanings could all congeal beautifully. It didn’t matter whether his imagined teaching profession took place in Madison or back home in Minnesota, even though he felt to be very much at home on the UW-Madison campus. Rhett just imagined himself on a Midwestern campus, complete with the four seasons (including the dreaded winter), and endless streams of new students w hose youthful energy just may rub off onto him when he is not so young anymore.

     But to get himself started, it was time to begin taking some of the necessary classes. After a lengthy discussion with his Mother, Rhett soon registered for two summer courses in Philosophy, one of which explored the teachings and writings of Sartre, while the second class was about the more timeless and always timely fundamentals of ethics. As for lodging, Rhett’s Mother pointed him in the direction of her brother, Rhett’s Uncle Denny, a house painter whose business increased dramatically during the summer months. After a surprisingly enthusiastic conversation, one that Rhett was initially nervous about due to his scant contact with his Uncle, a deal was struck for Rhett to reside in Denny’s house, rent free, for the Summer and as an added bonus, Rhett could have access to driving Denny’s 20 year old Honda if he wished as Denny would primarily be using his truck to cart around his painting supplies over the next few months. The only stipulations were to keep the house orderly if not fully clean, occasionally assist with the grocery shopping and lawn care and finally, absolutely no guests were allowed without confirmed permission. If these were to be the only bargaining chips in order to receive free summer housing, accepting the terms was a no-brainer! Helping to keep a tidy house and yard and do some minor grocery shopping was the least he could do in exchange for his Uncle’s generosity. And the additional prospect of having access to a car was indeed the proverbial icing on the cake (even though Rhett loved going for walks—the longer, the better—it was great to have an option, especially for those stormy summer days and nights).

     Everything was falling into place. Classes were obtained as well as a home to comfortably reside inside of after the cramped existence of dorm life. With his Mother paying tuition, Rhett instinctively felt obligated to find summer employment to not only alleviate any sense of financial burden but to also support himself with his books, any supplies and to have some precious pocket money, a task he accomplished through being hired for work part-time at Memorial Library.

     On the final day of the school year, Rhett Brazelton moved out of Ogg Hall and into his Uncle Denny’s home, located near the Vilas Zoo, where the growls of the lions could be heard during the night on occasion. To celebrate, the two spent a rapturous night on the Memorial Union Terrace, where in addition to becoming better acquainted with each other through lively conversation and covertly imbibed alcoholic beverages, Rhett and his Uncle simply enjoyed the time under the stars, with the breeze from the lake waters in the air and surrounded by a sea of happy strangers all seduced by the tropical rhythms and deep bass of the reggae band performing on the outdoor stage. As far as he was concerned, as he took in the sights around him and replaying all the sublime comments about Madison summers in his mind, the self-described “Summer Of Rhett” had officially begun. 
Copyright 2015 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.