Tom Sawyer In Hell

By Peter Black

All life is a series of stories and Tom Sawyer in Hell is mine. The narrative follows the misadventures of a naive young man who has optimistic expectations about life that rapidly go south as he makes his way thru college, courts and jails and small town lawyers, strip clubs, a gig as a Park Avenue doorman, hopelessness, psychopharmacology, absurdity, and the struggle to land a corporate job.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Black
• Release date: Sep 9, 2010
• ISBN: 9781439267554

Peter Black

Dr. Peter Black is Franc D. Ingraham Professor of Neurosurgery at Harvard Medical School and Chair of the Department of Neurosurgery at Brigham and Women’s Hospital and Children’s Hospital, Boston. He is also the chief of neurosurgical oncology at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.

Book preview

Tom Sawyer in Hell

by

Peter Black

All life is a series of stories and Tom Sawyer in Hell is mine. The narrative follows the misadventures of a naive young man who has optimistic expectations about life that rapidly go south as he makes his way through three colleges on two coasts, courts and jails and small town lawyers, strip clubs, a gig as a Park Avenue doorman, hopelessness, psychopharmacology, absurdity, and the struggle to land a corporate job.

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Published by:

Peter Black on Smashwords

tomsawyerinhell.com

Tom Sawyer in Hell

Copyright © 2009 by Peter Black

ISBN-13: 9781439267554

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Tom Sawyer in Hell

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Prologue

The story I am about to tell you is about my life over the past couple of years. I’m not going to come to some grand conclusion. I’m just going to share with you certain events that have had a significant impact on my life. Some parts are serious, while others are humorous, and if you haven’t experienced or thought about similar things in your own life, then you may not understand.

Life is just a bunch of stories

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Toothpaste

"Disappointment is a good sign of basic intelligence." – Chogyam Trungpa

I had it made. I graduated from a competitive science/math high school, aced the PSATs, SATs, and had an A- cumulative average. I was on the cross-country team, the wrestling team, won several competitive racing events, and had earned my second-degree black belt in tae kwon do. The next stop on my glide path was to go to a first tier college. This was always the implicit goal.

I was one of those quiet unreflective non-introspective work-a-holic students who never questioned my parents, teachers, or authority. Teachers ignored me because I never said anything in class. It wasn’t because I didn’t know the work, but rather because that was just how I was. I played the education game, won the tokens and awards, but I was never happy and never knew why.

In my senior year the college advisor suggested three categories of schools: dream schools, safety schools, and schools somewhere in between. It was like choosing food from an unappealing paper menu--you choose something because you’re hungry.

I used to believe that as Prince Koura in The Golden Voyage of Sinbad says he who is patient obtains. I’m not sure when this quote started having an effect on me. It must’ve had something to do with the belief that the future would be better, and would make up for the emptiness of the present. This was why I never complained, because things were supposed to get more interesting and exciting. Although, when it came time to visit the colleges that accepted me, I became increasingly ambivalent because I wanted to go away to college, but at the same time, I didn’t want to leave home. Secretly, I wanted to stay in Manhattan for school, but I never mentioned it to my parents because I didn’t want to disappoint my dad. He had grown up in a working class family, lived at home when he went to college, and always wanted me to experience what he believed was the real thing--he felt that living in a dorm away from home was the authentic college experience. I, however, didn’t identify with his fantasy.

The acceptance letters arrived. Several colleges were in the Midwest; others were more local in the Northeast. Reluctantly, I flew to Minneapolis to visit the school that was highest on the list that appeared in the US News and World Report. As the plane took off the runway I became increasingly uncomfortable. At that time I attributed the feelings to the steep take-off angle, but upon reflection I realize that although I was projecting an attitude of strength I felt like a weak and vulnerable child that did not want to leave home.

The school was an hour’s drive from the airport past farms, lakes that were just thawing out in late April, and fields still dusted with the remnants of winter snow. Nothing in that landscape was familiar. There were exit signs to places I never heard of and roads that seemed to lead nowhere. I already knew that I would not be attending this college and wanted to go back to New York. This Fargo-esque landscape was too alienating and lonely. The bleakness reminded me of winter, when at home, it was spring, and so by default, I settled for my last choice school in central New York, which was closest to home.

The summer after my high school graduation I tried to become excited about going to Rembrandt University, but in the back of my mind I wanted to do something else, even though I did not know what that something else was. This was my own fault. At that time I didn’t know who I was and all I wanted to do was to have a good time.

