Chapter 1

Tell me, sweet muse, the story of Noble McCloud. Come sit on my shoulder and sing into my ears of his plans, his visions, and his dreams. Time has given him the gift of youth, as he is a young man at the age of twenty-seven, still young and still unlearned in the ways of the world. He has an impression of how things work, but when asked, his mind wanders to another impression, another vague and outdated image, and these images speckled and dabbed with subtle colors approach him while laying in bed, his body supine, his arms supporting the back of his head, his eyes open in the darkness, waiting for his dreams to manifest themselves like flint sparks in the blackness.

As he lay in bed, he reached over next to him and turned on his small stereo. He preferred the stereo in the darkness, the blurred blue of the tuner, the red slit emanating from the CD player, and bouncing spasms of the equalizer. Gently he turned the amplifier louder, and from a small set of speakers came a drizzle of piano, the humble thump of bass, the knock of a snare drum, and the guitar.

For Noble the guitar held a special significance. Of all the instruments, it reigned like a king over its subjects. He paid immediate attention to the chords which moaned and giggled at precise intervals, up and down like hilly fields and open knolls overtaken by thunder. With each stroke of its strings he was transported from the dregs of reality into a flighty fantasy, as he imagined getting in his father’s beat-up Oldsmobile, the windows down, the air tousling his hair, and moving along bare highways in the dead of night.

In his mind he headed for California, a place he knew little, only that the sun could be found there, a new beginning with blonde women in bikinis, and the prosperity which comes with being easy-going and laid-back. He envisioned the beach, sun-drenched with jogging women, the ocean against the shore charging the tranquility with an electric fire. He would find a job working on such a beach where the surfers tamed the waves and sailboats cut across the choppiness beyond the buoys.

The guitar took him to this warmer climate, although he lived in the dark of winter, the snow piling in the driveway, his piggy bank empty, the motivation lacking. And these visions of California came with another round of guitar riffs, which prolonged the inevitable drift to this land where reality escaped at the touch of a breeze. And maybe he would meet a woman there with eyes that reflected the ocean and an embrace which settled the anxiety of being dead broke and going absolutely nowhere.

The country remained in perpetual, aggressive, and self-induced hypnosis, working so hard as slaves to the greenback and its stored bullion protected by mighty warriors. He intimated he would find in California what could not be found in New Jersey, that he would be surrounded by musicians licking mean chords, banging bongo drums, and the women, especially the women, loving unconditionally. And then he heard a loud knock at the door which broke him from this reverie. Instantly his visions of the land drenched with continual sunshine faded as the guitar gasped for breath and died with a reluctant turn of the volume.

He lifted himself from his bed wishing only to be lost in his dreaming, and he answered the door with his hair standing on end and a three-day growth on his face. This other specimen standing before him with an angry look was Noble’s father, McCoy McCloud.

Noble’s father was dressed in a white shirt and khaki trousers, a set of plastic lenses from a by-gone era slipping from his nose, and a piercing gaze which meant Noble was in trouble. Noble had always wanted to please his father. He fell quite short of this goal. He had used the simple strategy of replying affirmatively to all his comments and criticisms while never acting upon them. This had been the routine for several months, and he could tell that his father had grown weary of it. He prepared for the worst, as some of his father’s comments in the past had produced a hollowness and irregularity at the chest. To combat him with smart-aleck answers or vociferousness proved fruitless before, simply due to Noble’s inability to raise his voice. His mind shut off. He understood that his fear only fed his father’s remarks, and he braced for the tirade like shop owners before a hurricane. The gleam in his father’s eyes intensified at the sight of him.

“Damn it, Noble! Why aren’t you up yet?”

“I just thought I’d...”

“That’s the problem with you damn it. Don’t think, don’t do anything. You lay in that bed of yours, your room’s a mess. How many times have I told you to clean this place up? The garbage needs to be taken out, the car needs an inspection...”

“I’m sorry Dad.”

“Sorry’s not enough,” as a sharp echo beat on the walls. “Sorry this, sorry that. Do you want to be a loser? And turn down that stereo, or I swear I’ll rip the damn thing and crush your head with it.”

