Unnecessary Noises

by Joseph M. Bianchi

  “New? Not much. I think you need to be more concerned about sis. Dad, you need to get involved with her, with her life I mean.

  “Involved? You can get as much involved with your sister as you can with a brick! She’s not interested in having a relationship. And by the way, mind your own business.”

  “No, really. This is serious. Can’t you tell that she is in with the wrong people?”

  “Yeah, us!”

  “No! We are her family! We’re the ones she should be with! Don’t you care?”

  “Of course; I’m her dad…and I would appreciate you keeping out of this. I’ll decide what’s best for her.”

  It was clear that nothing was going to change. The denials that were once so small were now becoming monsters, and sister was the victim. Neglect had taken its toll. It was a slow process, but it had devastating effects. It was as if everyone was an observer; watching and waiting, knowing what was going to happen—but doing nothing. To John, this was shear madness. What were they waiting for?

  After dinner John quietly made his way upstairs. He paused in front of his sister’s room, his hand suspended in midair wanting to knock, but not sure what he would say even if she did answer the door. He could hear her muffled weeping. He decided this was no time to back down and proceeded to make three loud knocks. The weeping stopped.

  “Yes?” came the feeble voice from behind the door.

  “Sis, it’s John. Can I come in?

  To his surprise, “Sure, why not” was the answer.

  He opened the door and found his sister staring blankly at the floor from the edge of her bed, her hand clutching a batch of used tissues.

  “Hi, John.”

  “Sis, what’s going on; what’s eating you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Loneliness I guess. Loneliness.”

  “But, you seem to have it all; good looks, friends and your family.”

  She smiled, “But I really have nothing. I’m disconnected from everything. And the only people that care are the wrong people.”

  “You mean, those new so-called friends of yours. Sis, you’ve got to get away from them. They’ll do you wrong.”

  “I can’t seem to break free of them. I just have no backbone anymore. There’s nothing left.”

  “Yes there is!” John insisted. “You’ve got to pull yourself together. We love you!”

  “Love? That’s nice, Johnny. If only I could feel love, and be loving.”

  “But you can—you can!”

  Just then John heard his mother’s voice calling him, probably to some menial task that he had forgotten to do. He looked intently at his sister. She was still sitting there expressionless. John’s heart was beating fast as if he was engaged in battle, and he was. A most important battle. But he saw he was making no progress, and the repeated call of his mother made him bid a slow retreat to the hallway and then down to the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Battle Ends

  The news reports were terse and gave very little detail: Teens involved in fatal crash; drugs suspected.

  It is amazing how something so tragic and profound can be described in such a way as to drain all the emotion out of it. The story will be read with perhaps a shaking of the head to express some remote concern, the page will be turned—and the tragedy instantly forgotten. But then there are those who have to live with it.

  The years past, but the house remained quiet and still. The unseen cloud was darkening every room. There were ghosts that walked here now, but they were very much alive. They carried with them unanswered questions. They lived in the shadows. But yet, there was always light.

  “Mom, did you see where I put my shoes?”

  “No,” came the flat response.

  “Hey, if I’m going to be interviewed for college entrance, I’ve got to polish them. You know, I don’t think I ever have! I’ll grab something quick to eat, and then I’m off.”

  He managed to locate his shoes, quickly and efficiently applied liquid polish and, after sufficient drying time, put them on. Dashing to the kitchen, he made himself half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and practically swallowed it whole. He then ran into the bathroom to brush his teeth and comb his hair. There: ready!

  “Mom, I’m off. Say a prayer for me.”

  “Oh, I will John. I will!” she said, grasping her hands to her chest.

  John stopped for a moment and gave his mother a smile; he then ran over and gave her a big bear hug. That was the most emotion he had seen from her in quite a while. He knew her days of mourning had been long—and were not over, but something was stirring and perhaps this would be the beginning of something really good.

  “Hey, I’ll call and let you know how it went.”

  “You do that, John. I’m looking forward to the call.”

  The train ride lasted almost an hour but it seemed as only a moment to John. He watched the neighborhoods fly by. At first, they were very familiar, but as the ride progressed, became less so. Nevertheless, he enjoyed every minute. And these were minutes of anticipation.

  The train pulled into the station and everyone aboard simultaneously got up, grabbing their coats and luggage. It was a jumble of confusion that John found quite exciting. He exited the train and found himself in a mass of humanity all moving toward various exits. He found his way into the main terminal teaming with even more people and lined with shops. It was a marvelous wonderland. John felt free. He felt energized. This was what he had been looking for; he finally felt he was someplace he actually belonged.

  He began to observe people. He was riveted by the vast array of faces. Never had he thought he would see so strange a menagerie of personalities. He saw those whom the world would call eccentric, but what he would call just different. This was a universe he needed to observe more closely. But now he had to take care of simply finding his destination.