People asked me where I was going to college. Several of them, including my dentist, thought I was going to Rembrandt University to study dentistry. Dentistry was as far away from my mind as the word study. What came to mind were parties, hot girls, assorted alcoholic beverages, and easy classes--the antithesis of my high school experience. I was totally burned out on. Twelve years of rigor had left me exhausted and I wanted to play. Sure, I realized I would have to work also, but this was no longer a priority. I figured that Rembrandt would be easy since it had a reputation as being a party school. None of the nerd types at my high school that I wanted to get away from, would ever consider going to Rembrandt no matter how much scholarship money they were offered to lure them. Unfortunately, Rembrandt turned out to be a shitty school that was trying to turn over a new leaf by getting rid of pretty much everything that I was looking forward to--parties, easy work, and high grades.

It was a long August drive to Rembrandt University. I knew that I was in for trouble when the landscape changed to farms, cows, empty one lane roads, and a sign that read Welcome to Small Town USA. The contours of this landscape were boredom and monotony for someone used to the kinetic energy of the city. I kept these thoughts to myself because I didn’t want to appear ungrateful for the sacrifices that my parents were making, but at the same time I had a deep feeling of inauthenticity because this was not a true choice, but a choice made from among leftovers. I wondered why I went through all the years of deprivation to end up here. I could’ve spent more time with friends, stayed out late instead of coming home to study, and could’ve hung out with the people everyone called losers, but who always seemed to be having the most fun. Worst yet, I suspected that the losers were going to better schools in more interesting urban surroundings.

The road directly adjacent to Rembrandt was lined on either side with fraternity and sorority houses. Sitting in front of their houses on beach chairs were small groups of co-eds and fraternity brothers posing for the passing cars as if imitating the bimbos populating Baywatch lifeguard stations. Seeing these groups of people emphasized my sense of isolation because I couldn’t identify with them. They looked like pictures from a JCrew catalogue--a surrealistic picture because it didn’t belong with the surrounding farmland nor did it seem academic. These were the same types of people that were in the Rembrandt brochure, which worked as an advertisement but not in the flesh. Instead of a university, it reminded me of summer camp--a place where you are sent when your parents want to get rid of you. When we turned into the campus it was clear that landscaping, frat houses, fieldstone buildings on top of hills, and playing fields were important Rembrandt symbols--pretense mattered. As we walked up the hill to my dorm room, I noticed that many of the other incoming students were already friends with each other or could easily assimilate because they were all alike. Everyone I knew from high school went to urban campuses and I realized that I had made a big mistake by not visiting Rembrandt and instead going by blurbs from college reviews in books and magazines. I was too much of a believer in the written and spoken opinions of others, and this, combined with my inability to stand up to my father, had landed me in a place that was totally devoid of energy. After twelve years of elite education I didn’t trust my own opinions. I was taught to defer to authority. I had an image of Rembrandt in my head that was a composite drawn from several college movies that I had seen where everyone knows everybody, has lots of friends, and fun. Rembrandt didn’t fit that picture, and I was the one who was framed.

We parked on an area of the lawn in front of that campus that was designated for parent parking. Most of the campus, including my dorm, was on the top of a hill that must’ve been at least 500 feet high, so we had to carry all my stuff up the hill. I felt like we were climbing a mountain and by the time we reached my dorm my dad looked like we was going to have a heart attack.

The dorm was a five-story brick building with steps leading up to the entrance. It was secured by a keypad, but this wasn’t secure at all since people told their friends in other dorms what the pin was. Even delivery guys knew what the pin was. Strangely enough there was also an attic, which I later learned was closed off because somebody hung themselves from the ceiling once upon a time. Inside on the left was a recreation room with a pool table, some couches, a TV, and a kitchen. The rest of the first floor was dorms, and a study area. My room was on the second floor. Walking into it for the first time was a shocker. It was small, dusty, hot, and shitty. And sitting on his bed, was my roommate.

His name was Gary. He was a chubby, geeky kid with glasses, a pig nose, and a round face like an apple pie. He did not match the pictures of the students in the Rembrandt University brochure. I could tell right away that we had nothing in common and that he was going to be annoying. Sometimes you see a person and dislike them immediately. This was one of those times. I thought I was going to have a cool roommate who could become a close friend. Someone who I could meet girls with. This was not going to happen. From my first encounter I knew that his intellect was as provincial as his looks.

