Made of Fail
A Brian Carriker Short Story
By Kekoa Lake
Published by John Kekoa Lake at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 John Kekoa Lake
Discover other titles by Kekoa Lake at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
It was obvious to Brian. All the opportunities at his university weren't in the lecture halls. They were roaming the campus. The college freshman lives for the next deal. Brian is resourceful, inquisitive and ambitious. Like father, like son.
I am not interested in following the rules.
I won't have a good explanation for my actions when I do break those rules.
And I sure won't take responsibility for those actions if I'm caught. Please notice I said 'if'.
Oh, I'm not talking about the law. My father was a fed. I meant information. How we collect it. How we use it.
And don't call me a student. Yeah, I'm at college but I didn't go to receive an education. I came to take it.
As much as possible, I will try to keep this coherent. I was tagged ADHD by the school psychiatrist back in junior high, so I've been accused of having a bunch of behavioral disorders. Hyperactivity, impulsiveness, rambling, you know. Hell. I just get bored easy. I like having several balls in the air, y'know what I'm saying? I think we all do. Deep down, we're all multi-taskers.
Back then, Mom was open to the shrink's recommendation but Dad wasn't having any of that. She told him to put his high-roller health plan from the F.B.I. to good use and get me those meds. Dad said I didn't need pharmas to cope. Said the psychiatrist made a diagnosis without knowing all the facts. All I needed was time and the right path – paths, plural – to channel my energies.
Of course, Mom wasn't letting that go unchallenged. So, he laid out his plan.
Dad believed in piling it on. That I should experience overstimulation. He was the same way at my age and survived without the benefit of dopamine reuptake inhibitors.
So I'm thirteen years old and we're doing circuits of all kinds of shit. He converted the garage into a rec room. After finishing homework, he and I started assembling a thousand-piece scale model of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe a few minutes later, we're playing Texas hold'em poker. Six deals after that, he's got a metronome clicking out time for me to practice patterns on my drum kit. Followed by basketball. Then we'd go back to the Eiffel model and do it all over again. I couldn't get enough.
Mom never admitted as much, but she knew it worked. The giveaway was her action – or lack thereof – at the divorce court. I wanted to live with Dad and she didn't contest it. The marks I pulled in eighth grade must have convinced her. During our weekends together, Mom paced me through her own regimen. Being from Canada – where you grew up playing either hockey or curling – guess what sport my 105-pound mom introduced me to?
Where my father helped me get a grip on things, my mother tried to drill it in me that people can't be treated as interchangeable like activities. To which I replied:
"Well, why not?"
"It's impolite."
"Somebody's making an ASS out of U and ME."
Already, one of her hands was at her hip. "Brian, it's basic respect."
"I am showing respect. Who said there's no respect?"
"Be aware of people's feelings. That's all I'm saying."
I bit the words off my next sentence so her other hand wouldn't set up a pose for a lecture. I changed the subject. But I wouldn't let her warning go unchallenged.
I see things the same way she does. People are complex, unlike sports or other pastimes. She's afraid my rhythm – and it's an uptempo rhythm – will make me inconsiderate. I'm not like that. I'm respectful.
She thinks I treat people like books waiting to be read. Well, duh. That's why I'm interested in the first place. And yet, I'm still mindful of people's feelings. People are delicate, sure. I know I ask a lot of questions, but that just means I'm paying attention to you. I've been known to help some people out, too. And if it turns out to benefit me as well – how is that a bad thing?
So, of course, I test this theory out in high school. Made a lot of friends. Got to know a bunch of females. Yeah, 'know' in that sense. Did I end up hurting any feelings? No more so than other guys.
I mean, it's amazing what you can get when you set up the ground rules properly. When people learn of your lifestyle as a stacker, they give you the distance to operate. None of my gal pals got territorial, doing something creepy like showing up at one of my afterschool jobs and squeezing me for attention. They didn't do that nonsense because I'm straight with them from the jump.
When prom rolled around, a lot of us went stag. My prom portrait? Me surrounded by Melissa Bontrager, Tsu-Lan Kwock and Heather McCriss. We're all smiling. My parents' reaction to the photo? Mom doesn't say a thing. Dad tells me I look like the girls' gay friend.
"Whatever, old man."
"You should have worn a wide brim hat and carried a jeweled cane."
"It's a high school prom, not the Players' Ball."
"Are you wearing eyeliner in this photo?"
"Heather said it made my blue eyes brighter."
"She might be right. Got try everything once, huh, Brian?" Dad said, shooting a stare at Mom.
"Wasn't my idea."
"Yeah, once," I lied.
The vibe at graduation kinda went the same way with those two. I was relieved to get the hell out of Richmond. So was Dad but I didn't feel the need to move out of the state like him. I carved out a place for myself in Blacksburg.
Sussex Junior College is all right as tune-ups go. I could take the first two years of a Virginia Tech engineering degree there. I figured my skills in stacking and solving multiple problems would be good for a major in civil engineering. After my first month there, I got worried.
"You? I'd like to see the thing that makes you worry," Burner said.
I was on the phone with my oldest friend, Bernard Stettlee. We graduated sandbox together. I mispronounced his name in pre-school and the tag stuck.
"Burner, I'm telling you, I'm in free fall out here. I thought college was supposed to be hard."
"Fuck you, man."
"I'm serious."
"You were the one who passed up a free ride to Cornell for a jay cee."
"If I was interested in law or travel industry management, I would have went. I'm a–"
"A stacker. I know, I know. Sign up for more courses then, bitch."
"I'm maxed out."
"Then I guess you're going to Vee Tee sooner than you think," Burner unleashes the sarcasm. "Oh no. Brian is getting his Bachelors in three years. And his black ass is getting beat as soon as I return to Virginia."
"Black-Irish ass. Stop leaving my mom out."
"Never. She's the kindest white woman ever to adopt an undeserving child like yourself."
Burner stomping my figurative ass is why we've been tight all these years. I know I need perspective. He's verbally abusive when I need him to be. And he can take it as hard as he throws it.
"Lay off the pipe, Uncle Ruckus. You're just jealous Momma gave me her blue eyes, straight hair and light skin."
"You know what you, me and your daddy got in common?"
No. Don't ask. Don't ask. "What?"
"We all like to play in the snow."
After ten seconds of laughter, I'm cursing at Burner for the muscle spasms now tightening my ribcage.
"Hey. Pull yourself together, man. I wanna hear about them college coeds."
"Next time, B. I'm on my way to basketball practice."
"Gonna make them little kids run suicides, coach?"
"How else they gonna get faster?"
"Call you later, Brian."
University is obligatory. It is society's halfhearted way of expressing care about its young, all the while overcharging for the experience. Helping out city youth B-ball is more sincere and fulfilling in my experience.
"What's up, ballers?"
There's a dozen eight- and nine-year-olds jumping and screaming "Hornets! Hornets!" when I get to the community center. The league lets the kids pick their teams' names at the start of the season. Everybody wants to be the Celtics or the Lakers. Not my crew. They couldn't have selected a more fitting name. They lack size and talent but they got heart. If I can keep the last one going, the first two things will take care of themselves.
During the post-drill water break, Stacey Locarno finds a wall and starts to pout. She's the one on the team with the most consistent jump shot but the ball wasn't working for her today. Being naturally competitive, she's hardest on herself.