logo by WildKarma
Story © by I_luv tea 1998
All Rights Reserved
Page by Xrtsys / Jilli
LIAM KNOLL
Very few times in life do we come across such brave people as Liam Knoll. He was the most misunderstood student in school. Everyone knew the name and character he portrayed. As a person he seemed to have a loving dedication to be himself. Some people didn't like his deviant ways. I loved his spontaneous actions. One moment, he would sit in his chair quietly, seconds later he would challenge the teacher. I'll never forget the first time I heard him.
"You're just like every other teacher I've had, but you are the most uninspiring teacher I've ever had," Liam said. "Alright, if you find me uninspiring leave. I don't care," Mrs. Hane said...
Liam left the classroom calmly. He simply walked out and went on as if he had something better to do. I wonder what he was going to do. Walking out was his way of showing respect. Ms. Hane told him she didn't care. If she didn't care why should he care about her?
Reading a book then analyzing it to pieces was the modern classroom map. Every teacher followed the map with ease. There were no de-tours or alternate routes. Ms. Hane loved knowing where she was going. Liam was the only student brave enough to attempt to burn the map. Every time he tried she put out his little flame. It was useless; she was too powerful.
Most teachers don't understand what it's like to be young. When we were young we adapted to a glowing box called the television, to entertain us. Now the teacher is in front of us. We expect them to entertain us like television sets. Unfortunately we aren't as easily glued to them as television sets. Mono-toned voices don't sound as appealing as blaring TV announcements. As teachers grow old, they lose enthusiasm by teaching repetitive lesson plans daily. As kids grow old they become more enthusiastic. We crave more freedom of choice. Life as a teen leaves a path of so many possibilities. Some people at a young age want to go out and explore; while others are happy sitting in a dull classroom.
Liam could capture the attention of my mind, like a catchy TV jingle. Everything he said made sense. He wanted to have teachers with influence. His intentions were good, but he always got into trouble. I hated my fellow pupils. None of them would speak up, for their beliefs. We often had discussions about our rights in history class. Not one student objected to the constitution. Every student thought it was a necessary document to ensure fairness. Most the students who liked the constitution don't realize what it means. The men who drafted the document were bold in their beliefs. Liam was as bold as the signature of John Hancock on the constitution. He'd let his name be known and be willing to bite the bullet to better the world. I've only had one teacher that truly inspired me. She once said, "if you want to be a writer you have to write. You've got to write everyday, it doesn't matter the time of day or mood your in. As a writer your job is to write!"
Although her words weren't the most beautiful in expression, they were to the point. To be a writer I had to write. It all made sense. The whole concept of being an author was simple, but the action of it was a tough one to follow. How does anybody flow with ideas until a work of excellence is complete?
My parents didn't understand my logic. Every night at dinner we would sit at the table together. School and jobs were always talked about. I had no interest in either of them. School was more than I could handle. Work was too much like school. The only way I worked well was with myself. People annoyed me. I could only be friendly with my typewriter, because I could always tell it what to do. My brother had a job and decent grades. But I was the slacker child most parents wouldn't admire.
It seemed unfair fair that people who think for their self at an early age are always looked down upon as being rebels. Liam was certainty not a rebel. He was just brave enough to fight and be punished. All I wanted since the day I set foot in high school was freedom of thought. I couldn't follow a map all the time. It seemed like there was a gate open to my future. The only problem was school. Even though the gate was wide open with opportunity you had to climb over it. Dealing with hours of bullshit lessons plans was the only way to get through. You couldn't simply walk t= hrough the gate.
"You can't just write a book,'' My mom said.
My father sat saying nothing. He always agreed with whatever my mother said. It bothered me to have one answer decide things. Dad said yes. Mom usually said no. My house wasn't a democracy it was ruled by my dictating mother.
"Well, I can try. My name will be known eventually," I said.
"You need a job," Mom said.
The people that are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones that usually do. My parent's may think I'm crazy and I know I'm crazy. They just don't know how crazy I am. Being a burger boy to earn a living is not a glorious teenage job. Living life being free to think was my dream. If only people could understand the meaning of words on paper. It's more than a book. A writer is a constant thinker trying to spread a message. All I wanted was a chance to spread my thought and humor.