“Dad, I think you’re overreacting,” as Noble turned off the amplifier.

“I don’t think I’m overreacting,” said McCoy McCloud. “Is this the way you want to live your life? Listening to that damn filth? At least listen to some good music for a change, could you at least do that right?”

“But I like this... , “ mumbled Noble.

“What was that, boy? Don’t smart talk me, boy, not unless you want to be out on the street.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to...”

“Right out there on the street with all that crap. Someone has to teach you.”

Noble had always wondered why his father never kicked him out sooner. Perhaps old and stocky McCoy McCloud had a reason for keeping his son within yelling distance.

“Now there are two things you’re doing today, Noble, two things. First, I want this place clean, top to bottom. That means the dishes, the garbage, the floors, the carpet. If you’re not doing anything, at least make yourself useful. Downright lazy. No common sense. Is this why I sent you to college? To do nothing but lie on your ass all day? A waste of time and money, that’s what I think...”

Noble nodded in his usual way, his heart fluttering, and his father’s steely blue eyes poking him like sharp tacks. He had seen his father this way before, a long, continuous rant just before work, and he would be thankful when he left.

“Now I’ve got a long day ahead of me, and I want this stuff done before I get back.”

“When are you getting back?”

“You don’t have the right, you hear me, the right to question me about anything. Do as you’re told, and if it’s not done, you will leave, is that perfectly clear? Can you understand a direct order?”

“Yes, Dad, it’ll get done.”

“Good. That’s what I like to hear. And stop listening to that crap. Do something with your life. And also I want dinner waiting when I get home, and if you cant find anything in the fridge, go out and get something from the Food Stop.”

His father collected a few papers from the small kitchen and departed. Noble caught his breath, closed the door, and relieved himself of his father’s orders for later in the day.

He looked from his window. The snowflakes conspired with the wind and brought a deep freeze to the region. He lay in bed again, turned the stereo back on, and resumed listening to a guitar which turned melodic and sad. His foggy mind captured his father’s angry gaze, but as the guitar wailed and cried, he again envisioned his challenging escape.

The world was an impression, most people struggling and fighting for a home or vacations, this same world where no one liked what they were doing, undertaking their tasks because they had to, not because they wanted to, and after conforming to their pressurized tasks, these same people changed their molds like snakes molting, and became unregulated beasts with an assertiveness and aggressiveness that circumvented courtesy and affability, humility and altruism, all in the name of what a simple system demanded: work and more work, a course in how to become a self-serving machine in the pursuit of pleasure stored within burning muscles lifting heavy cargo. And these machines which result from years of prolonged labor skew the genes, as genes are malleable, and reproduce replicas so exact in form and content that the slivers of humanity dissolve at childhood. The offspring grows into a similar mechanical beast more disturbing than the first, stepping over hyacinths in bloom and other men of misfortune. The process begins anew with hopes that this pattern leads to a beast more capable and controlling of the uncertainties which give creation its charm and purpose. Instead, the machine works harder and longer, discarding its capacity for kindness, filling its own wardrobe of self-interest and disturbing vanity for an end which is never fully realized. The humanoid is crushed by a simple system, all in the name of some false freedom enslaving the populace.

The sadness of the guitar transformed into a hurried strum, shifting Noble’s outlook and mood. The gloom he projected blanched. His spirit recovered from haunting images of people ripping each other apart for bread crumbs, water, oil, and precious stones. He thought of things more rationally. Perhaps this wasn’t a system which forces its participants to work. Work it seems only lasts for eight hours, and then the night is free to do whatever one wishes with the money he has earned. Or a man could choose from a variety of employment, as there were many listed in the classifieds. And within work one could find meaning as well as subsistence, identity as well as accomplishment, friendship with his fellows, respect and self-esteem if the product should benefit another. Or he could develop certain skills which make him complete and knowing, because without work one surrenders his chances to grow and learn of himself, and what would one do all day without work? One would isolate in a room and become boring and insular, mentally masturbating to death; an atrophy of mind and muscle crippling the connections with any working person. People in China work just like people in New Jersey do, and work must be the way of the world, the essential outcome of trading goods and services, and green money only a currency to facilitate such a system, paper which equalizes the man reaping grain and the man selling toilet brushes, so they may trade on a common footing. Labor produces tangible results like the roads which cut across the nation or the diamond ring placed on the hand of a comely woman. Without work what would there be, and aren’t we lucky to choose the work we do? We can’t eat without planting a seed which requires a bent back and two hands, nor can a woman be impressed by a sparkling toilet without a brush. And if there were little work to be done, there would be more time to bash our heads against a wall and flog those who cross us. We would starve, as an apple needs picking before being eaten, and the actor must perform while on the stage...