Gary and his father had rearranged the room before I arrived without my permission. They had disassembled the bunk beds giving Gary a sunny space, and leaving me a dark corner with no air next to the door. I came with a TV, a custom built computer, a microwave, refrigerator, and several other useful electronic appliances. All he brought was a Tandy computer and a radio/cassette player. He contributed nothing and expected everything. He was a local upstate kid with a small town education and big city aspirations whose goal was to bunk with a rich kid who would give him the kind of things he believed only rich people had. He had very little of his own and it became obvious that he intended to live off my things. When my parents left, I felt angry that they expected me to stay there. I spent then next few hours unpacking, and then it was time for orientation.

Rembrandt’s idea of orientation was to divide up the entering students into link groups of fifteen. What everyone in my group had in common was that we had chosen to take cryptology as our freshman seminar class. I would soon realize what a mistake this was. We met on the small grassy field outside my dorm. When I saw them I knew they were strange. They didn’t talk much and seemed arrogant. Every group had a link leader. Ours was a chubby blonde girl who was a senior. She looked so old I thought she was a professor. All we did for several hours was play games like memorizing each other’s names, and asking everyone what religion they were and what countries their families were from. The afternoon orientation exercises were someone's idea of the getting-to-know-the-kid who-sits-next-to-you-in-kindergarten type of game that could appropriately be played on the first day of day camp. When orientation was over I was sure I didn’t belong.

During orientation I met a guy named Fritz that went to my high school. We didn’t talk much in high school, but we became somewhat friendly at Rembrandt during the beginning weeks since neither of us knew that many people and it was nice to see a friendly face. He also had a car, and during the first few days we drove into town and went to Burger King. It was better than eating at the cafeteria since the food there was terrible. The dorm Fritz lived in was much more modern than the one I lived in. It was more like an apartment complex. His roommate was this guy Mike who was a real power drinker. When I went to their room for the first time, all I noticed was the empty beer bottles scattered around the room. Mike had a bright red face and he made us watch him drink twenty bottles of beer in an hour. Drinking lots of beers quickly was a novelty act for him and he was always drunk. He is probably either dead or in Alcoholics Anonymous now.

Down the hall from Fritz lived another guy that I somewhat knew from high school. His name was Seymore Livshits. He was a short scrawny-looking kid that I never liked. Nobody in high school really liked him that much because he was a dirt-bag. He would steal, cheat, and was very annoying. In twelfth grade he joined our pathetic football team to try to fit in more. Rembrandt put him in a room with a foreign student from China who had a translator because he didn’t speak English. Nobody at Rembrandt liked Seymore either. On every floor of Fritz, Mike, and Seymore’s dorm was a poster with everybody’s name, and someone had taken a marker and crossed off part of his last name so it read ‘Seymore Livshits.’

I spent a lot of my time in the library the first few weeks, trying to finish work I had from my classes. The library was a three story building with a lot of comfortable quiet places to sit. Most of the time, I ended up falling asleep on a couch and getting nothing done. The library reminded me of the hotel in The Shining, especially during winter. There were lots of empty floors with long hallways and rooms.

The bathrooms in the library were disgusting. There was someone who jerked off in the bathrooms. Sometimes when I went into a stall, there would be cum on the floor. Someone put a sign up in the second floor bathroom saying Do not jerk off in the bathroom. Another time I was in the bathroom I saw a tube of vagisil on the floor by the toilet. I am not sure what people were doing in these bathrooms, or what it was about a library that would make someone cum all over the floor of a bathroom stall.

My roommate, Gary, was bothersome, gross and intrusive. On the first day I caught him listening in on one of my telephone conversations. He later rummaged through my drawers and, without shame, frequently copulated with his ugly girlfriend while I was in the room. One day several of us caught him rubbing one out in the bathroom stall. He was small, both mentally and physically. He compensated for this by studying the martial arts. His father was a master but he was a loser. He held a second-degree black belt, but it was a charity promotion. The kid had big fat cheeks and stubby little bloated feet which was why the entire floor called him panda.

One weekend several months into the term I went home, and when I returned I immediately noticed several discolorations on my sheets that upon first glance resembled mustard, but on closer inspection turned out to be cum. The roommate had banged his ugly girlfriend, whose name meant dog in her native language, on my bed. I felt violated by this scum bag. What is more personal in your room than the sheets on your bed, which rub up against your body? The sight of him made me nauseous and I sensed a slow turning of my personality. I was tired of getting hammered on. I had tried my best to be friends with him, but he was crude, out for himself, and considered my attempt at friendship to be a sign of weakness. The more I gave him the more he took and the less he appreciated it.

He had this childish idea that he was invincible and could beat up anybody in our dorm. It’s the attitude of a person who takes up martial arts because they’re afraid. He acted hard outside because he was soft inside. In case anyone missed the