[PLEASE RE-READ THE SHORT FIRST CHAPTER IN THE NEWSLETTER DATED 4/10/2003]



What was to have been my first working day at Greene School never came about. Instead, I sat in the overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace reading Dylan Thomas, my stomach knotted with fear. The others with whom I shared the conselor's quarters ~those damed four, seasoned and intrepid spirits ~ had told me the night before of last Summer's riot, how windows were broken, beds were overturned, chairs ripped apart, the legs used as clubs, the seats as sort of makeshift shields. Then they recounted, one after the other, of their first days on duty, the tests the boys put them to and the treachery perpetuated against them. Now, today, I stared absently at the dancing flames as the others left, one by one, for work. I hadn't lied. My stomach did hurt. Besides, if I felt better in an hour or so, I'd go to work.

The next day, I summoned all my courage and left for work at the appointed time. I probably would have malingered one more day had the others not warned me that the supervisor had caught wind of it and was rather upset. So, I climbed the fence separating the conselor's quarters from the school and crossed the football field toward the Acorn dorm. Jim's story, more than any of the others, clawed at my mind as I walked, if for no other reason than its ominous conclusion. "So, don't forget, Jay. Don't forget, Jay. Don't forget, Jay, when you walk back from the end of the hall, after checking on them, watch for their shadows as you pass each door, and between doors glance back at the master light switch."

My limbs were only slightly weaker than my voice when I entered the dormitory to relieved the day worker. He had a date, he told me, or he would stay longer and talk. My voice, I fear, to the contrary, I somehow assured him that there was no problem. "No sweat," I think I said. And that, too, was a lie.

So, I was left alone with them. To my utter amazement, though, nothing untoward occurred during the first four hours of my eight hour shift. One boy had a seizure during dinner at the mess hall and dove into his mashed potatoes. But, I was assured that it happened at least twice a week and that he wasn't above faking a seizure now and again for a laugh. Later he was to have one at the skating rink, while on skates, and another seizure while halfway up a greased pole at a Sunday activity game. I believe both of these were genuine.

At any rate, my fears seemed entirely unfounded. Indeed, I surged through and through with confidence and a sense of command. As I got to the end of the hall the warning Jim had given me had lost its impact. After all, Jim wasn't that likable a person anyway. It's no wonder they rebelled against him.

The hall was about thirty feet in length. There were twelve rooms in all, six on either side, with openings (not doors) that faced the room across the hall. For the first two rooms I did take some precaution, since there were the older boys inside. One was more a man than a boy, two months shy of twenty-one ~ and his release from Greene School. I peeked around the corner of the doorway. He was in bed, his eyes closed, his covers pulled up under his chin. In the room across the hall one boy was removing his shirt, the other was sitting at the edge of his bed, untying his shoe laces.

"All right boys," I said vigorously, "four more minutes until lights out."

At the next pair of doorways I glanced in less gingerly. One was asleep, the other was doing push-ups. Across the hall, again one was asleep, the other picked his nose staring blankly back at me.

By now I felt totally in command. I stepped in front of the next doorway, made what was just slightly less than a military "left face" and caught a shoe in the chest. I heard a faint click which was followed by blackness and in the din of ensuing voices and feet, I heard objects whizzing past my ears and over my head, crashing against the wall behind me. Other things found their target. Something sharp hit me in the forehead while something heavy, perhaps another shoe, tore into my stomach. I crumbled to the floor and the noise stopped. Stumbling into the supply room, stepping on a toothpaste tube, broken records and glass, I collapsed into the chair. I sat there, in that chair, in the darkness for over an hour. There was not another sound. Then, after about another half-hour there were sleeping sounds: deep raggedy breathing, some moans, snoring.

That, then, concluded my first day's work.



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And, fellow traveler, that concludes the second of perhaps five installments of some germinal experiences in my development, and experiences that I hope are of interest to you.

If you haven't looked over my most recent short story, "The Legacy of Mumph," I invite you read it here on Authorsden. Also...

REMEMBER! REMEMBER! REMEMBER! REMEMBER! REMEMBER! REMEMBER!

There're only 9 days left in the "tag the end on the short story contest" (is that the literary equivalent of pin the tail on the donkey?) Seriously, folks, won't you join in on the fun? READ THE SHORT STORY FOUND IN MY 4/16/2003 NEWSLETTER. Noodle out an ending that seems to "fit". Post that ending on my message board. Then, on May 1st, I'll sift through the entries and award the winner a free copy of "The Dead of Winter."

Easy enough!


I hope you all had a marvelous Easter. Continued success in all your endeavors.

Until next time... ALWAYS UPWARDS,

Jay Squires