Chapter 11
Sterling is sprawled out on the bed, Bucephalus at a foot. He has a slight headache; she is snoring. He suddenly remembers that he missed yesterday’s Tea Party protest in Raleigh against big government spending. Events had colluded against him to deny his right to protest. For a brief moment, he thinks, hopes actually, that he is waking up from an horrendous nightmare. He is feeling relieved at having had only a bad dream. In it his parents decided to punish him by making him go back in time, to live in an earlier generation. He was being forced to live their lives (as fit a punishment any parent can impose), to grow up as they had, for they had been born before the marketization of the digital chip. The appearance of the room tells otherwise. The nightmare is reality. His bedroom looks like it has recently been burglarized and the thieves took everything of value. There is nothing much left to interest future burglars. So thorough was the robbery that it must have been an inside job. They have pinched the television, the satellite radio, all the computers, the computer games, even the digital alarm clock. Drawers had been ransacked of modernity. His wallet is empty, but then again that is its normal state. They would have taken his credit or debit card, with its microchip, except that he doesn’t own one. He has never possessed such a physical piece of plastic; he knows only the account number and pin of the family account. He has his own ATM card, but the account never has much money. It doesn’t pay interest so he keeps the balance low, electronically transferring money as needed. In one of the drawers he has what they call a savings passbook and he has a checkbook beside it. He remembers exactly where he had put them…five or ten years before. The former is a paper booklet that was given him some years back when the account was opened in his name. It was red with a crest of some sort, although the ownership of the bank has passed through several hands with accompanying name changes. He knows that the passbook in the back of the drawer, undisturbed for a decade. A little money can make for a little independence and reestablishing the latter is atop today’s agenda.
He automatically reaches over for his cell to check the time. He gropes the bedside table before his mind tells his paw to stop such futility. Sterling has no idea of the time as he’s never owned a wrist watch or a wall clock. Why wear a watch when you have a cell phone? The sun is up; it must be after dawn. All is quiet. It is either before the hour that the rest of the inmates of the Sterling asylum begin to stir or they have already abandoned him, satisfied with the previous evening’s torture. He walks down the hall, sleepy Bucephalus lumbering behind. Susan’s room – Sara’s room now – is empty, its door ajar in an open-disclosure sort of way. Sara’s clock says it is 10:15. She probably sets it ahead, he thinks. She’s that type of person – considerate, never wanting to be late. His parents have apparently already left for work. He checks the clock on the microwave: 10:02 A.M. That can’t be right. Sterling never oversleeps. Of course, the iPhone is pre-set to wake him up but that was B.C. (before catastrophe), when oversleeping was never a threat. He looks at the time on the oven: 9:57 A.M. He goes to his parents’ bedroom. The digital alarm clock says 10:06. Four different times; none probably correct. He rummages through a book of biblical proportions that is printed on what looks to be recycled paper. It is called a phone book; Sterling has used such a book maybe five times in his life. His hands feel soiled from the newsprint. Finally, he finds a number for “time of day.” He goes for his iPhone but catches himself as his hand on instinct reaches halfway down his sweatpants pocket. He goes into the kitchen where there is a wall phone and calls for the time. He resets the microwave and the oven clocks so they run in sync at 10:04 A.M. What is the day of the week? They get a newspaper, don’t they? He hunts around and finds Tuesday’s paper, but he knows it must be later than Tuesday. Tuesday was the grand jury debacle, Wednesday was the day of his release and the grand theft of his property, so today must be Thursday. Or has he missed a day? No, it must be Thursday. He’d check his schedule app but, of course, that’s been stolen along with all the other tools he uses to get through the day. A place at the kitchen table is set for him with a bowl of cereal, an apple and a piece of paper from Sara giving him the calorie count: 250. That’s hardly enough to hold him to lunch. There’s also a Post-it from his mother, the household’s commander-in- theft. What do they say about family: you can hate them and love them at the same time? He’d jot that gem down for future reference except he doesn’t have his organizer or sticky notes, the main purpose of which was to anchor items like this from rattling around his brain until they come of use. His mother’s note is a double-edged reminder: first, he has an appointment with Mr. James at his office for 4 P.M. and, second, he is not allowed to hitchhike. His mother must have made the appointment, for Sterling knows that if he still had control over his own schedule, it would not include the appointment. God only knows what they have talked to the lawyer about; the case is closed, he has no more use for Mr. James. Ignoring the appointment doesn’t seem too wise, however. He doesn’t need to provoke his mother while she’s on the warpath; she has been in a sufficiently bad mood of late to require no prodding. He’s suspects it’s early onset menopause and he would Google to see where her age fits on the Bell curve except…He needn’t finish the thought.
