Nocturne In Black And White

By Erik Belcarz

Martin Kerner blew it. A whiskey stained semester torpedoed his shot at the law degree he’d worked his whole life towards. With one final  opportunity for redemption, what stands in his way is not a person or a thing. It’s a place.
DETROIT.
A place, as a white suburbanite, he’d been indoctrinated to fear. A pla

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fishkorn Publishing, L.L.C.
• Release date: May 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732316614

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NOCTURNE

IN

BLACK AND WHITE

ERIK BELCARZ

FISHKORN PUBLISHING

Novi

To Mom- thanks for taking me to the James Whistler exhibit at the DIA

To Rinka- thanks for prodding me to finally do this

To M and A- may we leave you a better world than the one we inherited

Copyright © 2018 Erik Belcarz

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages in a review.

For information, address the publisher at:

Fishkorn Publishing

P.O. Box 278

Novi, MI 48376

Though portions of this book are inspired by real events, it is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First Edition, 2018

Printed in the U.S.A.

ISBN: 978-1-7323-166-0-7

ISBN: 978-1-7323-166-1-4 (ebook)

FISHKORN

PUBLISHING

PART I

CHAPTER I

MAY 9, 2008

It’s too late.

They were all around the room, hanging in frames between Victorian inspired, serpentine wall sconces and hand crafted mahogany bookshelves.

There is no fixing this, they added, mocking Martin Kerner with their static, lifeless eyes. 

Earlier that morning, he’d felt confident about his chances of arguing his way into the University of Ann Arbor’s law program, the most prestigious in the state of Michigan. But that was before he’d been left alone in the dean’s cavernous office with a collection of mounted dignitaries.

Unable to find a comfortable position in the unforgiving high back chair, he shifted and fidgeted and started playing his right knee like a drum.

Tap, t-t-tap, t-t-tap.

The room’s air was stifling and when Martin ran his hand through his short, well kempt hair it came back coated with a fine glaze. And though a peek at the thermostat behind the dean’s monstrosity of a desk informed him that that it was only seventy-one degrees, Martin swore it was at least twenty degrees hotter.

Tap, t-t-tap, t-t-tap.

Just then, perched above the fireplace, a long dead Secretary of State seemed to question Martin’s mere presence in their rarefied air, let alone his worthiness of becoming one of their peers.

Or maybe it was all in his mind.

Tap, t-t-tap, t-t-ta-.

At last, Dean Cavanaugh walked in with a reputation as a bit of curmudgeon preceding him. He was well over six feet and thin, with a frame of white hair running the perimeter of his face.  He resembled Santa Claus, albeit a wiry and joyless version. 

He sat behind his desk in a brown leather executive chair with a brass nail head trim, but said nothing. Rocking ever so slightly, he breathed deep, prolonged breaths, each accompanied with an audible wheeze. There was something hypnotic about the sound. The air passing in and out, synced up with a slight creak from the chair’s rocking.

Foreboding, as well.

Martin found himself becoming mesmerized by it until, all of a sudden, it ceased.

When he looked up into the dean’s eyes he saw something there that he wished he hadn’t. Not quite anger, but close. More like profound annoyance.

Sir, I-, Martin started, but Cavanaugh cut him off with a simple raise of his hand.

Forgive me, Mr. Kerner, for not immediately speaking when I entered the room, the dean said in a deep, rumbling baritone.

Oh, it’s no prob-,

I needed time to think, he said, his glare just as severe as those in the portraits. And now that I have, I still cannot figure out why you are here.

Martin, briefly taken aback by the dean’s forthright tone, forged on. Sir, the reason I’m here is-,

You were not admitted to the law program due to insufficient GPA, and now you’re here to plead your case as to how it’s all so unfair, and how you should have received a higher grade in such and such class and so on and so forth. Does that about sum it up?

Martin absently squeezed the folder in his lap.

Well, yes it involves my GPA, but it’s not exactly how you say. There were…extenuating circumstances. I-,

Ahh, yes, Cavanaugh said. It’s always the same. Mr. Kerner, I’m sure your circumstances are somehow unique compared to all the other failed applicants we had this year. Do you know how many applicants that is?

Martin shook his head. The situation looked grim and he was not in the mood for guessing games.

About five thousand, of which we admit roughly one fourth. How many failures does that leave, Mr. Kerner?

Thirty-seven fifty, sir.

