14

FAREWELL, O YOUTH

May 17th came along, Norwegian Independence Day, Syttende Mai, celebrating the day Norway threw off the yoke of Swedish oppression in 1814. At one time there had been a major parade in town by the Sons of Knute, the Grand Oya and his court with the Keeper of the Keys and the Lieutenants of Larvik dressed in all their silken finery and plumage, their gilded swords and horned helmets and capes and sashes and medals and ribbons, marching whomp whomp whomp in big black boots and singing “Helse dem dar hjemme,” which teenage satirists sang as “What the hell, have an enema,” but the parade had diminished with each generation and the diminishment was keenly felt by old-timers. Clarence had been a Knute and he’d tried to interest his son Duane but it was no go, what was a festive day to the father was a clown show to the son. So the costumes and swords and helmets were wrapped in tissue and stored in the basement of The Mercantile. Mr. Bakken, however, gathered with other bachelors at the Chatterbox, passed the cheese around, sang “Kan Du Glemme Gamle Norge?” (Can You Forget Old Norway?) and devoured their fried herring and potatoes, brooding about better days. “They’re coming for me and my cheese,” he said. “I can feel it. First they tell the jokes, then they destroy your traditions. I want to fight them to the death, but what’ll happen to the dogs when I’m gone? They’ll become fish food. Son of a bitch. A man can’t live his own life in this world.”

“Tellwith’m,” said Berge. “Tellwithalov’m. Goddammumall t’hell. I got no idea why I’m still here. I never wanted to see the day when Syttende Mai means squat and nobody cares to sing the old songs. It’s a damn shame is what it is. I was hoping to die in January. Cold as hell and Eddie called and said that the old regalia was for sale, take your choice, all the robes and sashes, and I said, That’s it. Time to turn out the lights. Somebody could buy up the stuff and use it for trick-or-treating at Halloween. Our granddads and great-granddads wore the colors, and it would kill me to see teenagers traipsing around, wearing it as a big joke—Ha ha ha ha—so I went out and sat in the car. Not a bad way to die, freezing to death, probably the easiest for you and whoever has to clean up afterward. No mess, no odor, and the rigidity of the corpse makes for easier transportation. No rush to get you to an embalmer either, so your survivors have time to shop around for the best price. So I sat there waiting to die, and then I remember who it is who’s going to bury me and inherit everything and it’s my nephew Trey. Got no kids of my own and he’s the one who stays in touch and remembers my birthday, so he’s the heir. He lives over in Cottonwood. I forgot to give him a list of the people I don’t want to come to the funeral. It’s a long list, People I’d Rather Didn’t Come, People Who Can Come But Sit In Back, and People Who If I’d Known They Were There I’d’ve Dropped Dead. I left the list in the kitchen, under the silverware tray. I started to think about what my bank balance was, and I remember I hadn’t looked at it in about four months and I thought I should take a look. I was close to death and I thought, “What the hell does it matter?” But it did matter. It was on my mind. So I staggered back to the house, no feeling in my hands or feet, and there was the bank statement, and I see I’m worth $41,425 and I think, “What in hell is Trey going to do with that kind of money? Probably marry the Tollefson girl and go live with her and her family. Her dad is on the list of People I’d Rather Not Come. Trey’d be living with them, and bet your bottom dollar he’d spend that money on new furniture and a rider lawn mower and his father-in-law’d be driving my good truck. And that did it. Ixnay on that. I tossed back a shot of Everclear, and Trey never came around to see me until a week ago and to hell with him.”

Two weeks later, graduation came along and the Class of 2020 filed onto the football field as cell phones flashed and the band played “Pomp and Circumstance” and people dabbed at their eyes as the choir sang:

Hail to thee, our alma mater

Would that we might dwell

Longer in thy hallowed hallways,

But we bid farewell.

Long life’s dangerous, lonely passages

Through the clouds of grief and fear

In our hearts we’ll e’er remember

How you loved and taught us here.

