A Hare in the High Grass

By Stephen Shore

There is life on this planet. Animals, vegetation and something other. Among the animals, some are predator and some are prey. And some are both. Within the multitude of animals, there are those which tremble in the high grass. And some of those are of the human species. This work is concerned with the human psyche, and the human condition. But it is dedicated to the something other.
Pity the poor Archie—as you do the hare in the high grass. The poor thing is confused by life and intimidated by your very presence. It can't be certain what to do or not to do. Once you have spotted the hare, the decision is entirely yours. Live or die, you decide. The hare can only stay or run. That will not determine whether it shall live or die. You spot the hare, you decide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Shore
• Release date: Apr 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463688144

Stephen Shore

A lifelong resident of New England, Stephen Shore has worked in public education and in business. As an undergraduate, he studied history, music and education at Bridgewater State. Steve was a Graduate Fellow, in the History Department, at Northeastern University. As a single parent, he has raised two fine sons and—through their acquaintances—a plethora of quasi daughters and sons (the characteristics and namesakes of many appearing in his novels).At this writing, Steve has all three novels in the Annalea Series in publication. He also has published a mystery/crime novel entitled, Sinful Images, and his first western novel, How I Became an Outlaw, by “Chili Beans” Bartlett. He has recently completed a literary novel, Mr. Bithersbee. Another novel, A Hare in the High Grass, is nearly finished, and other works are well begun. Steve obviously lives to write.

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A HARE IN THE HIGH GRASS

by Stephen James Shore

Copyright Stephen James Shore 2020

Published by WriteAbout StephenJShore

Intellectual Properties Unlimited

Smashwords Edition

Pity the poor Archie—as you do the hare in the high grass. The poor thing is confused by life and intimidated by your very presence. It can't be certain what to do or not to do. Once you have spotted the hare, the decision is entirely yours. Live or die, you decide. The hare can only stay or run. That will not determine whether it shall live or die. You spot the hare, you decide.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

Not to be reproduced or otherwise used without the express permission of the Author.

Dedication

There is life on this planet. Animals, vegetation and something other. Among the animals, some are predator and some are prey. And some are both. Within the multitude of animals, there are those which tremble in the high grass. And some of those are of the human species. This work is concerned with the human psyche, and the human condition. But it is dedicated to the something other.

~Stephen James Shore

A HARE IN THE HIGH GRASS

By Stephen James Shore

Chapter I

He is a Man Named Archibald Prince

You wouldn’t notice him unless someone pointed him out to you. You’d have no reason to notice him. He has no distinguishing characteristics or traits. There is nothing noticeable—or memorable—about his physical appearance. He wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. He wouldn’t stand out in an empty street. You’d be more likely to notice the pavement. It would have more character. Its worn surface and scarred edges would imply experience: a history—stories to be told. He is a non presence: an object so bland, you look right past it—seemingly, right through it.

He is man named Archibald Prince. He hates the name Archibald. It was his grandfather’s name. It was gifted to him—under considerable pressure upon his parents—from that same grandfather. He also has no particular affection for the surname, Prince; he feels no affiliation with it. His great-grandfather was an orphan. Apparently, no one has any information about his birth, his heritage or his original name. And the great-grandfather wouldn’t talk about the people who adopted him, except to say that they took him as an infant, they were cruel to him and he ran away from them at fifteen. When asked what their name was, he only cursed. Probably in response to how insignificant they’d made him feel, he took to calling himself Prince. And for lack of any other option, the family name became Prince.

That great-grandfather must have had some backbone—some real spirit. If it’s genetic, it must skip generations. Our Archibald Prince is a meek and mealy-mouthed man: timid and easily intimidated. He’s a man who’s got milk: milksop, milk toast—it’s probably in his veins. He lives his life not, necessarily, in a cowardly way but, definitely, in a cowering manner. He is decidedly not the hero in his own life story. At work and at home—in all aspects of life—he is a low-profile, non performer. He is audience to the lives of others. He prefers to be the observer: not the observed.

There has only been one constant in Archie’s life: one thing he wants—and tries to attain. He wants people to call him Archie. They don’t—but he calls himself Archie. Archie’s childhood was incredibly flat and unremarkable. His outstanding memory—from that period of his life—is his earliest attempts at his ongoing struggle to be addressed by his peers as Archie. He would engage in a losing battle about this with his neighbourhood playmates, over the summer vacation. Of course, he was never assertive, and failure was a foregone conclusion to anyone with an objective eye.

Yet he always had the highest hopes for September: another grade, a new class—perhaps a new mix of kids. It would be different. If there were only a few new kids who didn’t know him. He would make friends—some new friends—and they would call him Archie.