Very good. Apparently it wasn’t math that dragged down your GPA. So, that’s three thousand, seven hundred and fifty sets of extenuating circumstances then, is it not?

I suppose so, Martin said with an air of indignation.

I’m sorry. Did I offend you? the dean said. The look on his face did not suggest he was all that sorry.

Martin let out an exasperated sigh. No, sir. You didn’t offend me. It’s just…

Just what, Mr. Kerner?

He had given everything the last two years to rectify the mistakes he had made. Had it not been for that woeful sophomore year, he would have had a perfect 4.0 grade point average.

He pulled his transcript from the folder and set it down on the dean’s desk. Cavanaugh did not so much as glance at it.

If you take a look at my junior and senior years, you’ll notice straight ‘A’s. I have worked my tail off just to get to the point where I felt I wouldn’t be wasting my time getting an audience with you.

"That’s the crux of it right there, Mr. Kerner. I don’t feel there is any point that an applicant deserves an audience with me. What I think does not and should not matter. It’s all quite simple. If your GPA and LSAT scores are among the very best, then you are in. If not, then…"

Well, my LSAT was-,

171.

Martin was confused. The dean still had not addressed the transcript.

How did you know?

You don’t think I’ve reached this position by being ill-prepared, do you?

No, sir.

If that is all, Mr. Kerner, Cavanaugh said, offering the transcript back to Martin. I must ask you to excuse me as I have a number of pressing matters to attend to.

But sir-,

The dean cut him off with a groan. Why is it always like this with you grade grubbers? How about an analogy, Mr. Kerner? Two runners. One maintains a steady pace and finishes a marathon first, arms up through the ribbon. The other runs faster over the last mile, but finishes much later. Who is the winner?

Martin bit his lower lip but said nothing.

Who deserves the accolades? 

Sensing the imminent demise of his lifelong dream, the prevailing emotion Martin felt was anger, not depression as he would have predicted. It was an anger so raw and visceral that it took everything in his power to fight off the vitriol that gurgled at the back of his throat.

He was halfway to the door when Cavanaugh let forth with a loud Ahem...

Martin turned and saw the dean still holding the transcript out and seeming very irritated for doing so.

Keep it, Martin managed.

All right, the dean said, crumpling it up and tossing it aside.

That final act of disrespect was too much.

Bullshit, he said, slightly over a whisper.

Excuse me? the dean said.

Martin continued his exit in silence. He had the door slightly ajar when Cavanaugh exploded.

EXCUSE ME?

I SAID IT’S BULLSHIT! Martin shouted, spinning around to face him.

The dean’s eyes nearly escaped their sockets. He was not a man accustomed to being yelled at.

Close the door, he said.

Martin did not immediately comply. He was trembling, not in fear, but from shock at how quickly and fabulously the situation had decomposed.

CLOSE IT!

Martin pulled it shut.

WHAT… Cavanaugh shouted, before exhaling and trying to redeem some of his earlier decorum. What do you find to be bullshit?

This whole charade.

I don’t follow.

You. This school. All of it.

The school you so desperately want to attend.

I did.

And now you don’t? That is the quickest I’ve ever seen grapes go sour.

I came in here to argue my case. I had done my due diligence and prepared myself for almost any possible line of inquiry you might have thrown my way. I did it exactly the way a lawyer might.

I know of no lawyers that include obscenity in their arguments.

What difference did it make? You’d made your mind up before I even walked in the door. You took one look at my GPA and that was that. Well, you know, things aren’t always so black and white.

In this case, Mr. Kerner, they are.

All right then, tell me something. Him, right there, Martin said, pointing at one of the portraits.

Clarence Darrow?

Yeah, him.

What of him?

What was his GPA?

The dean said nothing. His face trumpeted impatience, though Martin thought he saw a sprinkle of curiosity in there, as well.

And him, over there. Branch Rickey. What do you think? 3.7? 3.8 maybe?

Cavanaugh shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Ok. You’ve made your-

And the guy in the black robes? Supreme Court Justice Sutherland? He must have been at least a 3.9.

The dean sprang to his feet, appearing a full foot taller than just minutes ago. He slammed his palms on the desk. I THINK THAT’S ENOU-

AND YOU, Martin countered, unfettered. Aiming an accusatory finger, he said You, the most revered and respected dean of The University of Ann Arbor Law School, what was your GPA?

Cavanaugh could only stare at the thin young man in awe while he racked his brain for the two digits in question that, for the life of him, he could not recall.

