My name is Jackson Bishop.
My father's name was Sampson Bishop, and he was a seaman.
He hauled in crabs, on the coast, in the waters near Florida. The North Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico, all the way down to the Bahamas, he sailed with a crew of eighteen other men. He always came home smelling like sea foam and stiff, dead fish.
I love and hate the sea.
My father said I'd never make it to Harvard. Well, I did, to his distaste of anybody in a station higher than his.
The issue, of course, was money. Isn't that always the issue? From birth, it is money, or the lack thereof, which we are told aids or inhibits us.
And, from birth, my father was always a day late and a dollar short.
I was an only child. My grandmother kept me company, while my father was away, fishing. We rented, at the time, a two bedroom house. My grandmother had her own bedroom. I had my own bedroom. My father slept on the couch, but kept his clothing in my grandmother's bedroom, when he was home.
Our lack of finances didn't preoccupy me, until I was twelve. I thought nothing of our silent moves from one place to another, of our dingy arrangements and our shoddy furniture, until I experiences, for one painful moment, the presence of a businessman.
His shoes and the cuffs of his sleeves, his suit, were what drew me in.
He sped away in a red convertible.
I hungered for things I'd never had. I was overwhelmed with emotions I'd never felt, before--desire, hatred, self-loathing, and an obsessive desire.
From this point on, I forsook intimate relationships with friends, girls. My grandmother was my confidant, and she was half-ill. After my fourteenth year, I suspected that, the entire time she'd been putting green beans in my grilled cheeses, it was me who was watching her, and not the other way around, as my father whole-heartedly suggested.
Even after I achieved acceptance into one of America's top business schools, even with scholarships, landscaping--pushing a lawn mower around school grounds and professors' personal yards, to the avid enthrallment of their wives--and two other jobs (bar tending and box lifting)… Even with all of this, I still came up short.
You have to understand. There is a certain lifestyle Harvard students are expected to uphold.
And, so, without deep enough pockets, I knew I would crash and explode, burn, sizzle, become a smear of blood and ash on the Road to Success.
After I was fired from my landscaping job for reasons I don't wish to discuss, yet, my money issue took over, so completely, that I had no other choice. I simply couldn't care, anymore.
I did something I never do. I went out on the town, got plastered, and the alcohol led me to (an act of God's grace, or the work of the Devil, I'm still unsure) a party--the type of party I would never go to, unless at the behest of my fraternity brothers--Sigma Chi, whose symbols I had tattooed into the flesh of my calf.
This roused, rough party was where I met an international student named…
"Hewitt."
"What?"
"Hewitt."
"Excuse me? Chew what?"
"No, wanker. That's my name." He bawled a laugh and a choppy choo-choo train of smoke, watching me. "Hew-itt."
"That's a ******* awful name. Hewitt? That's just… It's just…"
He passed the spliff to me, and I took it. I'd never been high, before, and I probably won't get high, again.
The important thing to note, here, is that we met, mostly having to do with him asking if I wanted a 'hit' and holding out this joint, and, then, mostly to do with the fact my stoned brain became very, very intensely interested in Hewitt's name.
A buzzing sensation took over my body, made my mouth loose and laughable, like his.
Everything seemed immensely entertaining. Suddenly, the world was a playground.
This was how we became involved with one another.
And here was Hewitt, talking tight and high-pitched as he blew more smoke.
When did I pass that back? "I know. Bloody awful. My mum did it to me. She was all," And, here, he adopted a nasally, posh British accent, tucked his chin back until he'd created a flap, under it, then puckered his lips until they looked like, for lack of a better comparison, somebody's asshole. I deduced he was trying to mimic his mother's facial expression, complete with overbite, when he said, "'Oh, well, you know what's a good name? Hewitt.' And my father, stupid arsehole that he is, said something like," His posture straightened, chin knocked back, shoulders squared, and his nasally posh turned into a big, booming posh to match, "'I do believe you're right. It should be that or Winston. I do love Churchill.'" Hewitt deflated and took another puff from the joint, rubbed his face, looked off.
"Sounds like a mechanical thing. A… Something. A car? Packard? I think it's a computer. Hewitt Packard?"