He picks up Thursday’s N&O. He’s never actually read a hard copy of the Triangle’s main newspaper, which provides the bulk of topics for his parents’ conversations. He’s familiar with its website, of course, but he is convinced that the readers of the News and Observer, like his parents, believe the world is quite flat and doesn’t extend far beyond Wake, Durham and Orange Counties. The local news pages contain some cut-and-paste journalism, including official government items for each county: business and marriage licenses, deaths registered, news from the police blotter and court docket, grand jury indictments. Sterling stops and he feels a spine shiver as he reads that the Durham grand jury on its last day has issued twelve indictments: four grand thefts, one murder second degree, one murder first degree, all with names provided…and finally, one for indecent exposure and another providing harmful material to minors. The name of the offender is withheld, the newspaper says, due to his age. Sterling puts down the paper. Yes, a meeting with Mr. James is most certainly needed. His thought is interrupted by some noise from downstairs. Bucephalus waits at the elevator to check it out. Sterling goes down with her.
There’s classical music coming from the gym. Brandon Buffeau has apparently made himself at home, with Bach blaring from his Gear4 Duo iPod Speaker System. Working the speed bag, he sees Sterling or rather sees through Sterling; the boy’s presence doesn’t stop his rhythm. Sterling kicks over the sound system, muting it. He notices the front door key, a spare that his father gives to special boxers who wish to train at times the gym is normally closed. Sterling’s territory has been invaded by this interloper, this faux fils. He walks over to the speed bag to stop its motion. In doing so he carelessly elbows Brandon in the shoulder causing him to fall backwards a few feet. Brandon rights himself up as a determined Sterling approaches. Neither of these boys has ever had a real fistfight. In both cases their fights have been governed by the rules of the ring as first established by the Marquess of Queensbury more than a century and a half before. Both now hold their fists tight, cocked at breast level. Each is waiting for – baiting – the other to throw the first punch. Neither will throw that first punch, which would be an admission of weakness and defeat, not to mention unsportsmanlike behavior. Brandon steps as close to Sterling as possible, his eyes staring into Sterling’s chin. He will not be bullied or suckered.
Sterling is not yet dressed to fight. He steps to the back room, tosses off his sweats, puts on his supporter, cup and shorts, jersey and his Nike Lo Pro Boxing Shoes. By the time he returns he has already wrapped both hands. The gloves are put on. He grabs identical USA Amateur Boxing Headgear (with cheek protection) and tosses one at Buffeau. He says simply:
/>
“No limit. Last man standing.”
Buffeau puts on the headgear. This is all out war. He climbs into the ring and is met by Sterling at the center. They touch gloves and commence. This has nothing to do with points. Sterling ferociously attacks the midsection of his opponent. Brandon is backed into a corner and manages to escape before much more damage can be done. It’s clear he is outmatched. Pandely gave him only three of the four attributes needed by every athlete. Brandon figures he omitted anger, which seems to be what’s fueling Sterling. About the only thing Brandon can do is to keep out of the way of his opponent’s long reach. Fighting close is no option. He dances around as best he can, but Sterling lands blow after blow. The Greek is not offering even the semblance of defense, which allows the Canadian to land some blows to the head. The punches, which would score points and are by no means weak, do little damage to Sterling, thanks to the heargear. The Canadian slips away and raises his hands in a gesture of defeat. Sterling stands down. Buffeau throws off his gloves and headgear and puts up his fists. It’s a challenge to return to the days of bare knuckle prize fighting (except that the fists are wrapped, of course).
Sterling throws off his headgear and gloves, with mocking contempt. He goes one further, unwrapping the wraps. Brandon hesitates but quickly accepts the challenge. They approach each other, fists in position, very carefully. One or two well-placed blows are all it will take. Earlier, Sterling was all offense; he is now all defense. Buffeau swings first, his fist parried off Sterling’s arm. Sterling counters with a right jab right to the Adam’s apple. It stuns his hand a bit, but it has done much more damage to Buffeau, who takes a step back dazed. Sterling follows with a cross to the gut. Buffeau staggers some more. Sterling approaches for the fatal blow and then stops. He knows that he has won, he extends his hand open-palmed, either in a handshake or to help Brandon off the canvas. Buffeau is still a bit wobbly but manages to scare up enough dignity to shake hands and be lifted up. Sterling starts to gather up some of the discarded gear, while Buffeau goes to pack his bag. Sterling walks over and retrieves the key that his father had given Brandon and then goes directly to his opponent.
