Chapter 7: Schedule Challenges

June 4, 1984, Chicago, Illinois

"I love this car!" Violet exclaimed when we were about halfway to her house. "Will you still teach me to drive?"

"Yes. Given my schedule, let's start on Saturday. I'll come to your house at 6:00am, and we can drive. Then, on Mondays and Wednesdays, you can drive us from work to your house. That'll give you about ninety minutes total driving a week if we drive for an hour on Saturday mornings. You don't have to take formal Driver's Ed because you're over eighteen and out of High School, so you can get your license as soon as you feel comfortable taking the driving test and the written test."

"About how many hours?"

"I only had seven hours behind the wheel and passed the Ohio test, which included parallel parking. Of course, I didn't drive very much until I got the LeBaron. Mom needed the car, so I usually got rides from co-workers or bosses or rode my bike. Mr. and Mrs. Newton were my emergency backups until Bev got her car, though that wasn't until the Summer of '80. Anyway, I think you'll be ready to take the test by the end of July. You have until Saturday to get your learner's permit."

"I'll ask my slave driver of a boss for some time off tomorrow to go to the Secretary of State's office."

"Your boss must be a real jerk," I replied.

"Only when he doesn't keep me informed of his whereabouts when he's supposed to be in the office!"

"You're not going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Not at all!" Violet laughed. "I know I can tease you."

"Just remember, turnabout is fair play, Miss Clemmons!"

"So, about tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course. And don't worry about the missed time."

"Thanks."

When we reached Violet's house, I parked, and we headed inside. I helped her make dinner, we ate, then cleaned up. Violet gave me a tight hug and a soft kiss, then I left her house for Circle. I went to the humanities building and found the correct room, which was confirmed by having 'English 103/Messier' chalked on the board. I took a seat in the second row of the small auditorium and watched as others filtered in, with about sixty total students in the room, when Professor Messier stood up to begin our first class session.

"Good evening! I am Professor Margaret Messier, and this is Freshman English Composition, also known as English 103. If you aren't supposed to be in Freshman Composition, you should leave and find your correct classroom. As this is a Summer course, our schedule is accelerated compared to the usual Fall or Spring course schedule.

"There are no required textbooks for this course, though I strongly encourage you to have a good dictionary, a good thesaurus, and a copy of The Elements of Style, third edition, from 1979. Those books will aid you greatly in your writing. I will say this now and repeat it often — spelling and grammar count, and you can fail this course simply on account of spelling and grammatical errors.

"For our international students, if you learned British English, I do not require you to attempt to write or spell in American English. To alert me to your use of British English, please write 'BE' at the top of each assignment, and I'll allow your use of 'R-E' instead of 'E-R', the extra 'U', and other common differences, but I will hold you to proper British spelling and grammar. Canadians, if there are any, I'm sorry, but you're out of luck and will have to pick either British or American English. Would the students on the aisle please come down and get enough syllabi for your rows?"

That took several minutes, and because I was near the front, I had time to scan the syllabus before it was fully distributed. The first major assignment was an autobiography of between 750 and 1000 words, a rough draft of which was due on Wednesday. The final version would be due the following Monday, and we'd have another rough draft due on Wednesday. That cycle would continue until the end of July.

Fortunately, nothing prevented me from working ahead, so the only real challenge was the first rough draft, which had to be completed sometime before Wednesday at 7:00pm. Professor Messier explained what I'd just read, then began her lecture on the writing process and the structure and style of various forms of writing. As she lectured, I made notes that were not nearly as copious as for other classes.

Several points she made were applicable to my analyst reports, though I suspected that style would be far too terse for my course assignments. That said, there was no question they'd pass the clarity standards, as that was the main guiding force in creating them. They were meant to be read, and their content quickly digested, not mulled over for hours.

At the end of class, she reminded us about something in the syllabus — that all our work should be considered 'public' and we'd be required to read our papers, or at least parts of them, in class. She also reminded us that it was best if we had someone proofread our papers for us and suggested classmates as a good option. I almost laughed because, at least for the first paper, there was literally no time, though once we had the rough draft back, it would be possible.

When she finished, I got up and left the classroom, and as I was leaving the building, a young woman touched my arm.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Missy."

"Jonathan."

"I know! You probably didn't notice me at the Spurgeon Christmas party. My dad is Norman Monroe."

"I'm sorry, no, I didn't. I was a bit preoccupied in December."

"I heard what happened! I'm so sorry about your wife. Anyway, would you be willing to proofread my essays? I'll proofread yours."

I had several options for proofreading, including Violet, Bianca, Deanna, and CeCi, plus numerous others. That said, having someone in the same class proofread probably made sense.

"Sure, though that's not going to work for the rough draft due on Wednesday."

"No kidding! I can't believe we have 750 words due then!"

"May I ask why you're taking English 103 over the Summer?"

"To get a head start."