"Well, my mum fucked me. Not literally fucked me, understand, just gave me the old one-two, you know, really did me one, did me over. Not like I can change my name, now, then, is it?"
"You can. It's legal, now, I think."
"What? I think I saw that on some television show. What would I change it to?"
"Something good. Like… London Collin."
We both laughed.
At some point in the party, completely out of my mind, I blabbered about my financial troubles.
This was when he said, "I have no troubles."
"What a wonderful way to live," I muttered, head lolling back from the alcohol and marijuana, which all made me simultaneously very exhausted, and filled me with an impending dread, an anxiety that whisked me to my feet. I began pacing, rubbing my face as he watched, laughed, again. "What?! This isn't funny!"
"It is. You're a strapping young lad, Jack. You're easy to fancy. You got arms. You should be chatting up birds. Quit worrying."
"My life is falling apart." I'd lost my cool, by this time, and was shoving my hands through my hair over and over, again, scratching my scalp. I usually iron my clothing, in the mornings, but I'd completely bypassed that.
I was a wrinkled mess, and the crisp, platinum London boy across from me laughed, again.
"You come by my drum. I'll show you around the ends, introduce you to the fam."
And this was how I became involved in the drug business.
Coming up Daisies
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Bishop (DELETED 321)
- Posts: 10
- Joined: 23 Jun 2011, 18:32
Re: Coming up Daisies
My name is Jackson Bishop.
I wake up on Sunday mornings and go to church. This is an ingrained habit. My grandmother made me go to services every Sunday morning, every Sunday night, and every Wednesday night. These outings often included a once-monthly Commune, where we'd all gather, after service, on Sunday afternoons, and stay at the church until night time, eating and laughing with other members of our, well, community.
I always sit at the back, watching as women raise their hands up, dance through the aisles, praising God's good grace and Jesus Christ. They wiggle their fingers at the ceiling. Children mimic them, blubbering in 'tongues' as they fling themselves around, possessed by The Spirit.
When people ask me to talk to them, I have trouble.
You could call it a case of chronic shyness, but, nonetheless, trouble.
But talking to other people, well, it's like talking to a baby. You can say whatever you want to a person, but they all just speak in tongues, like the members of this non-denominational church I'm sitting in. It's all just tongues, blubbering and flailing out of people, and it never really means anything, not really. These people don't really connect to me, or with me, they're just talking at me.
I might as well be speaking in tongues to them, too, blubbering like these old women, young women, men, these children in this church, thinking they're speaking some secret emotion language to some god in the sky. The Almighty. The Trinity. The Christ. The Ghost. The father, son, and holy spirit.
All the 'communication' makes little to no sense to me.
I am a man of action.
So, when people talk to me, when I talk back, that's all I hear.
Tongues.
It takes me a second to process what they're saying, because I have to define every word they use, consider what they've said to make sure I know that I know that I know what it is they've said to me. I don't want any misinterpretations, any miscommunications.
Dale Carnegie says, 'About ninety percent of all management problems are caused by miscommunication.' If I ask enough questions about a person, get down to the heart of things, I can weed out almost all issues.
I'm not slow. I'm not dense. I'm not trying to be condescending.
I'm just being thorough.
Business is business.
Talking to other people is like listening to the teacher from the Charlie Brown comics.
"Wa. Wa wa wa wa wa wa. Wa wa wa. Wa wa wa wa."
I turn my head, and notice a girl, maybe fifteen, is talking to me.
"I'm sorry. What?"
She says it, again,"Hi! My name is Jeanette Lee Rhodes! What's your name? Where are you from?"
This is already too personal. "My name is... Jack. I'm from… Florida." When she looks baffled, I add, "That's a state in the United States of America. It's sort of like Ontario, here, in Canada."
She smiles. This entire interaction is painful. It hurts my head, but I smile, anyway.
She smiles back.
I say, "Are you from Harper Rock?"
She says, "Yeah! I was born here. I lived here all my life. My mom is the lady singing on stage. The really pretty one."
Every child thinks their mother is the 'really pretty one'. I don't begrudge this child for thinking hers is. "Well, you're right. She's lovely." I need an excuse to get out of here, but I'm still waiting for God to save my soul, if I even have one.