“You listen to me, asshole. This is not your goddamn gym so don’t fuckin’ act like you own it,” he says to Buffeau, who is still recovering from being bested. He is not looking up at Sterling.
“You hear me, asshole, eh?” Sterling says.
When Buffeau looks him in the eyes, Sterling slaps the key into his hand. Brandon is not sure why, until Sterling explains.
“You’re not getting off that easy, eh? Let me get warmed up and we’ll work out. I need you to help me on my right. That’s my weak side, eh? Then I’ll show you how to protect your face so you can stay in the ring more than a half a minute. Who taught you to box, anyway?”
“I taught myself.”
“YouTube and Boxing for Dummies, eh? You’re not going to last in the Under-19 with someone decent the way you leave yourself open. No hard feelings, eh,” he says mocking his accent.
Buffeau shakes his proffered hand, despite what hard feelings obviously continue to simmer.
Some time later they have finished their session. Not exactly buddies, they can at least be useful to each other and are no longer unfriendly. On packing up his gear, Buffeau offers a curt thanks, which elicits the same from Sterling. As Brandon changes into a dry shirt, he can’t take his eyes off the goddess who enters. This is Babette whose work shirt and jeans hardly contain her luxuriousness. She fits the stereotype of a porn actress, according to Buffeau’s tastes. She studies the boy who, as fortune would have it, is shirtless and straitening his shoulders to preen. Then she remembers the business at hand and heads directly to Sterling. She hugs Sterling as a way of apologizing; she is close to tears.
“I had no idea this would happen. They didn’t tell me they were after you.”
“That’s all right, Babs. It’s a shock for me, too.”
She’s wound herself around Sterling in the type of clinch more suitable for the ring. Buffeau is taking this all in, pretending not to. Sterling motions with his hand behind Babette’s back for the Buffer to leave them alone. He obeys reluctantly, letting his mind run wild with speculation about what Sterling and his video co-star do when the cameras aren’t running.
Although Babette the body may be able to pilot young men such as Buffeau toward a state of near priapism, Babette the person no longer has that effect on Sterling. In the not too distant past she had certainly had that effect on the teenager; that’s the one-line plot of Smiley Boy. What happened on the dorm-room video set, however, is in the past, taped for posterity as it were; subsequent to that brief encounter a chemical bond has formed between them. It’s an unlikely coupling: boy fighting maturity, porn star rejecting bodily fame for academia. Nevertheless, their relationship has blossomed on this other level, intellectual, rather than physical. Over the past two months they have been meeting regularly on campus, in very public places, for conversation. In her notes she refers to Sterling as Subject S and he is one of about a dozen cases she is including in her master’s thesis, which goes under the temporary title, “Teenage Sexuality in the Internet Age.” Sterling dutifully informed his B Club boys about her survey and also provided her email address; none told him they had contacted her; perhaps some have. Babette is a good listener and even a better interviewer. She has managed to collect a lot of data from subjects who would never reveal such privacies to anyone else, not to parents, siblings, lovers or BFFs. This budding Kinsian dynamo has already filled up a notebook on Sterling, who has only recounted his life up to age fifteen, the year of his abstinence.
Babette gives Sterling $150, the honorarium he has earned for the last two interviews he has given. She has a modest grant for her research. He gets her another cup of coffee.
“What a bummer,” she says. “She even took away the alarm clock?”
“You think it’s menopause?” he asks in all seriousness. Sterling reckons that the change in life for a woman can be a nightmare for a man. He thanks god he only has a penis to worry about.
“I’ve never read anything that says hormonal imbalances produce some sort of phobia over alarm clocks or computers,” she reflects, not sure if he is serious.
“That would be chronomentrophobia or cyberphobia or logizomechanophobia,” he says, showing off. Babette disregards this pretense to intelligence. She’s already been informed about his remarkable memory and associated bag of parlor tricks. Babette has the body of someone who’s supposed to be a bimbo; she is far from it. She was not impressed by Sterling’s claim that he had memorized a list of 537 phobias when he was stuck in the hospital for a few days after they took out (“medically stole” he says) his appendix. She gives him a look of rebuke, something his parents haven’t done for years.
“Sorry,” he offers.
“You ever think you might have pushed them over the edge?” she asks. “You can annoy people only so far before they snap,” she adds.
“Yeah, maybe,” he says, unconvinced. “You mean you me or you in general?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“‘You can annoy’…you as in me or you as in anyone.”
“Anyone can annoy people, Sterling, but you are exceptionally good at it.”
“Thanks. You didn’t get the summons from the next grand jury, the federal one?” he asks.