From its logical twang, the guitar then joined the other instruments to complete the selection, and the reprise brought with it more thoughts of escape.

Noble envisioned a wide green field stretching for miles, girdled by craggy mountains with snow-covered peaks. The sunshine bathed this field in a brilliant light and warmth, and at the head of the field stood a giant stage with rafters holding enormous speakers blasting the same sounds he heard on his stereo. On this sunlit field flocked thousands of women wearing scanty clothes. Noble mingles with these celestial beauties, and he spots one with blonde hair gracing her breasts. Her precious skin is tan against the sun’s rays, and she wears a bright, polka-dotted sun dress. Her nose is faded pink and symmetrical with her features, the foreskin worn and peeling from the sun’s intensity. He sees her from afar and moves closer, the guitar continuing its established rhythm. He smiles and dances towards her. Once at her side his blue eyes connect with hers and they begin the dance, and within her eyes he sees an unencumbered clarity and truth, and in her body he sees sinewy waters pouring from mossy cliffs, and from that moment when the guitar chants to it conclusion, he knows that this woman will care for him and never leave, even though her beauty frightens and subdues the most cold-hearted men.

He takes her into his arms and feels her firm and curvaceous back. He finds it inviting, and while he feels her, she wraps her arms around him, and they sway gently, wiping away years of their common uncertainty. And the music stays with them, the guitar so loud that it makes the dead rise up and dance along, and the entire world is dancing, the living and the dead, grinding to this one guitar bellowing hysterically.

He remained in bed for some time, the field and the stage disappearing, and a slow orange sunset setting over the sky, and soon the sun looks like a match in the darkness, and the vision fades with the reminder of McCoy McColud’s commands.

Noble’s room was in shambles: compact discs scattered like minefields, some of them without covers, a warped pizza box in the corner, a pile of laundry near the door, old magazines left open to pages unread, soda cans crushed and discarded to the side. The task of cleaning proved so daunting that Noble found himself paralyzed. He imagined the process of cleaning before rising out of bed, and this same intimation kept him there. He had the entire day to clean, and he flirted with the idea of listening to more. But he recalled the words of his father, and with the immediacy of an alarm clock he picked himself up, retrieved a garbage bag from the kitchen and threw away the artifacts which littered his room. He pulled a damp towel from the laundry pile and stuffed the remainder under his bed. He peeled off the clothes he had been wearing for several days and darted to the bathroom. The mirror, spotted with dried toothpaste, told the story of his mismanagement, but he liked the way he looked at these times. He took pleasure in being totally disheveled and unkempt before showering.

He shaved once every week and showered every other day. The process of cleaning himself took on a ritualistic importance. First, he sat on the can and cleared his digestive tract. Second, he applied a thick lather to his face and shaved so painstakingly close that not the slightest stubble was left. Third, he hopped in the shower, the hot current pelting his skin. He stayed there for at least forty-five minutes, soaping and shampooing himself. Between these two events his mind wandered to the guitar he had heard, to the visions which had joined it. He emerged from the shower in a daze, beads of sweat at his brow, his face burning. Fourth, he dried himself thoroughly, and vacated the steamy bathroom to cool off, only to return five minutes later. He then applied the deodorant to his underarms, and wiped alcohol swabs over his face to prevent unsightly acne, a stage of hormonal imbalance from which he never recovered. Finally, Noble was clean, and the sixth step involved cleaning his ears and navel with cotton swabs. Occasionally Noble tumbled into an annoying seventh step: the clipping of fingernails and toenails, twice every month. After a close inspection, he chose not to.

