South Side: A Time for Change!

By William Lindquist

This is a serious fiction novel with a small background of scientific fantasy to help young adults attain their maximum potential. It brings out the basic ideas about today's obsession with sports in schools. It explains, through life experiences, the other opportunities young people have available to be successful and enjoy the feeling of winning. It explains how a few twelve-year-olds can set goals, attain specialty knowledge, and help their community to change with the times. It has conflicts, creative ideas, and personal experiences for young people to identify with.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644680926

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South Side

A Time for Change!

William C. Lindquist

ISBN 978-1-64468-091-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64468-092-6 (Digital)

Copyright © 2020 William C. Lindquist

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About the Author

Prologue

This story is not about right or wrong but fits in that gray area that we all know. A place where I can see it one way, and you can see it in another. Where little people yearn to be big people, and young people wish they were old. Where wealth is a dream, and young people never stop dreaming.

It all started in a small town called Falconer, a suburb of Jamestown. Connecting the two towns was a treeless two-lane main street that was intersected by residential side streets. Falconer was so small that it had only two elementary schools, called North Side and South Side, and a high school that housed seven to twelve grades and, of course, was called Falconer High School. In the center of town, there was a continuous line of two-story buildings with large glass windows and brick dividers between them flanking both sides of the street. In a small apartment identical to all the other apartments above the businesses on Main Street there lived a young soon-to-be high school student named Michael Prideman.

Chapter 1

August 30, 1993

Michael was in his room typing notes on his computer.

He had worked his entire summer vacation, washing windows, trimming shrubs, and whatever other jobs he could get to save enough money to buy his used Commodore 128 computer. His father told him that if he worked hard, he would help him pay for it. It was composed of a power supply, disk drive, monochrome monitor, Epson printer, and some software. It originally cost twelve hundred dollars, but he got it for five hundred dollars. Now he was ready to start seventh grade.

He loaded his Font Master program. He typed LOAD *,8,1, and hit Return. Michael thought to himself, This is great. As he waited for it to load, he went to the kitchen to get a drink of Kool-Aid. When he came back, his disk drive was just finishing—tick, tick, tick—booting his program. He pulled out the disk, put in his personal disk, and typed the date and a list of supplies he needed for school. He pressed CTRL S to save the list and hit Return again. He typed ALT-P-Return, and How many copies? appeared on the screen. He hit Return again and watched as the printer printed out a single copy of his list. This is great. I love this computer, he told himself.

* * * * *

Five hundred miles away in one of those very high glass buildings—the kind we all look up at and wonder who works there, the kind of building where decisions are made affecting other people’s lives, the kind of place where most people want to go but never do—in the offices of International Construction Corporation, Mr. J. W. Henderson, manager, and his field representative, Mr. Patrick, were making a corporate decision.

Mr. Patrick read the details, Mr. Erby Powell has a small electrical supply company called Powell’s Electric Supply. He has worked as a math teacher, an electrician’s helper for five years, and as an electrician for another five years. About three years ago, he saw an opportunity to start his own business. He qualified for a small-business loan and has been building the business up and doing electrician work on the side to keep everything going. He is married and has a son, twelve years old. He also lives on the right side of town. I think he would be ideal as a messenger.

Robert, I think you have this under control. Give Mr. Powell a sales pitch and keep in touch with him until the project is complete. Mr. Henderson was very clear and right to the point.

Tuesday, August 31

Falconer, New York

Mr. Powell, my name is Robert Patrick. I represent a large construction company. We are working in the area, on the Cassadaga School project and at the Fredonia State College Project. What we do is look at all the local areas for other construction work before we move on to another area. It saves on moving expenses and keeps our bids more competitive. What I wanted to talk to you about is, we did a study here concerning your elementary schools. There is duplication of services, antiquated buildings, and definite expansion needs for the elementary schools. What I have here is a proposal to be given to the school board or the elementary principal so that they can look over the idea and initiate the proceedings.

I don’t have anything to do with the school or the school board, Mr. Powell remarked, wondering why this man was speaking to him. He was average height, well dressed, and slightly bald, with a very serious face.

Where you come in is that we do not like to barge into the business of the local area. All we try to do is to inform the school system and let nature take its course. We make up a study from a resident point of view and ask a respectable resident to propose it to the school board or a principal. Patrick kept watching the eyes of Mr. Powell to see if he had his complete attention.

If, for any reason, you do not agree with our study, we will find someone else to propose this idea. I need an answer by tomorrow. I will be staying at the Holiday Inn in Jamestown, Patrick said, closing very quickly.

Why me? Mr. Powell asked.

We can guarantee you a portion of the business subcontracts. Since all we do is make up the proposal and all you do is to bring it to the school board’s attention, we don’t make a decision, and you don’t make a decision. The board makes the decision, and hopefully both of us and the community will profit, Mr. Patrick explained, holding out his hand. Thank you for your time, Mr. Powell.

I will get back to you. I appreciate you talking to me, Mr. Powell said as he shook his hand.

Chapter 2

Wednesday, September 8

Michael picked up his prearranged school supplies, ate a Special K breakfast, and started off to school. Standing in front of the gigantic high school, Michael said to himself, I never thought I would ever get here. This place is big.

Falconer High School, he read from the letters etched into the stone. He walked up the large granite steps, thinking it was like walking up to a national monument. The large bronze doors with windows above beckoned him to come in. He opened the door and entered a large hallway. The other students were walking right by Mike as if they were walking through a mall, but Mike was amazed by all the trophies of silver and gold and the large banner of the school mascot, a large red dragon. There were basketball, football, and debate trophies covering the whole wall. I am here, he said with a very low voice.

Mike, how have you been? asked Jim, just entering the school.

Just fine, fine…how was your summer vacation? Mike stammered back.

Great. What is your homeroom number? Jim asked, hoping they had the same homeroom.

I got 205. How about you? Mike asked, hoping the same.

That’s it, 205, good! We got the same one.

They both went upstairs continuing to talk and remembering their other friends and good times.

* * * * *

That night, Mike was writing on his computer, My best friend, Jim Mehs, and Cheryl Walker were in the same homeroom. We talked about some old times at South Side School, even about the time us boys went to gym class. When we came back, there were thumbtacks on our seats and in our shoes. The girls all had a big laugh until the teacher came back. We had a good time. My other friends were in another homeroom, but I did see some of them, but did not have time to talk to them. We were all busy getting books and writing down notes about what was expected of us and taking tests to see what we knew. Some teachers expected a lot, and others expected almost nothing. I don’t understand why some teachers are so tough. These were Mike’s thoughts as he hit CTRL-S and Return, waited a minute, pulled out his disk, and turned off his computer.

The next day, Mike prepared for a regular day at school. He looked through his books and read the chapters assigned by his teachers and even made up an information chart of all his classes and teachers to show his friends what his computer could do. During his fourth period, Mike had physical education. He was assigned a locker for his clothes. He had brought a lock with him and changed quickly into his shorts and gym shoes. When he entered the gym, he saw Justin sitting on the bench next to the wall.

Justin, why aren’t you dressed? Mike asked.

Oh, hi, Mike. I forgot my gym clothes, so I get a chance to sit here and talk to everyone, Justin commented. He looked around and said, It’s not like South Side, is it?

You got that right, Mike said, trying to sound impressive. Mike was not always friends with Justin. It was during sixth grade that they played some basketball, and after school, they would go over to Jim’s house to play cards and chess. It was then that they gained respect for each other and became good friends. Justin was out of his league. His father was an insurance salesman, and Justin was so polite and sociable and played music and was always on the go. Mike knew that he wanted to be sociable like Justin, but he could never make small talk like Justin could.

Just as they were going to continue their talk, the coach Clarence Cook hollered, Line up for volleyball.

I’ll see you later, Mike said as he ran off.

Mike was hoping that after the game, he could talk to Justin again. He changed his clothes as fast as he could and was about to go back to the gym when one of the North Side students asked, Hey, South Side, are you going out for basketball?

I don’t know, Mike said, hoping to leave right away. The tall, lanky kid was one of North Side’s better basketball players, but Mike did not know his name.

Well, I was just sorta hoping that you South Side kids were not going out so you wouldn’t slow us down, the kid said with a big smile.

I don’t think you have to worry about anybody slowing you down, Mike said with a glare. By the time Mike got back to the gym, it was time for lunch, and Justin was gone.

That night, Mike filled in his information chart with the names of his friends that he had in different classes: Justin in physical education, Jim in homeroom and science, Jeff in shop and English, and Jacob was not in any of his classes. Then he booted his software and wrote the events that happened that day. When he was done, he went into the living room to watch some TV.

Mike, would you take out the garbage tonight so that it will get picked up in the morning? his father asked.

I’ll take it out before I go to bed, Mike answered. He knew that was his job. His sister helped with the dishes, and he took out the garbage. His father, Bill, always planned things ahead of time so that there would not be any fuss.

His father, an average man in his late thirties, got up early to go to work and would check to make sure the garbage was out. His father worked at Proto Tool Company, a large mechanics tool manufacturer. He was a union worker that made enough to get by, but not enough to get ahead. Mike wished he made lots of money like the workers in California and Detroit, but his father had always told him that while the workers in the big cities always made more, they must put up with the crime, traffic, pollution, and a higher cost of living. His father, Bill, talked about things like this all the time; maybe that’s why his hair was going gray. Mike knew most of the stories by heart. Bill had a set pattern to his life: he went to work at five forty-five every morning and came home at three thirty every afternoon, read some of the paper, ate supper, listened to the news, read the paper some more, and watched TV until ten o’clock. Even though they lived in an apartment now, Mike had many good friends and couldn’t imagine a better life somewhere else.

Mike just remembered that he was supposed to make a chart for his father to show where all their money was going. He went back to his room, booted his Fontmaster program, got the box of bills and receipts that his father had given him, and started sorting them out. Ah, the computer is ready. He knew he could not make vertical lines, but he could draw them in later. He typed the headings first: Bills, Interest Rate, Balance Due, Payment Due, Due Date, and Paid Date.

Yeah, that’s what Dad wanted, Mike said.

Under the heading Bills, he typed Electric, Gas, Phone, Sears, Master Charge, Visa Charge, and Car Loan. Mike changed the fonts and bolded some of the print. That looks good, he remarked as he hit the keys ALT-P. The screen prompted, How many copies? He pressed 2, and the printer zapped away. He pulled out the Fontmaster disk, put in his accounting disk labeled 1, and pressed CTRL-S and waited for the chart to be saved. This is so easy, he thought. After the printer was done, Mike pulled out the accounting disk and put in a game disk. His father frowned on him playing games, but his homework was done, and he needed some anxiety release.

The next day at school during lunchtime, Mike had a run-in with a few North Side students. They made some comments about South Side students that made him feel different. He could not understand what the difference was but knew there was one. He just brushed off the comments with ease, never looking back.

Before supper, Mike’s father was in the living room reading the paper. Jackie and Cathy were in the kitchen setting the table. Honey, did you know that they are going to close down the South Side School? Bill said loud enough for his wife, Jackie, to hear in the kitchen.

What, dear? Jackie said, walking toward the living room.

Did you know that they are going to close South Side School and enlarge North Side? Bill repeated.

No, are they? Jackie answered.

Well, it says here they are going to have a school board meeting on September 13 to propose the closing of South Side School. Then they’re going to have a bond sale to enlarge North Side School. South Side has always been the best grade school, and it runs on almost nothing. I loved that school. No wonder they want to close it. It’s the way the government works. If it is working and is good, change it so that money can be spent to help the economy and keep people working. Then it won’t work, and they can spend more money to fix it to keep the people working.

Mike was in his room, but when he heard his father call his mother and mention South Side, he came out to listen.

Bill kept right on speaking, If they would spend the money on a reasonable fast rail system, I could understand. I can never understand how all these educated people can create all these projects to spend the taxpayer’s money and never help the taxpayer.

You only went there for a year, Jackie said, trying to calm Bill down.

I know, but when I moved to Bemus Point, it was like moving to another world. They just did not motivate students like Mr. Nelson did. Gee-whiz, he did everything there and still does. He was the principal, sixth grade teacher, and was the music teacher too. I played on the basketball team, was in the safety patrol, went caroling at Christmastime, played dodgeball outside, and all those school snowball fights were great. A year later in sixth grade in the great Bemus Point Grade School, which looked like North Side, I could not do anything, not even play gym, because I had the wrong shoes. The Bemus Point High School was pretty much the same except for a few great teachers.

Well, dear, maybe South Side is getting too old, and Mr. Nelson is ready to retire, Jackie commented.

Are they going to close South Side School, Dad? Mike asked.

Oh, I am sure they will, but first they have to have some public hearings. Then do a feasibility study and then have a final hearing and a public vote for a bond sale to fund the project. Bill knew the process by heart; he read it in the paper all the time.

You know, I am glad that you and Mom moved back to Falconer so that I could go to South Side. I have never hated school. It’s kind of funny. The kids that go to North Side hate school but make fun of us from South Side. Just because it’s old and does not have a very large gym, they think they are better than us. So what if they beat us at basketball and the Field Day at the high school every year? It’s kind of funny. We don’t even know the North Side students, and just before we have classes together at the high school, we compete in sports to show who is the best. I don’t think it brings us together to make a more unified school. Mike surprised himself with his profound observations.

They have always been like that, Bill said. We could have rented an apartment on the North Side, but I wanted you to go to a smaller school. The North Side kids are the ones who always end up in sports, clubs, and cliques, but they are not any better than anyone else. Cliques with the chicks, Bill said, grinning. Say, that sort of rhymes.

Why don’t you both go to the meeting and object to closing South Side? Jackie added.

No. If this is what they want, this is what they’ll do. We don’t have any say. They have all the figures and all the big words to make wrong sound right. There’s nothing I can do, Bill answered cynically. Oh, about the garbage I asked you to take out last night…, Bill said, looking at Mike.

I’m sorry. I was working on my computer and forgot about it, Mike explained.

Look, I was for you getting this computer and you learning about electronics. You have learned how to operate it, but I also said I wanted you to use it for a good purpose, not for games and playing around. You waste your time on games and don’t have time to take out the garbage. You are never going to be able to accomplish anything if you don’t do the simple tasks asked of you. I want you to find some goal to be able to use this computer for and accomplish that goal. I don’t care if you write a book, learn how to program computers, learn about the electronics that make them work, or do something that becomes an accomplishment. Don’t just write a few papers and play games on a five-hundred-dollar machine, Bill lectured, hoping to spur Mike into making a commitment. If only my father cared as much about me, maybe I could be doing something great instead making tools for a living.

I did make that chart for the bills that you asked for. I wrote all the bills, interest rates, balances, payments, and due dates on it. I got it all on one sheet. You want to see it?

Sure, go get it, Bill said, thinking he might have been too hard on Mike.

Mike hurried to his bedroom, picked up some clothes, put his games away, and grabbed the bill chart. He went back into the living room and handed his father the chart. Mike wanted his father’s approval.

Bill looked over the chart. That looks great. How about putting some ID numbers right after the bills’ names, and I think you need to add some more bills. There is rent, Biglows, educational loan—that should about do it. You can abbreviate those names, Bill said, thinking Mike had done a fine job on the chart.

Memories of Bemus Point floated through Bill’s mind: the flood on Bemus Creek, all that mud in the house, tearing down the interior wallboard, insulating the walls, and buying another car. How he got through all those hardships, he did not remember.

Okay, I can add that information to the chart, Mike said, realizing that his father was only half-listening.

Yes, I want twelve copies, and try not to forget taking out the garbage next time. Bill smiled.

Okay, Dad, Mike said, feeling a little satisfaction.

How is school?

Fine, it’s going just fine, Mike answered, not knowing just what to say.

Friday was a long day for Mike, but somehow he knew long days were something that happened more often as you got older.

On Saturday, he called his South Side friends and asked them all to meet after school Monday at Burger King. There was a special going on for drinks and fries, which most of them liked. The main reason for meeting there was the large seats. Six or eight could sit comfortably there as compared to the old streetcar dinner; six was an experience. They all agreed to be there or have a good excuse.

Mike had been trying to come up with an idea to bring all four of his friends together before they all went their separate ways. He had tried to get them all to find something to do like band, sports, choir, chess club, or something else, but could not find a common interest.

Tomorrow he was going to Jeff’s house to ride on his three-wheeler that his father