“No, just the one for a few days ago. I didn’t have much to tell them then, I don’t have any more to tell them now. Anyway, they have my testimony, for all it’s not worth. They have your testimony, too, you know.”
“I’ve put it on the website. I don’t want anyone to think I said more than I did.”
“I thought these things were supposed to be secret.”
“They are. But they can’t stop you from talking about your own testimony. First Amendment, you know.”
“You sure?”
“I’m su
re.”
“You never heard the name of the man from Georgia?” he asks.
“That’s what I told them.”
Sterling is wise enough not to ask the logical follow-up question.
“Anyway I just wanted to make sure you didn’t object that the video is on the Legal Defense Fund site. I can pixilate your face if you want.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m pixilated enough. I know a few people in the industry; I’ll send them the link. Everyone worries about the First Amendment.”
“You want some pie. My girlfriend made it. She’s living here for the summer.”
Babette shakes her head, rejecting the supposed invitation. She realizes that Sterling offered pie only to give him an excuse to refer to his girlfriend. She figures she’s supposed to ask about her, but that’s a interrogation that must wait. Sterling is obviously bursting with an announcement, but Babette is not taking the bait. She is methodical and trying to reconstruct Sterling’s life in chronological order; she still has years fifteen and sixteen. Also she has other errands for the morning, and she’s a TA for a Psych 101 class in the afternoon. They set a date for the next interview. She gets up to leave. She puts her hand on Sterling’s shoulder, almost motherly. “You take care of yourself,” she says as she gives him a big hug. She’s like the big sister he no longer has, or never actually ever had.
Since Babette left, Sterling has tidied up the gym, a chore he doesn’t mind. At the moment he is assembling a frame from a kit. The frame will hold a speed bag for the pee-wees so that the punching bag, which hangs from a swivel on a platform, can be hung at a comfortable height, adjustable to the individual child. It was a recent internet purchase from Mexico, the last electronic transaction Sterling will be able to make for a long time. The accompanying instructions have no words, just illustrations for wall mounting. Vertical posts have been bolted to the wall by a carpenter friend of his father. Sterling has already installed a track on each post. The rest of the assembly is the task at hand. When finished, it should allow the kids to avoid the plight that Sterling faced when he himself was a pee-wee. In those days he had to stand on a chair when he worked the speed bag, splitting his attention between the speed bag and not losing his balance. One goal is to do the drill blindfolded, which establishes your subconscious rhythm. Eventually he managed the task, having fallen off the chair so often that he had surrounded it with mattresses, on which he had placed pillows. The adults thought it cute when he fell, a grown-up equivalent of watching Bucephalus slam into the doggie door.
Sterling is attempting to position the eighteen inch square plywood platform by letting one edge rest on his chest so he can free up his hands to fasten a remaining guide wire to the vertical track. However he positions the platform’s edge, he lacks just a few inches of reach to be able to put the hook into the eye on the track. Fortunately, Daryl enters.
Daryl has gotten off a bus and crossed the street in his approach to the gym for his critical conversation with Sterling. Daryl is Sterling’s only friend who does not like to drive. He relies on public transportation, an area of expertise beyond Sterling’s reach. When push comes to shove, Sterling hitches.
He enrolls Daryl’s free hands in the assembly, which keeps the two boys busy and not having to talk to each other for some minutes. Before Daryl can get off his mind the topic of conversation he’s apparently been burdening himself with, Sterling quizzes him on the best bus for Raleigh to get to the office of Stacy James, the legal corporation. Daryl has to check the routes and schedules on the Triangle Transit website, which will take some time.
“How can it be that difficult. It’s just the bus,” Sterling points out. What he means to say, in his condescending way of thinking, is that the average citizen takes busses; since the average citizen is not overly intelligent, by definition only average, the system should be simple for the averagely intelligent to understand.
Daryl explains, as he navigates the website on his PDA, that you just don’t show up at a bus stop and wait for the bus. They don’t run frequently and you are tied to their schedule. “Next time, make your appointment accordingly,” Daryl advises. Sterling should take the express to Raleigh, not the local. That’s not possible, unfortunately, Daryl explains. The DRX doesn’t start until 3:47 P.M., arriving Moore Square, Raleigh, at 4:40 P.M., too late for the appointment that has been prearranged without bus schedules in mind. The good news is that Moore Square is only a few minute walk from the legal offices on South Wilmington. Sterling must take the local bus. He’ll have to walk to Durham Station, which is conveniently located just down the street, and take the 700 to the Regional Transit Center and then transfer to route 100 to Moore Square. He has five minutes to make the transfer. Make sure to ask for the transfer ticket on the first bus or else you’ll end up paying two fares, he advises. On the bright side, he doesn’t need exact change. The farebox takes everything from pennies to a fiver (Daryl has done time in transit-friendly Britain and acquired the lingo) and gives change in the form of a chit that can be used on a future trip. If he leaves at 2 P.M., he’ll arrive at 3:20 P.M. Sterling can’t believe that a trip which in the car should take 30 minutes, even if Billy were driving, has to take three times as long with the bus. How about the train? Daryl, ignoring him, says that he should not buy a regional day bus pass since they are not good on the express, which he will want to take back after the appointment. The really good news is that the express stop is on the very same street as the lawyer’s office. “You have all the luck,” Daryl points out. Sterling asks again about the train.