His clothes were kept in piles on the floor, mostly unfolded, the clean clothes separated from the dirty ones. On this wintry day, he discovered only a pair of briefs and a blue-collared shirt in the clean pile, the rest of his clothes under the bed. He pulled out a pair of faded blue jeans, a cotton sweater, and a pair of worn socks. He dressed quickly and performed the duties for his father nonchalantly, as though only his room mattered and not the rest of the house.

The single floor house stood tiredly on a property sandwiched by other houses similar in structure and appearance. From Noble’s room, one could see directly down a narrow hallway to his father’s room on the opposite side. A living room, the small kitchen, two closets, and two bathrooms rested in between these two poles. Noble likened it to a trailer.

His main task now was to flee the house. The home beyond his musical sanctuary suffocated him. He checked his room before leaving, making sure all of his electronic equipment was off, (should his father later complain about the utility bill). He grabbed his gray coat, which was much too thin to withstand the winter and rushed down a long snowy lane which led to the center of town.

He passed quiet homes covered with snow, utility poles draped with ice, and swaying streetlights with their yellow signals flashing. The gusts of wind penetrated his coat, but he was determined to make it to the center of town.

Upon arrival, Noble noticed how the winter took on a cheery quality. People abated winter’s severity. Compared to the lane, the town bustled with activity. A busy road ran through its center, a long strip prepared for slow-moving vehicles, their tires slipping. On either side of the main road stood shops of all kinds, very fashionable shops such as a jewelry store, a quaint cinema, a couple of classy Chinese and Italian restaurants, suit shops, an august bank, a travel agency, the diner with a hundred varieties of flapjacks, a family pharmacy, and a couple of coffee houses. Noble often felt refreshed after leaving the shadowy lane and entering what he often termed the hoi-polloi area, the rents high as well as the property taxes. He never understood how his father made it to a town such as this, and on occasion he would see the latest sport sedans cruising by, or luxury sport utility vehicles, a trend at which he secretly scoffed, as he was old enough to remember the gas crisis of his youth. The main road ended at a train station which carried commuters to and from Manhattan, and two parks graced the town: one near the train station, the other at the midpoint of the strip.

At first Noble wandered aimlessly, window shopping and people watching. He tried to find women, preferably older, with shopping bags dangling from leather gloves; they had husbands who worked for large, multinational corporations, most likely at the office, those sorts of women, and certainly he found a few of them parading near the shops. Their demeanor amused him. He often imagined their worlds filled with dinner parties and social functions, a daughter attending private school, a beach house along the shores of Long Island. He was intrigued mostly by where these women lived. He noticed how they entered town and surreptitiously left at the end of their shopping sprees. He had only heard about their houses. Not once had he set foot in one. He assumed they lived in a region far removed, the part of town which turned bucolic and exclusive. An hour wandering the town made him shiver, and he knew it time to visit his good friend Shylock Winston who worked at one of the coffee shops near the park.

The coffee shop, housed in a brown brick building, stood at the corner of an intersection across from the family pharmacy. Although the shop was small, Noble admired the aesthetics of wrought-iron tables and chairs lining the wall, the island where skim, half-and-half, and whole milk waited in cylinders, the posters of famous impressionists, and especially the impeccable calligraphy on the blackboard listing the many varieties of coffees and teas. Before entering he scoped the place out through the large windows which offered a view of the entire shop. He spotted Shylock at the register counting money. He knew that his shift ended soon.

The aroma hit him as he walked in. He knocked on the register table and broke Shylock’s concentration.

“Don’t do that!” yelled Shylock thumbing through dollar bills. “Now I’ve lost count.”

“Sorry, Shy. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“At least it’s not one of these damn customers. All day, I tell you, all day. It’s been so busy. They come in and out, and I’m sick of coffee, I tell you. If I smell another bean, I’m likely to puke.”

“Want me to come back later?”

“Nah, stick around. I’m here at least for another hour. Have a seat and listen to some tunes.”

He sat in the corner and stared at the passersby on the street. The snow had picked up considerably and in the distance bulky trucks cleared the snow and sprinkled sand. Although Shylock had said the shop was busy, Noble found little proof of that. The sidewalks had mysteriously emptied as the snow grew heavy.

