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Saturday, August 13, 2016

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES; Reading #48

48. Approximate Minutes Reading (AMR): 13
Introduction to Characters


THE BOLAN CHRONICLES

Chapter 4
A Growing Boy

**Books and Music**

Jake Bolan was a happy man when in August he had been promoted to Lieutenant.  And by the opening of the holiday season of that same year, though his enthusiasm and joy had diminished slightly, he was still basking in the platitudes, praise, and significant monetary benefits that came with the promotion. And things at home, though not ideal, were more pleasant. There seemed to be, at least for the time, a kind of calm, as if Jake had taken a very deep breath and had let it out slowly, temporarily disengaging the anxieties that haunted him.
Though he and Donna both feared falling into the trap of believing that it would last, they welcomed it, nonetheless. Dean liked that there were days now when his father would forget to check to see if he had placed his shirts in the right drawer and equally apart, or ask him to recite a line from Napolean Hill or Dale Carnegie, or force him to shine his shoes for the third time. He also enjoyed the freedom of the extra hour or two every evening without his father. 
Since the promotion, Jake had chosen to spend more time in headquarters, always on the hunt for the next big move upward.
Dean had learned to put up with school. His mom had tried hard to encourage him to make friends since he had started school at Columbus Elementary. And she had served as a volunteer on the PTSA throughout Dean’s fourth grade year. Dean, however, hadn’t responded favorably. Since the second grade, he wasn’t interested in other kids. He had no desire to take part in anything other than the required elements that came with the basics of learning, and though his mother and his teachers and many of his peers had tried to change him, he would not change. He spent his recesses alone, and he sat apart from other students during lunch. A few students in his homeroom had tried to befriend him, asking him to join them in games and other activities, but without success.
Dean was a good student, otherwise. Academically, he was considered gifted.  Language and reading was his strongest suit. He thrived on anything related to literature, and when teachers sat in the staff room during lunch and the name ‘Dean Bolan’ came up, every one of them agreed that they’d wished that every student was attracted to literature in the same way. The boy read more than any other student who passed through Columbus. He would read while standing in line. He would read when he’d finished his classwork early, which happened frequently, and he’d read when everyone else around him was playing tetherball or soccer or basketball. He read fiction almost exclusively, with the exception of the occasional biography of a rock-n-roll icon.   
Dean had loved music since he was a toddler. His mother had adored watching him bob up and down when he’d hear the beat of any song. She would play Jungle Boogie and laugh as Dean’s eyes would widen and he’d grin real big and start moving to the tunes. She’d get the camera out and take pictures of him with his hands would move in the air and his little legs in various positions. When the music would stop, Dean would look up at his mom, frozen in place, waiting for the next song.  
She would ask, “More, Dean?” 
He would simply reply, “Uh-huh!” And she would play the next song, and she would clap and pat him gently on the back after he’d finished his show. Dean seemed to never tire, and when his mother would pick him up and take him to his room for a nap or to the table for the next meal, he would simply gaze at her without expression, and she knew this meant that he’d wanted more music, more dance. But his father seemed disinterested.
And by age nine, Dean had come to love popular music.  His mother had encouraged his love of music, in part by giving him the collection of dozens of cassettes that she’d collected since she was a teenager. 
He’d become familiar with so many of her favorites, the artists who made up most of the collection; Jim Croce, Crystal Gayle, Billy Joel, Carole King, Carly Simon, David Cassidy, Jake Taylor, Paul McCartney & Wings. And he’d learned to enjoy these artists, but he’d found a few that he’d somehow related with. He’d found himself playing and returning to the same artists repeatedly; Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, and Machine Head. There were only a handful of these, but Dean had worn them out quickly. At first, his mother had been concerned at his taste in music, but she’d determined that she wouldn’t restrict him from something that he’d loved, considering the strict father-forced discipline that he’d had to succumb.
Three days before Thanksgiving, Dean sat in his favorite spot on the floor of his room, leaning against the side of his bed, facing his window. He was reading the biography of Jim Morrison, No One Here Gets Out Alive. He read about Morrison’s obsession with the arts, including both music and creative writing. He’d stop at certain points in the book and wonder. 
He read about the rocker’s dangerous lifestyle, and though Dean was yet too young to understand the draw of some the more mature elements of living, he knew that they were a part of his future. He felt the stirrings of something in the deepest parts of his being, though he had, at the age of nine, no idea of what those stirrings were.  
