“My questions only serve as a goad to myself; I only want to be stimulated by the silence which rises up around me as the ultimate answer…”
--Franz Kafka, “Investigations of a Dog”, 1936.
--Franz Kafka, “Investigations of a Dog”, 1936.
Being nearly or actually and even permanently expelled from a leading prep school and college as well as R.O.T.C. meant nothing. When my father stated that I would pay for any schooling after my scheduled graduation date, the jig was up; the jug was down; and, my career was on as a teetotaler of dubious deliberation. It was a bleak winter’s day and I felt that usual mix of equally bleak feelings when toxins are exiting the body.
It was dinner-time at the fraternity, where I was a social member only but, fortunately, in with a crowd of prepsters, druggies and others content to nurture a paradox of arm's-length intimacy: be close enough to pass the pipe but far enough away to remain inscrutable. Bottom line: these comrades-in-qualms remained willing to accept me as one among ‘uniquities’ after I had packed away a promiscuous persona with the Scotch I never got to sip.
Except that I had never sipped a thing in my life. Taking a left out of the boarding house, a two century old clapboard beauty owned and run by the kindly widow of the former Episcopal bishop, I walked a couple of blocks along White Street lined with similar structures fronted by the same wrought-iron fence with slight filigrees and shaded by occasional pines and naked elms. After a minute or so, I arrived on Main Street, taking a brief left.
In front of the grocery store that had closed an hour before, at 5 p.m. (on the nose, at the tail-end of an era of single-earner families), I inserted forty-five cents into the outside machine to get my daily quart of Coca Cola. Then I cut across the Main Street toward the small cemetery punctuated by the stately statue designating the eternal quarters of the earthly remains of General Stonewall Jackson, the untimely death of whom, by friendly fire, may have saved the Union some 117 years prior.
This daily sugar shock seemed necessary at the time for whatever reason. Ironically, drinking that Coke did not put on any weight to my thin and dissipated frame; in fact, it ruined my appetite for dinner and I was soon down to 147 pounds; to place this in perspective, most people consider me rather thin today, though I am now thirty-five pounds heavier. So I swilled my sugar-water and came upon a Grotty sporting a “Question Authority” button.
Now, I well knew, many people would find this anachronistic hippie and his button to be cool; especially at the frat house. Well, I was not fooled; no, not the least. Dismissively, I thought with some contempt, gained only since I had quit partying to flush out the system (rather knowing that I would never return), ‘Come on, Fred, surely you can do better than that! After all, you have had a decent education…I mean, whoa-man, that button is so utterly slackadelic…’
After that momentary yet dissembled contempt, I realized that, for the first time in so long, my disapproval had not led to some stupidly stuttering slur to prove me and my ‘integrity’. In fact, I hardly cared. Since I had given in and obeyed my father’s stern wish that I graduate on schedule, I found that I was rather happy in spite of 'distant' Phi Beta Kappa grades descending into a hole of mediocrity. At least, I was not so dependent upon the mainstream to wear a button that defied it. Fact is, anarchists need the law to flout more than cops or attorneys do to front it.
Truth is, cloudy day or no, I had enjoyed reading Freud’s Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego that afternoon – still giving the heave-ho to assigned readings from my regular classes. The problem was that I had signed up for the easiest, least labor-intensive courses W.&L. had to offer; the lectures were as boring as the readings vacuous. But obedience remained a tricky concept to me. My college sweet-heart had already decided that my brooding 'thoughtfulness' and fermented hurt, no longer tranquilized, did not make for a pretty personality type for her better (let alone other) half.
Nevertheless, when she died four months later, my world tipped off its axis. Though that love story was not meant to be written, at least in this ripped fabric of time-space, I was determined to obey that inner mandate not again to do those drunken things which had assured me the most transient of all rewards: popularity and attention. The price had been too high, particularly for others. Yet obedience still rankled me and for thirty-five years, I have been trying to figure it out. Vice, like virtue, had been its own reward; at least, I was still independent enough to walk alone in the Blue Ridges.
Some personalities seemed less geared toward submission than others. While I took pride in my often painful independence and rued other craven capitulations (again, dissembled), I was simply unable to obey anything or anybody, especially God Who, after all, had intervened just two months before to purge the demon-lover stalking me from meal to meal, day to day, girl to girl. Well, time heals wounds and even affords occasional insights.
Three decades spent in, and two careers distracted by, the contemplation of (i.e., brooding over) this idea of inner jihad toward submission to God’s Will – though, of course, I did not think of that inward and existential struggle in terms of the pillars of Islam – had gotten me nowhere…until this week. In all those previous years, I could only cast terms of obedience to God’s Will as submission to It; that is, of dissolving myself into that path of muted destiny, with the fake gin’s tear wending its way down Winston Smith’s cheek.
A strict upbringing had removed the simple felicity of just going along. Through those wandering years of social cluelessness, emotional absence and incongruous illusions, I had failed to make the inference from Fred’s button seen so long ago: ‘Don’t wear a button; do it if you believe it will benefit others; otherwise, accept life on life’s terms, dig?’ It is embarrassing to admit that the obvious connection between mere acceptance and obedience, so obvious to others, was lost on me.

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