But of course, every September was the same. He would arrive at the school yard early, hang in the playground, interrogate strange kids, welcome the newcomers to school—offer to show them around and show them the ropes—and, of course, introduce himself as Archie. Eventually, (actually, quite on schedule) the bell would ring and classes would assemble. Sitting at a new desk in a different classroom, he continues to survey his classmates for new and interesting faces, as the teacher makes final preparations for commencement of the tasks and trials of whichever grade is at hand. But all his hopes are dashed, and his efforts brought to naught, when the teacher takes the attendance—aloud—and announces, "Archibald Prince. He will remain Archibald" for at least another year.

There are those who say children can be cruel. But not really: not intentionally. Of course, there are always some very few who are truly cruel; that’s true of all ages of human development. But most children are not ever deliberately cruel: just incredibly insensitive.

That seems an odd statement, since we normally ascribe to youth the qualities of innocence and virtue and sensitivity, which we bemoan as being lost (or lessened) as we mature. Innocence is, itself, an attribute that every child aggressively strives to overcome, against overwhelming adversity from the adult population. Virtue can actually increase and intensify as we mature enough to understand it and determine whether or not to subscribe to it.

And sensitivity—in a child—is something different than what we perceive it to be. It’s really a one-way street. The young child is truly sensitive: sensitive to pain. His or her own pain. This could be physical or emotional pain—it doesn’t matter. They’re very sensitive to their own discomfort. But it is, by nature, a selfish component of their human makeup. Little children are not—normally—sensitive regarding the feelings of others: physical or emotional. The sensitivity of the very young is just one more tool in their survival kit, intended to aid them in avoiding harm and garnering the attentions of protective adults.

When we, as adults, notice a youngster’s reactions to the beauties, the intricacies and oddities of nature and the man-made world, we attribute sensitivity to the child. What we’re really witnessing is a process of wonderment; which is much more akin to the child’s natural—ceaseless—struggle to overcome innocence. Ultimately, innocence is ignorance—and ignorance is dangerous. Nature provides all beings with abilities to lessen (‘though never overcome) their personal dangers. That’s the purpose of sensitivity in a child. And so long as a child is a child, he or she can afford to be—can find advantages in being—insensitive to others.

And so, children are not truly cruel; they are incredibly—naturally—insensitive. And Archie’s peers were never really cruel to him—but they were always insensitive. At least, that’s how Archie explained it all to himself: thereby being able to forgive his treatment by others and never retaining a grudge.

Archie’s second-strongest memory from his childhood—a thread woven continually, throughout his youth—was his father’s insistence that he would become something—somebody. His marks in school only ever approached adequate. So the doctor, lawyer, business tycoon thing died an early death. Perhaps the arts. A violin and lessons thereon were imposed upon young Archibald. Musical talent, however, could not be so imposed—nor superimposed upon his bland and uncreative mind. The same result was produced by his exposure to painting, sculpture, fencing—even card playing.

Mathematics? Scientific endeavors? Put simply—no. His father’s undefined ambition for Archibald left both of them frustrated and distant—one from the other—throughout his youth. As Archibald entered his senior year of high school and moved aimlessly toward graduation, his father’s frustration intensified—often spilling-over into anger. On Christmas Day, he announced that he was not going to pay good money to put a dullard through college—not even junior college. Archibald had no demonstrable skills—no certain interests—no ambition, no goals to pursue; he offered no evidence that he had any kind of a future. Who—his father wondered—would invest in an enterprise doomed to failure? Not he, he assured Archie. He gave his son an ultimatum: present him with a viable alternative, by New Year’s Day, or spend the remainder of the school year deciding which of the armed forces he would enlist in, the day after graduation.

This put the Grinch into Archie’s Christmas. A soldier? A sailor? Not hardly. Some years earlier, his father had forced him to join the Boy Scouts; he resigned after the first meeting. All the talk about hiking and camping overnight in the woods unnerved him.

This was very serious. Poor Archie’s head started throbbing and his breathing became difficult; he believed he was having a panic attack. He took himself, immediately, to the only pharmacy open on Christmas Day. He desperately wanted a cure for what ailed him. What he really needed was a solution to cure his problem; but what he sought was patent medicine to subdue the symptoms.

Fortunately for Archie, Christmas was a very slow day at the pharmacy. There was only one—very bored—pharmacist on duty, and he was grateful to have someone to talk to. After nearly two hours of conversation, Archie left with a cure: not pills or a potion—a solution.

Arriving at home, Archie boldly announced that he would study to become a pharmacist. Then he timidly went silent and awaited his father’s reaction. With a sigh which registered neither relief nor disgust, his father concurred—and agreed to support his schooling. ‘Though he wondered aloud if the army didn’t also need pharmacists—and, perhaps, trained their own.

