Coming in 2006

The Orphan has been rescheduled for publication in 2006 with cover art by David Larson. For news updates, events and ordering information, please see:
Cultural Research: The Orphan

We're also closing comments on the Discussion Board for the time being. However, the unique conversation that developed around this blog/novel is still well worth checking out.

More news in 2006. Have a Happy New Year!

Author's note

The jig is up. As many of you guessed, The Orphan is a work of fiction: a novel. I made it all up. But as Chief Bromden said in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, " It's the truth even if it didn't happen." In Fall 2005, The Orphan will be published in book form by Cultural Research, "a new alternative publishing house based in San Francisco." For details, check out http://www.culturalresearch.org/orphan. Thanks to all of you who have read this, who are reading this, who participated on the discussion board, and who played along. And special thanks to Clyde.

Transcriber's last words

So that's it. That's the story. It will be right here. It's not going anywhere. And the songs will be right where they are too. And so will the discussion board. That's where I'll let people know if I decide to sell this trombone on e-bay or something. I don't think I will though. Maybe I'll learn to play it. (I've tried a couple of times, of course. It isn't a pretty sound. Not yet). If you're finding this for the first time, hit the "Transcriber's note" link just to your right first. And after that, as the King once said to the White Rabbit, "Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end; then stop." Welcome to the palace.

The rising of the sun

(Transcriber's note: New song in Sound Files).

Damn their halogen bulbs to hell's ninth circle! That thing is flat-out blinding. Hang on a second.

"Turn that fucking thing off, or I swear I'll jump!"

Ah, yes. That's better. That yelling was just for the police. I'm not really going to jump, if that's what you thought, though of course it crossed my mind, as it always does when I'm somewhere high enough. The edge is always tempting, fun to walk along or just to look over. And the little steel rail up here? I could hurdle it cleanly, without a running start . . . or, placing one hand on top, I could swing my legs over and push off into space.

That's a right I have. None of us made reservations here at Motel Earth. We can check out if we don't like it.

But, like I said, I'm not going to jump. I might throw the tapes off, though. That would be suicide enough. You've seen those smashed cassettes, the thin magnetic strips uncoiled and tangled, strung up in trees and over power lines like a gigantic messy spiderweb. If Hansel and Gretel had left a trail of tape instead of breadcrumbs, they could have happily followed it home with no trouble at all.

I wonder how far all these would reach if I tied them end to end . . . probably not more than a mile, maybe just back to the palace. That doesn't seem adequate, though. This story is farther than a mile . . . much farther. And it's longer than the year it took to happen: a year of holidays, now redeemed and ruined forever; of heroes and villains; of magical and poisonous drugs; of work, love, death, music, fun, and passion that could either heal or kill.

Off to the east I see evidence that the world is still revolving--that dim glow that heralds the rising of the sun. The birds are just beginning to chatter. It's going to be a beautiful day, I can tell already. Spring is finally really here. Daylight will bring out the greens and the colors of the blooming flowers, and I guess I'll get to see the inside of the jail, or maybe the funny farm, depending on what sort of impression I make. Whichever, I'll try to see it through Art's eyes.

I don't know what will happen . . . with me . . . with Jenny. I'm just coming to terms with the idea that I can't know everything, that all I can really know is what it's like to be a person in the world. But I'll keep looking for some meaning--or work on creating it . . . because I don't think it's something that's just out there, hidden away somewhere like the Holy Grail.

Some people will tell you that what's important is the journey, not the destination, and that's probably partly true, but it's hard to take seriously when the people preaching this doctrine are the ones who curl up in the back seat, close their eyes, and say, "Wake me up when we get there."

In some ways, the palace life was not my own, any more than the campus life was, but mine is around here somewhere. I'm getting warmer. You have to just keep trying to figure it out, and know that you're lucky when you're not alone . . . when another orphan shares your road for a little while.

It's my birthday. Yesterday was, anyway. Sunrise is here, pink and blue as cotton candy. I'm twenty-one years old: an adult. I've got some decisions to make, but I've thought enough for one night.

The ladder of the tank is right beside me. Maybe I'll go swimming. Maybe I'll just float.

(Transcription ends here. That's where he stops. I might have something else to add tomorrow. Maybe on Monday).

This incandescent ring

The cops have megaphones now. Can you hear them? They're down there on the basketball court yelling, "Please descend from the tower!" I wonder if these batteries are dying. If they are, when this is played back at regular speed, I'll sound like a munchkin . . . or like I'm in a big hurry. I'm not, though, but I sure am getting hoarse. This is my last beer, and it's warm, and I'm almost out of cigarettes.

