Young Writers Society

Dragged Down by the Stone

A Novel

By J.R. Spotswood

You’ve got to be Crazy (Part One of Thirty)

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Please don’t give me that putrid bullcrap. You already know why the hell I’m here. You can cut the formalities, since this is supposed to be a casual environment and, like I said, you already know why I’m here. You have my parents to thank for that. They’re…great. They really are. They’re hilarious, open-minded, and, well, loving, I guess. I didn’t fight back when they told me they were sending me here, especially given the crap that’s happened in my life lately. But, yeah, I saw no reason to fight back. I may be a “compulsive liar” who tries to manipulate his family to get what he wants, as they put it, but I still love them nonetheless. Apparently I’m the type of sociopathic bastard who wants what he wants when he wants it.

You’re supposed to be here to help me, right? Well, you can’t help me until you get the whole truth from the man himself. So, I suggest that you just shut up and let me talk, okay? I’m sure it’s in both our interests seeing as I just want to talk and you get paid by the hour.

I’ll start with a list of my likes and dislikes, in no particular order…

Likes:

1. Writing

2. Acting

3. Talking

4. Girls

5. Classic rock music

6. My family

7. Books on tape

8. My manhood

9. Thunderstorms

10. Video games

11. England

12. Films

Dislikes:

1. People bigger than me

2. Jesus freaks

3. Insincere people

4. Girls

5. Assholes

6. Modern music

7. Going to boarding school

8. Science class

9. Math class

10. Conservatives

11. Liberals

12. People who chew gum in public

13. Gum under the tables at restaurants

14. Lacrosse players

15. Fights

16. Waterparks

17. Prejudiced people

18. “Hashtag Yolo Swag”

19. Television

20. Telemarketers

21. Televangelists

22. Evangelicals

23. The internet

24. The ignorant

25. The Man

26. Me at fourteen

27. Kids my own age

28. Smart cars

29. Belittling adults

30. Being alone

31. Being left out

32. Compulsive liars

33. Men in uniform

34. Entitled people

35. My birthday

36. Being told “No”

Midwood is a small college preparatory school in Middle Falls, a small town in Northern Virginia. It’s basically a town full of a bunch of rich, old people who like doing nothing but riding horses. I like horses, personally. I once went on this pack trip in Colorado, but everything went wrong. I’ll tell you about that some other time.

Anyway, Middle Falls is pretty rural. There are a lot of horses. Yet, the town is close enough to D.C. to be able to head in on the weekends. Midwood Prep has a student body of about five hundred, most of which is comprised of a bunch of asinine bastards. Luckily, I don’t have to put up with them all the time, since my school is thirty minutes away from Huntsville, where my family lives. I visit as often as I can.

Nuns founded the school in the days following the Civil War and it remained catholic all the way until the 1980’s. Part of me is sort of sad that the school isn’t catholic anymore. Some of the degenerates who go there are in need of some old-fashioned monastic discipline. But, as I said earlier, I’m getting too far ahead of myself, seeing as I’m going to be telling you my whole damn life story, after all.

Seventeen glorious years ago, I came into this crappy world. I was a happy kid, wise beyond my ears. My parents tell me I was an old soul. I was such a cute bastard. Asian tourists visiting Hawaii, that island paradise I called home for the first four years of my life, actually used to pull over to take pictures of me. It’s hilarious! I swear. I’ve always had this fantasy where I go to Japan and see my ugly baby mug all over billboards, advertising diapers and such. But, yeah, those tourists got a kick out of me. You’d think they’d never seen a fair-haired baby before! The funny thing is that my hair has since turned the darkest shade of black you can imagine. I’m telling you, those Asian tourists loved me. They really did.

Anyway, I was born on a midsummer’s day. That’s all you need to know about my lousy birth. As for my earliest memories, well, let’s see…

I remember swimming in a pool as an infant. I remember playing with my cousins Esther and Allen as a baby. I remember watching Godzilla at a drive-in movie. I remember wanting to have dinner for breakfast. I remember the owner of Chompa Thai wanting to take me home with him. I remember visiting my Aunt Joan. I remember catapulting myself out of my crib and climbing in bed with my parents. Finally, I remember going to see my first movie. It was Star Wars.

I had a pretty decent childhood. In fact, I was pretty privileged. I guess I sort of take for granted the things which I am given. In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me a valuable piece of advise. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he would say, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” I took it to heart at the time. Now I realize that my dad was just ripping off Gatsby. A fine book, to be sure.