I wake up on Sunday mornings and go to church. This is an ingrained habit. My grandmother made me go to services every Sunday morning, every Sunday night, and every Wednesday night. These outings often included a once-monthly Commune, where we'd all gather, after service, on Sunday afternoons, and stay at the church until night time, eating and laughing with other members of our, well, community.
I always sit at the back, watching as women raise their hands up, dance through the aisles, praising God's good grace and Jesus Christ. They wiggle their fingers at the ceiling. Children mimic them, blubbering in 'tongues' as they fling themselves around, possessed by The Spirit.
When people ask me to talk to them, I have trouble.
You could call it a case of chronic shyness, but, nonetheless, trouble.
But talking to other people, well, it's like talking to a baby. You can say whatever you want to a person, but they all just speak in tongues, like the members of this non-denominational church I'm sitting in. It's all just tongues, blubbering and flailing out of people, and it never really means anything, not really. These people don't really connect to me, or with me, they're just talking at me.
I might as well be speaking in tongues to them, too, blubbering like these old women, young women, men, these children in this church, thinking they're speaking some secret emotion language to some god in the sky. The Almighty. The Trinity. The Christ. The Ghost. The father, son, and holy spirit.
All the 'communication' makes little to no sense to me.
I am a man of action.
So, when people talk to me, when I talk back, that's all I hear.
Tongues.
It takes me a second to process what they're saying, because I have to define every word they use, consider what they've said to make sure I know that I know that I know what it is they've said to me. I don't want any misinterpretations, any miscommunications.
Dale Carnegie says, 'About ninety percent of all management problems are caused by miscommunication.' If I ask enough questions about a person, get down to the heart of things, I can weed out almost all issues.
I'm not slow. I'm not dense. I'm not trying to be condescending.
I'm just being thorough.
Business is business.
Talking to other people is like listening to the teacher from the Charlie Brown comics.
"Wa. Wa wa wa wa wa wa. Wa wa wa. Wa wa wa wa."
I turn my head, and notice a girl, maybe fifteen, is talking to me.
"I'm sorry. What?"
She says it, again,"Hi! My name is Jeanette Lee Rhodes! What's your name? Where are you from?"
This is already too personal. "My name is... Jack. I'm from… Florida." When she looks baffled, I add, "That's a state in the United States of America. It's sort of like Ontario, here, in Canada."
She smiles. This entire interaction is painful. It hurts my head, but I smile, anyway.
She smiles back.
I say, "Are you from Harper Rock?"
She says, "Yeah! I was born here. I lived here all my life. My mom is the lady singing on stage. The really pretty one."
Every child thinks their mother is the 'really pretty one'. I don't begrudge this child for thinking hers is. "Well, you're right. She's lovely." I need an excuse to get out of here, but I'm still waiting for God to save my soul, if I even have one.
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Bishop (DELETED 321)
- Posts: 10
- Joined: 23 Jun 2011, 18:32
Re: Coming up Daisies
I'm in my room, sixteen, going over maths problems, and cramming college material in, in between. "Jack!" I hear him. I choose not to answer. "...JACK. JACKSON. JACKSON BISHOP. BOY? You better com down here!"
"Hm?!" I answer with a finality, a sordid, somber finality. I know he's going to make me.
"Come down for dinner!"
"I'm busy!" I try, anyway. Test, tomorrow, next week, the next week, one or two in all classes. All honors. I have to organize meetings for the chess club, for football, work on my free throw, my layup. I'm Vice President of my class. SATs, in two years. There aren't enough summers to put all the correct information in my head. All unneeded information is fitfullly pulled from the files in my mental filing cabinets. For this reason, if you aren't important to me or my goals, I'm going to forget your name.
"With what?!" His voice is getting closer.
"Reading."
"What're you doing that for? You ain't smart enough? Lord knows Webster could be your daddy. Get your *** down here, boy, it's time to eat." The hollering's muffled, but coming in more clear.
The door bursts open. My father stands in it, stares at me.
I say, "I really am busy!"