His father walked into the room. He stood over Dean and asked, “What’s that?”
“What?” Dean replied.
“The book, Dean. What are you reading?”
Dean held it up, the cover facing his father. “It’s about Jim Morrison.”
Jake grabbed it from his son and read the back of the dustcover.  
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, sir.  I do.”
He tossed the book on Dean’s bed and bent over, now within inches of the nine year-old’s face,, “What is delinquent, Dean?  What does that mean?”
Dean, keeping a locked gaze on his father’s eyes, replied, “I don’t know, father.”
Jake straightened and demanded that Dean stand and his attention.
“Jim Morrison was a confused individual who was born during a time when this country was in the middle of the greatest conflict of its history.”  And he paused then asked, “What conflict was that, Dean?”
Dean replied, “It was World War II.”
“Yep, World War II. And it was a time when this country learned that it had to be ready for anything if it was going to survive. And one of the most important things we learned during that time was that we had to be sober, Dean, if we were to think clearly.  We had to be sober. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What does it mean, Dean?”
Dean thought for a moment and remembered a portion of what he had, minutes ago, just read and said, “It means that we didn’t drink?”
Jake rolled his eyes and said, “No, Dean, it doesn’t just mean that we don’t drink.  It also means that we think clearly, not hindered by the distractions of unhealthy influences. And yes, that includes alcohol. But it also includes things like bad people, drugs, laziness, and stupidity.” He waited for Dean to respond. Dean said nothing.
Jake picked up the book once more. Then he read the first line from the back cover, “Here is Jim Morrison in all his complexity,” Jake’s voice as sarcastic and pompous as he could muster, he continued, “Singer, philosopher, poet, DELINQUENT, the brilliant, charismatic, and obsessed seeker who rejected authority in ANY form, the explorer who probed ‘the bounds of reality to see what would happen…’” He closed the book and turned it toward Dean. Jim Morrison’s face and naked upper torso revealed the hardcore rocker at the height of his career. Reaching out and holding the book directly in Dean’s face, he said, “Dean, this is a delinquent. It’s what we who know something about control and self-discipline call trash. It belongs in its appropriate place, and that is not anywhere in this house, so I want you to take it from my hand and walk it over to where it belongs.”
Momentarily, Dean didn’t know what to do beyond taking it from his father, but his mind had been trained to listen carefully, and even metaphors rarely confused him. So he grabbed the book and walked out of his room and into the kitchen. His mother stood at the sink. She hadn’t heard him walk in, and she was startled when he tapped on her shoulder.
“Oh, Dean. Hi Honey.”
“Hi.”
“Whatcha need, Sweetie?”
Dean pointed to the cabinet and said, “Garbage.”
Donna looked at her husband who had followed Dean and was standing next to the stove. She moved away from the sink. Dean opened the cabinet and dropped the book into the large plastic container filled with trash. Donna dared not say a word, though she wondered what might have happened. Instead, she said simply, “There you go, Honey.”
Dean replied, “Thanks.”  And he headed back to his room. 
But his father stopped him before he’d reached the hallway. “Dean!” He called.
Dean turned and faced his father, “Yes.”
“Tell me something. Is that book still in this house?” He looked at Donna then back at Dean. “Doesn’t the cabinet under the sink take up space within this house? Is the garbage can under the sink the only place that we throw our trash, or is there some other place outside of this house where we throw our worthless crap, like Jim the drugmonk Morrison?”
Dean reopened the cabinet, reached into the trashcan and grabbed the book, then he took it out to the large metal can outside and gently placed it on top of a closed cardboard pizza box.
Jake asked Donna, “What do you know about that book?”
She replied, “What book was it, Jake?”
“Jim Morrison, the singer. What do you know about it?”
Donna giggled a bit then said, “Oh, Jake, I haven’t read a thing about Jim Morrison. All I know is that he was a singer and…”  
She hadn’t finished her sentence before Jake interrupted her, “I’m wanting to know what you know about Dean having a book like that, Donna. Where did he get it?”
Nervous, she grabbed the dishtowel next to the toaster oven and began drying her hands. “I gave it to him a few months ago, him liking music so much and all. I found it in one of those boxes with all of my childhood stuff.”  She paused,  “I’ve never read it, so I’m sorry if it was a bad book.”
Dean returned to the kitchen and headed toward his room.  
Jake stopped him in the hallway. With an arrogant smirk on his face he said, “Son, the only good thing about that reprobate was the first letter of his first name.”  
“Yes, sir.” Dean chirped, and he smiled nervously. “He had your first letter.” Then he corrected himself, “I mean, his name started with a ‘J.’  
Jake replied, “So excellent, Dean. Now, go ahead, and let’s see if you can find some literature worth reading.”
