Father's Painting of the Noosed Egg

Dr. Irene Goldstein, MD                                      

American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology

Psychiatric Report July 20, 2004

History
Patient, Jake Dali Hastings Jr., an unmarried thirty-one year old Caucasian male, is on his way to making a full recovery. After numerous treatments, he released in a recent discussion admittance to causing his father’s death. He opened up by claiming he felt his childhood experience triggered substantial mental breakdown and isolation from the public. His mother drank in excess and wasn't prepared to handle the responsibilities of a child alone. He has shown jealous tendencies for his mother. He has been isolated by his mother, yet claims it was his own doing. He doesn’t deny that he may be suffering from mental illness.

Due to his mother’s recent release from the county prison, the patient mentioned he is no longer having feelings of anxiety over his mother. He feels her probation will help prevent her from alcohol abuse and claims that was the reason for her irrational assault and battery.

He is now claiming to smell his Father’s scent when the air conditioning system turns on at night. We have discussed this and found that less than a block away is a hospital incinerator. The patient accepted that on some days this could be the smell.

Medical History
Hyperosmia: an increased sensitivity to smell which is characteristic of someone with a neurotic or histrionic personality. 

Family History
Acute Bi-polarism in the patient’s mother.

Medication
Zoloft and Clonazepam

Assessment of History
He is highly intellectual, yet never managed to complete high school. He was not sexually active. This patient denied multiple times any alcohol or drug abuse.

Current Mental State
He is pleasant and cooperative but very quiet. He is alert and responsive to movements of other patients. His orientation is full for time, place and person. Mood is becoming less erratic. Thinking is now logical. Thought content is informative. He is not actively suicidal. He has a fear of stormy days. He has a strong sexual appetite.

Assessment
Axis I -- Minor depression, recurrent.
Axis II -- Personality disorder, avoidant type.
Axis III -- Moderately-severe psychosocial stress.
Axis IV – Pre-existing Oedipal GAF Complex

Plan
Upon his release this week I have advised Jake to stay on Zoloft, 50mg q.d. and Clonazepam 10mg q.d. Zoloft should be beneficial in treating the atypical depression and Oedipal disorder.

Once these are under control, a few sessions of supportive psychotherapy and counseling should be helpful in ameliorating some of his difficulties associated with early childhood trauma. To this effect, I, Dr. Irene Goldstein, will personally and randomly visit his home; not only for psychotherapy but to study the dangling egg that has dominated his rambling dreams.

*** 

Father's Painting of the Noosed Egg

                       One week from being eight-years-old, Jake Jr. stood, frozen like a statue in the middle of the street. He clutched Father’s birthday gift tight against his belly, a special birdhouse crafted with his innocent hands. It was a gruesome thing what Jake Jr. witnessed next—black rubber shrieking across the asphalt and the Jeep Cherokee missing him by inches, the violent impact into the telephone pole only a few feet away. The tearing of metal, the bumper folding around the pole and the final shotgun explosion of the airbag echoed through Jake Jr.’s skull. He squeezed the birdhouse tighter and tighter against his body. Father’s birthday gift punctured through his t-shirt, then through his soft skin. His lips stretched wide, tearing the corners of his mouth as he desperately tried to force a scream, but his dry throat clamped shut.

            He didn't think the collision caused Father any harm but the groun was silent for seconds. His young nerves were jolted again when the pole snapped in half and tore the tangled power lines down with it. He gazed waiting for movement, but fervent with menacing white and blue sparks, the power lines arched and snapped, suffocating Father’s Jeep Cherokee. Jake Jr.’s bare feet became heavy. Anchored to the asphalt his eyes locked in on Father. Desperate to get out, Father pounded the door with his shoulder, but the wrinkled door wouldn’t budge. Father stopped struggling—eyes calmed, peace fell over his face—tender eyes met with his sons. Instantly Father shook. It was inhuman the way his body convulsed, the way his head bounced off the steering wheel with a supernatural power. Jake Jr. watched Father’s facial structure change, it twisted and torqued like a demon possessed his under-skin. The transformer on the pole near Jake Jr. was bloated like a dead carcass. He heard the sizzling and looked up as the transformer grew bright, bright, brighter—PcccOWWW.

            A massive concussion of energy slammed into Jake Jr., knocking him off his feet. He landed flat on his back, his head whiplashed off of the asphalt knocking him unconscious. The birdhouse was thrown high and came down, splitting into shards. Two crimson spots expanded on the front of Jake Jr.’s white t-shirt as he laid lifeless only feet away from the neighbor’s trash can. Mother threw the screen door open with her left hand, holding an unwashed plate in the other. She stood motionless on the porch, wrapped in her kitchen apron. Her face turned white and fingers trembled. The wet plate fell from her hand as smoke rose off of Father’s charcoaled skin. His smoke swirled up and out of the shattered windows of the vehicle, leaving a foul stench that hovered thick over the manicured neighborhood of Houston, Texas. The air became stagnant with a silent atmosphere of confession.          

