Rob Pollock

Prof. Moscardini

WRI 200-D: Fiction 1, Final Draft

April 10, 2011

Tiers-Instruit

Terry Struit walked down the street. His legs sported black leather engineer boots and

white tube socks. Combined with shorts, he looked like a skinny tennis player from the ‘70s

who decided to take up riding Harleys. A faded fuchsia Yosemite Sam t-shirt and a well-worn St.

Louis Cardinals hat capped off his style. A toothbrush protruded from his mouth; this one was

bright green. He held a chain in his right hand that constrained a giant, golden dog of no

particular breed—a mutt. Both the man and mutt sauntered down the street like gentlemen.

Terry went everywhere sporting his look. I would see him at the grocery store—the “Red

Carpet” of small towns—wearing dull and dirty looking clothes that coordinated well with all

the white labeled items he carried. An old flip-top-box cigarette pack held his money, change,

keys, matches, guitar picks, license (it fit perfectly in the cellophane) and other loose items. As

always, he had a toothbrush jutting out one side of his mouth.

Smug smiles flashed on the faces of successful citizens when they saw Terry. He was a

mirror reflecting their success and brilliance. They had the world figured out; they knew all the

answers. They drove better cars and wore better clothes. Their houses weren’t located on the

side of town that flooded when it rained. He validated their illusions.

Sometimes Terry would appear at town meetings asking questions and raising issues. He

disrupted the unhindered and unmonitored traditions of the entrenched elite. He had the gall to

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question their omnipotence. My father, who is a lawyer and a city councilman, didn’t like Terry

at all. “Terry Struit is against progress. He’s just a crazy and uneducated wacko,” my father

would say. Terry must be a real idiot; just another fool in the way of progress. My father is from

Chicago and wants to help the town grow and be successful; why stand in the way of progress?

As he approached me, I hoped he would just pass by. I didn’t want anyone seeing me

talking to him; especially my parents. I had been over to their house a few times when I was in

my “guitar phase.” If you have done anything with music in this town, you’ve been to the Struit

house. I figured this would make him think he should stop and chat.

“How are you tonight Rob?” asked Terry.

“Umm, doing okay.”

“The kids got a few bands from out-of-town playing. I’m on my way to check in and

make sure nobody’s being stupid.”

Terry had purchased one of the old, broken down buildings in the downtown area as a

rehearsal place for his kids and all the other musicians in town. The whole family played music.

Terry and his wife were referred to as the George Jones and Tammy Wynette of the area.

“I didn’t know they had bands playing up there,” I said.

“Well, you know now. Come on up.”

Terry and I walked toward downtown. I hoped that nobody would see me walking with

him, but I felt compelled to investigate. A mixture of muffled bass tones and dry high sounds

beckoned in the distance. As we approached his building, the sidewalk became crowded with

people. I hesitated, but curiosity pushed me into the crowd.

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The building sat in the heart of the bars and taverns in town. My parents always talked

about how unsightly the bars were and how they should be torn down. The building was an oasis

for the “bar-hoppers” on their voyages. The music had attracted a strange and sizable gathering

outside the entrance. Young people, old people, drunken people, happy people, pierced people,

hateful people, even dark people . . . people everywhere. Terry’s dog cut through the motley

crew without hesitation. Some laughed, some looked puzzled, and some who were in-the-know

shouted, “Hey, it’s that Terry Guy.”

We entered the foyer and were greeted by Chad Brekmain. He was a large fellow who

nobody ever dared to cross. “Hey ‘Terry Guy’, great to see ya!” he yelled over the loud music.

“Anybody being stupid up here tonight, Chad?” Terry asked.

“Naw, they know better when I’m around.”

Chad opened the inner door and we were blasted with a sonic wave. How that single

glass door held back that much sound amazed me. The mutt and Terry strolled on in as if

nothing was strange.

I was mesmerized by the inside of the building. They had transformed the building

(which was kind of a dump) into a real-for-real club. Groups of people gathered at the many

tables. Some tables were tall and tiny, just big enough to hold a purse, drink and an ashtray.

Others were the big, round booths you see in the corners of restaurants—the ones that trap you in

the middle. Each table had a nice linen table cloth, an ash tray, and a little lamp in the center.

The lighting system they created rivaled most upscale dance clubs. It was dark, but just the right

amount of dark; warm and inviting and hid the building’s many flaws. The lights were very

active, but not overbearing. The stage was amazing; a massive round and multi-tiered platform

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that dominated the center of the room. A friend of mine once told me that the bands entered the

stage from the backstage area via a tunnel through the basement. Bands didn’t walk through the

audience to get to the stage. A curtain lowered and the band just appeared when the curtain

lifted. The “fourth-wall” was maintained.

