Through these Eyes Part 33

A second reason I wished to take speech through the summer was my antic.i.p.ation of smaller cla.s.ses. When my friend Steve learned of my plan, he too decided to follow my lead. Unfortunately, many others had prescribed to my line of thought, and Steve and I found our cla.s.s br.i.m.m.i.n.g with students.

Actually the cla.s.s was rather fun, especially having Steve as my comrade. Together we endured the awkward moments and embarra.s.sment and, with sparkling eyes, shared the humor begotten of nervousness.

We looked on as the anxious quirks of our cla.s.smates became personal trademarks which would either be overcome in time or rage without end.

Through the cla.s.s, whether it was my bombed impromptu on "television,"

or Steve's short but memorable sales pitch for "Billy Beer," we afforded each other an ample dose of moral support, not only surviving but succeeding.

Again this year summer was a bit of a whirlwind. A date-book was the only record of my daily accomplishments, for I seemingly had no time to write lengthy descriptions of the day's events...or more accurately, I lacked the fort.i.tude to make time for quiet pursuits. One might have said I was too busy to be unhappy, but it would not have been quite true.

Nevertheless, my date-book overflowed.

June 8... Norm and I went sailing; motorcycled to Loud Thunder. We had pizza and beer at the river. It was nice.

20... Went to Jon's after work. We ate at Frank's Pizza and then to (a store) Party at Jon's.

23... 40 hours (of work) this week. Think of the bucks...

26... I did my first speech... got an A! Steve and I went out and ate ice cream afterwards.

30... After speech, Norm and I took the BMW to Galena. It was a terrific day. I loved it.

July 3... Speech. Work. Mom and I went (shopping) Steve and I went to West Lake.

4... Work. Jon and I went to (a) nature trail and picnicked, then to the fireworks.

July 6... Norm and I went sailing on the Mississippi. He lost my straw hat. After supper, we took off with the "kicker" (Motor for the canoe).

9.... (My boss) thought I was lying when I called in sick.

21... Worked on final speech. Topic: Stress.

29... Steve wished me well for Mayo trip. Norm and I took a long walk in Davenport.

30... Packed suitcase; spent 45 minutes in the bathroom... left for Rochester, MN

31...Took tests... shopped...Mom bought me a pair of jeans. Swam for 1-1/2 hours.

Aug. 1... Saw Dr. E. and left.

One might have thought I would have elaborated further on the results of my examination. After all, it had been five years since my stomach operation, and this was my last check-up, the famous "five years and cured" judgment used by cancer experts. However, the trips had almost elevated themselves to vacation status due to the scenic drive and the chance to swim, dine out and shop, for the tests were familiar and no worse than uncomfortable. Of more consequence, though, was the fact that I did not feel the joyous relief that should have come with E.'s clean bill of health; I happily acknowledged his statement, "You would be more apt to die on the highway driving up here than to get cancer again," but refused to revel in the news. It was too good, and accepting it as the irrefutable truth was too risky.

Mom was delighted to hear of the test results, but she too, held elation in reserve. It did not seem credible that I was entirely healthy. I still grew nauseous after eating and experienced other stomach-related disorders such as food "Sticking" above my stomach and gastrointestinal disturbances. The doctor had no concern over these symptoms. My stomach was not what one could label as "normal"; it was reasonable to a.s.sume I would always encounter some problem with it.

Shrugging off the nauseousness was convenient and logical.

I wondered if skepticism was my excuse to undermine happiness; I hated to think it was an emotion of my own invention, a manufactured impediment used because I did not desire to be happy. No, that could not be! Emotional reservation was self-preservation at work. . . it was security, and the rejection of the thought that health and happiness were inseparable components of living.

Summer relaxation generally came at irregular intervals, disguised as hikes, canoe trips and motorcycle rides with Norm. I did not find total disengagement from my daily cares until two thirds of the season had elapsed. A week's time was not enough by my way of thinking, but it was all I had been given; it was better to be satisfied with what I had than to waste time bemoaning that which I did not have.

This summer Norm and I decided to vacation together. Having discovered that our day trips went smoothly, we had few qualms about spending a full week exclusively in each other's company, and with high spirits, set out at 4:00 on a Sunday morning, bound for Colorado.