* * *

            Twenty-two years after Father’s tragic death and Mother forbade anyone to sit in her husband’s recliner. And for twenty-two long years, Jake Jr. asked:

            “Mom, can I please sit in his recliner and watch T.V. tonight?”

            “Are you your Father?” Mother snapped.

            “No Mother, I’m not Father.”

            “Then don’t ask again.”         

            Yet again he asked, was denied, and sat Indian style on the un-vacuumed shag carpet, and watched Vanna White on Father’s small television that had the broken rabbit ear antenna. For the last couple years Mother changed her routine. One particular evening she had left again to drink with the old biddy next door. Bored of Wheel of Fortune re-runs, Jake Jr. stood in the living room and scratched his two-week-old beard, wondering what to do. The Purple Hairs—what Mother called the oldies in the neighborhood that dyed their hair, causing it to turn a weird violet color—told Jake Jr. that he was a spitting image of his Father. They said his long face reflected a quiet confidence, and how his green eyes were so very handsome. The way he stood tall and lean, and carried himself with loose limbs, aroused the Purple Hairs. They even said he looked like It’s a Wonderful Life’s, James Stewart. Mother said he looked more like a child flailing about at recess.

            Alone and bored he decided to study Father’s miserable brown recliner. Behind the recliner there hung a dingy painting on an outdated wood-paneled wall that ran full circle around the room. In the dim room his eyes strained to see the colors of the painted red horizon. He followed the unique colors of the horizon down and admired the way an egg hung from a string, suspended, sunny side up the egg was, and dangling so close to the other eggs on the plate just below. Years ago as Father hung the painting; he mentioned to Jake Jr. that it was part of the Dada movement. Naturally, Jake Jr. thought Father was making another sly joke about how he was the painter. But now, after so many years, that painting whispered to Jake Jr.—something was undiscovered which left him longing for more.

            He turned around and looked down at the stale brown recliner. He ran his fingers across the tattered headrest where Father’s head rested. The wood lever on the right side was glossy where Father’s fingers would wrap around to hoist himself into the reclined position. The left side of the recliner had a pocket that still held a yellowed newspaper, dated one day before Father’s fatal electrocution, almost twenty-two years ago to the day. The front article on the paper read, Hurricane Allen to Pound Southeast Texas, dated August 8^th 1980, one day after Father’s death Hurricane Allen hit, but just to the South. The square end table next to the recliner had an ash tray with crushed cigarette butts from the last evening Father had sat in the house.

            Jake Jr. grabbed the recliner with both arms and shook it violently, rocked it, and then collapsed into it face first. He turned and sat forward, swallowing down putrid emotion. He had never cried over Father and realized he still hadn’t, those would have been tears of enlightenment. He was amazed how well the recliner fit him and imagined Father sitting there within him. Father would now live through him and he knew he would finally be the man that Mother wanted.

            With pride he lifted himself out of the seat. Several thuds bounced off the matted shag carpet below the recliner. He crouched down to take a look under and his left knee popped, confirming, he was in fact old enough to be Father. He looked under and couldn’t see past the coagulation of dust and hair. So he shoved his arm under and felt around to discover coins, lots of coins. Anxious to gather this new found treasure, he scraped the dust and coins forward to his face, until he grabbed every last one. He took one last glance under and could see something glittering towards the back. He reached around and wrapped his fingers around something larger than a coin. He put it in front of his eyes and his face glowed, he inhaled with joy when he saw the wrist watch, Father’s watch. Jake Jr. remembered when Father would take the watch off and set it on the nightstand. He would sneak in and find Father’s Tums sitting near the watch. He would take two or three anti-acid pills, chew them up like candy and inspect the worn leather band and gold bezel of the watch.

            He stood in the living room and stared at the microwave clock in the kitchen. Mother would be home shortly, so he made his way to his bedroom and piled the coins and gold watch onto his bed. He moved by the locked door of Father’s office and into Mother’s room where he grabbed Father’s slacks, belt, leather shoes and a collared button down shirt from the closet.

            Back in his room he laid the clothes right next to the pocket change and wristwatch. The front door squeaked open just in time. Just in time.

            He heard Mother’s tired voice: “Come in please, and this time I’ll make you a drink.”

            “No, I’m tired. Oh, Make sure to remember our plans to go to Irene Goldstein’s house tomorrow.”

