by Scott Powell
They circle me forever. Finally, David lunges at me, trying to grab me while another comes from behind. I tuck my chin down, so he is unable to put me in a choke hold while I raise my right leg and thrust it forward, as if to kick a door in, and plant it right into David’s gut. He is blown back, right onto the ground. Knowing there is a third assailant, I quickly grab the arm around my throat and jerk down like my father had taught me and slip my head to my right, through an opening I had created, and pull him toward me. I proceed to knee him multiple times while using him as a shield between me and my other opponent.
Even with the gear stuff, I know I have caused enough damage to incapacitate this young soldier, and I prepare to engage his companion. I have angered them, which is good. My dad always said if I can get someone to become emotional I have already won because they are not thinking with a clear mind. The third opponent rushes me with no technique. I grab the back of his head, controlling his movement, and put him into a front choke hold. He immediately taps out, knowing it will only be seconds before blackness overwhelms him.
Now it’s only David and me, and he is still very furious remembering how I’d humiliated him and more importantly, he believes I have taken his rightful place, being the number one cadet. But David is skilled and has not forgotten our past encounters and does not look to rush me so quickly like the others. To my surprise, David steps to the side of the ring and picks up an aged metal bar off the ground. I quickly look to our leader, and his face gives no indication what David is doing is against the rules. Obviously, this new program from the State literally means no rules and even with this gear, the metal bar could do some considerable damage.
With his new-found weapon in hand and a smirk on his face, David approaches, preparing to strike me at will. Seeing he is overconfident and knowing I have limited options and time, I use a technique my father had taught me to buy the precious time I need to win this fight. That is to simply distract your opponent by mentioning something that has nothing to do with what is happening at that very moment.
“David, where are we going to eat after we are done with this exercise?” I state, as if we are having a normal conversation.
David stops and has a perplexed look on his face, during which I use a front kick to the groin. At that, his expression changes drastically. I rush to pin his arm with the bar while he is in a state of shock or pain, doesn’t matter which to me. As I pull him toward me, I knee him in his ribs and abdomen. At this point, David’s mind is trying to adjust, but it’s too late. I go behind him and easily place a choke hold on him, which he is too stunned to prevent. He has to tap out before he finds himself unconscious.
I hear the Serge yell out, “That’s enough, let him go, John. I think you have shown to be our finest cadet and able to adapt quickly with unknown circumstance! That will be all today, boys, since this is new. But understand we will be implementing this going forward, and all of you will have this experience. Dismissed!”
I pull off the gear. My head is soaked with sweat, and my heart is racing from the amount of adrenaline pumping through my body. Sometimes, I think being in the Young Army is more dangerous than being in the real army, but it allows my family to enjoy certain privileges. Out of the corner of my eye, I can still see David and the other two recovering from their experience of defeat. I am not so sure they would have shown me the same type of mercy I have shown them, but that is why I am so well respected—because of the morals I keep.
As I arise, the sergeant approaches me and states, “John, that was very impressive. I haven’t seen anything like your style my entire career. Your instincts are razor sharp, and what you did with David to buy you time was amazing and shows your gifts that will benefit the State one day. Keep up the good work. I assure that the State is watching.”
I reply, “Thanks, Sarge, I appreciate your feedback and the opportunity to excel in the Young Army.” Though my statement isn’t entirely true, I know better than to share my true feelings.
I grab my backpack off the ground and start my run home. I can’t help but wonder why the State has all of a sudden decided to add such a program to the Young Army, especially when I am the guinea pig. Either way, thanks to my father’s training, I made it out in one piece. As I run past all the houses, I can feel the searing sun beating down on my face, which only makes me run even faster to get out of the rays of light.
Chapter 5
I arrive at home to find all windows and doors open to their maximum capacity. I walk inside only to be greeted by an even larger onslaught of heat, as once again, my mother is cooking beans. Her face is red from the heat and exertion of having to constantly stir the boiling beans. I have often wondered how anyone survives today under such conditions. Once, people were able to live till their late eighties and some even to a hundred years old! On average, people today died in their sixties, if not earlier, due to the harsh conditions and expectations of the State.
People are given life credits, and if one runs out of them, then their usefulness to the State is gone. If one even so much as breaks a leg without a credit, there is nothing anyone can do about it. Children born with mental or physical handicaps are given no credits at all. The moment something happens to them, they are done. For me, this is the norm but something my parents dreaded, for they saw many suffer and receive no help because of the State’s regulations.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Working,” my mother says, stirring the pot.
“Overtime pay?” I ask, leaning over to smell the pot of beans. Mmm, I can tell mom still had a little bit of ham left over for these beans, as well.
“No, of course not, there’s never enough money for overtime pay. I’m glad we have a job.” She says, looking up from her pot of beans. I nod in agreement, thinking about Mark and Stephanie’s dad. “Your father said that when you got home today, if you don’t have any homework, you are to go out to the backyard and meditate.”
