Going to school, getting away from the county

 this is a serial novella, it's unfolding even to me, so lets ride together on a train to who-knows- where


The Painting by Thad Presley

 

It all started as many other stories, my mother coming into the living room from the kitchen crying with her hankerchief held to her nose; and my father, the atomic engineer, sitting proudly in his smoking chair sucking on an old pipe, blue smoke lingering in the air around his head like a wreath. He always had something weighing on his mind, and today he was doting on his first son's acceptance to Rhode Islands School of History. He was a proud man, my father, and held his children to their highest measure, even a measure he sometimes failed to reach; but, that is no excuse for his children; his failures, as he has been known to say at certain speeches, are not his children's legacy, but their achievements only.

And that's when mother got his attention with her whimpering, and he lowered his gaze from the ceiling, from the rings of smoke, he deal with her. "What could the problem be, Sally. It's only 200 miles away and look at Trevor over there, you'll have him scared to go off to school." But she was not going to be debated over "that" school. She pushed her glasses up, and for the first time my father -- and myself, for that matter -- saw that my mother was not having a thoughtless tearing up, but that this was more of a serious matter to her.
"I am that child's mother," she said curtly, "and damn it, Robert, I will not have him go off to that lying school in Providence, They tell of evolution there and hold high the thoughts of absent minded people who call themselves anthropologists. The place is not at all the type of school our children should..." She stopped talking, obediently, when my father raised his hand and signaled that it was enough.
"You are correct in all you say, but the boy needn't copy there lessons, but only get the grades and teach himself the truth.."
It was my mother who stopped him this time. "Robert, you know that will not happen. Emy never came back when she went off, God knows what the world has "taught" her. Last I heard she was all the way in California; and, do you know who told me that, Dorothy told me that.

It didn't matter, I left for college the next morning and arrived at the dorm that evening. The number on the door read "212 b" and I thought it was really close to 221 b -- the address of Sherlock Holmes' business on Baker Street.
The first thought I had was that this place was going to be just fine and I would fit in well, and it wasn't long before I met my roommate, Charles.

Charles was a weak and sickly looking individual with a dark whisp of hair floating on his head. He had a small mustache, kind of in the Hitler fashion, and stubble grew on his face. He stood in the doorway and looked at me for a while. before completely entering the room. "ARe you supposed to be here?" he asked.

I nodded.

"I hope you are not a trouble maker, the last guy started fights and drank in this room. Do you drink?"

I shook my head. "Actually, the only drug I do is opium, and since I have no dealer here, I'll probably go through withdraws and scream all night."

He smiled. "That'll be fine, just keep the drinking to a minimum. With this he took a seat on his half bed and we started talking about teachers and classes and the groups to avoid. All in all, i felt like this was going to work out just fine.