This is also the last tape: "Orphans in the Palace," the label says. Every one of these tapes was of the band. I imagine there are still some others floating around, but they don't belong to me. I don't need one. I was there. And the tapes don't do us justice. I'm having my doubts as to whether what's on there now does anybody any justice either, but I had to tell it anyway--about Art and Jenny and me, and our life in the palace.

The palace . . . I walked by it tonight on my way here. Sheets of plywood are nailed over the front door and the downstairs windows. I guess the vandals and thieves smashed them looting the place after we abandoned it. The whole structure is ringed with a yellow plastic ribbon. It's condemned. I wonder what will rise in its place. Maybe nothing. Perhaps the demolition crew will leave the pile of rubble where it falls, and people who hear the legends will make pilgrimages to the ruins. Who knows?

Down there on the surface of the planet, the cops have rigged up some sort of a searchlight--a beacon, perhaps, intended to draw me to it like some hapless moth. I've heard those stories the people on the talk-shows tell about their near-death experiences and the beautiful light they saw. Those guys on the ground are having a little trouble focusing theirs, though. Its tight beam sways and weaves chaotically like a pole they're trying to balance. Oops. It's steadier now, and falling towards me. Got me! Damn, it's bright. Even with my eyes closed, I can sense its effulgence. They're still sending up their static-muffled, amplified pleas for my return to earth, but so far no-one's thought of coming up after me.

Because I'm way up here in this incandescent ring, I'm reminded of the very first time I saw Art, standing in the rafters of that made-over warehouse, of his glorious swan-dive out into the blackness above the frenzied crowd, of how free he seemed when there was nothing but him and the air.

All misery is real

(Transcriber's note: New song in Sound Files).

When I went off to college, the major I declared was physics. The promise of a complete, consistent, unified theory of everything lured me like a siren. The simile is a joke, actually. Two police cars are just pulling into the parking lot down below, and I figured their wailing alarms might be loud enough to hear on the tape. "I've heard the sirens singing each to each"--that's a line from a poem I read once.

Anyway . . . where was I? Oh yeah, the grand explication of the universe. Even if they do find it, I fear the information it will provide will be too much of the "what" variety, with not quite enough of the "why." I realize it's all connected, but I'm more concerned lately with what the hell people are here for than with the mechanisms of how they work.

It's hard to solve an equation when you're part of it, though; it's like trying to look at the back of your head. For a while, I satisfied myself by invoking the anthropic principle: The universe appears the way it does and obeys the laws it does because if it were any other way, we wouldn't exist to observe it. Put more simply, the universe is the way it is because that's the way it is . . . not very satisfactory, huh?

So I began studying philosophy. Here were a bunch of really smart people devoted to answering the question of why we exist, and how we ought to go about it. In the introduction to his History of Western Philosophy, Bertrand Russell rhetorically asks, "Is there a way of living that is noble and another that is base, or are all ways of living merely futile?"

If only the answer could be as simple as the question. But not even Dorothy Gale's farm was really black-and-white; it was shades of gray, like just about everything else. People aren't just "good or bad" or "nice and mean," their behavior falls along a spectrum.

I remember some of the graffiti at the Blindside in New York. Someone had written, "The road to hell is paved," implying, I suppose, that sin came more naturally to people than virtue. Beneath this sentiment was a list, composed in various hands, each entry finishing the original sentence with phrases such as "with curiosity," "with bands like you," "with genitalia," and-- my favorite--"but the traffic's a nightmare."

Anyway, the connections between the pursuits of physics and philosophy were clear enough that the transition between them was easy for me. Indeed, these disciplines were once the same. As I read more and more, though, I increasingly got the feeling that many philosophers were really physicists who couldn't handle the math. I know that's not fair, but I was frustrated.

What's needed is not just to combine the general theory of relativity with the quantum theory of gravity, but to develop a general theory of relevancy . . . an ironclad refutation of futility.

I'm aware, of course, that my existence isn't so wretched. This little neck of the woods is free of famine, pestilence, and war. Obtaining the bare necessities--food and shelter and such--isn't too tough around here, so I'm at leisure to hang around at the top of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs and wrestle with "self-actualization." But if my problems sound trivial, let me assure you that they're not. All suffering is valid. All misery is real.

The differential aptitude test

During the Spring of my eighth-grade year, the sages comprising the Board of Education decided, in their wisdom, to devote two entire school days to helping the young men and women of the community get a head start on their professional lives.