We were so psyched about seeing the mountains that we drove through the entire day and into the evening. When we finally decided, about 7:30, to find a motel, the choices were "limited" to "nonexistent," so we forked out $20.00 for a ram-shakle room. Thinking our chance of finding a decent restaurant would be slightly better than our luck with motels, we tried to locate the town's business loop. After discovering the two traffic signals and skirting the streets in both directions, we gave in to our hunger and raided a 7-Eleven, which would have been closed in fifteen minutes. Securing some lunch meat, milk, and a can of pork and beans, we drove back to our humble room, intending to heat the beans on a portable gas stove.

The gas stove would not light. "It had performed famously at home,"

Norm insisted, feeling somehow betrayed by the inanimate object sprawling before him. At least our choice of food could be eaten cold.

Norm picked up the can of beans and retrieved a can opener from a sack of utensils, clamping it on the can like a pro. The can galloped 'round and 'round, but failed to open. Outraged, Norm flew at the can with a metal punch, flailing and prying with a vengeance until a jagged opening would accommodate a spoon.

It was not what we had in mind, but it was a Sunday evening in a small town. We stayed up for awhile, blinking at a show on television. I felt reasonably content, but Norm stole glances at the traitorous stove ranging from malice to disbelief. "Man!" he kept repeating, "It worked at home." I couldn't help but smile to myself; he demanded so little of life, but on that night, even the smallest favors had been denied.

"Poor Norm," I thought. He was more discouraged than I!

Aug. 4, 1980... Got a great little kitchenette.

We were enthusiastic. $20 per day or $120 per week bought a bas.e.m.e.nt level, two room, paneled unit, complete with garage-sale dishes and pans. The toilet was elevated on a step to a.s.sure that it would flush.

It also boasted a relic radio and a T.V. with poor reception. The best things about the place, though, were the river which rushed several yards from our door and the ability to procure frozen pizzas from the friendly owner, Marion. After a day of rigorous hiking, I would ask Marion to heat a pizza and she and I would talk until the pizza was ready.

I felt sorry for Marion. She was a widow who tried to keep the motel intact for her guests despite rising costs and the continual threat of delapidation. The place was in disrepair, but having little help, change was more of a dream than a possibility. She had endured hardship in life; she looked poor, but with dignity, not despair.

Marion accepted things in a manner which encouraged trust, making herself welcome company and her motel a homey place to stay. On one visit, I happened to mention that Norm was my brother. She accepted my statement with unparalleled grace, although it was obvious by the glimmer in her eyes that she did not believe a word; she had seen too much to swallow that story. Having nothing to hide or defend, I let her believe what she would. With or without proof, one believes what he wants to believe.

"That's it!" Relieved of our luggage, the trunk appeared to have been disemboweled. I slammed the lid and turned around to see one of the other guests intercept Norm as he strode toward the car. "Hi, there,"

the man bellowed. "See you've got a Dodge Dart, too. Got two of 'em at home. Darn things just won't wear out... " Within the pa.s.sage of five minutes we knew more about him than either of us cared to know.

And we hadn't even asked.

"Come here every year," he stated. We also learned the man delivered mail for his bread and b.u.t.ter; he was married and had kids. There was something very unpleasant about the man, apart from his obnoxious flow of conversation. He was the type of person who was oblivious to his own abhorrant characteristics, a man who would drown his victim unwittingly and not realize that he had died.

When I thought the conversation could grow no worse, his eyes took on an eerie glow and he related to Norm the events of one of his past vacations, wherein he and several relatives traveled to Montana. From a previous trip, I knew Montana was a state resplendent with ground squirrels, and had enjoyed feeding them on one memorable occasion. The man, however, found the animals satisfying for quite a different reason; he, his son and another man spent an afternoon gunning down approximately 400 squirrels. It was a lavish affair which had afforded him pure delight; his excitement over the reckless slaughter was complete and shameless. He had done some ranchers a great service, he raved. As he blasted away, I am sure that service was the last thing on his mind.

I gritted my teeth, glad that none of the conversation had been directed to me, while Norm, visibly unimpressed and equally disgusted by the man, inched toward the car. Fortunately, the man's wife appeared from the darkness of a motel room and we were spared further discussion of the ground squirrel Armageddon.

"Be seein' ya'," he offered.

"Yeh," Norm's tight-lipped response almost had to be cranked from his throat.

Pulling from the motel lot was a relief. "Now there is a guy who likes to kill," I said.