The Betrayal of Times of Peace and Prosperity

The Betrayal of Times of Peace and Prosperity

  a novella

  Alex Kudera

  Gone Dog Press

  Verona, Va.

  https://gonedogpress.wordpress.com

  Copyright by Alex Kudera, 2011.

  Alex Kudera is also the author of the novel Fight for Your Long Day.

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover Image: Denny Hall, University of Washington, Photographer: Calvin F. Todd. Used with permission from University of Washington Libraries, Special Collections, CFTo167.

  Contents

  I. Afternoon

  II. Evening Turns to Night

  III. Night Turns To Day

  IV. Commencement

  ***

  Publisher’s Note

  About Alex Kudera

  I. Afternoon

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Andy,

  I want to die.

  Sincerely,

  Jake

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  For the fifteenth time in two weeks, I read Jake’s last line, ball up the letter, and throw it at the wall. I wipe the sleep from my eyes, and rise from a lying to sitting position. Then, pressing my left palm flat against the alarm clock that rests on the foot-high night table, I hoist myself up off the floor mattress, and push myself out of bed. When I see the clock, relief rushes through me because I still have over two hours until my last college seminar. It’s only 2:37 p.m., so I sidestep the tall bong perched in the room’s center and limp toward the bathroom.

  Stiff and groggy and trying to climb over the high rim of the old rounded bathtub, I bang my left shin and stub my right toe. I rub away the pain, and then stand tall in the tub and turn on the water. The sharp bite of cold water pelts against my chest.

  Twenty minutes later, back in my room, I search for clothes in my closet full of four years of excess. There’s the usual in old junk—rolled-up posters, unopened books, moldy hot pots from frosh-year dorm existence, and enough clothing to warm an undeveloped nation. I put on some that smell clean.

  I move to John’s room and place one of his reggae CDs in the five-disc changer. I return to my room and pray once more to the god of ganja—and then return the two-foot long violet tinted smoking apparatus to John’s closet. On second thought, I cradle it in my arms and carry it downstairs and into the kitchen. I place it in the cabinet for tall food items, behind the vegetable oil and jumbo bags of potatoes and rice.

  By the kitchen’s card table, stoned, I sit sipping coffee and staring at box scores. Too soon, I’m lost in thoughts of LOB and ERA—statistical minutiae I can ill afford to dwell upon. So to keep the blood circulating, to stay awake, I rise to cook. At the sink, underneath a layer of yesterday’s bacon-greased dishes, I find a cutting board and knife. These I rinse and then place on the table. I lug the twenty-pound potato sack from the cabinet to the floor, rest it by mine and my chair’s leg, pull a spud from underneath the top layer, and commence to chop. I cut to the rhythms of dreadlocked men. Spud-done dopey, the cutting engages and entertains.

  Soon onions and spuds fry in an over-oiled wok. I trip upstairs and replace the reggae with gangster rap. Internships and pre-oppressorships in whiteness all over campus, and yet, as a tribe, we dig the rebel beats. John only invests in dissident sound—punk, grunge, reggae, and rap. Back downstairs, I add green peppers and mushrooms.

  I open the spice cabinet and pull out oregano, garlic, salt, black pepper, curry, and cayenne. Behind these I spy the Alpo. One impulse leads to another, and if I could explain my actions, I’m not sure I would. In other words, spices fall to the floor as I grab the can and the opener and peel off the lid. Plop. The reddish conical meat-like wet food stands tall at the wok’s center. With a rubber spatula, I squish the cone down and mix it into the potatoes and veggies. As the dog food sizzles, a chemical stench fills the chambers of house and nose. I stand away and think of Jake and the dog.

  ***

  It was after Thanksgiving when we brought Fred home for Jake. It was a present from his housemates, John and me, meant to take his mind off Jenna. He was fixated on her, and she kept rejecting him. We figured a puppy would be good company. Some good that did. Jake started taking long walks with Fred, all the way across campus to Jenna’s house. Fred, like most dogs, loved the exercise. But if Jenna were home, and willing to see Jake, Fred would remain outside for hours. Tied to the porch, the mutt would sit, wait, and watch. I can picture the dog looking at the door, waiting for his master to return. Sad eyes, tongue out, saliva dripping onto the cedar planks. If Jenna weren’t home, Jake and Fred would look sadly at the door together.