~~

And so, Archie graduated from high school, spent a rather lackadaisical summer, and prepared to devote his life—or at least his attentions—to pharmacology. In the fall, he was enrolled at a school in town. He continued to live at home. Despite his stated intention to make changes, Archie’s social life, his experiences and his personal interactions remained very much the same. It was like an extension of high school. But it was better than the army. The army? Archie could still recall his fright the first time a playmate had fired off a cap gun in his presence. The army? What was his father thinking?

Archie never considered himself a coward. A man of timid nature, perhaps (Archie considered himself reserved), but certainly not cowardly. Had he not confronted his father about the army thing—sort of? Did he not put a plan forward and aggressively take his own life in hand—sort of?

Actuality didn’t matter; reality was whatever Archie told himself it was—in his head. And however he got there, he did manage to stay the course. In a few short years, he was graduated—and licensed as a pharmacist. In the interim, he did try to enhance his life by broadening his social experiences—by trying to participate in extracurricular activities. Basically, he was desperate to meet girls—or, at least, a girl—not having achieved a single date throughout high school. On prom night, he’d gone to the movies—alone.

There seemed to be three different life-style philosophies among Archie’s peers at the new school, for him to choose from. But his loyalty would have to be unwavering, for him to be accepted by the devotees of whichever doctrine he chose. The first philosophy held that as future practitioners in a health related industry, they—themselves—should be advocates and practitioners of the healthy life-style: diet, exercise, karma-friendly interactions and strong, vegan leanings.

The second clique—association of young scholars with similar moral purpose—held that as future practitioners in the pharmaceutical industry, they should practice with as many pharmaceuticals as possible, as often as possible. The third and final group was what Archie considered the eyes on the prize bunch. They were there for the paper—and the income it would provide. They didn’t care to know about—or do—anything beyond the necessary.

Archie opted for philosophy number one. His would be a healthy life-style supporting a healthy mind and body and providing him friends and opportunities for a healthy future. He walked the walk and talked the talk, sort of. He went to the gymnasium every day and worked out—on his own, by himself. He was consistent in his regimen. He designed his own diet and fitness program and followed it to the letter. Of course, it was his letter and no one else’s. Even in social settings, he didn’t seem to know how to let other people into his life—or how to become involved in theirs. However, his program was effective—for him. Archie was not a weakling. Of course, he was not an athlete, either. But he walked the walk.

As to the talk: well, when Archie tried to talk like a karmalized veganoid, nature-friendly health hippie, he sounded like an evangelist with an unintelligible accent delivering an incomprehensible message. But it wasn’t from lack of interest or understanding of subject, it was just Archie’s lifelong affliction: his inability to interact coherently with other people—and his resulting inability to sustain cohesive relationships. Eventually, Archie drifted away from the proponents of philosophy one. He skipped past the adherents of the second philosophy (drugs-are-us) entirely. He had always felt morally superior to them, anyway. And he was. He would like to have been considered morally superior to the third group as well, but he found himself increasingly in tune with their anthem: Give us our diplomas and get us the hell out of here!

Besides, with this group there were no dues, no dirty trees to hug, no dangerous drugs to take, no injections (God, how Archie feared the needle) and since everyone was out for themselves, there was no social stigma to being shunned or ignored. Archie ended his school career among that small army of proud disassociates. But he did make it through, and he did get his diploma. Perhaps more amazingly—along the way—he picked up one other thing: the girl who would become his wife.

It would be unfair to say that Archie acquired a girlfriend under false pretenses. After all, if he knew anything at all about pretenses—true or false, real or surreal—he’d have been able to get girlfriends in high school, like every other guy.

So any misrepresentation of Archie’s capabilities as a social being and a prospective boyfriend was not deliberate on his part. It had to occur in the mind of an inexperienced and self-deluding young girl. This particular, gullible young lady was a shy, out-of-towner who was—herself—very lonely and anxious to fit in. She first noticed Archie at the gymnasium and thought he must be quite an active and popular young fellow. She later heard him spieling off about some existential epiphany he’d experienced while reading about Zen and sipping herbal tea. She thought he must be really deep. She didn’t seem to notice that he was putting his intended audience into a deep sleep. The young girl was not at all perceptive to the effect that Archie had on those around him. She was too focused on him, and the effect he had on her.

And when she got up the courage to approach him at the gymnasium, she was overwhelmed that this bright, popular, cool guy would spend so much time talking to her. But why not? She was the first and only one who ever listened. Somehow, she sustained this artificial image and her infatuation for Archie all through their school days together. It was cool for him. Having a girlfriend provided at least some social status he’d thought he might never attain. And the sex was definitely cool. Not that he hadn’t thought about sex a lot—for a long time. But in his darker moments—when reality crept in—he thought he might never experience it. And having obtained a girlfriend was quite a coup for him—actually, a surprise. This provided him with the distant hope of some future sex. Of course, Archie certainly wouldn’t push the issue. He’d not risk scaring off the only girl he’d ever had. He’d be content to just have a girlfriend and wait, patiently—for years, if necessary—for the other thing.