  Moving to the far side of the terminal, he located the subway map. He marveled at its intricacy. He carefully examined it. Yes, he had no problem finding the right route. After purchasing his token and passing through the turnstiles, he waited on the platform. A thought came to him:

  “This is the world my sister would have loved!”

  Just as quickly his thoughts were broken by the squeal of train wheels. The subway doors opened up invitingly, and in he went. The ride was noisy, but the people on board seemed oblivious to the racket. After five minutes and several stations, John got off at his stop. He flowed up the flight of stairs with the crowed to the street above. He was surprised to find that he arrived on the street he needed to be on, and preceded to his destination: the admissions office.

  “An interesting high school transcript, John,” the man behind the desk began. “So, let’s see…you finished high school in three years. Well, now, you did well. Of course, there was even a short break when you became, uh..” he smiled broadly and almost giggled, “….uh…famous…shall we say.”

  “Um…yes, yes. But that was just a passing thing.”

  “We like achievers here, John. Do you think you are one?”

  “Yes…um…yes, sir. I think I am.”

  “OK…you know, I went back into the mortuary to do some research.”

  “The mortuary?”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said with a smirk, “the ‘mortuary’ I’m referring to is slang for where they keep old newspapers for research purposes.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Yes, in fact I followed your rise to fame with great interest. What really got me is that through all the trappings of fame, you simply kept saying that you only were telling people what you felt was common sense. Is that accurate?”

  “Well, yes. I don’t think I said anything extraordinary.”

  “Now, John. That may be a problem.”

  “A problem? What do you mean?”

  The man leaned back in his chair and placed his feet on the desk, almost in John’s face. “John, we want extraordinary people in this university. Put the emphasis on ‘extra.�
� Common sense is great. But you can find common sense right out there…” He pointed to the window beyond which were construction workers busy at their task on a new building. “You see, John, any common blue collar guy can have what you call ‘common sense.’ What we are looking for is a profound intellectual sense. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

  John wiggled nervously in his chair, straitened his tie, said: “I think I know what you are getting at. I think you mean you want people with new, forward thinking ideas.”

  The man took off his glasses and spread his arms wide. “Exactly! That is what we are looking for. Hey, it’s the Seventies. People are becoming more and more aware of themselves. In the Sixties it was all about great political causes. Now, people are discovering more about themselves. Got it?”

  “Like…what are they discovering?”

  The man started to speak but stammered a bit. “Um… well…lots of things. That they can be free, for example.”

  “Free? From what?”

  The man seemed a little annoyed, and rotated his chair away from John and began to look out the window toward the construction workers. “Themselves and society. Society you see puts restraints on people. Enlightened people want to break the chains and be free.” He leaned further back in his chair, almost falling over and stretched his hands out toward the ceiling, gazing up as if in a trance.

  “Um…but sir…” John said slowly, “aren’t there supposed to be restraints on people?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, people without restraints do things; bad things—terrible things. That is why we have the rule of law, right?”

  The man seemed a bit stunned. His lips moved but nothing was coming out. Finally: “Yes, yes. Rule of law. Blah, blah, blah. Ok, John, thanks for coming in. We’ll get back to you on your admissions status.” With that he sprung from his seat. John instinctively did the same.

  “Yes, we’ll get back to you,” the man concluded and guided John out the door of his office.

  John made his way to the student center and found a pay phone. He called his home number and his mother answered almost immediately.

  “John, I’ve been waiting for your call. It’s been quite a while. How did things go?”

  There was a long pause then: “I’m not quite sure, mom. I’m not sure.”

  CHAPTER 18

  A Short Course in Philosophy

  The envelope seemed benign enough. There was nothing special about it; no gold trim, no embossing—and no recognizable name that would make you want to rip it open and immediately examine its contents. Except for one phrase on the return address: “Office of Admissions.”

  John nervously examined it. Just then his mother entered the kitchen where he was standing. He forcefully rammed it into his pocket.

  “John? What was that you put into your pocket? Something I should know about?”

  “Um…ah…just a letter, mom. That’s all.”

  “From whom?”

  “The university,” he said, looking down.

  “Open it, John,” mom said with determination, trying to vaporize John’s fears. “Open it, now!”

  He pulled the now crumbled letter from his pocket. For a moment he stared at it. He then opened it gingerly, pulling out its contents.

  “Read it to me, John. Come on now!”

  “Dear John,” he began, “…we are…we are…” He looked up, his face glowing, “…we are pleased to offer you admission to the freshman class…” He let the letter drop to the floor. He reached over and embraced his mom for what seemed like hours, both trying to hold back tears.

  “I’ll…I’ll call your father at work and tell him!”

  “No, mom. Let me… Never mind. Yes, go ahead.”

  She picked up the phone, and just as quickly put it down. She gazed at John with admiration. “Your sister…she really would have been proud of you. Despite what you might have thought, she really did love you.”

  “Yes, mom. I know.”