To that end, they brought in guest speakers from various walks of life who told us all about the trials, rewards, and activities that comprised their respective jobs. We had firemen, police officers, nurses, small-business owners, engineers, sales representatives, certified public accountants, paralegals, plumbers, electricians, and so on.

All kinds of busy people took time from their busy days to offer insights into the world of employment, and advice about how to achieve our career goals. We didn't get a single fast-food employee, though . . . not one "spatula technician" or "deep-fat-fryer operator."

The next day we took a battery of tests. The first section consisted of rating a list of occupations in order of preference. Actually, I think all we had to do was color in the circle beside each of our top five choices, using the number two pencil provided. I can't remember what I picked: Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief, or something. I was in the eighth grade, for heaven's sake. The examination itself covered lots of ground. It had sections evaluating vocabulary, math skills, reasoning, and reading comprehension.

But the part I remember best involved pages and pages of drawings of useless machines, intricate Rube Goldberg systems of gears and pulleys. Our task was to determine the result of a specific action on each of the gadgets, such as turning the crank labeled "b," or attaching weight "c" to hook "a" on the end of a chain.

I recall having fun with these problems. The Differential Aptitude Test--that's what it was called. Anyway, our "career orientation unit" was a nice break from the general drudgery of junior high, and when it was over, I forgot all about it, and fell back into my eighth grade routine.

Then one morning in homeroom, everybody was buzzing excitedly about something or other, and our teacher, Mrs. Hunsucker, walked in with a large, sealed manilla envelope, and everyone got quiet. The guy who sat in front of me, Robert Claymore (we were alphabetized) was also my best friend at the school. Funny--I wonder how different my life would be if one of us had a different last name.

Well, anyway, I tapped Robert on the shoulder and whispered, "What's going on?"

"Our test scores," he hissed at me. "We get them back today. Cool, huh?" He meant it. He really was excited.

Now, I knew without asking what he had put down for his ideal job: architect--that's what his father was, and Robert himself was always getting in trouble for drawing floorplans in his notebook when he was supposed to be paying attention. He was the only friend I had who was already really sure what he wanted to do in life. So I couldn't imagine why he needed to see his scores, as if whoever graded the tests could change his mind by saying he had more aptitude for some other career.

Mrs. Hunsucker handed out the results. I glanced at mine. "Yes," they said, "you go right ahead and be whatever it was that you picked." So I nudged Robert again. "What do they say?" I joked. "Did you pass?"

He turned around, just crestfallen. Then he forced a smile and handed me the paper. Typed by some computer, in the box marked "recommended employment track" was the title, "Handbag Assembler."

I suddenly pictured a lady's purse as a house, its compartments for change and lipstick as closets, the larger dividers as walls. I had never heard of so ridiculous an occupation as "Handbag Assembler." I laughed out loud.

Robert laughed with me, but his amusement rang hollow. He crumpled up the sheet of paper and fired it at the wastebasket by Mrs. Hunsucker's desk. It went right in.

I confess I don't know whatever happened to Robert Claymore, but I'll bet anything you name that he never became an architect. I saw his face that day.

Same as everybody

(Transcriber's note: New song in Sound Files).

The downpour started as soon as I was back on the highway, big heavy drops that splashed against the windshield. But the storm and I were going the same direction, and I outran it.

Since I had the car, I decided to stop by Dwayne's. He let me in right before the rain caught up with me. Anita was on the couch, little Art at her breast, Shame curled up on her lap.

"You want a beer?" Dwayne asked.

"No thanks," I said. "I've got to get Lois' car back." His drums were set up right there in the living room. "Have you been playing?"

"A little," he said. "We ought to jam sometime."

"Yeah," I said. "That sounds good." My eyes were on the baby. He had finished his meal, and Anita was covering up.

She smiled at me. "Do you want to hold him?" she asked.

"Uh-huh," I said, moving towards them. She handed him up to me, and I cradled him on my forearm, my left hand supporting his small head. His eyes were closed. He was already asleep, I guess. I couldn't help wondering who he was . . . whether he was anybody yet, or whether he was just a blank slate that the world would write an identity on. I wondered what he would be and do, and why, and if it would all one day make sense to him.

The next afternoon, I got a job at the Char-Broil, flipping burgers, a vocation in which I had already gained some small experience during my first and only summer home from college. I decided that if anyone asked me, "What do you do?" I would say, "Work, same as everybody."

Every day

Jenny had it pretty rough for a couple of days. I didn't even get to see her that next morning because she slept through visitors' hours. Dr. Carter put her on methadone, oral doses, to help her over the withdrawal hump, so pretty soon her head was clear enough to make some decisions.

