Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  I halted in the doorway. “The question should be, ‘What did he do that for?’ He’s a Neanderthal, Michael.” I moved forwards, and he followed. “Though that’s an insult to Neanderthals.”

  “Okay, but they’re dangerous! I just hope he doesn’t see you again later.”

  I decided against pursuing this discussion further.

  The foyer was what you might expect: ancient, grimy floor tiles that might have started life as cream or maybe even white; dirt caked into corners and wherever the floor and a wall met; badly maintained wooden panelling on the walls below a chair rail, white marble with black veins above—badly in need of resurfacing. I followed him up two flights of stairs made of some unidentifiable stone, each step depressed in the centre from the wear of countless feet treading up and down and up and down. He shared three tiny rooms with a fellow who was seated at a desk on the left side of the room we entered from the hall. Without standing, this fellow turned towards me and held his hand out. I decided against annoying another of Michael’s acquaintances and shook hands.

  “Brad Tollman,” he said. I gave him my name, and he turned back to his desk. There was another desk and a small couch in this windowless room. There were doors to two other rooms, both bedrooms with windows.

  Michael turned to the right and gestured to a door. “Make yourself at home,” he said to me. “I’ll go roust Chas, and we can head out.”

  Michael’s bedroom. I was alone in Michael’s bedroom. I would have expected to notice the bed first, but the posters on the wall were so intense they practically assaulted me. Straight Edge imagery, bands with trap sets and electric guitars and keyboards, one image of some shirtless guy holding his tattooed shoulder so close to the camera that the rest of him was blurred. Xs all over the place. The only poster I could tolerate looking at for more than a few seconds was over the head of his bed: Van Gogh’s Starry Night, outlandishly out of place.

  The bedcover was a hideous red corduroy, worn in places where someone—Michael, presumably—had sat on it countless times. It was a twin bed; no room for anything bigger in here. But what was interesting was that the bedspread fit it, and it wasn’t new, which made me wonder if it had been on Michael’s twin bed at his parents’ home. I’d always slept in a queen-size bed, or at least since I was twelve or so. Maybe thirteen. And I’d always had a room plenty large enough to accommodate it. The quality of the bedspread—or the lack thereof—and the size gave me the impression that Michael’s family were not well-off, financially. Looking around the room I noticed a similar lack of quality, though the furniture itself was possibly provided by the school. The lamps, one on the bed table and one on the bureau, were small and cheaply made. I had just begun to examine the personal items on the bed table when I heard Michael return, someone in tow.

  “Chas Dakin,” said the fellow, holding his hand out to me. I shook it and gave him my name, trying not to stare at the two barbell piercings through his right eyebrow or the grey X-inspired T-shirt he wore untucked over a charcoal pair of those hideous not-quite-shorts, not-quite-trousers with the crotch that hangs about halfway down the thigh. Was there no place on this guy I could rest my eyes without wanting to turn away?

  Behind me Michael dug into a bureau drawer. I turned in time to see him pull out something olive drab, no doubt another T-shirt. Greedily I took in his bare torso as he removed the white shirt, disappointed that he was rejecting it but enjoying the outline of his abdominal muscles, dropping my eyes down to follow the slanted lines of muscle that disappeared into his jeans. Why had he worn the white shirt to the museum, and why change it now?

  Dressed again, he said to me, “You like?”

  It was, of course, another X-related thing. A few playing cards were printed in black across his middle. Above them in brick red was, I’M STRAIGHT EDGE. Below them was, DEAL WITH IT. Why would I like it? “Do I get in trouble if I tell you how much I preferred the white shirt?”

  He laughed without replying. “Shall we head out?”

  As Chas turned I noticed a massive tattoo, a gothic-style X on the side of his calf, bright red outlined in thick black ink. I looked away.