"What's your major?"

"Dad wishes it was finance, but I'm more interested in history. I plan to teach High School. By taking a class this Summer and the next two Summers, I can graduate in four years with all my student teaching hours instead of needing four and a half or five years."

"That makes sense. Our next rough draft is due Wednesday next week, so we should probably find a way to exchange papers on Friday so we can give them back to each other on Monday. Could you send yours with your dad on Friday? I'll give mine to him."

"Perfect! See you Wednesday!"

I headed to Violet's house, walking quickly, and when I arrived, I rang the bell. She let me in and closed the door.

"I have to write an autobiography by Wednesday," I said. "It has to be between 750 and 1000 words; I need to get home so I have time to start tonight."

"Ugh!" Violet exclaimed.

"I know. Unfortunately, it's going to be that way for the whole semester. I'm positive I'll have a lot of reading and writing for my sociology class as well. I'm basically going to have to block out Sundays for school work, plus some evenings, too."

"It's worth it. And you write fast."

"True, though I can't be as concise and terse. Fortunately, I have the three books I need on my shelf in the office — The Elements of Style, a thesaurus, and a dictionary."

"OK. I won't hold you up! See you at the office tomorrow!"

I left her house and headed home, wondering if I should cancel my date with Maja. It seemed tacky to accept and call it off the same day, and I decided to see how much I could accomplish before bed. Fifteen minutes after I left Violet's house, I was in the condo and let Bianca know about the assignment.

"I won't disturb you," she said. "But I wouldn't mind company in bed once you're done."

"I think that could be arranged! Was the cleaning service here today?"

"Yes. Chelsea let me know when they arrived, and she kept an eye on them. They did everything on their list, and when I came home, I double-checked, and everything looked good. I do wonder about their reaction to the gallery!"

"Given they don't know us, it's just art, right? People don't generally react badly to nudes in a museum or art gallery, so long as it's not someone they know. Think J. Geils and Centerfold. Bev pointed out that if he's so offended by the girl being in the magazine, why is he looking at the magazine?"

Bianca laughed, "That's a great point! He's whining about her being in there, but he bought the magazine, so he has no room to bitch."

"Exactly. Anyway, I need to get to work on my paper."

Sofía was asleep, so I went to my room, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, then went to the computer loft. I sat down at the Macintosh, turned it on, and once it was ready, I inserted the MacWrite diskette. Two hours later, I had what I felt was a reasonable rough draft of an autobiography.

Sometime in February 1962, a sixteen-year-old girl in Cincinnati, Ohio, snuck out of her house to meet a twenty-five-year-old traveling salesman from Missouri. The girl became pregnant, and when she discovered this fact, she attempted to contact the salesman.

Unbeknownst to her, he had been aboard a flight which crashed en route from Chicago to Kansas City, Missouri, in May. All thirty-seven passengers and eight crew members died in the crash, caused by a homemade bomb set off by a man who was in financial and legal trouble in the hope of securing an insurance payout for his wife.

With no husband and no father for her baby, the sixteen-year-old was left to fend completely for herself when her strict, religious father kicked her out of the family home. With nowhere to turn, she sought help from a friend who took her in. Five months later, the stork presented the young woman with a bouncing baby boy she named Jonathan Edward.

Her life was difficult, but she managed to finish High School while caring for her infant son, and after graduating, she found a job as a secretary. The boy grew, and when he was two, the now nineteen-year-old girl bought a small house for $8000 with the help of her friend's father, who co-signed the note. To make ends meet, she worked two jobs, and while she worked, Jonathan was watched by a neighbor who had a daughter, Beverly, who was one year younger.

Jonathan and Beverly became fast friends. They attended Spaulding Elementary and, later, Goshen Middle School. Jonathan and his mom kept a garden, which allowed them to have fresh vegetables for about half the year and canned vegetables for the remainder of the year. When he was twelve, he learned to hunt, mostly rabbits and deer, and that supplemented their garden and helped ensure they had enough to eat.

When Jonathan started at Goshen High School, he began mowing lawns and shoveling snow to help make ends meet. At age fifteen, he obtained a work permit and got his first job at a feed store. It was hard manual labor, mostly moving sacks of feed and fertilizer. At sixteen, he obtained a second job working in a lumberyard and also worked for a landscaping company mowing lawns on Sunday afternoons.

His mom instilled in him the importance of saving, and she insisted that the first $5 of every paycheck be deposited in the bank, and Jonathan insisted she keep most of the rest to pay their bills. They both worked hard, but they made a good team and managed to live without any government assistance, something that was very important to Jonathan's mom, mostly to prove her dad had been wrong when he had called her a 'loose woman who would never amount to anything'.

After his Freshman year of High School, Jonathan contemplated his future. He considered attending vocational school to train to be an electrician, but after a conversation with his uncle in Chicago — his mother's brother-in-law — changed that with an offer to help Jonathan find an entry-level job in a business where he could work his way up.