"Huh. You think you're real smart, huh? You got a real smart mouth. You think you're smarter than us?" He smells like cheap beer and old cigarettes. I hate these smells. They disgust me. "Is that it? You a big guy, now? Think you can get your education and go somewhere with it, huh? You aren't going anywhere with anything, Jack. You get your nose out of that stupid book and you get down to dinner, now. I'm sick of having this conversation with you, boy. Get down there to dinner. Your grandma cooked all day."
"She cooked for an hour and a half."
"Get your butt down there."
"I'm not hungry."
"GET YOUR BUTT DOWN THERE, JACKSON BISHOP, BEFORE I LAY INTO YOU."
"I DON'T WANT TO EAT AROUND YOUR ******* TABLE. I DON'T WANT TO SIT ACROSS FROM YOU. I don't want to look at you, your horrible mother, or that worthless wretch of a girlfriend you found at the docks. With her rough hands. She eats like a pig. I can hear her smacking. Every time we eat, she smacks. She makes these snapping, slurping noises with her mouth, and they drive me mad. One day I'll just kill her. I will. I'll kill her. Do you hear me? I don't want to be around your table. You're all horrible. You're mean and crass. And she doesn't bathe! She takes a shower once a week. Her hair is greasy. You smell like fish! This house is too small for the amount of people staying here!"
"Then you can scrounge up your own food. Ours isn't good enough? Find your own, you ungrateful ******* brat. You ******* worthless ingrate. You piece of ****. Nothing's ever good enough for you, huh? I work my hands raw. I have to be away all the time. I'm in the ocean four months out of six, yanking up fish, tossing crabs, and what do I get for it? I come home to you and Rhonda, yowling about how hard she has it. I got problems, too. I got problems, too! YOU THINK I AIN'T GOT PROBLEMS, TOO? HUH? YOU THINK WE DON'T ALL GOT IT HARD, JACK? WE ALL GOT IT ******* HARD. AIN'T NOBODY IN THIS HOUSE HAPPY, JACK. GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ******* ***. If your momma was alive--"
"Yeah, well, she isn't."
"You got a real smart mouth, boy."
"Probably because I study."
"You need to put these stupid ******* dreams away. You ain't never going to no Yale, or no Harvard, or no Princeton. You're just as dumb as the rest of us, Jack. You ain't never going nowhere. What you should be doing, is thinking about the real ******* future. Something solid. You're getting older, now. You're getting old, enough, now, you hear? To be thinking about going out on the boats like the rest of us. You hear me, boy. These stupid ******* books. They ain't never helped nobody. They ain't helped your momma, and they ain't going to help you. Them fancy doctors ain't helped your momma. You ain't going to learn nothing at no Harvard. No Princeton. No Yale. Ivy League. Huh. Ivy ******* League?!" During the course of this long-winded diatribe, paper scattered everywhere. He ripped, and is still ripping, books apart, throwing them around, kicking them across the floor.
"Stop!"
"These ******* books."
"STOP."
"You think you're so ******* smart."
"Stop! Stop! You're ruining them!"
"They're ruining you! These ******* dumb books! That's all you do is sit in here, reading these books!"
"These don't belong to me. They're from the library!"
"I don't give a ****! Deal with it! Don't have nothing to read, now, huh? HUH? Do you? Don't have nothing to read, now. Now you got tons of time on your hands. Get your *** down to dinner. Now."
He slams the door. The papers whisper with the big gust of air.
I lay down on my bed and punch the mattress and the pillow.
"Hm?!" I answer with a finality, a sordid, somber finality. I know he's going to make me.
"Come down for dinner!"
"I'm busy!" I try, anyway. Test, tomorrow, next week, the next week, one or two in all classes. All honors. I have to organize meetings for the chess club, for football, work on my free throw, my layup. I'm Vice President of my class. SATs, in two years. There aren't enough summers to put all the correct information in my head. All unneeded information is fitfullly pulled from the files in my mental filing cabinets. For this reason, if you aren't important to me or my goals, I'm going to forget your name.
"With what?!" His voice is getting closer.
"Reading."
"What're you doing that for? You ain't smart enough? Lord knows Webster could be your daddy. Get your *** down here, boy, it's time to eat." The hollering's muffled, but coming in more clear.
The door bursts open. My father stands in it, stares at me.
I say, "I really am busy!"