  We sat at a round table in a forgettable Chinese restaurant. With an effort, I pushed aside my frustrated feelings about Michael and focused my mind on the task at hand, which was to determine if there was enough to this X stuff for me to use it in my coursework, either centrally or peripherally. I learned that the movement had begun within punk, but became a protest against the self-indulgence and hedonism punk is known for. The name Straight Edge came from a song by a group called Minor Threat, and the X symbol was born when a Straight Edge band arrived to play at a club. It seems the band members were underage, and to allow them to stay but prevent them being served alcohol, the club management had put a large black X on their hands to alert club staff. Evidently this all goes back to 1980.

  Chas, who said he grew up in Colorado, rambled on about how cool it was to be clean, to be able to say no to offers of drugs now that he was in X. He talked about how he’d been into drugs in high school until he’d ended up in hospital. After that, starting the summer before his senior year, he had dedicated himself to X. He’d been to the Sound and Fury Festival in Los Angeles over the summer, and he raved about bands with names like Rotting Out, Minus, Harms Way, and Take Offense.

  The nasty bumper sticker still on my mind, I asked Michael, “Is cat-hater Dick in X?”

  He shook his head. “No, he’s just an asshole. And it’s not ‘in’ X. It’s just X.”

  Whatever. I asked Chas, “So what can you tell me about why these bands would deliberately give themselves names with dark or negative connotations, like Take Offense? What is the relationship between being clean, as you put it, and wilfully offending people?”

  Chas laughed, but without humour. “If you were X, you’d know what it’s like. There’s even an X T-shirt that says, ‘Straight Edge means I have no friends.’ Being X puts you into a minority group, and we get a lot of grief from people who don’t get it. So our response is, you know, ‘In your face, fuckers!’ ” He grinned as though he’d love to have someone to say that to right this minute.

  I glanced at Michael. How would he take it if I told this guy what it really means to have people hate you for no good reason, a reason you didn’t choose? What if I told Chas he didn’t have a clue? Or if I suggested he tell people he’s gay, or maybe that he’s really a girl, and see how many friends he had?

  I opted for a less confrontational way to make my point, even though I knew it might be a conversation-stopper. Instead of asking if anyone had ever been killed by being tied to a fence and then beaten and tortured to death because they were X, I said, “I know what you mean, in a way. You see, I’m gay. There are people who wouldn’t want to be my friend because of that.”

  I watched Chas’s face. This was a kind of challenge for him. He was not gay; I had no doubt. So would he refuse to be my friend?

  His grin drooped a little, and it was obvious to me he was struggling to maintain it as though I’d said nothing that disturbed him. I decided to take advantage. “How does X feel about gay people?”

  Chas shrugged, which gave him a chance to change his facial expression and let go of the fake grin. “Sort of depends. I mean, X is kind of a tough crowd.”

  Fighting to keep sarcasm out of my voice, forcing myself not to tell him what kind of guts it takes to be openly gay, I said, “Then being devotees of bands like Rotting Out or Harms Way must validate you. Tell me, who knows about these bands, other than Xers?”

  Chas blinked. “Well . . . I dunno. I mean, we play our music real loud. . . .”

  “So you gang together at festivals like—what was it? Oh yes, Sound and Fury, which I’m guessing would be attended by Xers. It sounds like, really, you’re tough for each other. Who else knows you’re tough? Because I have to tell you, I’d never heard of you before the other day.” The parallel between this exchange and my telling Dick that it wasn’t cats he was of
fending almost made me laugh; I struggled to keep a “straight” face.

  Chas glanced at Michael. I didn’t dare do that; I’d probably just sealed my fate with him, spending the entire evening alienating everyone he introduced me to. Something in me was rebelling against the “movement” that I’d yet to hear anything good about other than avoiding drugs. In particular it bothered me that X gave Michael permission to lie to himself about who he is and call that “living true.” And I was beginning to realise that the kind of thesis X would fit into would be more along the lines of groupthink psychology than the social culture of cities. X obviously has nothing to do with cities.

  With Chas dumbstruck and Michael with his nose practically on his plate rather than look at anyone, I decided to refocus the conversation. “What does X here, do you think, have in common with X in another country? Is X in Boston more different or more similar to, say, X in London?”