But for once—just once in his life—Archibald Prince was incredibly fortunate. His young lady was gullible and self-deluded and shy, but she was not patient. She too, had been waiting all of her life to have sex. And in her delusional mind, Archie was the perfect man for her. Archie was cool. Several times, they had met up incidentally or deliberately gotten together. Archie had spieled his dribble and she had gushed from infatuation. That’s what he thought a date should be.

But after their first real date (which required an invitation, a meal and an amusement) she seduced him. Archie was wowed when she presented herself naked. Archie was also useless. She had to undress him, position him, and do all the hard work herself. They were both innocent—ignorant—virgins, but Archie seemed to know less than nothing. Apparently, he never picked up anything on the streets. She, at least, could apply common sense and observation to determine which parts could go together well and which could not.

Archie achieved Nirvana as soon as she touched it. Every place she put it, just brought him to ever higher levels of heavenly bliss. And even as mechanical as the entire operation proved to be, the young lady also managed to become intimately acquainted with orgasm. It may be easier to climax when you’re having intercourse with a phantom: someone who’s not really there. And it’s for certain that the real Archie who was there—in her bed and in her body—was not the cool Archie who was in her mind.

That entire experience of dating a girl, having a girlfriend, having sex—and still having a girlfriend the next day—was a highlight in Archie’s less than mundane life. Perhaps he should have left that experience behind when he left school. But he didn’t. He’d actually thought he would. He’d been preparing himself for the eventual breakup—the expected letdown—and the inevitable drought in his sex life until he could finally luck into another willing partner.

After all, she was not even half way to graduation, and he’d have to leave soon, and find a job and make a life. He’d probably never see her again. Now that she was a woman of the world, she’d probably be undressing and tutoring some other boy before Archie was even off the campus. And once she’d had some other boy, then she’d realize how really uncool Archie was. No, he didn’t want to be there when her eyes opened up. He’d probably never see her again.

But some people never open their eyes until it’s too late; whatever should’ve been seen has gone by and life has moved on. And they’re left standing in the dark—with their eyes wide open. Little miss self-deluded decided she didn’t need a diploma or a career. She just needed a husband with a diploma and a career; she just needed cool Archie. So she left school and insisted that Archie marry her.

Archie was at first hesitant, reluctant and doubtful, but he soon agreed to this—as if he had any say in the matter. After all, he’d had sexual intercourse. He felt obligated. And besides, he was fond of her. For all he knew, that was love. And he got all tingly when he glared at her naked body. That must be the chemistry everyone talked so much about. So Archie agreed. He accepted her proposal.

Within a few months, Archie had acquired a wife, a permanent position as a pharmacist and a whole new life. From that point on through the next several years, there would be nothing new for Archie. Soon, everything in his life became stable—and, ultimately, stagnant. Archie was properly trained and well versed in all the pills and potions concocted and dispensed in his trade. And his wife, his family and his employer provided him with the rules and restrictions regarding how he would conduct himself as husband, citizen and employee. There was no room in his life for Archie to digress—or be creative.

Chapter II

His Wife’s Name is Mildred

Interestingly, Archie arrived on the pharmaceutical scene around the same time as the new wonder drug Oxycontin, a prescription painkiller with high levels of the active ingredient Oxycodone. To him, it was just another pill to peddle. But it was hailed as life altering for cancer patients and others suffering with intolerable pain. Archie knew it to be a synthetic morphine based drug as highly addictive as heroin. When he considered the tragic condition of the customers for this drug—most of whom suffered terminal illness—addiction didn’t seem much of a concern. Anyway, God willing, he’d never have the need to take these pills—just dispense them to those poor unfortunates.

Being in the business, Archie couldn’t help but notice the high profile this little pill obtained over time. And it was not a positive profile. Early on, because of its availability and somewhat reasonable cost, Oxycontin gained a reputation as the poor man’s heroin—or hillbilly heroin. It was primarily heroin users who sought these pills as a substitute for heroin when it was unavailable or too expensive. Some addicts preferred swallowing the pill or snorting it in crumbled form, to the risks of heroin injection. But others would liquefy the substance and inject it, anyway. Health conscious users also noted that the pill was pure and untainted while various forms of recreational street drugs were often cut with unknown and undesirable substances. This was no hillbilly heroin; this was a clean, dirty drug.

These handy, dandy, little pills are small, portable and profitable. Also known as Oxies or OCs, they provide time-released pain relief for approximately twelve hours. Dosages are available in twenty, forty and eighty milligrams—and on the street, the bidding will start at one dollar per milligram.

Oxycontin came on the market around 1996. By the late nineties, problems abounded with control and distribution and use of the product. And into the twenty-first century, things had not improved much. Access and availability became more restricted as many pharmacies refused to stock Oxycontin and posted notices to that effect, hoping to discourage robberies. This