We settled on a government-funded residential rehabilitation program over in Almesbury, about forty miles away at the State Mental Hospital. She'd already racked up one hell of a medical bill, and there was just no way to pay for private treatment. She would have to stay at the clinic for ninety days.

The doctor thought it best that Jenny not return to the scene of the crime, so Louise packed a bag for her the day she was discharged, and gave me the keys so I could pick her up at the hospital and drive her straight out to the new place.

We filled out all the paperwork, got into the Cutlass, and headed for the highway. I glanced over to where she sat, head leaning against the passenger window, fingers worrying a hole at the knee of her jeans. "This is what you want, though. Right?" I asked.

She gave me half a smile and nodded. "Yeah. This is what I need."

I reached my hand over to her. She took it and squeezed. I looked at her and could tell she was about to cry. She didn't, though. She just shook her head and said, "Life's so fucked up."

I couldn't argue with that, so I didn't. But I did say, "Maybe it gets better."

She laughed morosely. "It can't get any worse."

"There," I said, patting her hand. "That's the spirit."

And she laughed for real this time.

The highway was flat and straight, so I didn't need both hands to drive. I held hers the whole way. We finally got to Almesbury and wended our way towards the clinic, turning at last up a lane lined with dogwoods, just starting to bloom. The building loomed in front of us, clean and sterile-looking. That first-day-at-the-new-school feeling welled up in my stomach as I pulled into a parking space and killed the engine. "Nervous?" I asked.

"Yes," she admitted.

"Me too," I said. We opened the doors and got out. Flower beds full of daffodils and crocuses stretched along the sidewalks. A bank of afternoon clouds rolled towards us from the west. It would rain. April Showers and all that. I got her suitcase out of the back seat. "Ready to see what the interior of the place is like?" I asked.

She nodded, took the suitcase from my hand, and set it on the pavement beside her. "But I'm a big girl. I want to do this on my own." She stepped forward, kissed me fast, and stepped back away, as if this were a dance or a game of tag. "Write me?" she asked.

"Every day," I said.

She blushed and said, "I know."

"You got my letters, then."

"Yep." She smiled and kicked the suitcase lightly, then caught the handle and jerked it up. "I've even got them with me." She started to walk away, then spun and waved, then broke into a run and didn't stop until she reached the doors. There, she turned, blew me a kiss, and slipped inside.

Art

We wandered around until we found the main hospital lobby, then followed the arrows marked "Snack Bar," and came to a cozy little room with a few tables and a soda-fountain counter. A huge black guy in pale green scrubs and what looked like a shower cap sat there eating pie.

"Dwayne?" I ventured.

He spun around, grinning, then jumped up and hugged me and Louise at the same time. "How did you find out?" he asked. ""Who told you?"

And then I understood, and if my mouth were as big as his, then my smile would have been too.

"Anyway, who cares?" he said, "You're the first one I was going to tell. After my parents, of course. They're on their way. God, he's beautiful. He's a boy, did you know?" He handed us each a blue bubble-gum cigar. "He looks just like me, and just like Anita, too. She's doing great, but she's sleeping now."

I laughed. I had the impression he would prattle on for years.

"Eight pounds, five ounces," he went on. "He's gonna be big like his daddy. Have you seen him yet? No? What the hell are we waiting for? Come on!" He grabbed my arm, started pulling me towards the door.

"What about your pie?" I joked.

"Oh, did I pay for it yet? He was trying to find his pockets. "Somebody leave some money. We'll all have pie tonight. Champagne and pie. Where's my wallet? Man, you've got to see this boy. My boy."

The waitress was laughing now.

"Did he pay for it yet?" I asked.

"Yes," she gasped. She was in hysterics.

And then Dwayne was talking to her. "You come too. I want you to see him."

"I can't," she giggled. "But he is awful cute. You showed me the picture."

Dwayne's eye's lit up. "That's right, the picture." And suddenly his wallet was in his hand. He opened it, then slammed it shut and grabbed my elbow again. "No you've got to see the real thing--the baby."

So he hustled me and Louise to the elevator and up onto the maternity ward. We zoomed past the nurse's station, and he called out. "We're okay. I'm the father." And a minute later we were standing at a long glass window in front of a dimly lit room full of cribs, mostly empty.

I looked at Dwayne. He was beaming, pointing excitedly at one of the little beds right down front. He started making funny faces. I looked down at the peacefully sleeping infant, his lips moving slowly and rhythmically, hands clenched in tiny fists. I smiled. I couldn't look away. Dwayne rested his chin on my shoulder, watching with me. "We named him Art," I heard him say.