7319. BELOW THE WATER LINE, pt. 49

BELOW THE WATER LINE 

(pt. 49)

There used to be a mailbox at the top of the hill

by the entrance to Security Steel, which also had

huge hedges all along its front. They were maybe

five feet tall and kept well-trimmed, to a severe and

squared-off shape. One time I remember, my mother

had given me about 5 letters to mail and I decided to

walk the underpass and go to that mailbox. It was a

late afternoon on a very windy and cold November 

day. I can remember it well, because, as I've mentioned 

previously, that is my favorite time of year and weather.

People under siege, sort of, a covered-up and protected

mentality, all scarves and coats and hats and gloves. The

mailbox was at the underpass side of the entrance. There

was another mailbox at Miller's house, the last house on

Inman Avenue, on the track's side of the street, but I didn't

want that one because I wanted an extended walk in the

wind and weather. Anyway, somehow, in the wailing wind

and without me even knowing it, when I got to the mailbox

I realized the five or six envelopes were down to three.

I'd somehow let loose of the others and they'd taken off

in the wind, because all of my re-tracing never turned

them up. I realized then and there I was entering some 

big trouble  -  so I figured to just 'fess up and get it over 

with. I didn't really have to do that, and the problem would

have come up without me being involved, but I knew they 

were bills and I felt pretty bad. Anyway, my mother went

nuts on me  - first for not going to the first mailbox I could 

get, then for losing the letters, then for not finding them, and

then for coming home without solving the problem. She had

no idea what she'd have to do once the payments never showed

up, and to make matters worse I'd not recorded, and couldn't tell

her, which ones I'd lost. So she sent me back out to locate them,;

one of those crazy 'don't come home to you've found them' deals.

It was dark by this time, still cold and windy. I trudged out, not 

saying much, just determined to get this whole problem out of 

the way. Along the way back, looking everywhere, I started 

thinking about the prerogatives of her position  -  I'd goofed,

she'd gone nutso over it, and was it or was it not a big deal?

I couldn't tell, but once again the unfairness of the situation

came to the forefront  -  as in 'take care of your own stupid

letters then, and leave me alone.' It began to irk me that 

someone  would allow themselves to accede to the 'hopeless'

pose over something they really could have controlled.

My mother did not have to have put this onus on me; all

she needed, I thought, was to take responsibility for her

own bills, do it all another time, hand it to the mailman, 

or anything. To not have the self-composure to know not 

to foist this task on  a dumb, distracted kid was  -  to me  - 

as big of a problem, on her part, as was the loss of the 

notes itself. So, I trudged on, all the while walking

myself through a hundred versions of kid-logic, deep-

thought, about the issue. Glum, and nearly annoyed

to the point of anger at having to be someone's lackey 

yet again. But, it all turned out OK, because as I

crested the hill, I actually found the letters  -  they'd

evidently blown away at the last minute, the final 

handling to the mailbox, and the wind had lifted them

and firmly held them in the hedgerow, about head-high

to me  -  and they almost jumped out at me. I didn't really

even have to search. I had a mind not to tell her, but I 

went home and related what occurred and that 

everything was safe, and mailed. To this day, I still

think about this and consider the equal stupidity of my

mother then so glibly just taking my word of having 

found everything. She had absolutely nothing to go on,

except my dumb word. But, once more, I guess she

didn't think it through to that extent.

-

So, my lesson learned there - and a good 'Avenel' type

lesson it was  -  was not to let oneself get pushed into

vulnerable situations. Fight them off. Remain in the 

power position whenever possible, because the 'lackey'

position just only brings trouble. Vulnerabilities. Puts

you at the mercy of someone else's foibles. And they at

yours  -  and these two things should never mix. I would

have been better off, even as a disobedient kid, saying

'no' to my mother initially, and just dealing with that

until a better option for letter-mailing arose. But, whatever.

Too much thought can ruin anything. And anyway, the

hedges are gone now, Security Steel is gone now, and

I am gone now.

-

I was just thinking of that as a perfect ending for this

series. But, I'm not stopping. There's too much to say, and

I want to keep saying it, changing it around a little, in my

own voice and way. One has to think, when doing 

something like writing this, what it is people want to

read  -  probably details, little episodes of stuff that

happened, names and places and facts. My digressions 

can certainly sometimes get me away from all that. It's

like I'm Holden Caulfield here, always bitching about how

I hate digressions (except that I don't) while making a 

hundred of them along the way. That's 'Catcher In the 

Rye', by the way. Same with movies  -  he talks and talks

about how he hates movies, and fakery and all that, but 

he spends a good portion of his episodes talking about

films, going into movies, portraying scenes and characters.

Go figure. Like talking about how you so much hate driving,

while your on your way along, driving cross-country like

you were Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarity together.

-

The Pete Whitaker story, previously related, now that too has

been in my head for two days : can't shake again that feeling

I had when he came back  -  big gash and scar across his head,

blind, stumbling, quiet. The transformation was mysterious and

mind-boggling to me. Scary and eerie too. I never wanted to 

touch it, the whole situation spooked me. A ton of miles from

home, supposedly having fun, playing around, then climbing

a pool ladder to some exposed high-dive board or something,

and falling back down off the top  -  not to the water, even,

but just to the hard concrete, which then rips your skull open

and makes you blind, forever? With your parents right there

too, giving you this vacation? How horrible is all that? Right

then and there I knew I'd reached a threshold which presented

way too many questions about this entire 'God' thing; more 

than I wished to answer or even ask. How could this even be? 

What kind of a lame world is this, and who made this crap 

then, if this is the kind of stuff you have to deal with. Unfair.

Wrong. Sorry. All those crappy-assed nuns and teachers then,

trying to tell us that God is fair, and everything's meant to be, 

and all is right with God's clock and we should accept and

realize free will and original sin and all that stuff was behind 

this and behind it more was God's hand reaching out to give

us appeal to prayer and his wisdom. Listen, people, I'm eleven

years old and even I know that you're making this crap up.

Don't waste your breath. Let me just walk away and cry.

I never dealt with Peter again. Poor sucker. I could still

cry for him. But I had to just walk away.