I often caused a raucous when I was younger. One time, at some church function, I knocked some poor little kid over by accident when I was trying to push my way through a crowd. I must’ve been five or so. It was an accident, but my mom made me apologize. I felt pretty damn embarrassed. Probably the most I’ve ever felt in my life, to be honest.

I’ve always had this vivid imagination. One minute, I’m captain at the helm of a pirate sloop, shelling an English frigate with broadsides. Next, I’m the sheriff of some nameless, nineteenth century frontier town in Texas, chasing down the evil bank robber Bandit Bob. Next, I was Bandit Effing Bob himself!

My imagination was always encouraged. I’ve also always challenged authority. It’s always pissed people off. I like that about me though, my ability to question. I think it is a trait that only intellectuals possess. I questioned religion a lot when I was a kid. My church preschool gave me the “littlest theologian” award. My imagination was always encouraged, though, like I said.

My imagination was first judged when I had just turned six. My parents had just enrolled me in this bullshit Christian school, and I had to go meet my teacher for the first time. I showed up in my cowboy hat and said to her, “Howdy, ma’am. I’m Sheriff Sassafras!”

Her reply was, “Parker, I need you to be Parker right now, not same make-believe character!” Although I was probably offended, I didn’t think much about what she said at the time. Only now do I realize the bullshit factor of her response. I was being Parker for crying out loud! That was who I was! My imagination was who I was. Hell, it’s who I am today! My imagination defines me.

She turned out to be a pretty god-awful teacher too. Now, I’ll call that a bargain. She was the worst I ever had. Mrs. Fullgraham was her name. More like Mrs. Fullofshit.

She was a prude who hated boys and loved Christ. Hell, I think it’s safe to say she’s the reason I hate Jesus Freaks today! One time, she shook my friend Matt for saying “What the heck.” I mean, what the hell? Seriously? She also sent me to the office when I told someone that he looked like vomit, even after he said the same thing to me. That aside, she also hated this stupid little rhyme we used to say. “Ink pink, you stink,” is what it was. Apparently it was mean to tell people that they stunk. Talk about not understanding the context! But, anyway, that’s Mrs. Fullgraham for ya!

I won’t go into any more details about her. I will say, however, that she hated me, Harry Potter, Matt, that “bullshit evolution nonsense,” and “bad kids.” Let’s just say I was a “bad kid.” Her husband was nice though. He had the coolest name: Fry. I’d kill to have a name like that. We all used to call him Mr. French Fry. While he thought it was funny, my teacher did not. She always made us apologize to him because it made her feel uncomfortable for some reason. I later learned she divorced Mr. French Fry. She’s probably remarried to some poor sob named Grill or something.

I got through elementary school just fine. In the third grade, there was some incident at a school my parents sent me to up in New Jersey. They brought me home on account that I wasn’t getting the education that I deserved. So, they hired tutors. Although I didn’t mature socially whilst I was tutored, I did mature cognitively and intellectually. I don’t regret being tutored, but my friends occasionally tease me because I was, quote on quote, “homeschooled.” They probably don’t know it, but us “homeschoolers” tend to be intellectually superior. But, what do they know? Most of my friends are just morons.

The years when I was tutored were great, well, with an exception of being called out by some Persian lady at a grocery store. I asked if she was an immigrant. She got offended. I was just a nine year old with a big vocabulary. I must’ve been learning about immigration.

While I always pissed people off by questioning authority as to better understand the context of certain things, that’s not the root of my problems. That’s not why I am here. The real trouble began just shortly after I turned fourteen. I had just started the eighth grade and my fifth year of being tutored. This time, I was being tutored along with my buddy Clark. He was cool, Clark. I kind of miss the old boy. I still see him occasionally. My trouble was neither with him nor the tutors, however. It was the new neighbors.

Oh, God. How they pissed me off. They were judgmental, ignorant, arrogant and, well, crazy about Jesus! I don’t mind religious folks. It’s just the ones who try to shove religion down my throat that I don’t like. The neighbors definitely tried to force their religion on others. I swear. They really did.

So, why don’t you just get comfortable, as it is I who will be doing the talking from now on? You just pull out your pen and write down what it is you have to. Evaluate me. Call me insane. I’m a little insane. I’ve come to terms with my insanity. So, like I said, just listen to me and my tales. Then you can judge if I am crazy or not. After I tell you these stories of mine, my life experiences, you’ll know why I’m crazy. If you don’t think I’m crazy, well, you’ve got to be crazy, my friend!