a man, yet by these tears a little boy again (plus postscript)

two brief excerpts from

a man, yet by these tears a little boy again

from CHAPTER ONE

Bobby tried harder than ever to hold back his tears. But it was too late; he could not halt their flow. He was afraid, embarrassed, and ashamed of himself.

Not that his mother's cruel words told him anything new, about him or about her. He knew she resented his constant string of questions: what makes the sky blue? why does the sun shine? how high fly the clouds? how far swim the sharks? Bobby knew she’d never ever had time or energy for such questions, but certainly not now, now that his father was gone. But why did she have to yell at him, to call him stupid, to slap his face?

Nothing she (or anyone else) could do would drive his questions away. That was the trouble with it. That was a trap of it. He wanted to know...to know...to know everything and then some, but when the questions came the only person he could ask didn't have time for them. It's tough for a seven-year old boy's brain to take a break from asking to know, to forget wanting to understand the world. It's tough for his mind to mind only his own business.

Bobby quietly closed the door to his room behind him. His silent tears moistened his pillow into sleep's calm.

from CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rage drove Robert into Frank's corner office on the 21st floor of the Terminal Tower. He knew what was about the happen: another whistle blower quietly escorted out of the building at 10:30 a.m. when nobody would likely notice.

He had tried hard to maintain his composure, to speak calmly to the right people about how the brokerage’s cooked books hid the bilking of unsuspecting investors out of millions of dollars. He had documented it all, memorizing long columns of figures and names of shell companies during the day so he could enter the evidence in his computer at home each evening. The hours he spent holed up in the den made his wife suspicious that he was visiting porno sites or worse, which at times he really wished he had been. But the work had to be done carefully to provide everything management and prosecutors would need to build a case.

But the decision to fire him had been made, or so the rumor mill had it. His rage nearly morphed into tears of fear and disgust: fear for his future, and disgust at the callous treatment he and all the material he'd gathered were getting. Why didn't they hear what he had to say; why couldn't he convince them of its truth, of the danger it posed to them all? But his tears would have to wait; now he had truth to tell, as clearly as he could, now, one last time.

Robert knocked on Frank's door, heard “come in”, entered, and closed the door silently behind him. He was surprised to feel that, now, he was ready for anything.

+   +   +

Simon and Who?

During yesterday’s class my critique group consisted of three young college students and myself. One of the guys wrote a compelling piece about a boxer’s fall from grace. I commented that it made me think of Simon and Garfunkel’s The Boxer. He looked at me sort of quizzically, and I realized I was showing my age. “You have heard of Simon and Garfunkel?” I asked. “I think so,” he replied, perhaps not wanting to disappoint me. The other two had never heard of them. He later told us he hoped to learn how to write lyrics for popular songs. I suggested he might look them up.

I am tempted to conclude, “SO THAT’S WHAT’S WRONG WITH KIDS TODAY!” But damn, all three sure wrote fine pieces anyway.