  The class was full; every seat had been taken in the lecture hall. By what John had gleaned, this was the course to be in. It was taught by a rather controversial but fascinating professor. His claim to fame was that he believed that nothing existed—nothing! John found this curious and provocative. It was just the sort of thing he felt he needed. After all, as a college student, weren’t you supposed to delve into the mysteries of life? And, certainly, if he had lived the cloistered life that so many at the college had told him he had, well, it was just the right time to broaden his horizons.

  The chatter in the class immediately stopped when professor McGriff entered the room. He took off his coat to reveal several other layers of clothing: two sweaters, two scarfs—and a flannel shirt covering his dull looking dress shirt and tie.

  After carefully placing them on the desk in front of him, he proceeded to slowly walk up the aisle that separated the two sections of the lecture hall. Like a drill instructor examining his raw recruits, McGriff placed his hands behind his back and looked from side to side, sizing up the potential victims. He then walked back down to his desk and said matter-of-factly: “OK. Let’s get something straight. This is not an easy course, and I’m not a nice guy. OK? Is that clear? Most of you will get a ‘C’ in this course if you are lucky…very lucky.”

  John would have said something right then and there, but like the others, he was too much in shock. “So this is college?” he thought.

  McGriff moved to the front of his desk; there would be no obstacles in his way when addressing the troops.

  “First, this is a course in the study of knowledge. For example, what do we really know? I say nothing. That’s right; I think we can know nothing! Can you be certain of what you believe? After this course, you won’t be certain about anything!”

  “Wow! That will be helpful in life!” John blurted, speaking out loud when he really wanted to keep his thoughts to himself.

  McGriff seemed shocked and quickly scanned the room. “Alright, who said that?”

  “Um…I did.” John admitted, his voice cracking with fear.

  The guy sitting next to him poked him hard in the ribs. “Fool!” he whispered, “You should have said nothing!”

  McGriff was now standing over him. “What is your name, son?’

  “John D’Angelo, sir.”

  “Ah! ‘John of the Angels.’ Well, John…and you can cut out the sir stuff…I have a question for you. Ready?”

  “Um….sure.”

  “Do you have any religious beliefs?

  “Yes, I do. I’m a Christian.”

  “So you believe in a life after death, right?” McGriff was not looking at John, but rather scanning the room again, this time with a sarcastic smile on his face.

  “Yes, I do. And I believe in Jesus Christ…” his heart was thumping loudly in his chest, but his determination grew, “…and I believe that man is basically evil, and needs to be restrained because he is a sinner.”

  “Oh, a sinner!”

  Laughter erupted. John felt ambushed; he cowed down in his seat, but refused to back down.

  “Students, we have what we call a ‘true believer’ here.” More laughter. McGriff lowered himself to eye level with John. “And what proof do you have that this Jesus of yours ever existed?”

  John looked down, and then up, right into McGriff’s eyes. “What proof do I have that you exist?”

  McGriff raised himself up as if snapping to attention, “None!”

  “And what proof is there that anything you are saying is helpful at all?”

  “Helpful for what? I never claimed in my books that I was being, what you call ‘helpful.’”

  “Professor, we are on the eighth floor of this building, right?”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “Well, to prove your theory, why don’t you just throw yourself out the window to the non-existent pavement down below?”

  “Young man,” he said, running his hand through his bushy, unkempt hair, “I have to prove n
othing!”

  “Really? I guess your paycheck from the university is nonexistent to!”

  With that, his fellow students clapped wildly with shouts of “Great!” and “Good point!”

  McGriff was flustered. “Ok, quiet down. Well, well Mr.John ‘of the angels’, I see that you can think. Students, this is going to be very interesting semester!”

  John fumbled for change. The inside of the phone booth smelled horrible; who knows who or what had once taken up residence in it. He dialed the number and waited nervously. It seemed as if the phone rang a million times until a familiar voice was heard.

  “Uncle Tony?”

  “Yes, who is…is this John?”

  “Yes, uncle, it’s me alright.”

  “Hey, college boy! How’s it going?”

  “Well, that’s what I’m calling you about. It’s a different world here, Uncle Tony.”

  “Really, John? How so?”

  “Well, it’s like…people believe all kinds of things here. I don’t know. When I was being put in front of audiences and microphones years back, it just seemed like everybody was on the same page.”

  John could almost see his uncle giving him a knowing smile. “Johnny you said the magic word.”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Seemed’”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, John, people often rally around causes that make them feel good, but if you sat down with them…well, you’d find a whole lot of differences in their thinking. You see, that’s what makes a good communicator: getting people to pull together, even if they all have differences. Like I always said, I believe you have that talent.”

  “No, uncle. I don’t believe I have it anymore. This is a real grown-up type world. It seems like the object of it is to crush everything you believe and to turn you into some kind of plastic robot spitting out what you have already been fed.”

  “Ah! But that is where you can make a difference. You see if you spit back what they have fed you, in the right way I mean, you are getting them to think. And then you become the teacher, not the taught.”

  “Huh? But isn’t the object for the student to learn?”