Thought Chasm

My hand is clammy, sweating against the metal of my trumpet. Heat radiates from my face like asphalt after an afternoon in the sun. The conductor stands impatient, shifting his weight from right to left. The men scan the room, their faces show no emotions.

When they walked in a few moments ago I thought they looked right at me. Someone told them. They knew already and were disrupting the class to make a bigger statement, to make an example of me.

They just finished their plea for the perpetrators to admit their guilt. I sat through the talk with my lips pursed trying to push any reaction to someplace behind me. The row in front of me hears every rapid thump of my heart. It’s a wonder they haven’t said anything.

My left knee’s bouncing slightly. I stretch my legs straight, cross them at the ankles and then straighten them again. I bring my feet under my chair. My knee starts bouncing again.

I don’t know what came over me or why I did it. I was in the restroom just before stepping into the band room. One of the paper towels fell into the sink, growing dark with moisture immediately.

The Vice Principal, his eyes still scanning the crowd of students, catches my gaze. I know he knows, sees right through me. But his eyes move away, off to the right. He’s toying with me.

That he hasn’t called me out, dragging me out of the room by my arm, is more proof he’s waiting for me to give myself up. For him to miss my sopping wet shirt and that I’m shaking like a twig in a tornado is unthinkable.

I reached down in the sink and grabbed the soaked towel, balled it up and tossed it at the wall beyond the stalls. It made a satisfying, wet thwack against the tile, adhering itself.

Then things got out of hand. I put more paper towels into the sink, let them absorb to saturation and then held them in my hand, letting the water drip through my fingers. I set the pile on the shelf, peeled one off and tossed it at the wall above the urinals.

I peeled off more, one at a time, tossing them against different parts of the room. One hit and stuck to the mirror, another a stall door. I don’t know how many I threw, a half-dozen or so. I trashed the rest and finished rinsing my hands.

I turned to leave and heard two fellow band members walk in. Their eyes darted from wet paper towel wad to wet paper towel wad. I walked between them and out the door, sweating my anxiety.

The other man, an assistant coach of the football team and geometry teacher, starts to talk again. My ears have grown larger and are sweating. He says something about how the punishment will be worse without admission. I can’t hear his words through the throbbing of my ears and the rapid dudump of my heart.

The conductor’s face is swollen, red and shiny with sweat. His foot taps rapidly. Why is he furious? One of the students that walked into the bathroom is two rows up on the other side of the room. He looks my way.

Without thinking, I stand. I’ve grown heavy, my knees shake under the added weight. I raise my hand and set my trumpet down behind me on the chair. I wheeze, I did it but few notice. Only the girl next to me turns to look at me, a laugh forming at the corners of her eyes.

I threw them, I say louder, stepping away from the chair and toward the door. Eyes of the students are instantly on me, a hundred sets feel like thousands. The trombone players move their instruments from the walkway, letting me pass.

I realize there is no way they would have pinned the paper towels to me. The two that had followed me would never have known for sure. The one may never have spoken up.

The two men meet me at the door, following me out. Vice Principal told me to collect the towels, watching me as I did so. In his office, he explained that he’d never heard of me and that was a good thing. He let me leave with a warning.

My lack of faith in others had me walking back to my locker ashamed. I could have avoided the whole mess by denying or lying. Not throwing the towels would have done the same but I decided my admission was the issue.

Later, I learned to be better at just that.

He was sitting, slouched and frail, in the chair he’s been sitting in every time I’ve visited since he moved. She’s sitting on the bed, only a few feet from him, next to me. He looks over at her and then around the room, not looking at anything. Far away.

“I was lucky twice in my life. That the Germans surrendered before we crossed the Rhine was the first and the second was Dort here.” His eyes focused on her as she smiled and nodded though she probably hadn’t heard his words.

He was born in the late twenties, the eldest of more than ten children, and saw the depression first hand. He was in WWII and worked his entire life. He used to hunt and play baseball. Now he sits in that chair, day to day, barely able to walk.

There’s much made of the current market fluctuation, complete with haste, exaggeration and scare-tactics. As soon as I heard the first exclamation of our pending doom, I think back to that day, sitting on that aged twin bed.

He has been a provider for his entire life, first for his sisters and brothers and then his wife and children, one of which now provides for me. His dry wit and sarcasm poked fun at his mediocrity but I never once heard or heard of him being down on himself. Only now, after his body has failed him and his wife’s mind is distant, has the spark in his eyes faded.

Such a simple statement. The weight of it hit me that day and is probably why it comes to mind now. It puts so much in context without complaint or explanation.He’s lived through so much and yet sums it easily.

In contrast, the media fills with fear, dark predictions and confusion. The world is falling and action must be taken immediately without debate or absorption. The country is crumbling and we need to understand the direness of the situation without discussing alternatives.

Those in power now ask directly for the masses to sacrifice thousands of their own money to hand them hundreds of billions to relieve companies that have made short-sighted, ignorant and outright greedy decisions for decades. They have assisted in this power and money grab, taking away checks to their power. Now we must realize their error and save them from inevitable failure.

That man, sitting in that chair that day, lived through a depression and worked to provide. In the thirty years since the absurd concept of “trickle-down economics”’ first reared its demonic head, he has yet to feel the smallest.

No one I know has directly benefited from an economic theory that’s now failing. The top one percent of our population controls almost forty-percent of the nation’s wealth. The top is growing heavy on the back of the other ninety-nine percent. It was bound to crumble under its own weight eventually.

How will I fair if the economy actually lives up to all the black-cloud predictions? Will I be able to earn enough to keep my head above water and reach the goals I’ve roughly outlined? Can I be the provider I’d like to be?

Will I be able to provide a summation that’s reflective, thoughtful and poignant? Or will I rant about everything I wish I’d done or how I was subtly oppressed?