He reached back to find the armrest of his chair. Slowly, he descended into it, the stoicism returning to his face. He took a moment to gain control of his breathing, all the while never taking his eyes from the young man across him.

He slid open the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a pair of reading glasses before gathering the crumpled ball of a transcript. Slowly he unfolded it, taking care to smooth out the creases.

In your sophomore year, you earned a D in Contemporary Social Issues, he said, again rocking the chair. If you were to replace that D with an A, your GPA would rise to the sixtieth percentile of all applicants. With your LSAT…that would be enough, I believe.

Martin thought his ears had deceived him. It would?

Yes. You could enter this fall.

Martin was staggered. Seriously?

The look on the dean’s face was all Martin needed to confirm that he was, indeed, serious.

Do you know if there are classes still available this spring?

That is hardly my concern, he said, again holding out the transcript. And like I said before, Mr. Kerner, I am very busy today.

Oh, yes. Of course, Martin said. He crept back across the room in a dream-like state. When he reached out to take the transcript, he almost expected it to pass right through his hand.

He gripped it, but Cavanaugh did not release the paper. Don’t make me regret this, he said.

I won’t. 

He extended his right hand to the dean who accepted it.

Thank you, sir.

Cavanaugh nodded and Martin left the office. He was fairly certain he saw a hint of a smile briefly pass over the dean’s face.

Jack Kerner was in the same place he was every day at 4:30pm; sitting behind the wheel of his 1967 Pontiac GTO. He had no destination; in fact the GTO had not left the garage in years. Jack’s companion was a six-pack of beer on the passenger side of the parchment colored bench seat. He reached over and liberated a can from its plastic ringlet. The cold cylinder immediately began to numb his dry and calloused hands. He stared ahead, down the driveway, over the narrow pentagonal scoop emerging from the center of the GTO’s hood. Slowly, he lifted the tab on the can.

He did this without thought, like an automaton, just as he had done for most nights since she died. He took a large gulp, hoping to wash her from his thoughts, to no avail.

He shifted uncomfortably in the seat, trying to focus on nothing but the burn as the beer slid down his throat.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye. It was that old bastard Robinson, his neighbor. He was stooping over his lilacs that hugged the chain link fence along the property line their homes shared. He held pruning shears in his hand but they were merely a prop. His attention was focused squarely on Jack. His squinty eyes implied disapproval at Jack’s solo happy hour. Jack glared right back at the old man indignantly and slowly raised his right middle finger above dashboard level so the old man could see. Robinson’s mouth dropped agape as if his jaw had somehow spontaneously unhinged. Jack’s finger continued its ascension until it met the garage remote attached to the visor. He pushed the button to lower the door, but held his finger up until Robinson’s stupefied face was obscured from view.

He finished off the beer and tossed its carcass out the driver’s side window. With the garage closed, a flickering, dust covered fluorescent bulb that hung above the GTO’s white convertible top provided only the vaguest hint of light. Jack caught a glimpse of his own face in the rear view mirror for a fleeting moment during the flicker. The creased skin and perpetually graying hair did not bother him in the slightest.

It was his eyes.

They were vacant. A split second looking into them was more disconcerting than any glare that Robinson, or anyone else for that matter, could have thrown his way. Jack shifted the mirror so all he could see was the empty, depthless dark behind the GTO. He stared into it, allowing the black to swallow him up.

Martin found a seat near the window at the Starbucks on University Ave and popped open his laptop. He felt revived after his meeting with the dean. All that was left to do was enjoy a tall caramel Frappuccino and then find a social awareness course to replace his D. His optimism faded soon after he searched the summer course registry and realized each and every potential class was already full. 

You gotta be kidding me! Martin muttered a little louder than he realized.

A few heads turned and looked, and then quickly dismissed the skinny kid bent over his computer. He pressed his palms into his temples, exasperated. Just then, two girls walked in carrying with them a conversation from outside. Unintentionally eavesdropping, Martin determined their words to be tedious drivel regarding their end of semester travel plans. One said to the other, I got the 3:15 Amtrak to Chicago, and then transferring to…

There was more to it than that, but Martin got stuck on the word ‘transfer’. He immediately began searching for transferrable courses at nearby Universities. Eastern Michigan was a dead end. So was Oakland. 