  In its fourth week at Ward, the tiny mutt flew out the door and chased a furry creature up the road. We ran after Fred, but he never looked back. We looked again in the morning and posted signs all about campus that day. Silence. Then, the next week, we got a call from a pig farmer up the road. Said he found our dog in one of his rodent traps. We drove to examine the carcass. It was Fred alright. Stiff tail dead.

  From that point on, things went south for Jake. Jenna was all he could talk about. He seemed too preoccupied to complete even the bare minimum required to pass. As the end of the semester approached, he withdrew from two of his courses. He received an incomplete for another and failed the fourth. In the middle of fall finals, he dropped out of school and moved to Berkeley, California. He assumed he would earn wages from a used bookstore or hip cafe, but so far, busboy shifts at a dive bar are keeping him afloat. Now he writes regularly, asking for information about Jenna, and detailing his life of unrequited love. His letters express his loneliness, and I usually need a couple bong hits just to get the situation off my mind. As his closest friend, I feel partly to blame. I know I am. Maybe that is why I read his words again and again.

  ***

  A solitary tear falls in the cooking unless I just fried a bead of sweat.

  I sprinkle on more spices, and then retrieve the bong from the cabinet and pack it from the kitchen stash. Either spices have overcome the wicked stench, or the foul additives have burnt away.

  I’m sparking up and sucking in again when John barges in through the kitchen’s back door. He stands six foot one and weighs no more than 120 pounds. He is Chinese American and the most intensely tense individual I have ever known. Various labels may be applied to his personality, but they do little to expose his uniqueness. Neurotic, possibly virgin, paranoid. Antisocial and socially ostracized. Cynical and even clinically insane. Due to an error at immigration, his social security card reads John Dhou, pronounced “dough,” but he claims relation to a small army of Zhous from the mainland. His father delivers laundry for a living; I should say Dad is the workaholic owner, no mere driver paid by the hour.

  “Dude, isn’t that my pot?”

  “At fifty bucks an eighth, dope is no longer freely shared. The communal good becomes private property.”

  “You said it.”

  I blow smoke in his face. “But I’m doing you a favor. You’ve got way too much work to do before graduation.”

  “Guess you’re right. Smells good. Say, what’s cooking?”

  With the bong hits and then John’s entrance I nearly forget my concoction. I run to the range, remove the can, and shove it way down deep in the trash. I’m too embarrassed to face him so into the wok I mumble, “Dad’s special cooking. Fried up veggies and potatoes with corned beef hash. Old country recipe.”

  “Mmm.
Smells really good.”

  I turn round, give John full-eyeball contact, and stumble into an alibi. “You know, I’m not really feeling that hungry. I’ve been doing dope munchies all day. If you’re up for it, you’re welcome to dig into my grub.”

  “You sure? You think there’s enough?”

  “Sure.”

  John is never one to eat another man’s food without repeated assurance.

  “You mean I can have it?”

  “I’ll serve it to ya.”

  “I mean some of it?”

  “It’ll be done in a sec.”

  “Sure smells good.”

  “Just have a seat and a smoke. I’ll serve.”

  After this life, I’m sure to bake beyond a reasonable doubt. In other words, I push John into one of our old wooden chairs and serve him a heaping portion in a ceramic bowl. While he sucks, I sprinkle extra curry atop the sizzling lion’s share. I hand it to him with a clean fork from the dish rack.

  He reaps a heaping forkful. I catch his wrist an inch from his mouth. “Hold on, John. Don’t bite in just yet.”

  “Why not? You want to eat first?”

  I nearly genuflect before my friend and beg forgiveness for such radical sin. But his sad stare evinces pained starvation, and so I meekly add, “It needs more spices to draw out the true flavor of the meat.” I push five plastic containers forward, and John sprinkles on generous amounts of each.