“Noble, Noble, Noble McCloud,” sang Shylock.

“That’s my name, as you are Shylock Winston.”

“Yes indeed. Sorry I was so short with you back there, but counting the money has to be the worst part of this job.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re happy here. I’ve noticed that change in you.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do. Every time I see you, you say you aren’t happy here, and it’s true, you’re mood changes each time you’re on the job.”

“Is it really that noticeable?”

Noble paused for a moment.

“I don’t know,” said Noble finally, “I don’t know about anything anymore.”

“Don’t sound so down, Noble. It isn’t that bad. Imagine if you had to work here five days out of the week, serving coffee and being polite. You have it good, Noble, damn good. I wish I were in your shoes- No responsibilities.”

Noble found this surprising. He envied Shylock. He was independent, had his own place on the outskirts of Waspachick, his own finances to manage, and remarkably his own car which was essential to having any life at all. Noble could have responded, but he chose not to, fearful of Shylock’s bitter mood. Shylock usually complained after the long shift, and Noble took it upon himself to be his personal punching bag, as this was the routine. Shylock finished his counting and filled two cups of house blend.

“Noble, Noble, Noble McCloud,” sang Shylock again, “tell me, how’s everything in la-la land?”

“It’s not exactly a dreamworld,” said Noble.

“Yeah right. I hate this job. Nothing but work for the rest of my life. It gets so monotonous, the same customers come in and out, and what do they pay me? Peanuts. That’s exactly what they pay me- no health insurance, retirement plans, nothing but bags of beans. Damn it, I want out of this town. Hey, how about this? Let’s go out and have ourselves a few drinks?”

“I don’t think so,” said Noble, “I’ve got too much stuff to do.”

“Like what?”

“I have to cook dinner for my father. He’s getting home in a few hours.”

“God, your old man, eh? I’ve never met anyone so pissed off at the world. I don’t know how you handle him.”

“It takes practice like anything else.”

“In other words, he tells you what to do, and you do it. He asks you to jump, and you jump. God, Noble, you have to get out of that house. You’re father is like a drill sergeant.”

“I can’t help it. If I don’t listen to him, he’ll kick me out.”

“Maybe that’s the best thing for you. You’ll get kicked out, and you’ll have to find a job like everyone else on the face of this planet.”

They sipped their coffees slowly, and Noble recalled his great escape through the heartland, only to arrive where the sun hung above the horizon.

“I’ve got a few plans in the works,” said Noble.

“Like what?”

“Believe me, when I say that something’s gonna change mighty soon. I can feel it.”

“Oh bullshit, Noble. You’re not going anywhere, and either am I. We’re both stuck here, forever wearing this apron, locked up in Waspachick, headed nowhere but behind this counter serving mocha to a bunch of addicts. They’re addicts, Noble, plain and simple. Let’s do something about it. Forget your father tonight. I’m really in the mood for a few drinks, relax, meet some women.”

Noble initially liked the idea, but froze at the dreary consequences. His father would beat him with both criticism and a belt buckle if he even thought about neglecting dinner. He turned against the idea.

“I mean, what do you do all day? Sit around and mope?” asked Shylock with more alacrity.

“I do lots of things.”

“Like what?”

“I read the newspaper and music magazines. I listen to all sorts of music, and I’m really getting good at that...”

“In other words, you do nothing at all. The least you could do for your best pal is go out with him, out of town lines, mind you, for a drink or two. You can tell your father anything. Tell him you’ve been searching for jobs.”

“That will never work. And besides, how would it look searching for a job in the evening? All the shops are closed.”

“C’mon, Noble. Don’t be such a woos. One of these days you’re going to have to stand up to dear ol’ dad. And you’ve got enough weight behind you to give him a few blows.”

“I’d never do that,” said Noble sharply.

“Okay, but you’re coming with me tonight. This is one thing I do know.”