Jonathan and Bev remained good friends, and eventually, one warm Summer night in June 1980, they became lovers, something initiated by Bev. In January 1981, Jonathan's uncle called to see if he would be interested in a job in the mailroom at Spurgeon Capital, a financial services firm in Chicago. Jonathan agreed and made arrangements to live with his uncle, at least for a few months.

Jonathan made one major mistake — he hadn't discussed his future with his friend, confidante, and lover, and that caused the relationship to fracture. However, Jonathan didn't know it at the time, mainly because he had always considered Bev his friend, not his 'girlfriend', even though they were lovers.

Immediately after graduation, Jonathan moved to Chicago, taking with him the money his mom had insisted he save, which would provide a cushion until he received his first paycheck. On June 1, 1981, he reported for his first day of work as a clerk in the mailroom. After acclimating himself to Chicago and with a few paychecks under his belt, he found an apartment to rent.

Seizing an opportunity, he asked a senior member of the Spurgeon team for the training manuals that would allow him to learn what he needed to move up. He studied hard and, under pressure from his new mentor, learned the ins and outs of trading stocks, currencies, and other financial products.

Late in 1981, much to Jonathan's surprise, he discovered Bev was pregnant, though circumstances were such that there was no concern that the baby was his. Bev wasn't interested in marrying the baby's father, and she and Jonathan reconciled. That led Jonathan to be with Bev when she gave birth. They tried to restore their relationship, but it didn't work, though they remained friends.

Jonathan was promoted to supervisor in the mailroom, earned his securities licenses, and was later promoted to analyst, and he began managing an investment fund. Around that time, he met Keiko, a beautiful Japanese-American woman with whom he fell in love. They considered a future together, but before they could get engaged, she was diagnosed with leukemia. Undeterred, Jonathan proposed, she accepted, and they married.

Keiko underwent treatment, and Jonathan was promoted again, this time to Head of Research. Sadly, though, that success at work didn't translate to his personal life. Keiko's treatments were unsuccessful, and a few months after their marriage, she passed away in December 1983.

Despondent, Jonathan's spirits were lifted by his friends and, eventually, the birth of his daughter in April 1984. She was conceived with a lesbian friend, with his then-girlfriend Keiko's blessing, before their marriage. Jonathan continues to work at Spurgeon, is pursuing a degree in business, and his future is bright.

I wasn't completely happy with the autobiography because I had more to say, but with a word limit of 1000, I really couldn't include more. As it was, I'd left out quite a bit and realized that despite living a fairly mundane existence for my first eighteen years, the previous three had been extremely eventful, to the point where I couldn't fully relate them in fewer than a thousand words.

I printed a copy of the autobiography and went downstairs to find Bianca.

"Think you could proofread this for me?" I asked.

"Sure. Mind if I do it in the morning?"

"No. I'll have time after my date tomorrow night to make any changes. This is just a rough draft."

"Then let's go up to bed!" Bianca declared.

"Birth control?" I asked.

"I'm on the Pill again. According to Doctor Wisniewski, waiting a month is sufficient, and I just finished the first cycle of pills, so we're good. She also suggested using lube and being very gentle the first time."

"OK. I'll bring the lube back with me."

We went upstairs and completed our bedtime routines in our own bathrooms. I retrieved the lube from my nightstand, then returned to Bianca's room. We climbed into Bianca's bed together and made love slowly and gently, then cuddled together to fall asleep.

June 5, 1984, Chicago, Illinois

"How are you holding up?" Beth asked when we met for lunch on Tuesday at the kosher deli near the tailor shop.

"I think the best thing to say is that I've accepted the reality of the situation and come to terms with it, but I still feel I somehow let Bev down. Let's get our food, and we can continue."

We ordered at the counter, and once we had our food, we left the deli to sit on a bench in a small park, which was only a block away.

"I'm not sure what more you could have done," Beth said once we'd begun eating.

"I'm actually not sure, either, given the totality of what happened. But it just seems as if I could have done something."

"That's a pretty common feeling," Beth observed. "But let me ask you this — would you have sacrificed Heather's safety for Bev's?"

I shook my head slowly, "No, I don't think I could have done that. Heather was probably the only completely innocent party in the whole sordid mess."

"And at every stage, she was your true concern, right?"

"Yes," I agreed.

"Then take solace in the fact that she's safe."

"Without a mother and with a father in prison for what will amount to life."

"And think about what might have happened in the alternative," Beth suggested. "I totally understand you being upset, but you aren't to blame for what happened with Bev. And would you really want to erase the past three years?"

"No."

"Then there's your answer. All you can do is move forward, same as always."

"Heather nearly broke my heart when she greeted me and said, 'Hi, Jonny'. That's what Bev used to call me."

"You seem to be struggling more with this than with Keiko, no disrespect intended."