Worlds Apart (28 page)

My SAT score was close to my scores on the practice tests. The second envelope was better news.

“What IS this?” My father asked.

I was accepted to state college. Predictably, my father was not thrilled. He asked how much it would cost. I explained that between the financial aid, my earnings from work this year, and with part time work during college, I was ok for the first year. A heated argument ensued. He insisted that I stay home and go to college in the city.

“I’m an adult, and I can make my own decisions,” I shouted.

“Adult? You’re still a kid. And you are still my kid and I say no.”

We continued to shout at each other, my father’s volume steadily increasing with the length of the conversation. He insisted that he could use my help financially as a working adult. Just to irritate him, I threatened to join the Army. My father was now really angry. One of his brothers had died in Vietnam.

He left the room nearly in tears. Then he left the house, slamming the door behind him. I hadn’t seen him this angry in a long time.

What an awful day. I looked at the bottle of scotch in the China cabinet. If I took a swig now to solve my problems at seventeen, what would I be like at thirty? We didn’t need another alcoholic in the family.

Chapter 14

In high school, the scariest holiday is not Halloween. Valentine’s Day was on full display at the cafeteria. Sam had sent Delancey roses. She thanked him and walked away. It was clear that she wasn’t interested, but knowing Delancey, she probably didn’t want to be rude. This irked Sam; all he could do was watch as she went to a few other tables thanking other boys for their roses as well. “Serves Sam right,” I mumbled to John. I had sent Delancey a dozen roses. She sat next to me holding about four dozen red roses. She was diplomatic, and it drove me nuts. I wished she had just rejected the other roses.

John was watching his plan in effect. He had sent five roses to five different girls, and all five were sitting with him at lunch. He was blushing, laughing, and giddy. I’d never seen him happier. Sam and Carlos were watching John and the all attention he had garnered. They looked like hyenas waiting for the lion to leave so they could attack the pride. There are only two types of friends – those who can be happy for you, and those who view your success as their own failures. Sam was the latter.

John had also sent Natalie a rose, and she came over and thanked him with a firm handshake, the kind you get at a job interview.

I tried to kiss Delancey, so everyone would see us together and hopefully take notice, but all I could get was her cheek. We made plans for after school.

Sal sat down with a big grin on his face.

“Sal, how did you do that?” I asked.

“If I told, you probably would not believe me.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Sal spoke in a loud whisper, claiming that he left his body, and traveled through the astral plane. He described the astral plane as colorful, and busy, and a bit scary. His said his spirit was in my house and spoke to me while I was dreaming.

“It’s easy to get lost and never return to your body.” Sal spoke enthusiastically, as if he had been to an undiscovered country or rather THE undiscovered country.

“How long have you been doing this, and how do you do it?” I asked, still skeptical.

“Just a couple of weeks. It’s why everyone thought I attempted suicide. I invented a machine that works the opposite of a defibrillator. I climbed inside and the magnetic force pulls your energy out of your body. The first time, I was gone for five minutes. The second time was a little longer. I have to admit…every time I come back, I feel different, as if I’m losing it…mentally.”

“I’m not sure I know what to say. Obviously you did it. But I don’t know what to say. What did you see?” I asked.

“Different beings and energies, it’s hard to explain. But I’m not going far, so I don’t see much. Getting to you was easy. While you slept. I told you what to write.” I left Sal to go to class.

In global history class, and for the first time in my life, but certainly not the last, I heard the name Salman Rushdie. My teacher was Mrs. Moynihan, a child of the sixties. She was usually very laid back, and a total flower power girl. Today, she was not so easy going.

She was a petite woman, with graying waist length hair. She wore an ankle length peasant skirt, a tee-shirt with some sort of political statement about women’s rights, and a brown leather vest. Her wrists held a myriad of metallic, canvas, and leather bracelets. She always wore sandals, even in winter. The sandals were a reminder how she had danced in Woodstock. Today, the peaceful flower power child was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Moynihan was red in the face, and breathing unusually fast.

“A
fatwa
was issued by the Ayatollah calling for the death of a writer named Salman Rushdie. Rushie has written a book called
The Satanic Verses
, a parody of the Koran. Anyone who kills Salman Rushdie collects a bounty,” said Mrs. Moynihan. The Arabic world felt that it insulted had their religion.

“And this man’s life is now in danger, because the rest of the world does not respect freedom of speech or expression,” she said, tears welling up in her emerald green eyes. Mrs. Moynihan was not the only one angry or in tears. A student named Zahra slowly raised her hand.

“You know, Mrs. Moynihan, if the writer is going to insult an entire religion, and a holy book, then he should suffer the consequences,” she said, her face matching her quivering voice. She was angry, but also nervous.

“Zahra, we should not have to live in a world where writing a book gets a person murdered. We have rights in this country and it is disappointing that you think it is justifiable to order someone killed for writing a book.”

Zahra took a series of deep breaths to gather her composure. Her ire was raised, her anger positively more pronounced. Zahra’s nostrils flared when she said, “No one has the right to denounce other religions. How would you feel if someone wrote a book maligning Jesus or the bible?”

“I wouldn’t think that the person should be killed. If you disagree with the book or don’t like it, then don’t buy it, don’t read it, or protest!” Mrs. Moynihan was almost shouting.

“There has to be consequences. If Rushdie has the right to freedom of expression, then the Ayatollah had the right to issue the
fatwa
!” Zahra shouted.

“The question is whether someone should die for writing a book. Civilized people don’t issue
fatwas
calling for murder!” Mrs. Moynihan retaliated.