“First of all, the Raleigh train station is almost a mile away from your appointment. You can take your bike on the train, and even the bus, for free, however. But on the way back, if there are already two people on the bus with bikes, you have to wait for another bus, with an empty bike rack. That could be an hour wait. The bike’s free on the bus, too. But a single on the train costs $6 which is three times what you pay for the local bus and (here he stops to think) or 6 divided by 2.50 for the express. What’s that?” Daryl asks.
“2.4 times,” Sterling says in exasperation. All this is information over-load. His life used to be so simple. “When’s the next train?” he asks. Daryl navigates to the Amtrak website.
“There’s only three a day. You’re in luck there: The Piedmont at 3.04 P.M., arriving at 3:43 P.M. With the bicycle, you’d just make it to the lawyer’s office. That’s if the train is on time – it’s Amtrak you know – and then like I said, you might have trouble fitting the bike on the express bus back. I’ll transfer the data to your PDA…” he says, stopping when he gets an error message. That leads to their discussion about Sterling’s newly acquired unplugged status and its ramifications for making his life a living hell, starting immediately. Daryl should have known about Sterling’s plight, if he had bothered to read his Facebook, Twitter or email announcements. Apparently, Daryl (as well as most of Sterling’s friends) mostly ignore his bulk texts; at best they give them a skim. They don’t actually filter him out, but Starlings, as they are called, are usually worth no more than a glance.
Daryl is as self-effacing as Sterling is brash, and when Sterling asks what’s so important that necessitated this visit after such a long absence, Daryl becomes silent.
“You have problems of your own,” he finally says.
“Cut the shit, Daryl. What’s up?” Sterling complains. He notices the clock. He just has time to shower and dress before he walks to the station for his afternoon-long bus rides.
“Follow me upstairs. You can talk while I shower. You don’t mind if I’m naked, do you?” he asks, with no humor intended. He doesn’t fully understand Mormonism and genuinely doesn’t want to offend (which is why he withholds the f-word in Daryl’s presence). That, perhaps, is a lesson he’s learned from the Smiley Boy episode.
Then, minutes later, Daryl has been talking to Sterling, who is still in the shower. Daryl
is heaped on the floor in the corner of the bathroom, sobbing. Sterling has turned the water to cold. He is trembling either from the temperature, or from what Daryl has just told him. He manages to compose himself. He steps out of the shower, shivering but calm, and starts to towel off.
“You hate me?,” Daryl asks.
“I hate everyone these days,” Sterling replies.
He offers Daryl a hand and pulls him up.
“Have you talked to your, what do you call them, deacons?,” he asks. “Susan said you were moving up the hierarchy,” he adds.
“First I was a deacon, then an ordained teacher and now an ordained priest. I’ve talked to the bishop,” Daryl explains. “I am working things out within the Church. Now is the hard part.”
“I’ll talk with my lawyer. He should help, is that what you want me to do?”
“Yes and talk with your father. I want him to handle this.”
“Do you need me to forgive you or something? I doubt I can.” Sterling says.
“I’m not down that road yet, Sterling. I’m working on repentance. Restitution will have to come later.”
“Why didn’t you just go straight to my father? He’s the cop; he knows what to do,” Sterling says.
“I don’t know. I’m closer to you. Susan always said that you were someone who could sort out difficult things. She really admired you, you know.”
This is not something that Sterling wants to get into. Fortunately, he’d better get a move on or he will miss the first bus, causing the whole deck of cards to fall. Why doesn’t he just hitchhike, he wonders to himself as he retrieves the Post-it with the lawyer’s location and the anti-hitching reminder.
As they leave, Daryl puts his hand on Sterling’s shoulder. “I’m really, really sorry,” he says.
“I know,” Sterling answers.
“I thought you might punch me out. I wouldn’t have minded,” Daryl says.
Sterling thinks about that as he walks toward Durham station.