“Okay, Mom, I’ll do just that,” I say, kissing her cheek. I open the back screen door, dropping my backpack by the frame, hitting the floor just inside as I step out in our small, fenced backyard. Gardens are illegal, unless one has a special license. Before I joined the Young Army, we had a secret garden of this or that, hidden around the yard. That is why our front lawn is full of dandelions. People think they are weeds, but we know better. Dandelion greens are very tasty and very good for you. The State made gardens illegal, saying people might make themselves sick from the food they grow. I know people are much more likely to become ill when they don’t have enough to eat.
Now I’m in the Young Army, we have a permit to have a garden and Mother has greatly expanded; every inch of the backyard is now full of green, growing food. My mother even hung containers full of berry bushes from the fence to the back porch. Barrels of tomato plants adorn the walkway. There is only enough room for one person to carefully walk to the meditation circle, which my father had insisted my mother leave fruitless.
It is one of those liquid hot days, the kind that melts you from the inside out. On days like this, my father would talk about air-conditioning, a thing that made whole houses cool so you could stay inside all day. Back then, old people lived longer because air-conditioning kept them out of the heat. I can’t imagine such a thing. He tells me the President still has air-conditioning in the White House, but he’s a hypocrite for telling people to do without something he is not willing to give up.
I start on the meditation exercises my father has taught me. I know it must be sweltering for my mother to be standing over the pot of beans trying to get them soft enough to eat on a day such as this. I am grateful my mother sent me outside to meditate, but my heart reaches out to her because even with the door open, it is unbearably hot. It is no wonder so many people are lost throughout the year. Either we are freezing or baking to death, and if one is thought to have no more life value, the State would simply not give them needed care or attention, feeling that would be wasted resources.
To
think I live in a time where people are actually measured. They are given a life value. And each year it is revalued, based on one’s standing in life. That value is what the State is willing to invest in them—food, clothing, medical care, and other things. Of course, we are told this is the most efficient way of distributing our valuable resources. I may still be young, but I have learned such propaganda is full of lies, otherwise why value one human over another? I was taught God equally values all His creations, that we will all be judged based on our works and not our earthly wealth. I focus on my meditation again. Despite all I see every day I am hopeful; I am a free man, despite appearances otherwise.
I start to run through the first ten amendments of the Constitution of the United States of America, an extraordinary country based on freedom and faith. My father explained and re-explained, drilling into me, the ideas of the forefathers and their contributions when establishing America as a republic.
What’s the difference between a republic and democracy? In a democracy, everyone votes for everything; a new road is needed, the people have to vote on it. In a republic, the people elect officials who then make the decisions. One of the reasons the United States of America fell was because they moved from a democratic republic to a pure democracy.
There is one fact above all others my father has made sure I know: George Washington’s birthday was February 22, 1732.
I continue to meditate on George Washington and how I wish I could be like him. In Valley Forge, when his men had no housing except tents, George Washington was offered a comfortable house to live in, but he declined, saying if his men slept in tents, so would he. Having such courage during such a time of disparity gives me hope that someday another will rise up just like George Washington. Someone who will value his people more than his very life. Someone who will again bring to light life and liberty. I cannot help but start to feel excitement and renewed hope, knowing someday such a thing could happen again. I am pondering this when the smell of the beans hit my nose and I remember the plight of my mother. I stand up, stepping back over pots full of vegetation, and open the screen door. I walk up to my mother and take the spoon from her hand.
Smiling up at me, she says, “Thank you, John.” She heads towards the back of the house, I assume to lie down. If we had air-conditioning, then I wouldn’t have to worry about my mother or the need to stir beans on a hot day, but complaints about things like that don’t change anything. I finish the beans to a soft creamy perfection, and I awake my mother and we eat a fantastic meal made all the better by my mother’s smile. My watch starts to beep at me and I look down at it.
Chapter 6
“Oh, that’s right, tonight is the meeting of The Young Statesmen,” I say out loud. The meeting is mandatory for everyone between the ages of twelve to eighteen. They take place about once a month and usually include ice cream, which is more than enough reason for most people to go and allow themselves to be propagandized. It’s funny to think the State has managed to make people think they are the only solution, that there is no other option.
In the beginning, according to my parents, more people spoke out because they remembered the old ways. Most of them are long gone. At first, the State ignored those who spoke out, but as the State’s power grew, so did their policies and those who abused the new regulations of the State were said to be conspirators against the State. Most of the time they were executed to show the consequence of rebellion. So the rebellions faded as time passed.
I quickly shower for the second time today, grateful for the luxury to do this. I dress again in my uniform and walk the short distance to the church building in which the meeting is held. It’s ironic that we meet in an edifice of God, where no words are spoken or allowed except those who have been assigned to do so. We are taught that we are watched over by the State and we are here solely to serve the needs of the State.