  Chas perked up a little. “Oh, X is X! It’s worldwide, and . . . well, of course there will be some differences. But that’s just because the members are, y’know, English or German rather than American. But the promise is the same.”

  “Right. No drugs, no booze, no sex. Is there any kind of leader?”

  He went on for a while about some prominent Xers who mostly seemed to be associated with bands, and he made a strong point about how even though some people think Xers are like gangs, the vast majority are nonviolent. He said there’s a group called Boston Hardcore that’s a Straight Edge group, and that they are more likely to be seen as troublemakers than the regular X group here. But it sounded as though the phenomenon is essentially autonomous from group to group, city to city, from what Chas could tell me.

  Then he started quoting lyrics from some of his favourite songs, all of them dark, depressed and depressing, fatalistic. From different songs he quoted phrases like, “Youth is a wound time won’t mend.” “The rusty gates of Eden lock to never let me in.” “We‘ll hold those barren bodies bereft of any soul.”

  “About the sex, though,” he offered, “not all Xers swear off sex. We swear off promiscuity. And you have to decide for yourself whether it’s possible to have sex before marriage without being promiscuous.”

  “And how about you? Have you sworn off sex until marriage?”

  I could tell he was avoiding looking at Michael; not sure how I knew, but I did. Had Michael confessed to Chas his struggles with sexuality?

  Chas grinned almost shyly. “Well, not exactly, no. I mean, you know.”

  “Earlier when I asked you about homosexuality, I didn’t get a good sense of the X attitude towards it. Anything else you can say about that?”

  He sounded a little more sure of himself this time. “Like I said, we swear off promiscuity. And lots of us swear off premarital sex. So if you don’t have sex until you’re married, you can’t ever have it with guys.”

  “Of course you can.”

  Both Michael and Chas said, “What?”

  I looked at Michael. “Come on. We’re sitting here in the first state in the US that supported marriage equality. And it’s not the only state anymore.” I looked back at Chas, who had started babbling something, but I interrupted him. “And from what you just said, should I infer that gays would be unwelcome in X under any circumstances, or only if they refuse to be chaste? Or are they welcome if they lie about it? Are they welcome if they marry some poor, unsuspecting woman?”

  Chas sat up straight. His tone giving the impression he was dealing me some kind of lethal blow, he said, “Have you considered that maybe if you became X you could leave that part of you behind?”

  “Have you considered that maybe there’s no earthly reason someone would want to be something other than gay, if that’s who they are?” He was still staring at me, trying to take this in, when I added, “Would you be willing to leave a part of yourself behind? Your leg, perhaps? A hip? Your penis?”

  Chas looked at Michael. “Did you know he was just going to find fault with us? Did you know he was just one of them?”

  Michael opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  I said, “ ‘One of them’? You mean the people who don’t like you? I didn’t know I was ‘one of them.’ So no, Michael didn’t know. I don’t know that I’m ‘one of them,’ now, either. But I can tell you I’ve heard almost nothing tonight I find appealing about X. You’ve even named your bands with terms designed to turn people away, so it stands to reason that you have detractors. In fact, it would seem you go out of your way to make sure you do.” I smiled to try and soften my approach. “But that’s not why I’m here, you know. I’m not here to like or dislike X. I’m here to learn about it. And I think I know all I need to.”

  I looked at Michael, who was still staring down at his empty plate. A sadness hit me; my sarcasm and antagonism had alienated him. The most I could hope for out of this meeting was that maybe he’d rethink what X is and is not, rethink what’s true and what isn’t. No more art lessons. No Italian dinners made by his nonna in the North End. Maybe it was for the best.

  I dropped a couple of twenties on the table. Quietly, directly to Michael, I said, “I’ll get a taxi home. Thanks for trying.”

  Chas watched me leave the table. Michael didn’t look up.

  On the ride home I watched sightlessly as the nighttime streets of Boston moved past my window. I repeated Maybe it was for the best to myself several times, eventually dropping the “maybe.” By the time the taxi arrived at the house I was feeling resigned but also a little sulky, and all I wanted was to get upstairs and do as much damage control as I could, in terms of homework, so that I wouldn’t earn demerits in all my Friday classes.