Public transportation is at best an acquired taste, even for those who have a choice. Sterling, like the rest of the passengers, is not here by choice. He just grins and bears it. Except that for Sterling it is even worse. He has no mp3 whose volume can be maxed to drown out almost any undesirable noise. The passenger seated behind him presents just such noise. For the past fifteen minutes she has been explaining in the most graphic detail that she is convinced that the wart on her vagina is more than just a STD. “I’ve had STDs; I know STDs; this is not an STD,” she retorts to the phone. She fears it is a cancer. At every pause in the conversation Sterling imagines what the woman’s mother is saying at her other end of the cell phone. “No, honey, cancer is inside, it doesn’t look like a wart.” To that comment the loud-obnoxious-phone-mouth behind him says: “What about skin cancer. Everyone is getting skin cancer. Mine is just under the clothes.” To which the mother, who in Sterling’s opinion is a holy saint to tolerate loud-obnoxious-phone-mouth as a daughter, would explain that the malady which the hypochondriac is now fantasizing cannot be skin cancer, which is related to overexposure to UV-radiation which, unless she is a nudist sun worshipper, is unlikely to penetrate both the daughter’s pants and underwear in order to do its purported damage. This is information that Sterling knows is not entirely accurate. One type of skin cancer, squamous cell carcinoma, is associated with human papilloma virus (HPV), which usually manifests itself in warts, but not often cancer. If the infection persists, according to his own mother’s spiel, you should get it checked out. This is advice which perhaps he should now offer to loud-obnoxious-phone-mouth except that by not offering it, perhaps he can lead to her early (preventable) death and thus help clean up the gene pool. A horrible thing to think, Sterling admits, but she’s been yelling her problems into his ears for longer than is decent. When she tells her mother that her boyfriend sort of likes the feel of the wart against his “thingy-ma-jig” Sterling turns around impetuously and gives her a long, nasty stare. She immediately cups the phone and says to Sterling: “Do you mind, I’m having a private conversation.” Sterling looks around at the other bus passengers, who have been discreet (some avid) listeners, and says: “I don’t think so,” slumping into the seat, hoping she won’t bean him with her purse. She does this is a mocking sort of way, which brings laughs from the other passengers. She remains quiet for the rest of the trip. At the regional transit center where he has to change busses, he passes loud-obnoxious-phone-mouth who, fortunately, is taking a northbound, and says, being helpful:
“Sorry, mam, have your GYN check it out. Warts are almost never squamous cell carcinoma but you can’t be 100% sure without an exam.”
This he knows not because it’s one of those tidbits of data that once crossed him and that he cannot forget. He knows this because it’s part of Condom Mom’s lecture, which even if he had a 60 I.Q. he would have learned by rote, having heard it so often. He climbs aboard the Raleigh-bound bus before loud-obnoxious-phone-mouth can respond.
On this second bus, in addition to various phone conversations that Sterling has little choice but to follow – one a spat with a girlfriend, another about Aunt Marie’s second heart attack – there is conflict between muffled sounds. Ringtones galore, from all angles. And in window seats on either side of the bus two teenagers are listing to their separate mp3s, each using earphones, but the rap is still pouring out of the headsets. They serve as stereo for Sterling who is between them on the aisle. Each teen jives to his own drummer. Sterling wonders if his iPod allows the same degree of seepage. He rethinks that, substituting “allowed” for “allows,” knowing full well that all digital-related thoughts should now be put in the past tense. In the past strangers have been known to give him nasty stares while he listened to music; perhaps now he knows the reason. During this leg of the journey he has plenty of time to study the various transit maps and schedules he’s collected during the trip thus far, and he realizes he’ll have to start carrying a bag for all the bits of paper life now provides. He’s already filched a notebook from home for keeping gems and other randomly generated ideas. And he took a pen and a mechanical pencil. He does the mental math and realizes that he can bicycle the thirty miles from Durham to Raleigh in about the same times it takes the bus to cover the distance. That’s another option, and he wonders if he will have to make subsequent visits to the lawyer. He also reflects on the news that Daryl just dumped in his lap. He now knows why Daryl had disappeared so abruptly after Susan’s death. All their friends and all his parents’ friends were shocked by the hit-and-run accident, who wouldn’t be? A girl walking against traffic on a crisp, clear night, dead an hour later at Durham Regional Hospital. Sterling had been the first to arrive at the hospital and, ignoring a security guard, saw his sister briefly in the emergency room as they were wheeling her into surgery. Her lips moved to say “I love you,” he was certain that’s what she tried to say. She died before she got onto the operating table. He was the one who broke the news to his parents. That’s the part he’d like most to forget. He had just cried; no words came out; they knew instantly what had happened. He had wished at that moment he were dead.