            “How could I forget with you living next door! Always talking about Irene’s this and Irene’s that.”

            Mother casually slammed the heavy door of the house. Jake Jr. recognized the other voice as the old biddy that lived next door. Since Father’s death she had fed Mother enough drinks to justify five generations of liver problems. Yet Mother was in the kitchen making another drink, probably vodka and a splash of grape cough syrup.

             Jake Jr. hesitated. He stood in the dark, with his bedroom door wide open. He opened his eyes and the words came out, "Did your evening go well dear?”

            Mother replied as if she didn’t hear him, “If you need me I’ll be watching T.V. in bed, Jake.”  

            Jake Jr. felt like a man standing there wearing only tight, white underwear. He new he manned up and smiled when he heard Mother’s blatant invitation. He knew Father hadn’t been romantic with Mother for a couple years before his death. As a child Jake Jr. didn’t think twice about the coldness that grew between his parents. But now, he was older and so much wiser;  knew it was Father’s fault for the emotional distancing, and what he had done was the right thing. Mainly, he knew what was about happen was meant to be.

            Mother walked by Jake Jr.’s room; his tall wiry frame stood motionless behind the shadow of the door. Her bedroom door closed and he walked to the bathroom. He grabbed hold of the solid metal shaft of Father’s old shaver. Foamed up his face and stroked. It glided through his thick facial hair. The task was easy with Father’s sharp razor. He turned the nozzle of the steaming hot water off and gazed into the mirror. His brow furled and lips smirked as he admired the close resemblance of who he had become. He pushed the razor head against the sink until the blades bent loose. He dislodged one skinny blade and brought it to his room, where he carefully put Father’s clothes on, making sure to tuck the shirt in tight and lace up the shoes with a perfect bowtie knot. The wristwatch fit perfect. It pushed his arm hair out of the way just like he remembered on Father’s arm, and used the same enlarged hole on the leather band. He filled his front pants pocket with the loose change, slid the small razor blade in the shirt pocket and turned all the lights out as he walked around the house.

            He sat in the recliner with Father’s sleek clothes and watched the microwave clock minute by minute. He remembered when Father used to come home with his shirt untucked, which was something young Jake Jr. always noticed. Father recognized and would quickly tuck it back in. Jake Jr. sat there and thought about what he helped Father hide. Blood rushed to his face and he felt his ears pulse. Father then routinely grabbed a cold beer, sat in his recliner, smoked a cigarette, and clicked on wheel of fortune. Jake Jr. would sit on the carpet as he did for so long, and watch the wheel spin and Vanna flip letters with Father—but not anymore. Feeling less romantic, he wondered if her seduction towards him had to end. But Father was there, and Father needed romance, a lot of romance.

            The microwave clock blinked 12:33. Jake Jr.’s mouth was dry, but he had more important things to take care of before he treated himself to one of Father’s cold beers. He sneaked quietly to Mother’s room, back hunched and feet moving softly in the heavy shoes. His hand turned the cold door handle. He gently pushed and the hinges squeaked for the first few inches. The T.V. was on but muted, and the room had the peculiar odor of vinegar. He lifted his leg inch by inch and paused, and then another inch, just as slow as possible. Ten minutes had passed which resulted in one large stride into the room and overcoming the creaky floorboard. Thirty minutes later he reached her bedside and stared down. The ceiling fan was swirling around above his head. It was set on the first pull. The light breeze felt cool against the wet droplets built up on his forehead.  

            Since Father’s death, Jake Jr.’s had gained the power of a Bloodhound. The scent of Father lingered in his nose for weeks after the accident. After Father’s scent finally dissipated, the Doctor said Jake Jr. had acquired a special gift, an extraordinary sense of smell. He tried to tell Mother on several occasions that it was a curse and it could drive him mad. No one listened. The smell of the stale carpet, Mother’s alcohol, and even worse, the old biddy’s perfume that lingered on Mother had finally pushed him to the brink. Oh, how he prayed to have Father’s scent in his nose again.   

            Liquor permeated up from Mother’s open mouth. He realized she may never wake enough to comprehend, so he reached in his pocket and gently jingled the change—and jingled again and again. Minutes passed of sporadic jingling, and she finally turned over, facing away. He lifted the covers and fought gravity with every millimeter of movement as he cautiously applied weight to the mattress. He laid there staring at the back of her dark head. Slow movement after slow movement, the room enclosed on him as his eyes inched closer to the back of her neck. Another slow hour crept by when he finally achieved the position, only inches from her body. Now it was her turn. Minutes ticked by and he could feel the sweat patch building up on his back. She showed no reaction, so he moved his hand just as slow as possible and reached in his pocket. The pocket change jingled through his fingers and fell deeper into the pocket, yet still no movement from her. The windows were turning dark blue, showing slight signs of daybreak.