Zahra stormed out of the class. When it comes to political debates in Brooklyn, someone always gets offended.

A hand went up slowly. A student said, “The rest of the world does not share American views and values on basic rights such as freedom of speech.” Everyone agreed with the fact that freedom of speech had to be protected, but they acknowledged that it was primarily an American right and concept.

Mrs. Moynihan disagreed, and said, “Freedom of speech is a human right and a not a political right.” The bell rang, and class was dismissed.

I agreed with freedom of speech, but knew that this was an American freedom, and probably a freedom in most other democratic nations. Everyone on the planet did not have this right, as much as I would like them to. The universe chooses where you are born, and on the back of your birth certificate, written in invisible ink, are the rights you have or don’t have.

I tried to ignore Sam after school. Our friendship was still strained. He asked if I had heard what Salman Rushdie had done.

“What Salman Rushdie has done? You mean what the Ayatollah has done issuing the
fatwa
?” I said.

Sam was furious. “Don’t tell me you’re one of these bleeding heart liberals! What if someone had done that to the bible or burned the American flag?”

“They burn American flags all the time in the foreign countries but Congress is not calling for someone to be murdered.”

“Let them burn it here and see what happens. It’s different. This is about our religion. What if it was about your religion?”

“It’s not about a religion, so don’t make this a religious debate. It’s about freedom of speech and issuing a
fatwa
. It’s about a writer getting killed for something he wrote. And besides, now you’re a Muslim? I saw you eat a ham sandwich last week. I know your dad brews beer at home. Salman Rushdie writes a book called
The Satanic Verses
but you complete an evil ritual with a woman just for sexual satisfaction. You are the last one who should talk. Hypocrite.”

“Maybe I’m not religious, but I would be equally offended if someone wrote a book defiling your religion. What exactly is your religion anyway?” he asked.

“I’m a musician,” I said.

“No wonder you’re not getting it. My people were creating civilizations, societies, and cities with law and order, while your people were trying to string guitars!” he shouted.

I laughed. Sam laughed. “For a guy who’s close to getting into Harvard and perhaps valedictorian of the finest public high school in the state of New York, you are an ignorant bastard,” I said with a big smile.

“I guess I am. Let’s go to my house and get some beers. My dad made a fresh batch and no one is home.” Delancey and I had plans after school, but I agreed to stop at his house afterwards.

Delancey and I went to Junior’s restaurant. We had cheesecake, and I gave her a gift and a box of chocolates. It was an album from her favorite band, Journey.

“This is awesome. I only have this album on cassette, and now I have the record. This is so cool!” Delancey was grinning from cheek to cheek.

“I think your favorite song, Separate Ways, is on there,” I said.

“Yes it is, but it’s really called Worlds Apart,” she said. “I just have a weird personal connection to that song; I can’t explain it.”

“So, did your dad ever mention anything to you about bumping into me?” I asked. She had never brought up that day. I needed to know if my instincts were right about him not liking me.

“Oh…that’s not a good subject to talk about. Talk about something else,” she said forcing a smile.

“I got the feeling he didn’t like me very much.” I was intent on pressing the issue. Delancey glanced down, and took a deep breath. I could see her facial expression changing, tightening and frowning.

“My dad is not easy to impress. It’s not you or anything you did, because you guys didn’t even speak. My father has very high expectations for me. I’m expected to go to college, have good grades, a great career, and date a certain type of guy.” She no longer had a pleasant look on her face, and I could tell the conversation made her uneasy.

“What type of guy?” I asked.

“One that meets his approval and from his circle of high society. Look, it’s no secret he’s rich, and he has very high….expectations. He didn’t even want me to go to Stanton. My father had enrolled me in a fancy private school in the city.”

“I’m guessing he wanted you to date someone like…rich,” I blurted out.

“Yeah, you can say that. But don’t worry about it,” she smiled, easing the intense conversation. “Even if you were rich, it wouldn’t matter. My father considers the new rich a certain class below him. He is very proud of his bloodlines, all the way back to England.”

“Delancey, how did you end up at Stanton and not at an elite private school?” I asked.

“David, it’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

She sighed. Her silence spoke volumes.

“I used to attend a couple of the elite Manhattan private schools. Where I’m from, money is a double edged sword. It opens doors, like to fancy parties, private schools, and a great education. And money also provides access to drugs, booze, and parties at the best night clubs in the city. With money, there is pressure and expectations. I constantly worried about failure and fitting in. A lot of wealthy kids have access to things that normal kids do not. It’s a very different lifestyle. It’s so competitive. There’s always someone wealthier, someone with a bigger home, a better business, a fancier car, a faster boat. The questions are always there about college and grades. Stanton is much easier socially. I had a hard time with the drugs and booze and couldn’t really be around the private school kids.”

Her eyes filled with tears. I didn’t press further.

I walked back to the subway alone and saw Doreen. She was without roses on Valentine’s Day. “Doreen, shouldn’t you be working all night on the school paper?” I joked. She shrugged.

“I found out why Delancey is not at a private school in Manhattan.”

“What did she tell you?” asked Doreen.

“About the social pressures, and the drugs, and booze.”

“Aren’t you glad you’re poor?” said Doreen.

I took the 7 train to Sam’s house in Jackson Heights. The homemade beer was cold upon my arrival.

Sam heated up some leftover lamb kabobs and
pulow
, a seasoned rice dish. We went to his backyard. It was a cool day, but not cold. Good for February in New York by any standards.