May 2002

Though the retarded man had been excommunicated from the small Texas community, he'd now returned, this time with a friend and a plan. Wearing a full-body animal costume, he walked with the other man along the grassy field until they came to a lone two lane highway. There they waited, watching as cars occasionally sped by. Just a moment after, the car they were looking for appeared over the horizon, and the costumed man whooped and hollered as he ran into the road to meet it, revealing his identity to anyone who might be looking on - only one man made those kinds of sounds. The other man followed behind, running to meet the car. The driver slowed, and finally stopped to see what the commotion was. She was a young woman with plain brown hair and otherwise nondescript. As she got out of the car, the retarded man jumped into the passenger seat, and the other man quickly stepped around her and dig his fingers into a seam along the roof of the car. In a single immense tug, he was able to pull the paint away from the car in one sheet, revealing a bright orange coating beneath. Then, as the woman protested meekly, he got into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and sped off as she stood there haplessly. The operation had all been pre-planned, though it escaped me how they had managed to coordinate it. But with the mission now underway, and as his familiar drove, the retarded man laughed and pulled off his animal head. Underneath he wore clothes of the same orange as the outside of the car - another part of the plan that escaped me. His hair was much shorter than it had been when he'd left town. But he'd learned a lot during his excursion outside, and he was now back to settle the score. I commented that his hair was different than it was when he was in TX last. He said, "Different from Texas, thanks to New Zealand." The driver glanced over at him and laughed.

The two people in the car had changed. Now my brother and father were seated in front, and I was in back. As we drove toward our destination the sun sank, and the two lane blacktop was an insignificant strip in the expanse of the flatlands on either side. As we drove I noticed a tornado funnel up ahead in the middle of the road. I warned dad that he'd better stop. We stopped to see where it would go, but it was inching toward us. To either side of the road were leafless, featureless trees. I looked out the car window and saw that the funnel disappeared hundreds of feet up into the cloudless sky. We pulled over to the side of the road, but the funnel seemed to have a mind of its own, and meandered steadily toward our side of the road. We were forced to turn about and drive away. I was aware of how slowly the old car accelerated, and watched the funnel diminish through the rear window.

The boy, no more than twelve, was known for his disobedience. The fact was school bored him, so he entertained himself by devising outlandish ways to be late for class. This amused his schoolmates, and his teacher secretly admired his ingenuity, but also frustrated her. On this day we see him pulling himself toward his classroom along a complex series of pulleys and ropes somehow suspended several stories above the ground. It looks to be a quite dangerous activity, and watch with interest. The final length leads up to a house - small and which is being dangled in air from a helicopter. This is the kid's childhood home, brought here through his immeasurable resources just so that he can make a grand entry as late in the school day as possible. He crawls through his house, turned on its side. Everything is still in place - furniture, books, plants - only sideways. He is careful not to upset anything. Finally he makes his way through his old bedroom, a smile on his face showing how proud he is to have pulled this off. The window to his bedroom has been aligned perfectly with the window of the hallway leading from the classroom, and he crawls through it. Around the corner I hear the class in an uproar. The first kid peeks around the corner and can't believe his eyes. "Oh my god, I can't believe it!" he is British. The teacher, a short middle aged woman, comes around the corner, and smiles in spite of herself. She loves this. Loves to hate it. She peers through the window. "Is that your bedroom?" she asks the kid. He tells her it is, and looks quite proud of himself. The teacher puts her frown back on and berates the kid half-heartedly. "You can do this!" she says, "This is just... inexcusable, and I won't have it interrupting my class." The kid just stands before her drinking it up. "You have no respect for authority, do you?" The kid lightly kicks her in the shin then, and that sets her off. She jabs her thumbs into his sides - which tickles him more than anything else - and kicks at the inside of his leg. This is the condoned punishment of the school system, though he just stands there laughing.