            Jake Jr. was out of time, so he reached for his front shirt pocket and pulled the razor blade out. Suddenly she jerked her head forward, breathed two large breaths and settled again. He froze when he saw her greasy silver hair was hiding the T.V. remote. He slipped the blade between the gap in his teeth. Minutes passed when he finally had the remote aimed and the T.V. went off. The room was black and she groaned. That’s when it happened. She moaned and backed up. Squeezing tight against his quivering frame he couldn’t deny himself when the ceiling fan started to growl and wobble. WHHAA—WHOOOOEEER—WHHAR—HHHHOOR--WWWAAA

            It was too much! He squeezed his eyes in pain hoping it would stop. It didn’t so he slid back. His tolerance ran low and his movements became less fluid. He grabbed the top of the headboard with both hands and hoisted his body up. Now on his knees, his face was above the headboard and inches from the window. The sky was a hue of blue only seen in the early hours of morning. He blinked and could faintly see the strip of manicured grass that separated the old biddy’s house from his own. Jake Jr. and Mother shared that fine patch of grass with the old biddy. It led down to the shared grassy knoll that father used to call it. There was a clear view of that overlooked the bay. He remembered lounging back on the knoll with Father and watching the large boats come in from the Gulf of Mexico.

            Father would tell him, “One day we’ll have one of those Jake. Your mother and I have been saving.”

            His heart raced as he thought about how exciting it would be to steer the largest and most streamlined boat on the water.

            He snapped back to attention when he saw a light flip on in the old biddy’s house. It was her bathroom. Shades wide open and Jake Jr. was close enough to say hello if the windows weren’t closed. Her naked body walked into the bathroom. She kept at an angle that only revealed her shriveled back. But he didn’t blink. She turned and exposed her breast. They were round and alert as he had ever seen. His lack of experience with woman didn’t deprive him of knowing that the old biddy was still holding her own in that department. She stopped moving and suddenly looked out the window, directly into his eyes. For a split second he saw how lovely she must have been as a young woman. The light went off. He wondered if she saw him and quickly decided it was unlikely. She was no longer the old biddy to Jake Jr., and just as Father often called her, she was Mary. After all, they shared a patch of grassy knoll that looked into the deep water of the bay.

            Mother made a sudden movement, the bed creaked, her upper body jolted and she went silent. Except for the gurgling sound of liquid pouring out of her mouth, all was quiet, including the ceiling fan. The room became full of a pungent odor. His plans would now have to wait and he wondered if he should still follow his love or just end Mother’s suffering of lost love. Mary, the nakedness of Mary, once again, came in between Mother and what she deserved.

            He pinched his nose close and undressed, but was forced to let go and use two hands to unbutton the collared shirt. The stench of stomach bile and grape cough syrup burned his nostrils. He hung Father’s clothes exactly as he found them. Stripped to his underwear and walked carefully to the partially opened door of Mother’s room. His left hand held the loose change as he stepped over the creaky floorboard and exited the tainted room. In the living room he slid the loose change under the recliner and pushed the pile of dust in afterwards. He hesitated, then took off the gold wristwatch and set it exactly how he found it ten hours earlier.

            Jake Jr. laid down on his bed, always on the right side. He opened his mouth and dislodged the razor blade from the gap in his teeth and slid it under his left side pillow. He happily fell asleep with a slight taste of blood in his mouth, a pleasant tradeoff. Father’s beer was going to have to wait one more night.

* * *

            That morning Mother was up and scrubbing the stain on her bed. As if cleaning it every morning was going to get rid of two years of vomit stain. Jake Jr. was awakened by her insane scrubbing. The alarm clock flashed 9:33. It was Saturday and he fought the urge to watch Saturday morning cartoons.  Cartoons sucked now-a-days compared to what he remembered, that made the decision easier. He poured his own breakfast that morning, plain cheerios in a bowl, and he even brewed a pot of coffee. The cluttered nook was centrally located between the kitchen and the dark living room. He sat there at the small round table. Stacks of unread newspapers surrounded his bowl, but that didn’t stop him from gingerly crunching away spoonfuls of cheerios. Mother whisked by doing her typical chores, always tidying up the same five spots: her bed, her toilet, her body, the kitchen sink, and the purple stains left on the counter. She was wearing her thin after-shower robe, which announced every curve of her 5’ 3”, 160 pound frame. Her wet silver hair stuck tight to her head. She looked at Jake Jr. with her round face and chubby cheeks and smirked. Her dark eyes and short eyelashes would have repulsed most, but Jake Jr. smiled back and nodded with a mouth full of cheerios.

*  *  *

            He was getting excited as evening approached. Mother was dolled up more than expected. Jake Jr. watched as she spent extra time to curl her hair. The doorbell rang. His excitement faded. He stood in the hallway as Mother passed by.

            “Ok, they’re finally here, Jake. Can you please stay quiet and out of our way tonight?”

            “What? I have plans tonight, we have... I thought you were leaving to go to freaking Irene’s anyways?”

            She walked backed to Jake Jr. and stared him coldly in the eyes. She exaled and her features softened. Suddenly and without warning she brought her right hand back over her left shoulder and unleashed a violent backhand accross the front of Jake Jr.’s face. Blood trickled out of his nostrils and crossed over his lip. He looked down and watched it splash off of the hallway’s yellow linoleum. The doorbell rang again and Mother took quick short steps to answer it. Jake Jr. quickly retreated to his room. He realized Mother’s anger was towards Father, not him, so he decided to forgive her. Until that moment, Jake Jr. was never sure if Mother knew about Father’s promiscuity, she must have. Jake Jr. knew he was closer, and it didn’t matter that tonight’s plans were foiled. He believed Mother was on board, he believed she loved him as she loved Father.

* * *

            The sun was long gone and the ladies were getting louder. Mother was about to open up a second bottle of red wine.

            “We need something that has a little more kick or I’ll fall asleep like my dead husband did,” announced Irene in her raspy voice.

            Mother replied, “Geez, Thank God Almighty, I was waiting for someone to say it before me. I thought the party was never going to happen.” She danced her way into the kitchen. Mary and Irene laughed obnoxiously as Mother pulled out a bottle of 100 proof, Captain Morgan Rum from underneath the sink.

            “Whose deal is it?” Irene asked.

            Jake Jr. stood in the hallway. His nose was cleaned up, and he wore ironed jeans and an off-brand polo shirt. Trying to be inconspicuous he peaked into the living room. The newspapers and most of Father’s junk was stuffed in the corner of the living room and hidden under a dingy sheet. There sat the ladies, around a foldable table in the middle of the living room, only a few feet from Father’s recliner. Mother had put bright new bulbs in the ceiling light. The living room was brighter than Jake Jr. had ever seen. His face turned red when he saw Father’s ash tray emptied out and sitting on the table in front of Irene. She flicked a fresh ash into it and took a heavy drag of her cigarette. “Foolish women,” he muttered, and almost understood why Father could have done it.

            Mary looked up from her lousy hand of cards. She saw Jake Jr. and her eye brows raised in excitement. “I fold.” She threw her cards down on the table. “Excuse me while I use the bathroom.”

            Irene shouted at Mother. “Damn it, a full house does beat a four of a kind.” Smoke followed the words out of her mouth.

            Mother grumbled, “If you have to cheat to win, then I will too.”

            Mary walked up to Jake Jr. unnoticed by the ladies. Irene continued to argue as Mother refilled her empty glass with fresh ice and rum. Jake Jr. saw a spark in Mary’s eye. She was up to no good, and he now knew she did see him at the window last night. She grabbed his arm and pulled him into his bedroom. He reached out and flipped the light on before she pushed him against his dresser. She put her hand on his shoulder and professed, “Jake, last night I saw your father in you.” Her voice sounded young and smooth. “You were too young to know, but your father and I had something special and,” she inched closer to his face, “and I want that with you.”

            She pressed her lips tight against Jake Jr.’s. It was softer than he imagined and wetter. Her odor wasn’t perfume as he anticipated. She repositioned her hips and her breeze crossed his face, baby powder lingered in his nose.  Her mouth pressed firmly against his, sharing all her tongue, he couldn’t breathe and opened his eyes. A flash of green crossed his vision followed by a loud thud. Suddenly, her false teeth rammed deep into his mouth. He grabbed her and tried to push her away, but her hug was locked tight around his back. She was falling to the floor and dragging him along. He tried to roll, only causing her to slam straight on top of his body, face bouncing of his forehead. Still trapped below her, he shoved her head aside and his vision cleared. Mother was looking down at them, holding the green bottle of unopened red wine in her hand. Her face wasn’t round and cheerful anymore, her jaw was long and mean, eyes squinty and black; her mouth gritting.

            He yelled, “What the Hell, Mother?”

Mother stared down motionless and lifted her leg and pointed the heel of her black pump into Mary’s side and shoved the limp body off of Jake Jr. Pain throbbed in his mouth and he reached in and felt for a loose tooth. Mother grabbed his hand and hoisted him up. They stared down at the bent body.

            Mother broke the silence, “She has nice breasts, doesn’t she?”

            He turned white and nodded, “How, how do you know?”

            “Your father told me, Jake. She kisses good too, doesn’t she?”

            Jake nodded and smirked. “But she smells like baby powder.”

            Irene belted out from the living room, “Are we going to keep playing or do y’all want to just give me your chips?”

            “You think she’s dead?” Jake whispered.

            “Maybe,” Mother turned to walk out then stopped. “Jake, throw her on the bed.”           

            In the living room Irene looked annoyed when Mother approached with the wine bottle still in hand.

            “I’m sorry Irene, but Mary’s drunk and fell asleep in Jake’s room.” Mother pointed down the hall motioning towards where Mary laid unconscious. “But on the bright side I can continue giving you poker lessons on another night.”

            Irene sounded concerned, “Well that’s not like her, she could usually hold her own.”

            “Not my Rum.” Mother laughed.            

            

           Jake Jr. heard the buzzing of Irene’s car reversing out of the driveway. He walked into the living room and found Mother standing in front of Father’s recliner, spellbound by the painting on the wall. The colors were vibrant as ever with the new light bulbs she installed above: the egg was suspended like a broken pendulum from the noose, its reflection, a shadowed pocket watch. How Mother loved that painting as much as Jake Jr.

            Jake Jr. stood close behind Mother. She turned around and hugged him, wrapping her hands as far around his body as possible.

            She whispered to the side of his face, “Tonight is going to be special.”

            Her warm breath encased inside her hair and trapped the rancid liquor breath in Jake Jr.’s nose. He tried to hold his breath but only lasted a second. He exhaled with a loud wail. He blew her silver hair out of his face. And with the exception of Irene’s lingering cigarette smoke, he was breathing fresh air again. That exhale also opened the view to the painting, the dangling egg sunny side up. He examined the painting while his mother held him tight, shifting her weight from left leg to right leg and back. It suddenly hit his eyes! His brain tried to interpret whether he was imagining whose figure stood in front of him. All this time and he didn’t see it! He wondered, how did he not see Father standing in that painting? Small but confident as ever, there Father was, walking through a lit door way with son in hand.           

            Jake Jr. twisted Mother around, pretending to dance. Mother laughed, enjoying the moment that Jake Jr. had waited so long for. He stopped and sat her down in Father’s chair.

            “Stay here honey. I’ll be right back.”

            “Honey? Oh, I love when you act like your father, it’s adorable.”

            Jake Jr. angered as he walked into the kitchen. The pressure in his head caused him to wince, but he regained his composure before Mother noticed. He didn’t want to be adorable. He wanted to be handsome, cute, stunning, but not freaking adorable. 

            “Now close your eyes Mother, because I have a surprise.”

            He opened the junk drawer in the kitchen and pulled out a roll of duct tape. He walked over to her.

            “Ok, what I’m going to do is going to be a little uncomfortable, but there is a reason for it.”

            “Alright, just do it,” Mother quipped.

            “Now keep your eyes closed until I say so.”

            “I am. Now just do it and bring me my drink.”

            He was fuming. She didn’t take him serious. He unwound some tape and wrapped it around the back of the chair and quickly ran it around applying it tight against her chest. He ran around and around, unrolling it until she could no longer move.

            Her eyes opened.

            “What are you doing, Jake?”

            “I told you not to open your damn eyes. You never listen—and now you’re going to pay. Making me sit on the floor for so many years when Father’s chair just sat here empty. But first...”

            “Jake you know that your father would have wanted it that way. You know that—”

            “Shut up Mother, SHUT UP, SHUT UP! Why is Father’s office locked? What is in there? I’ll find out right now.”

            He marched down the hallway.

            “No Jake, Jake don’t, don’t go in there.”

            He ran and jumped shoulder first into the door. The doorframe split and the door swung inwards. He crashed onto a wooden floor. His eyes scrolled up and it was Father. Pictures of Father were plastered all over the walls. Every inch was covered, but he wasn’t alone in the pictures. He was on women and or sometimes two women. The pictures were taken from a distance, through windows, from in closets. He looked around and found that Father was with a different woman in almost all the pictures. One was with Irene. Father stood naked behind Irene’s naked body, flogging her with an odd shaped whip. Jake Jr. found several different pictures with Father and Mary. They weren’t doing ugly things, they were kissing on a park bench, or hugging on the side of a busy street. Another picture was of Mary sleeping in Father’s work shirt, only Father’s work shirt. Jake Jr. pulled that picture off the wall and shoved it in his pocket as he walked back into the living room.

            “Jake, it’s not what you think.”

            He tore a piece of tape off the roll and put it over her mouth.   

            “You made me kill him. Now you will sit here and die in Father’s seat, and I’m going to make sure that you’re as uncomfortable as possible as you fade.”

            Jake grabbed two full wine bottles and stood over Mother.

            “You wanted a drink, here’s your drink.”

            He pulled them apart and smashed them together. They bounced of each other without breaking. Mother wiggled in fear.

            “DAMN IT!”

            He pulled them further apart, and with all his strength collided them together. The glass violently shattered and red wine exploded. Mother’s face was the color of blood and her hair was crimson red. Jake Jr. eyes stung with wine. He brought his soaking sleeve up to wipe the wine out of his eyes. His sleeve was two shades of red: wine red and blood red. He felt his face. His fingers found a thick piece of glass protruding out of his cheek. The wine had caused the duct tape to break from her lips, and she looked up at him and started laughing. Jake Jr. filled with rage and lifted the broken wine bottle high in the air. He was about to bring it down on Mother’s head—CRASH—the front door swung open.

            “SIR, SIR, PUT THE GLASS DOWN AND BACK AWAY FROM THE WOMAN.” 

            He turned his head towards the front door and bright lights penetrated his vision.   

            “PLEASE PUT THE WEAPON DOWN AND STEP AWAY FROM THE WOMAN.”       He stepped back and set the sharp bottles on the floor and then dropped to his knees. Watching COPS on television prepared him for what was about to happen next. Three men jumped on him, slamming his face to the ground, forcing the glass deeper into his mouth. He tried to talk, but the glass speared his tongue preventing it from moving. The police sat him up on his knees and faced him towards the front door. Irene stood in the door way.

            “Officers, there should be a woman in the backroom that needs medical attention.”

            Mother started laughing. Her laughter grew loud, drunk and relentless. Jake Jr. looked at her with the beautiful hole in his face and smiled when he saw Father’s painting dripping with red liquid.

University Antics Don't Go Ignored

Head Banging Nerds

        It is not startling, nor is it appalling to those who regularly travel through this antiquated campus, when they see the sidewalks, hallways and classrooms crowded with extraordinary swollen-headed students, so weird. These students consist of everyone from the sorority girls that stand around between classes chatting and snapping gum, to the lab rats that spend their extra time analyzing the over-analyzed. There’s no doubt the majority of this student body has boosted egos, but that doesn’t justify the size of their enormous heads; otherwise, campuses around the country would have gigantic-headed pupils, and that just isn’t the case.

         Let me explain. Only this campus, nestled far in the woods, atop a hill, in the deep corner of South Carolina, holds the unique feature of having bloated-headed students. So I figured there had to be another reason for such an abundance of enlarged-headed students. Just over a year ago these startling answers came to haunt my eyes. I think it is agreed by all that a university’s reputation helps override the ridiculous acceptance process and the abundance of trying to prove one’s worthiness. After six hundred hours of filling out paperwork and anxiously waiting, you hopefully get accepted to this college, which, to most is held as one of the best of its kind. But there’s something the university withholds from prospective students, until it sneakily receives and locks up in their vault your first pile of cash. It is time for students to find out what kind of atrocity looms in their future.

         As for my own experience, negotiating with money lenders eventually led me to having an a Wells Fargo truck back up to the admissions office. It dumped out a mountain of cash and allowed me to be a real student. On my first day I found a lonely parking spot behind the monstronomous football stadium, and with a map in hand, headed up, up, and further up. Finally, I reached the Hall with the tall bell tower. The voice of a cheerful girl invited me in and guided me to stand in a long line. I was taken back as my eyes caught site of her extremely massive head. Everyone in the orientation line had normal-sized heads. But she was huge above the neck, and I assumed this girl was just an extra-brainy student or maybe had medical issues.

         A few days later it was my first day of class and unfortunately, upon registering, I found that the only classes not filled were the ones before the cock crows. So as the sun rose on the first day, I made my way up the hill again and was on a mission to succeed. That’s when my eyes were exposed to something right out of a twisted nursery rhyme, I saw my first student. He was tall and dressed quite well. There was an older man with a corduroy jacket and long beard who walked at the student’s side. The old man’s beard ran down past his belt and stopped at his knees. Even more shocking was the tall student’s head. It was large, too large. It was so gigantic that if I had to compare it to a ball, it could easily be a beach ball. Oddly, his neck was stretched beyond its normal length, and his head was bent all the way over to his side. It rested in a wheelbarrow, of which the bearded man in corduroy pushed. I was dumbfounded and ran into the nearest building, where thankfully there was an elderly secretary woman.

         “Can I help you?” she asked, in a tone letting me know I was bothering her morning routine.

         “Ma’am, please look out your window and tell me if you see something askew!”

