The sun broke through the window pane and I grasped what time it was. I can't be late again, I thought. I hurried through a shower and threw on some clothes. I went to the technical school in town; training to be a film-maker. I'd missed so many days of school, however, they threatened to kick me out. I rushed out the door and into the brisk morning. I climbed in my car and sped toward the school.
Of course I arrived late and the dean pulled me into his office.
"Look, son," he began as always, "you're smart, real smart. I don't like to see good talent go to waste but if you don't straighten up I'm going to have to expel you from the school. Is there anything you want to talk to me about? I can help you but you have to tell me how." Oh how I wanted to pour my heart out right on his desk. About my financial status, about the help I needed in my classes. I just plain out needed guidance. Still, there was a part of me on the inside that wanted to maintain the cool fa�ade and pride welled up inside me.
"Thank anyway, Dean Patrick, but I can get by on my own," I said, "I'll try to come to school more often." And there I left him, with that same disappointed and down-hearted look I always left him with.
The day went by, Math, Physics, Sociology, and finally filming and editing. I talked to all my friends about my plans to party through the week and traded insults and challenges with all the people I thought I was better than. Same old stuff, different day. After class was over and I had received lecture from all my teachers about my suffering grades, I headed to my car. With a weighted sigh, I dropped down into the driver's seat and went to start the engine. But before I could turn the key a hand had wedged itself in the door. I looked out and there was Zach. Oh, I thought, Wednesday; the Christian routine.
"Zach," I said impatiently, "I don't have time to be preached to today, I'm busy." He opened the door insistent as always. After a brief struggle I gave into the notion that Zach was going to talk to me whether I wanted him to or not. I didn't hate him; he was a cool guy. He just doesn't know how to live. Of course, he would argue that he lives a life in God and that's the best kind of life there is. He doesn't drink or smoke or anything. All he ever does is go to church and try to drag me along with him. Sure enough, that was his mission today.
"I just wanted to invite you to my youth group tonight," he said. I had gone a few times before. They sang some songs and the preacher went on about being a good Christian, then they had an altar call. I kind of wanted to go but come on; what would people think if they saw me, Fred Lindon, crying like a baby at the front of some church?
"Are you guys going swimming again?" I asked trying to get a rise out of him.
"Swimming, bapting, whatever!" I said trying to shut my door, "I told you I'm busy."
"Look, come if you can, all right?" he said letting go of the door.
"Yeah, see ya." I replied. In your dreams. I sped off down the highway. First, I stopped by the editing shop where I worked to get my paycheck. The boss calmly informed me that he had to fire me because I failed a drug test. This was another link in a chain of bad things that had already happened today. I took my paycheck and left with a firm farewell. A traffic jam on the highway only worsened my mood and an hour later I arrived at my apartment. I went the mailbox to check for some money that I asked my father to send. He normally would give me money when I asked and I normally spent it on booze and clubs. There was a letter addressed to Fred Lindon from Max Lindon but it wasn't money. The letter plainly stated that my father would send me no more money until I moved into my own apartment. Another link fell onto the chain. I walked over to my apartment, entered and slammed the door.