With most spring/summer courses beginning in a mere three days, pickings were beyond slim. He grimaced when he typed Detroit State University into the search bar. It was smack dab in the middle of the city, a place he’d avoided like the plague ever since the incident. He’d almost hoped he wouldn’t find anything available there either but, sure enough, there it was: Race relations in America. Professor Marid Abdul-Tawaab. Focusing on the historical and contemporary patterns of race and ethnic relations, using Detroit as a model city.

Despite his trepidation about returning to the city that had played a significant role in his current predicament, he was at that moment a beggar, and therefore did not have the luxury of also being a chooser.

As he began clicking his way through the prompts on the university’s online registration page, a thought occurred to him. He had neither a vehicle to transport himself the forty or so miles each way from Ann Arbor to Detroit for class, nor the additional funds to find a temporary residence near campus, not that he’d ever entertain the idea of living in Detroit anyways. He was operating on a very tight budget as it was; in fact the money he had intended on using to pay for his summer rent in Ann Arbor barely covered the cost of the course. He was going to have to get creative.

He put his laptop away and tipped his head back, emptying the remains of his beverage down his gullet. He dropped his cup into the trash bin on his way out the door and an icy shiver ran up his spine. The sensation was strange, but he wrote it off as some full bodied ‘brain freeze’.

By the time he returned to his apartment it was 4:30, or just about the time Jack Kerner cracked open his first beer. After tossing his keys on the kitchen counter, he made a bee-line for his futon. Finding no answer to his problem within the chipped and water stained stucco ceiling, he flipped over on his side and noticed the photo of him and his mother on his bedside table. It was from his graduation day. Her smile was brighter than he could ever remember it. He took the frame in his hands and stared deeply into the eyes of his younger self knowing full well what had to be done. His eyelids became intolerably heavy and the frame fell to his side as he slept.

CHAPTER II

JUNE 5, 2004

Good afternoon fellow classmates, distinguished faculty, family and friends. Today is a day that we will not soon forget. It is the day we let go of mommy’s hand and go forth into the world on our own. I, for one, am not frightened by this. I…

There was a gentle tapping at the bedroom door.

Martin?

Yes?

I have your gown, Diane Kerner said.

Ok. Come on in.

She wore a radiant grin as she walked into the room.

Oh, look at you all cleaned up and raring to go. How’s the speech coming?

Fine. I just want to go over it some more. We only have an hour or so before we have to go.

I know, I know. I’ll let you get back to it, but first… She held the gown, still warm from the iron, against Martin’s chest and examined him.

Mom, what are you doing?

Nope. It’s not working for me. Try it on.

Martin grimaced and his shoulders sagged.

Seriously? It’s a gown. It’ll look the same as everybody else’s on stage.

Not at all. Yours’ll have this.

She held up a sash with the word ‘valedictorian’ emblazoned on it. Her smile somehow got larger as she played keep-away, dangling it in front of Martin’s face. He snagged it on the third attempt, and she chuckled and then wrapped Martin up in her arms.

I’m so proud of you.

I know. You already told me.

She broke their embrace with a wince, and put her hands to her temples. She reached back for Martin’s bed and sat at the edge.

What’s wrong? Martin said.

Another headache. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll take an Advil and I’ll be fine.

I thought you went to the doctor.

He said it was nothing. Stress, maybe.

From what? Dad?

No…Don’t worry about it, she said.

Where is he, anyway?

Out in the garage, I believe.

Martin shook his head. Of course he is. Why did I ask?

Diane rose from the bed with a forced smile and put her hand on Martin’s shoulder. Never mind that now. If I’m stressed, it’s probably from my little baby growing up and leaving me.

"I haven’t left yet, but you need to. I have to practice."

At this point the front door swung open, and Jack Kerner entered the house with a grace not unlike a Pamplonan bull. DIANE! he bellowed.

Oh, God! she said, rushing out of the room.

She came upon him as he stumbled over the stoop, crashing into the wall. He somehow managed to stay off the floor, his body at a near forty-five degree angle.

Jack! What the hell? Are you drunk?

Hell no! he said, though his slurred speech suggested otherwise.

He pushed his body up the wall and regained his footing. In the process, his shoulder dislodged the family photo from the wall. It fell to the floor, the cover glass shattering.

Goddamnit! Why’sa picture right there? Huh, Diane? Huh? N’wonder I knocked the sonofabitch off. Get the broom.

No leave it, Jack. I’ll get it

THE GODDAMN BROOM

She didn’t move.