Mr. Halvorson sat through the valedictorian’s speech— about marching to a different drummer and daring to be yourself and do your part to light a candle and brighten the darkness that comes before the dawn and make a difference in the world because it’s the only one we have—and as he sat there, he noticed the woman in the second row, fourth from the left. Every year at graduation, the senior boys fulfill their obligation to play a joke on the administration. They’ve done bottle rockets, they’ve made the sound system get warbly and trebly, and one year, a flatulent stench drifted over the crowd, thanks to a kid with a gift for chemistry. One year, hundreds of frogs came hopping across the grass. Last year, they loosened the brakes on the lectern so that it rolled off the stage, and when he reached into his pocket for his speech he found an envelope full of mashed potato. And now he looked into the crowd of graduates and recognized the woman in the fourth row as a waitress from Charlie’s in Freeport, looking very determined, fiddling with the zipper on her gown, and he had a strong hunch he was going to be flashed by her, he could see senior boys smirking at each other—he hoped the poor woman had been paid well and in advance.

He stood up to address the graduates as he does every year, but this year he felt odd, his smile was gone and his voice felt tight. He congratulated them on their hard work and good citizenship and then he said, “You’re leaving a comfortable world for a world of grief and disappointment for which you are utterly unprepared. You’ve been educated to live in your parents’ world, which doesn’t exist anymore. Most of what you’ve learned is already outdated and the rest is irrelevant. Your parents own more of the world than they should, and you will have to grab it out of their cold, grasping fingers. If you’re lucky, they’ll get premature dementia and it can’t be premature enough. Book learning is mostly useless. Most of what we know we learn by keeping our eyes open. You’ve been brought up to follow the rules and respect your elders, but the rules are changing and your elders are standing in your way. Nonetheless, they’re the gatekeepers in this world, they run powerful corporations and rule over universities, and so you need to weasel your way around them unless you intend to be outlaws and terrorists. My advice is: avoid the liberal arts, it is a road to mediocrity. The best education available is the Army or Navy or Marines. After that comes science and engineering. Some of you imagine you’ll be songwriters or poets or actors. The only reason to go into the arts is to impress girls. The U.S. Post Office is full of people who intended to be songwriters. Instead, they’re running sorting machines. Just keep this in mind: high school is a prison camp designed to suppress your hormones and make you into passive followers. If you want to be free, you’ll have to educate yourselves and don’t wait too long. And remember, my generation is not your friend. When I was your age, we said, ‘Never trust anybody over 30.’ It’s even more true today. Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

It was a stunning speech and people applauded politely, which goes to show how little attention is paid to graduation speeches—people hear platitudes even when there aren’t any. The graduates marched up to the stage to get their diplomas and shook his hand and thanked him. And the waitress came across the stage, her zipper in hand, bracing herself, and he took her hand and said. “My darling, if you drop your gown, people will take pictures and they’ll be everywhere and you may have to leave town. I’d think it over if I were you. How much did they pay you?” She said, “Two hundred bucks.” He said, “Keep the money, no matter what. Laugh in their faces. If you want to go into pornography, do it in Los Angeles, the money is better. Okay? Good luck.”

At the end of the ceremony, the class of 2020 stood and Mr. Halvorson stood and faced them. A notice had been sent to all of them, an order by the Board: There will be no tossing of mortarboards at the conclusion of the ceremony and all who violate this order will be required to attend a one-week course in good citizenship in July before receiving a diploma. He said, “I present to you the Class of Two Thousand and Twenty.” A pause, and then every mortarboard was flung high in the air, to his great relief. A test of character had been passed.

The post-graduation parties were as festive as ever. Parents congratulated him as did members of the school board. They were distracted by late news that two members of the class of 2020 were engaged to be wed—the groom, a Krebsbach, would be pumping gas at Krebsbach Chev, and the bride, a Bunsen, would be attending the U to major in psychology, the first union between those two families, like a collie falling in love with a bulldog. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Halvorson drove home and when they got there, she said, “I can’t believe what you said tonight,” and when he said, “What?” and she told him, he was astonished. “Never trust anybody over 30? I said that?” She said, “You have to write an apology.” He said, “I’ll think about it.” But why apologize for something that apparently nobody paid attention to? It’ll only draw attention to it. Anyway, summer was here and he could keep his distance until the effect of the cheese had worn off. “No more cheese,” she said. “Not even Parmesan or cheddar.”