  With his two front teeth, he halves a slice of potato. “Mmm.” He savors the initial morsel and then greedily gulps down the rest.

  Soon his fork pierces a fat chunk of meat. I watch the portion move to within two inches of his pale pink lips. He holds the meat there. I hold my breath. He smells it. “Mmm. Mmm.” His lips mash against the fork as he drives the meat down. I watch in awe. He loves the food. I blow pot smoke in his face. “Chill, Dude,” he mumbles as he forkfulls his face with trash-compacting power. Many of us have nibbled on milk bones and dry food, but this is my first time watching a fellow suck down the wet. He finishes the bowl, and with a quick glance, gets my permission to serve himself seconds. Instead of guilt and fear, my doper laughs leak out.

  “Dude, you must be stoned off your rocker.”

  This adds to my pleasure, and I fall to the filthy linoleum floor. Fast guffaws storm from my gut. And then I regain composure and smoke again.

  “Say, how’s the hash?”

  “You mean the corned beef hash? It’s delicious.” I never see John take more than one meal a day. It is always the same meal—plain rice topped with margarine and black pepper. Could he only be enjoying this because a starving man would enjoy anything?

  He pauses to smoke.

  I smoke.

  “Dude, like maybe I’m smoking too much pot. Do you know what I mean?”

  I blow smoke in his face before I respond.

  “Once we leave Ward we may never be able to smoke like this again. This is our last chance to replenish our reserve of THC. Where would we be without its endorphin production?”

  “But I’ve got Licht’s paper and three finals between me and a fucking diploma.” I hear John’s panic. “Do you know what I mean?”

  From the relatively assured post of a single essay, I am unsure if I do. I put the bong back in the cabinet.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “Maybe you, we, should take it easy until we finish up.” I try to sound considerate but not too moral or high.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you write your Licht paper yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s due tomorrow,” I add.

  “Yeah. You write yours?”

  “Not yet.”

  John moves in to lick the wok. I know he will scrape it clean. I fed him dog food, a delicious and healthful meal, so I politely ask him to wash the dishes. And then I slip out the door because I want to arrive early to my last college class.

  ***

  My dreamy high imposes an impressionism upon campus. Nature moves by me in a congruous haze. Green shades flow everywhere. Peers look horny and soft, most in faded blue jeans and a rainbow of tees.

  I enter the ivy-coated red-brick building and ascend three flights of grey marble. I am the first one to class, and so I take the sunny seat by the window and stare down at the adjacent frat-house lawn. I spy barbecue. Frat boys and frat chicks recline and drink in lawn chairs while a ball-capped leader roasts a red pig, snout to tail.

  I indulge in the pre-class calm.

  History Senior Seminar: The Cycles of History

  Soon Professor Licht joins me with several bottles of booze. He tosses me a smile and Swiss army knife, corkscrew out.

  “Andy, Andy boy. You have much opening up to do!”

  I uncork the white wine and pour us two Dixie cups full.

  “Hurry, let’s down three to fate before the others arrive.”

  Licht has known my name since his freshman-year lecture; he still makes me smile, and at times he seems dedicated to loosening me up. We get a couple Dixie cups down before eleven or thirteen of my colleagues show up. Last but not least, John rushes in and sprawls on a chair three feet from the table. He is wedged in the corner where the door might smash him were one to open it wide. Post-sat, he ceases to mutter and turns to rustling and shifting books in his sack, making clicking noises with his tongue and pen.

  “John, my man! Good to see you!” Herr Licht bellows out at him. John has not attended of late. I believe this is his first class in several weeks. “Making progress with your final paper?” Licht gives him a gargantuan wink, as if an allusion to a mutual understanding that John has not yet applied pinkie to word processor.

  “Uh, sort of, I guess. Ach!!” John doubles over in apparent agony, clutching his skin-lined ribs and growling about stomach pain.

  “Are you okay, man? Quick! Pour this good fellow a drink for his psychosomatic good!”