"Huh. You think you're real smart, huh? You got a real smart mouth. You think you're smarter than us?" He smells like cheap beer and old cigarettes. I hate these smells. They disgust me. "Is that it? You a big guy, now? Think you can get your education and go somewhere with it, huh? You aren't going anywhere with anything, Jack. You get your nose out of that stupid book and you get down to dinner, now. I'm sick of having this conversation with you, boy. Get down there to dinner. Your grandma cooked all day."
"She cooked for an hour and a half."
"Get your butt down there."
"I'm not hungry."
"GET YOUR BUTT DOWN THERE, JACKSON BISHOP, BEFORE I LAY INTO YOU."
"I DON'T WANT TO EAT AROUND YOUR ******* TABLE. I DON'T WANT TO SIT ACROSS FROM YOU. I don't want to look at you, your horrible mother, or that worthless wretch of a girlfriend you found at the docks. With her rough hands. She eats like a pig. I can hear her smacking. Every time we eat, she smacks. She makes these snapping, slurping noises with her mouth, and they drive me mad. One day I'll just kill her. I will. I'll kill her. Do you hear me? I don't want to be around your table. You're all horrible. You're mean and crass. And she doesn't bathe! She takes a shower once a week. Her hair is greasy. You smell like fish! This house is too small for the amount of people staying here!"
"Then you can scrounge up your own food. Ours isn't good enough? Find your own, you ungrateful ******* brat. You ******* worthless ingrate. You piece of ****. Nothing's ever good enough for you, huh? I work my hands raw. I have to be away all the time. I'm in the ocean four months out of six, yanking up fish, tossing crabs, and what do I get for it? I come home to you and Rhonda, yowling about how hard she has it. I got problems, too. I got problems, too! YOU THINK I AIN'T GOT PROBLEMS, TOO? HUH? YOU THINK WE DON'T ALL GOT IT HARD, JACK? WE ALL GOT IT ******* HARD. AIN'T NOBODY IN THIS HOUSE HAPPY, JACK. GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ******* ***. If your momma was alive--"
"Yeah, well, she isn't."
"You got a real smart mouth, boy."
"Probably because I study."
"You need to put these stupid ******* dreams away. You ain't never going to no Yale, or no Harvard, or no Princeton. You're just as dumb as the rest of us, Jack. You ain't never going nowhere. What you should be doing, is thinking about the real ******* future. Something solid. You're getting older, now. You're getting old, enough, now, you hear? To be thinking about going out on the boats like the rest of us. You hear me, boy. These stupid ******* books. They ain't never helped nobody. They ain't helped your momma, and they ain't going to help you. Them fancy doctors ain't helped your momma. You ain't going to learn nothing at no Harvard. No Princeton. No Yale. Ivy League. Huh. Ivy ******* League?!" During the course of this long-winded diatribe, paper scattered everywhere. He ripped, and is still ripping, books apart, throwing them around, kicking them across the floor.
"Stop!"
"These ******* books."
"STOP."
"You think you're so ******* smart."
"Stop! Stop! You're ruining them!"
"They're ruining you! These ******* dumb books! That's all you do is sit in here, reading these books!"
"These don't belong to me. They're from the library!"
"I don't give a ****! Deal with it! Don't have nothing to read, now, huh? HUH? Do you? Don't have nothing to read, now. Now you got tons of time on your hands. Get your *** down to dinner. Now."
He slams the door. The papers whisper with the big gust of air.
I lay down on my bed and punch the mattress and the pillow.
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Bishop (DELETED 321)
- Posts: 10
- Joined: 23 Jun 2011, 18:32
Re: Coming up Daisies
My name is Jackson Bishop.
At age eighteen, I graduate from high school, with scholarships and honors. The summer comes and goes in a rush of sweat, mud, blood, and football.
Unlike the other boys, my age, I haven't lost my virginity, yet.
I think little of relationships with women, or men. I think little of any relationships, at all, but, this particular summer, my mind isn't swimming with numbers, letters, equations, definitions, problems, answers.
I lose my virginity half way through. We go swimming in the pool. While we both smell like chlorine and sun-bathing lotion, we kiss in my car--my red convertible, a cheap knockoff of the one I saw, when I was young, the one the businessman had.
We have sex in my bed, at my house.