Jack bobbed and weaved like a stunned prize fighter, his expression shifting back and forth from anger to bewilderment.

Ah, hell. I don’t need it.

He failed in his attempt to squat, and ended up on his ass. Undeterred, he scooped the broken glass up with his bare hands.

Goodness, Jack! Stop that!

Diane grabbed him by the wrists and he dropped the shards to the hardwood floor.

Martin watched all of this from the hallway, arms crossed. He had seen it all before and was not at all surprised that his father had chosen one of the most important days of his life to get shitfaced. That was his M.O. When a strong, supportive father would be at his most valuable, Jack Kerner became a burden. 

He went to his mother, and put a hand on her shoulder.

Let’s get him to the bedroom, he said.

They got him upright and, after the three of them ricocheted off the hallway walls, they dropped him on the bed he had shared with Diane for almost twenty years. Martin untied his father’s shoes and swung his legs up on the bed.

On his side, Martin, Diane said.

I know the drill.

Once settled, Jack started to mumble into his pillow. Most of it was incoherent but, just before he passed out, the words became more intelligible.

Reggie Howard. I’ll fix his black ass…,

Ok, Jack. Shhh, Diane said, quickly rushing to his side and pulling a blanket over him.

Wow! He’s even racist with his brain functioning at two percent capacity, Martin said.

He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

He knows. Who’s Reggie Howard, anyway?

I don’t know. Probably no one.

Why do you put up with his bullshit? He contributes nothing. He just sits out in that car, getting drunk-,

You shouldn’t talk about him that way. He’s your father. He’s only going through a rough patch.

How many rough patches is this for him now?

What do you mean?

C’mon, mom. This is no anomaly. This is the norm. I mean, don’t you remember when I was a kid? When Grandpa Kerner died?

Diane solemnly nodded.

He came in from the garage, plastered, and started tossing plates against the wall. You, still in your black funeral dress, cleaning it all up.

Losing his father was very hard on him.

He hadn’t spoken to him in years! He found out about his death in the obituaries. How hard could it have been?

I’m surprised you remember that. You were only four.

Yeah, well, I do. And then the fire. When we had to live at that shitty motel in Warren for a month. All I remember, other than the stuffy room and stiff comforter, is him being drunk and useless the whole time.

Yes, well…

And then-,

That’s enough.

"Look, even if he was going through something. It doesn’t give him a free pass to be as abusive as he wants."

He’s never laid a hand on either of us.

There are other kinds of abuse.

I said that’s enough. It’s a rough patch. That’s all.

Whatever. I’ll be gone in three months and I won’t have to deal with him anymore.

Martin.

What? Martin said.

She wanted to say that she could see so much of Jack in him and that in many ways they were very much alike, but she dared not.

Nothing. Go practice your speech, she said, shooing him out of the room.

He went, closing his door behind him. Diane lingered, laying a hand on Jack’s cool and clammy forehead. She watched his chest, waiting for it to rise. Somehow, after everything, she was relieved when it did. She wanted to be furious with him. She wanted to hate him for doing this on Martin’s big day, but felt only sympathy. After all, she knew who he was when she married him.

She gently closed the door, not wanting to wake him, even though she knew a marching band couldn’t shake him from his alcohol induced slumber.

She went to the closet and retrieved the broom and dustpan. Squatting over the mess he had created, she couldn’t take her eyes off of the picture lying amongst the glass. Their smiling faces looked fraudulent, foreign. A single tear coursed down the side of her nose and dropped onto the floor only to be swept up, as well.

Here. Take this, Martin said from over her shoulder. She hadn’t heard him come down the hall, but there he was with a glass of water and two Advil.

Thank you, honey.

Diane waited until he had returned to his room before she slipped the pills in her pocket. She took the loaded dustpan to the bathroom and dumped the glass in the wastebasket. She then opened the medicine cabinet and took out two bottles; the Advil, which she opened and replaced the pills that Martin had given her, and another smaller one. Its label read; oxycodone 10mg: take 1 tablet every twelve hours as needed for pain. She shook two tablets out into her palm and, after a deep breath, downed them with a swig of water. Looking into the mirror, she saw that her eyeliner had run down her right cheek. She dipped her finger in the water, and rubbed it out.

Martin stood in shadow to the left of the stage behind the thick, velour curtains as the superintendent addressed the crowd. He could see the man’s mouth moving but heard nothing.

