But was it possible for a few drops to occasionally escape that river, to find a new path? Sometimes it was. They could be taken away clinging to the bathing suit of a child or scooped up by a motorist whose vehicle had overheated and deposited into a radiator. They could be lapped away from the river by a deer or a coyote or a bear or even a stray dog. Though most of the drops were fated to continue on their way to the Pacific Ocean; it was possible for some to escape, wasn't it?
When I finally left I was soaked from the mist, shivering, probably on the verge of hypothermia, and I had a bitch of a headache.
But I felt better all the same.
Chapter 6
Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion
I was soaring ever higher
But I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a madman
I hear the voices when I'm dreaming
I can hear them say:
Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
KANSAS
I awoke in a better mood the next morning even though nothing had really changed. Everything was falling or had fallen down around me and it was time to start picking up the pieces. I was determined to take action; to strike back at FATE. During my mind session the day before I'd realized that both Anita and myself were walking examples that fate could be changed.
It may not be easy to do, but it was possible. If things did not improve, or if they got worse from my interference, at least I'd be able to say that I'd tried.
After breakfast I went to our den and dug through my Dad's filing cabinet. After a minute of rummaging I came up with the letter that Tracy had sent us. I opened it up and scanned through it until I found the section I wanted.
"I have a job now," I read, "working at the campus book store as a clerk. I have to…" I scanned further, skipping over the brief description of her job duties. "I work 5:00 to closing at 8:00, Monday through Friday. It's fun I suppose. At least the money will help…"
5:00 to 8:00 Tracy would be in the UC Berkeley bookstore. I memorized that information and then put the letter back.
A few minutes later I was bundling up and preparing for the long walk to school. As I stepped outside the house I was grateful to see it was not raining. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun was so bright it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to it. It was a beautiful fall morning it appeared.
My happiness at the appearance of the sun quickly deflated when I felt the wind. It was blowing about twenty miles an hour, sending leaves and other debris parading down the street. The moving air was icy and cold, feeling as if it had just came off a glacier. My exposed cheeks immediately reddened and my eyes began to tear. With a sigh I pulled my hood tight, lowered my face, and moved out. This walking to school shit was getting old fast. One way or another, I swore to myself, I was not going to do it much longer.
My first stop upon arriving at school was the administration building. I walked into the main lobby area where two secretaries were working behind a counter. Both were banging away on IBM typewriters. Two student volunteers, both girls, one of whom had once been to my room to 'study', were doing some filing. The one I'd had relations with in the past was the only person in the room to pay my entrance any attention. She gave me a sly smile and then went back to what she was doing.
I walked up to the counter and stood politely for a few seconds. The nearest secretary continued to type, not even glancing my way, although there was no way she could have failed to notice my presence.
"Excuse me?" I finally said.
"You can't use the phone in here." She said impatiently, without even looking up or moving her hands from the typewriter keys. "There's a payphone outside. If you don't have a dime, you're gonna have to borrow one from somewhere else. We're not a bank."
"I'm not here to use the phone." I said.
"Then what do you want?" She asked, continuing to type away.
"I need to see Mrs. Compleigh." I told her, referring to one of the school counselors, the one who had pushed Mike into independent study.
Her hands still blurring across her IBM, she asked, "Do you have an appointment?"
"No." I replied. "But it's kind of an emergency. I need to…"
"You'll have to schedule an appointment with her if you want to talk to her." She replied tersely. She returned her full attention to her work.
"This is an emergency." I tried again. "I need to see her now."
She gave a hiss of disgust and pushed herself away from her desk. She turned to me, her eyes full of contempt. "Look young man," She said, projecting all of the petty authority she possessed towards me. "Our counselors are busy people and I can't just go sending kids in to them any time some student asks. Now if you could just…"
"Now wait a minute." I interrupted, using my adult voice, a voice I rarely employed anymore. It worked it's magic. She, as well as the other secretary and the two volunteers all stopped and stared at me. Concentrating my attention on the one I'd been speaking to I asked, "What is your name?"
"My name?" She asked, the first tinges of actual anger appearing in her tone.
"Yes." I nodded. "You know, what they call you?"
"Now you listen to me young man…" She started, but weakly. She seemed cowed by the bold way I was speaking to her. Her expression reminded me a little of how Richie had looked when he'd realized he'd bitten off a little more than he could chew.
"Your name?" I demanded, sharpening my tone a little.
"Mrs. Wilks." She finally said. "Now I really…"
"Well, Mrs. Wilks," I said, "When I went through orientation for this school it was explained to me that the school counselors existed to assist me in times of need. That they were student advocates. I was told I could talk to them at any time during the school day. Any time. Are you telling me now that that was a lie?"
"Well no." She stammered, "You can talk to them any time if there is some sort of, well, problem. It's just that for routine matters like what you're…"
"Routine matters?" I asked, exasperated. "I believe I told you twice that this was an emergency. Emergency is not a synonym for routine. Emergency means a pressing matter, a problem, something that requires immediate address by qualified people. I would like to see Mrs. Compleigh for this problem that I have. Is she here?"
"Well, yes she is." Mrs. Wilks said, looking quite dazed now.
"Good." I nodded. "We're getting somewhere. Would you please tell her that a student has a problem and would like to see her?"
"Uh…, well, what is your name?" She asked.
I told her.
"Okay." She nodded, jotting it down. "And what do you need to talk to her about?"
I looked around, seeing that our audience was raptly awaiting my answer for that one.
"That is most definitely none of your business." I told her.
She opened her mouth, seemed about to say something, and then perhaps thought better of it. She stood up and headed through a door, closing it behind her. The other three occupants of the room continued to stare at me for a moment. The two student volunteers were hiding smirks of amusement at the exchange they'd just witnessed. Finally they reluctantly went back to work.