I enter the musty smelling building. Its brown pews with red cushions look to be hundreds of years old. I sit in the back next to my friends and a few members of my squad, and we listen to the official ramble on about how “all things you have are from the State, and it is because of the State that you have anything at all.” And then they say, “Don’t listen to your parents, the State knows what’s best for you. Your parents don’t know anything, only the State can help you. Listen to us, we are your friends. We care about you; the president cares about you. He wants only what’s best for you.”
I seriously doubt anyone believes what this man is saying, but if they do, I feel sorry for them. They believe in a world where everyone has to be told what to do. That no one would do anything good or anything helpful or anything charitable, if the State doesn’t tell them to. That is a sad belief in humanity. I believe as my father does, that people, in general, want to do the right thing. They want to help each other and when they see a need, they will fill it, if only given the chance.
Such discussions are forbidden, because the State believes it would cause a rift amongst the people. It is why the State was created in the first place, so people would be treated equal. If that were the case, then why is it that the Young Army has special privileges? Why is it that only certain families have permits to grow a garden? Why is it that each person is given a life value each year, and it is what determines what the State will invest in them, and if it exceeds such resources, then that person is allowed to become extinct?
Such questions rush through my mind as I continue to hear the bantering of the State representative, who, might I add, is wearing very costly apparel and was driven to the church in an air-conditioned car. How do I know this? Well, simply by the fact that when he stepped out of his car his windows were still rolled up, which no one would do on such a hot, blistering day even if they did happen to have a car to drive in the first place!
When the propaganda speeches conclude, I get ice cream with the rest of them. I see Stephanie Jenkins standing near the door; she eats her ice cream slowly. I think she is trying to leave with hers in order to take it home for her little brothers and sisters.
I walk casually over to her. “How is it going, Stephanie?” I ask.
“Not good, John, not good at all. The little ones are so hungry, all they do is cry. Mark brought some things home from lunch, but it wasn’t enough. I don’t know how to get them to bed tonight with them being as hungry as they are. They don’t understand. But how can we make them understand, how does someone so young understand hunger?”
I put my arm around her and walk her quietly and quickly to the front door. We are not supposed to leave with our ice cream. What we don’t finish is supposed to stay here, but I know no one will question me. So when no one is looking, I scrape mine out of my dish and into hers and send her through the doorway and on her way home. I put my disposable bowl in the trash and start my own trek home, grateful to be away.
Away from the continuous lies we are bombarded with, I wonder how this great nation had gone backwards and why the people don’t fight back! I feel anger building within my breast, and so I take a few deep breaths to relax myself before the watch, which is always monitoring, responds to my increased heart rate. Though the watch can do a lot of things, it still does not have the capacity to read our minds, though I would not be surprised if the State were working on such a device.
I am most of the way home when Sean, Lane, Frank, and Jackson catch up to me.
“Hey, man, what have you been doing with yourself?” Frank asks me.
“Not much, just staying in shape, doing homework, you know how it is,” I answer.
“Really? Because I heard that you handled three of the toughest cadets in the Young Army single-handedly!”
“Well, we had a new program from the State, and we tried it out today. I guess I was kind of lucky.” I can’t believe it has gotten out so fast, but what do you expect when you are the best in your group and people have a tendency to over exaggerate.
“Oh, man, all work and no play makes you a very dull boy, John,” Sean says.
“This weekend, Sandra is having a party at her house you need to come; it’s going to be the best.”
“Okay, sounds like fun,” I say, stopping in front of my house.
“John Hancock Bates, get in here now,” my mother’s voice rings through the night air. “John Hancock Bates, get in this house, your father wants to have a word with you, mister!”
“John Hancock? Ha, ha, put your John Hancock here,” Lane says, pointing to his hand and pretending it is a piece of paper. The others join in on the joke, but they seem unsure as to why it is funny. At first, I think I should put my John Hancock on his face, now he has caused me to be late and in trouble. But I know if I do my parents would be even more upset with me. Either way, his remarks don’t bother me; I am surprised he actually knows the saying. Only older adults know it nowadays, but even they don’t really know how the saying started.
I am named John Hancock after John Hancock, the original signer of the Constitution of the United States of America; he wrote his name on the Constitution with very big letters so “the King of England would not have to put his glasses on to read it.” John put his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor on the line for the cause of freedom. One could still see most of his signature, one of the few things still visible on the original document. Or at least, they could before they burned it. That’s why my parents named me John Hancock, so someday I, too, will stand forth boldly for freedom like John Hancock and the others, such as George Washington and Benjamin Franklin. Men who had bravely put their names on a document they believed in, a document that would provide freedom for themselves and others, even though it might cost them their very lives.