Up until a few minutes prior, he had been holding it together, despite the auditorium’s sweatbox-like atmosphere that had made his tank top cling uncomfortably to his back underneath the polyester gown. 

He had made the mistake of peeking through a slit in the curtain to find his mother. After being momentarily blinded by the sunlight piercing the windows that circled the base of the domed ceiling, his eyes adjusted and he could see all the faces. In front were his three hundred seventy-four classmates and, behind them, their families. All the little brothers and sisters looked restless while the parents and grandparents at least feigned interest in the superintendent’s droning.

He didn’t find his mother until he reached the back row. She bore a pained expression and was slumped to the side, fanning herself with her program. Next to her was the source of his distress.

A single, empty chair.

While there were other empty chairs in the auditorium, as the lengthy ceremony tested even the most resilient of bladders, to Martin, that one was somehow emptier. Looking at it incensed him. Deep down, he knew it could have been the heat, or her headache that made his mother appear so miserable, but he blamed it on that empty seat, or more specifically the man who should have been sitting in it.

At that moment, the superintendent said something that caused the crowd to rise and applaud.

Hey, that’s your cue, said Tanisha Johnson, the salutatorian, from just over Martin’s shoulder. She had just previously delivered a near flawless, if cliché-riddled, speech of her own. Huh? Martin said. He had been so lost in thought that he had no idea she’d been standing there.

You’re up!

Oh.

He pulled his notecards from his pocket and began mindlessly shuffling through them.

Are you ok? she asked, finding his behavior unsettling.

Yeah…

Well, go knock ‘em dead.

He held the cards out to her, and, though perplexed, she took them.

What do you want me to do with these? Now’s a little late for me to proofread your spee-,

Before she could finish her sentence, Martin had already walked onstage. He strode quickly and purposefully right by the superintendent and his outstretched hand. It dangled there unfulfilled, before the man, stunned at the affront to his position, dropped it to his side. He had no recourse but to skulk away to his seat behind the podium with the other faculty. 

Martin gave the microphone a gentle tap and the corresponding thud came through the p.a. system. He took a deep breath and began.

"I suppose this is where I am supposed to champion the significance of this charade. I am supposed to stand up here, and look into all of your faces and reflect on how magnificent an achievement graduating from high school is. That is why we’re all here, right? It certainly isn’t for the ambience."

Nary a response came from the sea of dumbfounded faces.

All right, then. Well, how’s this sound?

He straightened up and cleared his throat.

Fellow students, faculty, friends and family. We gather here on the precipice of a new day…

He stopped and shook his head, No, no. That’s not right.

The crowd began to murmur. Martin struck a fist-to-chin pose à la Rodin’s Thinker and looked up to the ceiling.

Ahh, yes! he exclaimed, with a raised finger symbolizing his epiphany.

We are embarking on a journey to new horizons. A journey that will lead us to the promise of a new blah, blah, blah…

The murmurs grew louder. The superintendent, recognizing something amiss, rose from his chair.

Martin, I, uh…, he said, with a false smile. I’m not sure what you’re-,

Sit down. You already had your turn, Martin said.

Excuse me? the smile wiped away.

SIT…DOWN.

The crowd let out a collective gasp. The superintendent, in shock, meekly sat back down.

You! Martin barked at someone behind the velour curtains. Yeah, you. Bring me one of those.

A very skittish underclassman slowly walked towards Martin and handed him one of the diploma scrolls that all the graduates received.

Thanks, Martin said. The young man nearly leapt back behind the curtain.

This is it, Martin said, holding the scroll up high. This is the proof that we are now fit for society. Except, I don’t see it that way. What I see is a piece of paper and some dollar store ribbon.

He lowered the scroll and absently fiddled with the bow.

"What it does represent is our competency in memorizing and spitting out a bunch of information that some politicians in Lansing think is important."

His words produced nothing but more puzzled looks. Steadfast in his righteousness, he continued.

A.P. English, for example. We read Homer’s Iliad and then analyzed it and then analyzed our analyses for weeks and for what? What relevance does some ancient poem have to my life here, now in the twenty-first century?

There were a few scattered claps dispersed through the crowd, but he was preaching to a mostly unenthusiastic congregation.

And Mrs. Szymanski’s social studies class…no offense to her, but who gives a shit about the hunting patterns of the Bushmen of the Kalahari?

What’s your point? an angry voice rang out from the crowd. The point…