There have been only several other moments in Sterling’s life when he wished he were dead, in each case a brief passing wish that required no further contemplation or action. Announcing his sister’s death to his parents (age 16, 10 months) was number two in chronological order. The earliest one (age 7) was after his father got angry at him when he had called John Dewey retarded. It was not a strappable offence. He was too young to fully understand retardation and his parents had given him a long lecture on compassion, sympathy and empathy, all terms he understood intellectually. He had not cried then. He often suffered long lectures on subjects that bordered on morals and ethics. It was later in the evening when he had overheard through the thin wall his parents talking to themselves, wondering if their son was capable of human feelings and comparing him quite
unfavorably to his sister. Granted, they were exasperated and hadn’t actually meant to say he was inhuman, but he had heard what he heard. And it had wounded him then and continued to wound him every time he recalled the incident. In any event, from that day on he became John Dewey’s number one defender; no one ever referred to John Dewey as anything other than normal unless they wanted Sterling’s wrath. One time he had actually shoved his fist in a schoolmate’s face to revenge an insult about John Dewey. He got the strap for throwing the punch. He was a boxer, even at that age. According to his father boxers held such an advantage over a non-boxer opponent in a street brawl that his father absolutely forbade him to use his fists to settle disputes, unless in extreme cases of self-defense. “And you must be able to prove self-defense before I will buy that excuse,” his father had warned, waving the strap for emphasis. Being whipped for defending John Dewey didn’t bother him, however. He had started the fight and he would gladly start another one, irrespective of possible punishment. That was, of course, something he didn’t tell his father for fear of getting a beating for obstinacy, his perpetual crime. The third low point of his life came at Susan’s funeral when he saw the outpouring of love for his sister, who had meant no harm to any living soul during her life; she “wouldn’t hurt a fly,” was what the archimandrite Fr. Emmanuel had said. Sterling knew he himself was not always a good person and that he almost always – correction, always – put his own needs before those of others. They were possible flaws in his character, which he grudgingly accepted. Given the relative merits of him and his sister, he had surely deserved to be taken first, he figured. Intellectually, he knew life and death didn’t work that way; it was that moment of reflection that caused him to wonder about the value of living and as well as question what little Faith he had ever had. To this day the questioning hadn’t stopped, but the desire to advance death to the present had indeed passed. The fourth and most recent suicidal moment was in the jail cell, after his parents’ visit, namely after his father’s brief remark. That moment of depression had been wiped away with tears; the six-word remark that had provoked them was yet too painful to merit consideration.
Sterling had tried his best to put Susan’s tragedy behind him, as had his parents. Daryl had dealt with the tragedy in his own way, which was through his Faith, and was now asking Sterling to work out the non-Faith consequences. There is just no peace in Sterling’s life. He didn’t need this, Sterling thought. He had enough to keep him busy. Wasn’t he was just a teenager? All that a teen should worry about is his schoolwork and how to get laid over the summer. He wasn’t worried about either of these things. Maybe that’s why Daryl came to him. No one seemed to have more time on his hands than Sterling, who aced his way through life, the little prince, boxer extraordinaire, Mensa rejecter, teen advisor and sexual confidant.
Daryl was not really among Sterling’s inner circle. A year older than the rest of club members, he was nonetheless welcomed into the Friday nights. He had begged Sterling for membership. There was no question of his qualifications; he had reached puberty the previous year and had thus met the entrance requirement before the rest of them. In convincing the others to let Daryl in, Sterling had argued it would be useful to have an older member who could relate to them what a year of teenhood was like. Daryl, however, was way too reserved to talk about such things. He could talk about Faith, which endeared him to the Trips, who constituted 25% of the gang, although Sterling allowed the three of them to share a single vote (they never objected). Daryl had actually joined the B Club just as an excuse to be near Susan. Sterling knew he had a crush on her; he didn’t hold that against Daryl. Sterling wasn’t really interested in his sister’s life. He lived his own life; she lived hers. The siblings fought occasionally, usually provoked by something Sterling had done, innocently enough, that she found quite obnoxious and embarrassing to the family. They had different spheres of influence with their parents so that their Venns rarely overlapped. Susan dealt in the fuzzy areas: emotions, feelings, altruism and the like. Sterling was the intellect, with a command of facts and instant opinion, which no family member dared challenge. The children approached any topic from totally different directions, never colliding but often sideswiping. Their parents played the role of traffic managers. It’s not fair to say that Sterling and Susan grew apart; they had never been close. She was his big sister, seeing herself as a third parent, often kind, helpful, instructional, reprimanding. He was her little brother, largely a pain in the ass. When the Friday Nights disbanded, Daryl started to ask Susan to school dances, church functions and the like. They seemed to enjoy each other’s company. Sterling who had become instructed in the Law of Chastity by Daryl during the Friday Nights, explained his beliefs to Susan. He did so in as much a non-judgmental manner as he could muster, at least until he started questioning specifics. “Even copping a feel is borderline,” Sterling explained. Susan slapped him for that and got an immediately apology. They had an agreement he would not talk to her as he talked with his randy boyhood chums. As a girl she allowed herself permission to straighten Sterling out when necessary and he was automatically slapped whenever he used the f-word, even if immediately followed by an apology. He took punishment in stride, not just because of their accord but also because of house rules. He could never hit her back. A prohibition against hitting girls had been laid down by his parents. “Under no circumstances, not even self-defense,” he had been warned. “But what if a bunch of girls try to beat me up,” he asked. “Well, first, you must have done something to deserve it. If not, you’d better run,” his father had explained.