  I turned the front door lock as quietly as possible and scoped out where people might be so I could avoid them. I was in luck; the only people I could detect were Mum and Brian, evidently in the kitchen, talking. I headed for the carpeted stairs and would have tiptoed up them, but two things happened. First, I heard a loud thud as something struck a wooden surface upstairs. Second, I heard Brian say, “Em, I just don’t think this is going to work. I’d love for you to help with the interviews, but as for taking care of her yourself . . . It’s a specialised skill. You’re not trained.”

  Taking care of whom? And could the answer be anyone other than Persie?

  Mum’s voice sounded . . . offended, maybe? “You don’t trust me.”

  “It has nothing to do with trust. And, Em, it has nothing to do with Clive.”

  “So that’s your problem? You think that because of how I treated him, I can’t treat Persie well, either?”

  “There, see, that just proves my point. No matter how well she’s treated, no matter how much she’s loved, what she needs even more is someone who understands her. Who’s been trained to work with people with autism. That’s not you, Em. I’m sorry, but that’s not you.”

  I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t want them fighting. It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to witness it, though that was true as well. I didn’t want them fighting. I opened and closed the front door loudly as though just making my entrance to the house, and I headed for the kitchen.

  They both turned to look at me, and even if I hadn’t overheard anything I’d have known something was wrong. So I said, “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Mum stood and carried a teacup and saucer to the sink. “Anna has given notice.”

  I nearly gasped; I knew what this would mean to Persie. “How soon?”

  Brian said, “She tried to give two weeks’ notice.”

  “And evidently I’ve ruined that,” Mum said, her tone angry and sarcastic.

  I decided against opening that door. “Why is she leaving?”

  “She’s found a clinic position,” Brian said. “She wants more of a personal life, and regular office hours will make that possible. I can’t say that I blame her. But she’s the best tutor Persie’s ever had.”

  I added, “And even small changes are giant ones in this house.”

  “Exactl
y.”

  There was an elephant in the room, an amorphous blob of lilac and blue and pale yellow and black, keeping to the shadows. But where had it come from?

  Leaning her back against the counter, arms crossed over her chest, Mum said, “Evidently I destroyed all hope of a gentle preparation, because Persie overheard me talking with Anna about tutoring Persie myself. So she found out suddenly, and now she’s furious and won’t talk to anyone. Anna will probably need to leave right away.”

  “So that thump I heard a minute ago . . . that was Persie throwing something?”

  Brian’s face, already strained, took on an alarmed expression, and he got up and nearly ran out of the room.

  Mum told me, “She threw a glass figurine at me. She missed, but it was a beautiful thing she loved, and it’s in shards.” She sounded near tears.

  I turned and went into the music room. The day Persie had told me about Clyfford Still, she’d been toying with a glass bird. It was gone. Upstairs, Persie was now screaming.

  I was torn as to whether to try and console Mum or try to help Persie. I didn’t know what I could do in the kitchen, but maybe I could do something for the cat in pain upstairs. I raced past Persie’s screams and up to the top floor, turned on my computer, and searched for Still’s paintings. I wanted one in blood red, bright blue, bright yellow, and orange, the colours in the name, Still, and also in the word still, meaning calm. And I wanted one in sky blue, bright red, lilac, pale yellow, bright blue, and cream. Breathe. This one was harder to find, but there was one that was pretty close. I captured the images on separate screens with their words in capital letters beneath them and sent them to the colour printer, standing impatiently over the thing, willing it to work faster, hoping fervently that Persie had memorised the letter colour chart she’d asked for.

  Printouts in hand, I thundered down one flight and saw Anna standing tentatively just inside the door to Persie’s room, as though trying to come up with an action that would quiet the girl. I went in, past her and a grey-faced Brian, without saying anything; it would take too long to explain. I walked past as though I were Persie, only my goal in mind, and stopped in the middle of her playroom.