I followed Terry and the mutt through the cheerful patrons and past the stage to a door at

the rear of the club. I tried to make it look like I wasn’t with Terry as we walked by a group of

hot girls, but was surprised when they all cheered: “Hey, it’s that Terry Guy.” Another large

person, whom I didn’t know, greeted Terry. “Is this guy with you? You’re going to let

somebody like him backstage?” he asked.

Yes, why not?” Terry replied.

“Well, he’s that city guy’s son.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Okay, “he said and opened the door to let us in. Backstage was chaos. Equipment was

being loaded and unloaded. People were bustling; carrying amps, instruments, beer, chords,

beer, stands and beer. One drummer was breaking down his complex metal stands while another

was setting his up. We eventually reached another door that had the word “Private” painted on

it. Terry opened it and we walked in. “It’s that Terry Guy,” was said in spiritual union by

almost everyone in the room. “You guys aren’t being stupid up here, are you?” asked Terry.

It was late and I was having fun. Terry and the mutt had left hours earlier. I stayed and

felt like a king hanging in the private VIP room with all the cool people. It was a privilege to be

there so I tried to control my alcohol intake—I was having some success, but it was challenging.

The room had a foosball table, two pool tables, and a little bar with a big refrigerator. I was

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becoming very familiar with the inside of that refrigerator. It was stocked with a plethora of beer

choices; there were the classic choices, some exotic fairs, and the ever-present lone can off by

itself—the one you didn’t want because instinct told you it had made it through many parties and

experienced many extreme temperature changes. I drank, I played foosball, I enjoyed the music,

I reveled in being acquainted with such good people.

Terry’s older son Mike was a well seasoned “foosballer” and seemed to appreciate my

skill level. Foosball is the “official” game of our town—we didn’t mess around when it came to

foosball. Mike and I played each other throughout the night; only stopping when he had to take

care of club business, to get beer, go to the bathroom, or to discuss the most pressing topics of

the day in our drunken wisdom. At the end of the night, Mike and I somehow started talking

about our parents. I asked about the toothbrush his dad always had in his mouth.

“I don’t know why he does that, but it’s one of my earliest memories of him. That

toothbrush and the big red ceramic bowl he ate cereal from. Can you believe that? A freaking

toothbrush and a bowl are the first things I decided to maintain about my dad,” said Mike.

“Your dad is peculiar, but he’s cool” I said. “My father would never let me do anything

like what you’re doing here and I don’t remember anything special about him from my youth.”

“My Dad was the classic all American teen. Can you believe that? He was just the right

amount of rebel, academic and athlete. He did all the cliché Boy Scout things, like helping old

ladies across the road—he was very well respected in the town.”

“Really, what the hell happened? He’s so… anti-respectable.”

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“Well, he never talks about it, but my Mom tells me all the time about how angry he was

when he came back from Vietnam. He was a Marine stationed outside of the country toward the

end of the war.”

“Shit man, I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, my Mom always sounds like she regrets getting divorced. She says that during

that time nobody talked about post traumatic-stress. She couldn’t understand his anger.”

“What is he angry about?” I asked.

“Well, I’m not sure, but I have some theories. I think it was shock, but not from combat.

I think it was the shock of learning that most of the world suffers, while in America we worry

that our grass might not be as good as the freaking Jones’ He’s like the Buddha.”

“What! The Buddha? The fat Chinese guy? Are you freaking kidding? I was astonished

and not afraid to show my ignorance.

“First of all, the Buddha was born in Nepal and is considered to be from India. “

“How the hell do you know this crap?” I asked. Again, I was not afraid of my ignorance.

“I found a book, you know those things with pages and words, about the Buddha. The

Buddha began life as a prince. He lived in luxury—anything he wanted he received. Somehow,

he happened upon a dying person or was exposed to the poor, I can’t remember the details, but

basically he was exposed to the extreme suffering that existed outside of his reality. He basically

found out that most living things suffer and gave up all he had to find out why and how to fix it.”

“Wow, that’s deep man,” I said with a semi-sarcastic tone.

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“Yeah, it is deep, but I think that’s what happened to my Dad. I think it happens to a lot

of people, but maybe it doesn’t affect them as much as it did my dad. Knowledge causes

suffering sometimes, especially when you’re surrounded by the ignorant.”

“Well, to ignorance then.” We tapped our beers together and drank ‘em down.

Word Count: 1,850