Daryl’s visit had brought back a tidal wave of memories concerning Susan, whose life and death he had largely relegated to history, as much as possible for Sterling. Now, Daryl had kindly shared information about the vehicular homicide; Sterling would deal with this particular legal issue as best he could, which he hoped was far better than he had so far dealt with the grand jury. And there was still another grand jury on the horizon for next week. He made a mental note to ask the lawyer what lessons he should take back from this first grand jury entanglement.
As Daryl had promised, the bus dropped Sterling at Moore Square in the City of Oaks. He would be walking southwest from the square, the center of downtown Raleigh. At the northwest corner sat the Marbles Kids Museum, where the gang (the B Club had broken up several years before) had gone to celebrate William’s fifteenth birthday shortly after the museum had opened. By the end of the birthday party, Sterling’s offenses were multiple, not the least of which was that the boys had totally destroyed a natural science exhibition. The Trips, arguing that dinosaurs and man walked the earth at the same time, took it upon themselves to rearrange the diorama to reflect their view of Creation. A fight ensured with the allosaurus suffering most, having to be boxed up for later reassembly at the Smithsonian. But perhaps Sterling’s primary offence was his ordering the exhibit’s director to accept a sheet of corrections to apply to the severely mislabeled exhibit. Sterling earned his puer non grata status, primarily, because he was smarter than the principle curator, who Sterling referred to in subsequent internet commentary as the “principle exhibitionist.” Sterling was still reluctant to go anywhere near the building. Once he gets of age the museum had promised to take out a restraining order on him, so he is always careful not to remind them he still exists. As it turned out all he had received was a well deserved ban for life, along with the rest of the Friday nighters. William Duke’s generous contribution avoided more severe damage. The Trips, of course, avoided any embargo. For that indulgence they had agreed to give a free concert.
Sterling doesn’t get into Raleigh much. But he’s always liked the town. It’s part sleepy Southern capital, part bustling New South. The center part of the city, the old downtown with the State Capitol and the various courthouses, is charming, in contrast with Durham, the former tobacco capital, which was once warehouses and now
their indistinguishable replacements. Both cities cling to their dignity: Durham possesses the dignity of the retired merchant whose product is on decline; Raleigh carries the dignity of the Southern gentlemen who finds himself having to accommodate new arrivals, inferiors who will become his masters. Sterling would love to experience a law office of bow ties, suspenders and linen suites, Mark Twains or at least Colonel Harland Sanders. He knows that’s not what lies in store for him. He will see the New South type of law firm, with women, African-Americans and Hispanics predominating the new hires. These are the groups migrating into the economy. Sterling, who thinks of himself as a young Republican and conservative, has only kind words for migrants of all stripes. These are not people who take jobs from Americans; they are the people who create jobs for Americans. They built this great country, his grandparents say. It is what his parents – Democrats that they are – believe. It is what he himself knows. Both sets of Sterling’s grandparents were born in Greece. His mother and dad are also Greek natives, although they migrated to America while hardly out of diapers. They never felt very Greek and do not speak the language, although they have not abandoned Orthodoxy and appear in church irregularly, at least four or five times a year. Sterling is yet another generation removed from having feelings for the old country. He often jokes that the only thing Greek about him is his five-syllable name, Eumorfopoulos. He has, however, no problems with that name (which is pronounced differently by Greeks in Greece). It derives from the ancient Greek words eu = good or lovely and morfí = face and thus denotes a handsome person, one with a lovely face. “Superficial, superficial, superficial,” the Trips once reminded him, prompting him to slug them. They ran to their parents; he got the strap.