My grandmother died, before graduation.
My mother died, when I was six.
After the summer comes and goes, I get a job.
I'm lifting boxes and putting them on a truck. It's tedious, and exhausting, but it helps me with my income issue. Not that my income issue can really, at its most basic, at this point in time, be helped.
I'm only half way through my first semester at Princeton, and I'm already financially unstable. I do have a business going with a few high-class natives.
I've been mowing their lawns for some time, and they tip well. A woman propositioned me, while I was mowing her lawn. Her husband doesn't know about that, I bet.
That she'd sit in her doorway and watch me ride that lawn mower around, while I study, read the books I sprawl out on the steering wheel, then turn.
The box lifting keeps me fit, so I guess that's why she was looking. Women love hard bodies, or so I've been told, and they probably love men who read and have hard bodies, even more. Intelligent athletic.
They expect me to be emotionally available, because I read. Like reading somehow makes me emotionally present.
It's the biggest load of garbage I've ever heard.
To them, I'm some big riddle, some mystery they have to solve, figure out, get to the end of. Girls try to talk to me, at school, but I get stuck with reprehensible identifiers like, 'Prick,' 'Dick,' 'Cold'. I tell myself that I'm none of these things, that I just have other interests.
I wonder if they'd still like me, if I told them exactly what I thought of them, if I unloaded my misogyny and misanthropy onto them.
I'm orderly, always clean.
I tie my ascot very specifically, starch and iron my clothing religiously.
When Hewitt and I start running in the same circles, people start asking me if I'm gay.
I say, "No," and walk off. It seems like an appropriate answer.
I try to hold conversations with people I deem important, or who I think might get me somewhere, or might go somewhere. I turn on my charm, remember names, dates, faces, interests. I develop an interest in golfing, so my professor and I can go on golfing trips together.
At age eighteen, I graduate from high school, with scholarships and honors. The summer comes and goes in a rush of sweat, mud, blood, and football.
Unlike the other boys, my age, I haven't lost my virginity, yet.
I think little of relationships with women, or men. I think little of any relationships, at all, but, this particular summer, my mind isn't swimming with numbers, letters, equations, definitions, problems, answers.
I lose my virginity half way through. We go swimming in the pool. While we both smell like chlorine and sun-bathing lotion, we kiss in my car--my red convertible, a cheap knockoff of the one I saw, when I was young, the one the businessman had.
We have sex in my bed, at my house.
My grandmother died, before graduation.
My mother died, when I was six.
After the summer comes and goes, I get a job.
I'm lifting boxes and putting them on a truck. It's tedious, and exhausting, but it helps me with my income issue. Not that my income issue can really, at its most basic, at this point in time, be helped.
I'm only half way through my first semester at Princeton, and I'm already financially unstable. I do have a business going with a few high-class natives.
I've been mowing their lawns for some time, and they tip well. A woman propositioned me, while I was mowing her lawn. Her husband doesn't know about that, I bet.
That she'd sit in her doorway and watch me ride that lawn mower around, while I study, read the books I sprawl out on the steering wheel, then turn.
The box lifting keeps me fit, so I guess that's why she was looking. Women love hard bodies, or so I've been told, and they probably love men who read and have hard bodies, even more. Intelligent athletic.
They expect me to be emotionally available, because I read. Like reading somehow makes me emotionally present.
It's the biggest load of garbage I've ever heard.
To them, I'm some big riddle, some mystery they have to solve, figure out, get to the end of. Girls try to talk to me, at school, but I get stuck with reprehensible identifiers like, 'Prick,' 'Dick,' 'Cold'. I tell myself that I'm none of these things, that I just have other interests.
I wonder if they'd still like me, if I told them exactly what I thought of them, if I unloaded my misogyny and misanthropy onto them.
I'm orderly, always clean.
I tie my ascot very specifically, starch and iron my clothing religiously.
When Hewitt and I start running in the same circles, people start asking me if I'm gay.
I say, "No," and walk off. It seems like an appropriate answer.
I try to hold conversations with people I deem important, or who I think might get me somewhere, or might go somewhere. I turn on my charm, remember names, dates, faces, interests. I develop an interest in golfing, so my professor and I can go on golfing trips together.