  I sense that, like myself, some in the class experience schadenfreude. Mirth at the sight of another’s distress. I feel guilty too, so I try to quell my chuckles as I pour for John.

  “Think I’m okay,” he mutters after a shot of white wine.

  “Good. Class may commence.” Licht, a large man, stands upright and we the history types of Ward cower afore his bellowing. “We won’t start until everyone is stinking drunk! Drink up, kids, drink for your miserable papers and decadent lives. I know shots of wine are a bit irregular, and so I brought this.”

  Licht pulls a silver flask from his jeans.

  “Take a swig and pass. From the other side of the room, we’ll take turns sharing our favorite passages and most perverse interpretations. Try not to be too analytical. Half a brain can’t buy you a bus ticket, so don’t expect cheers for your sharp minds here. If anyone has a really low-down, dirty, rotten anecdote to detail, feel free to interrupt. Points will be assessed for burping during discourse, hastily spitting, and any other dehiscence which lacks brevity, soul, or wit.”

  Licht is an academy old-timer. His serious monographs long ago writ, and already undermined by brainier brats come lately, he waxes not so serious in tenured dotage. At fifty or maybe sixty-nine, he claims to currently enjoy a text called life.

  What Licht initiates as glib anecdote moves to officious young Americans pretending to be serious critics. As a group, we want to speak about the cycles of history, when the next Hitler might appear, and how and whether fascist moments can be avoided in future history or contemporary moments. But isn’t it the rule and not the exception? We wander from cycles as Licht steers us toward the principle of backbiting within the Reich. A man could not be trusted who would not willingly lie and sleep his way to the top, or at least ahead of his best friends and neighbors. He suggests that even the Reich had its secrets. He asks if anyone would like to speak of the universal appeal of fascism, or if we should just break for McDonalds and washrooms.

  John Dhou stands and delivers.

  “Dude, like forget fast-food culture and shithouses. I mean there�
��s a whole hidden heritage of good eating that the average American has access to but completely ignores. It’s food from their ancestors. Man, like my housemate fed me an ancient family dish, and it was awesome. You know what I mean? It was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted in this fucked-up, fascist, fast-food state of a country.”

  “Your analysis offers a flavor of genealogy—”

  John pardons Licht.

  “But like I really wanted to speak on fascism. The shit is everywhere, Dude. Everyone’s a fascist ’cause everyone’s a coward. Most folks are fascists ’cause they do their fucking fascist job. Apathy’s the most deadly form of fascism. Police are overt fascists. The whole fucking rise of the corporate structure is a preliminary move toward a fascist state. Backbiting’s worse in corporate America, even ice-cream chains, than in Nazi Germany. Even people who call themselves progressives pick their friends in a fascist way. We’re all fucking cowards. It makes me want to puke!”

  As a class, we quiescently absorb John’s wisdom. He sits down.

  I look out the window and watch two frat boys parading the pig on a stick, snout still intact, through a lawn-chair maze of white girls in athletic bras. They sun themselves and sip transparent drinks. Their breasts wear the school colors, silver and black.

  I turn back to class and see John deposit my donation to his stomach on the aged hardwood floor. “Puke,” he murmurs once more. Guilt bites at my soul in spite of drunken stupor. I fed John dog food. But then I reason that feeding John dog food could be an individuating, anti-fascist statement, at least by John’s thinking. Licht wonders aloud if he should drag the good man to the infirmary. John limps out of the room. I tell the class everything is okay, that I fed him aged ingredients for lunch, stuff that would upset the balance of anyone’s humors. Licht nods at me, but no one else quite comprehends or seems to care.

  All of a sudden, Licht’s mood changes. He bursts into tears.

  “Aye, it’s true. Bad food is everywhere. My wife used to cook wonderfully. But she left me years ago. I never knew why. Not enough quality time or shared television watching? Too little or too much sex? We can never know the reasons why things sour. Love is like any other emotion. People fall into it and people fall out of it. History occurs in like cycles.