         She reluctantly stood up and gazed out the window. That’s precisely when the gigantic-headed fellow and bearded man with the wheelbarrow came strolling into sight.

         “Oh, that’s Professor Niptz and one of his star students. That student has been here for six short years, but I’m pretty certain he’s a senior now.”

         Her southern accent was strong and she spoke at an alarmingly slow rate.

         She continued, “This school certainly proves to be a challenge to most, even the smart ones.”

         She looked at my face and saw how pale I must have turned.

         “You’re new here, aren’t you boy. You still have a lot to learn, don’t you?”

         Though she was throwing out some rhetoric, I was uncertain if she was talking about the deformities of the possibly inbred student or the future challenges of the school. But after listening to her, I think I knew why her head wasn’t enlarged like that students. Maybe I was learning?

         I made it to class. Most the student’s heads ranged from the size of a basketball up to an exercise ball. The other bit seemed mostly normal-sized. The one sitting across from me had shiny titanium rods. The rods ran from his shoulders to the base of his skull and supported his head in a most gracefully disturbing way. The rest of the students were either leaning their heads onto their hands or had their fat craniums lopped over and lying on their shoulders. We were then assigned groups for calculus class and everyone clumsily shifted to the proper table. None of my group members had large heads. I was relieved. The distraction would have been a greater obstacle than the math—so I thought. It was quiet at the table and the feeling in the room was apprehensiveness and awkwardness. The students at my table didn’t make eye contact and the head snapped to attention when the professor felt enough time passed and started to give a give us a speech.

         “If you do your assigned homework, go to SI, and come to class daily, I’m sure you will pass…”

         “A reassuring way to introduce us,” one of the younger students in my group whispered.

         The professor directed her attention at us and continued, “However, this class has a high failure rate, so I suggest that you pay attention and follow the actions of this table.”

         She pointed at the table that was full of the students with the largest heads. Without warning she started writing a mad amount of equations on something in front of her that magically displayed on the equations on the adjacent walls. Her writing was so sloppy and indiscernible that after a few minutes of trying to copy and interpret, I just gave up. Thankfully she stopped and had a foreign student hand out worksheets.

         She then spoke in a condescending tone, “Every single class you will exercise what I teach you with these worksheets. They count for fifteen percent of your grade.”

         I raised my hand and spoke before she called on me. “How are we supposed to do these problems if you just showed us for the very first time?”

         “That is why you are in groups, and if one of your group members can’t help you then, Rahul Banerjee, our mathematics graduate student, will be happy to help you—in fact, Rahul, tell them your SI hours.”

         “Hilloe, yodu cann see mey andy tidme bewtncentn fodrrr anda seex in Daneel foudrrr honddreedd.”

         Class ended with an unsuccessful attempt to finish the math problems. As we stood up, a student with a huge head spoke.

         “My father is fed up with this school’s hidden antics. He’s an attorney and said that they’re intentionally setting us up to fail, and that certainly is contradictory to what he is paying for. A lawsuit is in order and is justified.” The boy directed this statement to his group members and indirectly towards the professor, who come to find out, was the chair of the mathematics department.

         Another student was about to chime in when the professor interrupted, “You are repeating this class again because you didn’t take it seriously the last two times, and you chose not to see the right people to help you succeed.”

         “No disrespect,” he rebutted, “But I did everything the curriculum suggested, including SI. I still failed miserably. Are we cattle being herded through a dry pasture, and only the fat ones make it to the other side?”

         The groups with the enlarged heads started lashing out uncontrollably and gnashed their teeth violently.

         They spoke in unison, “It is time we stand up to them. It is time we stand up to them.”

         “This is my third time in this lousy class,” blurted another.

          A warped headed fellow yelled, “Twice through Calculus one and two, twice through physics one and two, and three times through chemistry.”  

         “Me too,” the one said with the fancy titanium support rods that barely held up his exercise ball-sized as he nervously wiggled. “But now, I’m finally fattened up and can make it through, huh? And so isn’t the university’s wallets! It should have never come to this! Let’s do it! It’s time we stand up to them.”

         He used his hands to jerk his neck and dislodged his head from the support rods.

         “Come on, let’s do this.”

         He started rotating it in a circular motion. The rest of the students with the long necks and grand heads did the same. They frantically bounced off of each other as they advanced towards the professor. It didn’t take long before she was getting knocked around and grotesquely disappeared into the group of banging heads. I followed the madness as they made their way outside onto the campus sidewalks. Every student with a brainy head joined into the mass and the havoc compounded. Professors and staff were disappearing into the head-banging mob. The normal students stood by and observed, but for some reason they didn’t react. They somehow knew that these over-educated students, who one day could be them, were finally using all that knowledge for something productive.