Noble pictured his father yelling at him. He weighed the decision carefully: either anger his friend Shylock or enrage McCoy McCloud. And his father wouldn’t stop with one round. McCoy McCloud would continue for weeks, pounding the lapse into him. But then again, he would enjoy an evening away from Waspachick. He imagined women of all kinds hanging over him while a loud guitar blew from the speakers. At this single image, Noble found it difficult to reject Shylock’s persuasion. He gulped his coffee, as most of it had cooled. He looked out the window as pedestrians with shopping bags fled the harrowing snow.

“Noble, you’ve got to stop thinking about your father. I know you love him and all, but the time comes when you step out of his shadow and build your own life. Going to this bar means a lot more than wine, women, and song. It’s your fight for autonomy and self-reliance, not in defiance of your father, but to gain that one ounce of respect from him, that you have friends and a life apart from his silly requests. He can cook dinner on his own, he’s a grown man, and one night out never killed anybody. I know what you’re thinking: that your father will yell at you and never let go, but really, Noble, you have to think of your own needs.”

“You really think so?” he asked searchingly

“Yes, me and every other bone-head in Waspachick. Let your father have the night away from you. Maybe a better relationship will happen if you’re not stuck in your room the whole time. Believe me, things will get better with your father, only if you’re away from him.”

“Y’know, Shy, you’re absolutely right. Damn it, I’m going with you tonight, and I don’t care if my dad yells at me.”

“That’s the spirit, Noble!” said Shylock patting him on the arm. “See, I knew you had it in you. I know of this place a few miles down the road, in the next town, and right now it’s happy hour, and all these gorgeous women flock there.”

“They say that about all the bars,” he grinned.

“This bar is special. I know so many people who get laid from going to this one place.”

“What kind of music do they play?”

“Not exactly sure, but if all the women go there, and I mean wealthy women too, the music can’t be that bad.”

They left the coffee house shortly thereafter. Shylock had a used Honda, and he drove through the slippery streets in a hurry. He set the tuner to the popular music station which rehashed the same tunes so much that the songs were liked, not because of their quality, but more due to a psychological conditioning, until each weak chord, every lyric was pummeled into memory, something akin to brainwashing, or at least Noble thought of it this way. He admitted he liked some of the new songs, but found more meaning in the ones he listened to at home. The music on the popular station turned horrifically meaningless after a while, as though meaningful riffs and jams demanded too much effort in a world drained of energy. Any lyric too critical, any riff too deviant contributed to a mind-blow intense enough for a man or woman sitting in a lonely car to change the station and continue their meaningless ways. Noble thought there was one exception to this theory: the meaningless melodies stored in a vault, only to be brought out twenty years later, zapping the listener to the past where these tunes first took hold. A constant deluge of meaningless music, and his friend in the driver’s seat had been captured by its spell.

“Let’s change the station,” suggested Noble.

“Why? And listen to the crap you listen to? Forget it.”

“It’s not crap, Shy.”

“Sorry, but the old stuff is outdated. Don’t you get sick of listening to the same tunes over and over again?”

“I have a first class record library,” said Noble.

“Yes, and I bet the dinosaurs had one too. Wake up. Smell the coffee. No one listens to that music anymore. Get with the times. All the music you listen to doesn’t exactly attract the women.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked heatedly.

If there were one item Noble was passionate about, it had to be his music. Passion comes in different forms: a man’s passion for a woman, a passion for cooking gourmet meals, a passion for building model airplanes, a passion for the Dow Jones Industrials, or a passion for healing the sick. Noble had an intense passion which ought to be differentiated from ambition. Ambition without passion is a V-8 engine running overdrive without oil, while passion without ambition is a brand new, multi-valve, formula one race car that won’t start at the turn of a key. Noble was full of passion but lacked ambition. He never had the inclination to pursue his day-dreams, but cared so much about music that it ruled his days and nights with such fantastic fervor that nothing could interfere with his idolatry of the guitar and the instruments which added to its vitality. And when anyone, especially Shylock, argued against his music, he felt his blood rise and his heart pound. But he couldn’t find the words to defend his tastes. Instead he sat motionless while the synthesized drum beats from the popular song filled the car with a hopeless dread. His anger turned in on itself, like a mouse devouring its young. Shylock continued: