They always tell you to follow your dreams. What they don’t mention is how easily they can turn into nightmares.
Everyone wants to be a rock star. You imagine the partying, the women, the fame. You don’t think about the grueling tours, the herpes, and being dead on a toilet at twenty-seven.
Everyone wants to be a football hero. No one gives a thought to the screwed up knees, the early-onset Parkinson’s, and the embarrassing beer commercials.
We want the good life. We just try not to think about how we sold our soul.
My dreams were small.
Aw, who am I kidding, they were big. Reporter for the New York Times or The Washington Post. Pulitzer before I hit thirty. Couple of book deals, classy, nothing exploitative. Big house in a gated community. Cute, sensible wife.
Now, here I am at seventeen, half-blind, with a father who thinks I’ve lost my mind, and the certainty that out there, somewhere, there are men who want me dead.
When I manage to sleep, I have awful dreams. I’m jumpy and irritable. Suspicious of strangers.
I’ve traded my health, my peace of mind, and—I have no illusions about this—my sanity, for my shot at glory.
And a girl.
My God, what a girl.
Any fool can start college at eighteen. Me, I was beginning a year early.
It was a blisteringly hot July day as my father drove me to the University of Missouri, Columbia. Okay, I wasn’t really starting college. This was just the Missouri Scholars’ summer program. But one month here equaled six credit hours. Added to the AP classes I’d take next year, I’d have nearly two semesters finished by the time I enrolled here for real. All part of the plan.
“More cowbell!” bellowed my father. He’d been drumming the steering wheel in time to some discordant eighties song. He turned and grinned at me, as if he’d just said the funniest thing in the world. I rolled my eyes. A two hour drive from Kansas City, with Dad cracking jokes, singing, and basically behaving like he was my younger brother the whole way.
There’d been no doubt in my mind, of course, that I’d be accepted into the Scholars’ program. I’d kissed enough ass my junior year to make it a foregone conclusion. Still, it was a great relief when I received the official letter. Otherwise, it would have meant an entire summer, home, with him.
We were on campus now. I smiled at the austere, white brick buildings, trying to ignore the slummy fraternity houses across the street. I became distracted and momentarily forgot I was supposed to be navigating.
“Whoa, sorry, you were supposed to turn there.”
I should have known better. Without slowing down, Dad lurched the steering wheel to the left and hurled down the side street, to the sound of squealing rubber and pipes banging around in the back of the truck.
Dad laughed. Everything was a joke.
I shook my head. “Here we are. Mark Twain Hall.” A large banner on the dormitory proclaimed ‘Welcome Scholars.’
“Sherman, I envy you. Whole month, hanging out with these college babes.”
We’d stopped so a group of pedestrians could cross the street. I contemplated just grabbing my suitcase and taking off for the building. “First of all, Dad, most of the college women have gone home for the summer. Secondly, I didn’t come here to…”
I stopped talking when I saw the person walking in front of our truck. She was the sort of girl that could grab your attention, even if your clothes were on fire. Tall, with long, dark hair and a face that made you hope she’d ask you to help move some furniture. Just so you could say yes.
She was dressed in a long, frumpy skirt and a dowdy white blouse, which somehow added to the whole picture. As she passed, she glanced through the windshield and smiled at me for a moment. I watched as she departed, pulling her little travel bag behind her.
“You were saying, Sherman?” prompted my dad, with an obnoxious grin. “You didn’t come here to meet girls?”
I smiled back, I couldn’t help it. “Well…all work and no play.”
Dad parked in front of a hydrant. Before I could get out, he touched my shoulder. “You know, we’re not going to see each other for a while.”
He said it like it was a bad thing. “You can visit on the weekends.”
“Yeah.” He frowned. Dad owned a small plumbing business, specializing in emergencies. The weekends were his busiest times, and I knew it.
Wordlessly, we got out and he retrieved my suitcase. Then he stood on the curb and grinned at me. He was a ruddy-faced man of fifty, balding, with bad teeth and a nose repeatedly broken in his many misadventures.
“Damn, boy, I’m proud of you.”
“Dad…” I longed to grab my bag and go inside to register.
“Nope, listen to me. I know how competitive this program is. I know there weren’t a lot of slots. This is a big deal.”
I sighed and glanced over my shoulder.
“You have enough money, right?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“And you got your cell phone? You can call the eight hundred number any time, Janine will patch you right through to me.”
“Right.” One month. I’d only be gone a month. Could he let me go already?
“You know your uncle’s here in Columbia, if you need anything. And if you ever get lonely, or just want to shoot the breeze—”
“I’m seventeen! I don’t need you to hold my hand.”
He nodded. “I was just thinking of when you went to Boy Scout camp is all.”
I stared at him until he winced. He knew better than to bring that up. I reached around and snatched my luggage.
“You take care, boy, okay?”
I think he was going to hug me, but I managed to get in a preemptive handshake. I then joined the snake of other soon-to-be high school seniors and hurried into the dorm.
There must have been over sixty people in the lobby, lining up at the various registration tables. Guys to the right, ladies to the left. I glanced around to see if I could spot the girl from outside, but I couldn’t find her. Oh, well, I had a whole month.
I lined up at the A-G desk. Ahead of me, students jostled and hollered. Many of them carried radios, tennis racquets, and other junk. Maybe these guys were going to waste their time screwing off. Fine by me. But I had a plan. When I met my sponsor tomorrow, I would impress the hell out of him. That’s how you win scholarships. That’s how you get ahead.
At last, it was my turn. “Andrews,” I announced to the registrar. Since it was a common last name, I added “Sherman.”
The guy, a chubby fellow in his late thirties, looked confused. “Sorry, Andrew, you need to be in the line over there. You’ll find people are usually sorted by last name.” He spoke slowly.
I quickly counted to five. “Andrews is my last name.”
“Oh!” He searched the files and eventually located a thick manila envelope with my name on it. “Here you are, Sherman. Hey, looks like you’re on my floor! I’ll be your advisor this summer.”
I looked him over. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, elastic shorts, and horn-rimmed glasses. He was most likely a high school teacher during the rest of the year, probably the kind who showed three movies every class.
“Nice to meet you, Mr…” I glanced at his name tag. “Schultz.”
He made a theatrical offended gesture. “Call me Benny! Mr. Schultz is my father.”
How proud he must be.
“Stairs are straight down that hall,” he continued. “Your key’s in the envelope, room 223. Get yourself settled, we’ll have a floor meeting at around three.”
As I climbed the stairs, I leafed through my packet and located my ID card. I winced when saw the photo. Yes, I was the one who’d submitted it, but my blond-haired, baby face looks didn’t exactly scream ‘hard-hitting reporter.’
Already, someone on the second floor had their music turned up way too loud. I’d expected that; this was why God created earplugs. But I began to worry about my new roommate. I wasn’t in love with the idea of bunking with a strange guy all month. It was my theory that human adults were not meant to live together unless there was sex involved.
Maybe that’s why Mom left.
Room 223. I groaned at the two printouts of Bert and Ernie someone had taped to the door. Each displayed a name: Andrew Sherman (shit!) and Lawrence Jacobs. The door was partially open. I knocked once, then entered.
Mark Twain was one of the no-frills residence halls: public showers, window AC, and located right behind the MU power plant. The dorm room contained nothing but two beds, two desks, two closets, and a shirtless hippie, cradling an electric guitar.
“Dude!” He made the word two syllables. “You Andy?”
I sighed inwardly. “Sherman. My name’s Sherman. You must be Lawrence.”
“Nice to meet you, Sherm. Call me L.J.”
“Call me Sherman.”
He laughed, and flopped back on his bed, which still had no sheets. “What’s your focus?”
I had opened my suitcase and was unfolding my sheets. “Beg pardon?”
“Your academic focus. What’re ya studying here?”
“Oh, um, journalism. You?”
“Music!” He banged out a few chords on his guitar, which I was relieved to notice was not plugged into an amp. “Where you from?”
“Kansas City.”
“Go Chiefs!”
“Yes.” Politeness dictated that I ask L.J. about himself. “And you?”
“Right here in CoMo! Columbia, born and raised.”
“Way to expand those horizons.” My bed finished, I began to hang up my clothes.
“Dude, I got a car parked at the Hitt Street Garage. One of these nights we ought to go cruising. I can show you the kick-ass spots round here.”
I tried to ignore this. “We’re not supposed to drive anywhere.”
“Sposed ta never’ll get you anywhere, Sherm. Hey, you know there’s no dress code here, right?”
I turned to glare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There’s sposed ta again. Your clothes, man. It’s summer. You look like you packed for church camp.”
Which is why I’ll be your boss someday.
“Hey, Sherm, you got a fake ID? Cause a lot of the clubs around here…”
I hurled a pair of slacks onto a hanger without lining up the creases. It was time to lay down some rules. “Listen. My name is Sherman. Not Andy, not Sherm, not dude. Maybe you came here to get wasted or party, or whatever. I couldn’t care less. But I worked hard to get in the Scholars’ program, and I’m going to take advantage of it. I hope you don’t think I’m boring, but that’s why I came here. The only reason.”
I realized I had my hands on my hips and quickly lowered them.
L.J. stared at me blankly for a second, then smiled. “And to meet chicks. Don’t deny it.”
I almost snapped at him, but stopped myself. He did have a point. A month here, with a bunch of really intelligent, driven girls…like the brunette I’d seen out front.
“Yeah, and to meet chicks.” I allowed myself a smile.
My roommate laid his head under his hands and stared at the ceiling. “There is nothing sexier than a babe with brains. Nothing.”
I sat down on my bed. “Now that’s the damn truth.”
It wasn’t long before Benny stopped by to remind us of the floor meeting. I was hoping I could skip it, but such is life. L.J. pulled on a T-shirt and walked with me, as if we were suddenly BFFs.
About thirty guys gathered in the austere lounge, sprawling out on the worn couches and plastic chairs. I found myself next to a short, swarthy guy. His narrow face and goatee kind of made him look like Satan, if Satan looked perpetually nervous and worried.
“Hey, I’m Sherman Andrews.”
He jumped slightly at my introduction, then nodded. “John Doe.”
Before I could reply to that, he held up a palm. “Yes, I know. My parents came from Manila. They were trying to give me an American-sounding name. They didn’t figure it out until it was too late.”
We both laughed.
“So what’s your focus here?” I asked.
“Physics.”
Now why couldn’t this guy have been my roommate? Maybe I could get L.J. to switch.
Benny called the meeting to order, with his already tired ‘one of the guys’ routine. As I suspected, he was a high school English teacher. I zoned out as he explained the rules and procedures. We’d spend most of the morning with our sponsor, usually a professor or other professional who’d give us a leg up in our chosen area, and help us work on our summer project. This was the reason I’d come here. The other stuff Benny mentioned, the afternoon lectures and clubs, didn’t really interest me. I had a plan, and intended to stick with it.
Our advisor droned on. “Now from six in the evening onward, you’ll be free to spend however you choose. Most likely working on your project, though there’s a lot of other things going on. You may walk downtown if you like, there’s some interesting shops and such. No driving, no getting your friends to drive you anywhere.”
Across the room, L.J. winked at me. I pretended not to notice.
“The doors to this building automatically lock at ten at night. A Mizzou ID will open them, and you don’t have one. My cell number’s in your packet if you’re running late and need me to let you in. Please don’t abuse that, I have better things to do. I’ll do a room check at eleven. If you’re not in the building I’ll assume you’re passed out in the local drunk tank and call your parents to inform them of this.”
A few guys laughed. Benny stared them down, suddenly looking like something of an authority.
“A lot of people who wanted to come to the Scholars’ Academy were rejected. And every year when they write the state budget, this place is always on the chopping block. You all are young men, and I’m going to treat you as such.” He glanced around the room, and for a second, I thought he was staring at me.
“Try not to fuck it up.”
A couple of guys looked nervous. I looked at my watch. I’d never been in trouble and didn’t intend to start now.
“Okay, enough rules talk.” Benny stood and clapped his hands once. “Let’s get to know each other.” He held up a ball of yarn. “When someone throws the ball to you, tell us your focus and a couple of interesting things about yourself.”
Jesus, not a get-to-know-you game. What the hell was this, first grade?
Our fearless leader started us off. “I’m Benny Schultz, this is my tenth summer with the scholars. Before that I lived in the Ukraine for five years, where I met my wife.” He hurled the ball to L.J., while clinging to the end thread. The line stretched across the room.
“I’m L.J., here for the music program, and I grew up right here in Columbia. I play guitar, piano, and I’m learning the sax.” He tossed the ball to John, who addressed his feet.
“I’m John, physics, and um…last summer my dad and I went searching for the Lost Dutchman silver mine.”
John didn’t seem like the adventure sort. “Are you kidding?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. He smiled and nodded.
“I’ll show you the pictures some time.” He threw the ball, which landed with a sad thunk near no one. A tall guy with a crew cut grabbed it.
“Aaron Malone, business. I’m gonna be joining ROTC when I graduate. And one time, I kissed a girl.”
Everyone laughed. I wondered how many of these guys could truthfully make the same claim.
The ball bounced back and forth, and my classmates bragged their brags. Actually, a lot of what they described was pretty impressive: travel, strange hobbies, athletic achievements. Not surprising, considering where we were.
I was one of the last people to get the ball. A huge web of yarn connected everyone in the room. I toyed with the remains, already predicting Benny’s tired spiel of how we were all now linked and should support each other, or some BS like that.
“My name’s Sherman, I’m here to study journalism, and I…I…”
I have nothing interesting to say.
Jesus Christ, I didn’t. Everyone was staring. I mentally clawed my brain, trying to think of one vaguely amusing story.
My dad’s a plumber.
My favorite color’s blue.
I went to Nebraska once.
They continued to look at me. Someone coughed. L.J. grinned.
“My name is Sherman, and I hate party games.” I let the yarn fall to the floor and walked out of the lounge, just slow enough to hide my panic.
Columbia, Missouri, September 7, 1935—Deacon Henderschmitt always reminded Rev. Gowen of a weasel. Not so much because of his beady eyes and overbite. Gowen had the strangest impression that if he placed his hands too near the deacon, his finger would be bitten off.
“Rev. Gowen,” said the deacon in an exasperated voice. “We’re all very sorry about your assault. But I find it hard to believe that you have no idea what motivated your attackers.” The deacon’s red tongue darted out between his teeth with every syllable.
The reverend groaned. The itching in his empty eye socket was almost unbearable, and the bandages around his torso felt like iron rings, restricting his breathing. Nevertheless, he forced himself to sit upright behind the borrowed desk. Less than a week after his beating he was back at church, temporarily working out of the assistant pastor’s office while his own study was being repaired.
“Mr. Henderschmitt,” said Rev. Gowen, biting back the pain of speaking. “If I knew anything, rest assured I would have informed the proper authorities.” The dig was intentional. Henderschmitt had no real authority over the minister.
The deacon sucked in air through his teeth with a wet hissing noise. “There’s been talk that the coloreds are planning some sort of insurrection. Could it be possible…”
Rev. Gowen interrupted. “The men were white. I’ve said that before.” Gowen felt Henderschmitt would have dearly loved to announce that Negroes were behind the attack. When he felt better, the reverend would have to have a serious talk with him about certain attitudes among the church board members.
The deacon shrugged. “Reverend, perhaps it would be better if you took some time off. Recuperated for a few months. I know several men of faith who would be happy to fill in for you. Myself included.”
Rev. Gowen stared down Mr. Henderschmitt until they both blinked. “Thank you, Deacon. But I believe I’ll be fine.”
“But…”
“Thank you,” said the reverend, dismissively.
As soon as Mr. Henderschmitt closed the door behind him, Gowen let out a moan. He sat still for several minutes, his eyes clamped shut, his fists shaking. Eventually, his breathing returned to normal.
He was not fine. He needed a break. And not just because of his physical injuries.
Looking to make sure the door was still shut, the reverend bent to pick up a briefcase and place it on the desk. This took considerable effort and he had to pause and rest. Eventually, he unlocked it. Reaching into an inner pocket, he pulled out a handwritten note.
August 10, 1935
Rev. Gowen,
I am in considerable trouble. Mr. S will not allow me to leave the brotherhood. He was quite emphatic in that respect. I implore you, please talk to him. He’ll listen to you. I fear for my safety.
Yrs,
Alanzo
The reverend read and reread the note. He then folded it and replaced it in his case. With a determined expression, he picked up an ornate, leather-bound Bible and began methodically tearing out the pages.