Dean nodded, turned, and made his way back into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
Jake said, “Donna, why would you let him read something like that? He’s nine, for god’s sakes. Jim Morrison was one of the most prolific losers of his generation, stuck in the mire of drugs and alcohol--a narcissistic, self-destructive loser.”
Donna replied, “My God, that’s sad.” Then she replied with a purposeful edge, “And I had no idea about him, Jake.”
Jake snickered, “Of course you didn’t.” He reached over and straightened the salt and pepper shakers sitting next to the stovetop. “I don’t want shit-lit in my house, Donna, and I certainly don’t want my son reading shit-lit, you got it?” He turned and walked out of the kitchen, mumbling, “Bitch has no idea about anything.”
Jake sat on the couch and turned on the television. 60 Minutes had Mike Wallace interviewing Ronald Regan. Jake turned it up.
Dean opened the door and quietly walked down the hall, stopping at the corner.  His father sat with his back to Dean, eyes glued on the television set. Dean returned to the kitchen and stood next to his mother. He placed his hand on her shoulder. She looked at him and said, “What is it, Honey?”
Dean whispered, “I like that book a lot. I hope I can finish it sometime.” 
Donna leaned over and said quietly, “Honey, your father wants it out of the house, so I have to make sure it’s not here. You understand, right?”
Dean replied, “Uh-huh.” And he thought for a moment then said, “The garage isn’t the house, is it?”
Donna’s eyes widened. She was taken aback at Dean’s courage and impressed with his quick thinking. Smiling at him, she said, “Well, some might say the garage is part of the house,” Then she looked back toward the living room and called out to Jake, “Is that the President talking, Jake?”
Jake shouted back, “It’s a president, Donna, but in case you haven’t heard, we have a new President, and his name is George Bush; remember?”
Donna laughed nervously, “Oh, that’s right.”
She looked at Dean and continued quietly, “Some say the garage is part of the house, but not me.” And she smiled, leaned over, and whispered in his ear, “It’ll be like hide-n-seek. I’ll hide it, and you seek it.”
Dean smiled, “Thanks, Mom.”
“But don’t bring it in the house.”
Dean replied, “Morrison is a delinquent, Mom. He deserves to stay in the garage, and the garage isn’t the house, right?”  
Donna marveled at Dean’s wit. His quick mind will get him somewhere, despite his father, she thought. She smiled at Dean and summoned him to follow her into his room.
“Honey, I just remembered something that I would like to get for you that you might be interested in reading, but I have to have your word that you’ll be really careful to keep it out of sight.”
“Okay,” Dean replied, “What is it?”
“It’s a magazine. It’s about rock and roll singers and things like that.”
Dean thought for a moment then replied, “Is it old, like from when you were a little kid?”
Donna smiled and said, “Hey! Are you callin’ your mom old?”
Dean shrugged.
Donna said, “No Honey. This is a magazine that I browsed through the other day when I was in the grocery store. I think it was called Creem. And I think that it’s something you’d be interested in reading.”
Dean had seen the magazine in the store several times while shopping with his mom, and he too had browsed through it a time or two. “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen that.”
“Well?”
“Well what?” said Dean.
“Well, do you want me to pick it up for you?”
Dean replied, “Of course, Mom. That would be great.”
“I’ll be in the store tomorrow to buy some things for our Thanksgiving dinner, and I’ll be sure to grab it.”
Dean smiled and thanked her.
Donna put her finger to her mouth and said, “And remember…”
Dean simply nodded.
Dean and his mother had never before taken a stand against the offenses of Jake Bolan, and though this was nothing near a hard line rebellion, it was a start. Dean was just sure that it wouldn’t be the last. He sat down in his spot on the floor of his bedroom and began to think. He wondered about the possibility of creating a world of books and music that he could have all to his own; a place where he could visit and not be bothered. 
His young mind created possibilities. He imagined a small, trap door in his closet that led to a tiny room where he’d dug holes into the dirt walls and had placed boards for bookshelves. He imagined himself sitting on a thick blanket, earphones on his head with the other end of the chord plugged into a small cassette player, and he imagined listening to Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin. And he smiled and imagined himself turning up the volume to Light My Fire by the great Jim Morrison of the Doors.  
Then Dean came back to his logical senses and began to wonder if there might actually be a way that he could create some kind of escape. And when he could think of nothing that was sure and safe, he decided that he could at least begin to collect music and books. He’d force himself to create or find a place that he would have to safely store his goods—his sanity.  

His books and music, he decided, would come by means of the combined efforts of he and a friend. Dean had no friends, but he would make a friend. He would carefully find someone with whom he related—someone who was like him—and together they would create worlds of escape.

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