The last year in high school, and I had no plans after graduation. Surely I knew I couldn't live with my parents for the rest of my life! Hell, if I could live arguing with them for eighteen years, I could fall in love. All I'd need is a good looking rich girl who is vulnerable enough to fall for an artist like me. It might be annoying but she'd support my duff until I get published.
Claire Briar was the girl for me. She was a tall leggy blond without the blond mind. That girl had smarts and spunk, what a perfect combination for me. I liked how she pushed her luck. She'd always wear the same dark jacket that covered most of her body. Later when things heated up she took it off and revealed her complimentary side. The silky smooth legs, curvaceous hips and soothing voice were just too much. I failed Geometry class because of her. She was sitting on the left side of me. During a test, I couldn't help but to notice her ravishing appearance. I glanced over and immediately the teacher accused me of cheating.
"What are you doing," Mr. Armstrong said.
"Nothing," I said.
"It looks like you were browsing at someone else's paper. Let's see your paper. Yes, yes, yes those answers are all identical to Claire's test. Ladies and gentlemen we have a cheater in the classroom. Oh well now I have one test I don't have to grade." Mr. Armstrong said.
"Great minds think alike," I said.
Claire turned to me and smiled. What a face! That is why I failed the test. I was staring at her hoping just for one second to get a glance at her face. Unfortunately her face had a toll that took my test grade. It was a cheap thrill worth spending a test grade on. She was a goddess.
The bell rang and all the students jumped from their seats, then rushed to the door.
"Wait! I didn't excuse you all. Get back in your seats and wait till I excuse you," Mr. Armstrong said.
The students went back to their seats and waited to be excused. Mr. Armstrong's need to show power was a bit ridiculous. When the bell rings it's officially time to leave.
"Alright you can go now," Mr. Armstrong said.
I was the first out the door. My day was partially ruined. The sun was shining and it was a Friday. I had my weekend to look forward too. After school there was always homework, but never on Friday. I never did homework on the weekends. The Blue Dog was where I spent all my time.
A modern day speakeasy was created by the wild teens of my town. It wasn't much of a sight on the outside. The building was an old industrial warehouse on the coast of the Charleston River. The smell was horrible. Rotten garbage and dead fish could be seen floating down quite often. The inside was the beautiful aspect of the Blue Dog. It was a place where time didn't exist, people went there to avoid living an organized life with responsibilities.
Inside kids could smoke and drink without worrying. We all came to have a good time and everybody would look out for everybody. When someone got too drunk, there was always someone to help out. I had a few too many gin and tonics. My good friend Jon saved me.
"Start puking and don't you stop until your dehydrated! Boy your gonna sober up before your parents find out and scold you too death," Jon said.
He saved me from being in trouble. I spewed orange vomit all over my shoes. I knew I sobered up from vomiting but couldn't think of what to tell my parents about my shoes.
"Go rub your feet the mud," Jon said.
"What the hell! Are you sure you haven't had too many drinks," I said.
"No, I got an idea. We'll tell your parents that my car was stuck in the mud and you were trying to help push it out," Jon said.
"Well what a great idea. You know I need to stop drinking and start thinking. It's a problem in my family. I know too many alcoholics in my family to list. It goes on pretty long. My grandpa died from alcohol. He passed out with a cigar in his hand. The cigar caught the sheets on fire and poof, there he went" I said.
"So what made you want to drink in the first place?" asked Jon.
" I don't know, I just picked it up and started. At first it was a bitter unpleasant taste. After about six or seven drinks things start taking new shape. The room spins and you feel sort of on top of the world. I really shouldn't drink again," I said.
"No you shouldn't, look at your grandpa you moron! It's fun to be tipsy but it's not worth throwing away your life with. You're not a bad writer. If you'd get your act together you could do all right. Get your grades up and maybe you could be a good columnist," Jon said.
"You know that was a Cuban cigar my grandpa was smoking. Hell Hemmingway drank Martinis quite often. He was an alcoholic," I said.
We both burst out into laughter. Then Jon drove me home. The ride was quiet. The radio was playing loud enough to impede conversation. I could tell he was worried about me. But he didn't have to worry I learned that night that writing is what I need to be addicted to more than anything else.
There was nothing worse than beginning the day of the week with school. If this was considered my job, for the time being it was a shitty job. I couldn't grasp the concept of Geometry. Let me think about this logically. I work my ass off to understand the right answers. Where is the satisfaction, knowing that I had the same answer as every other student? There is no unique beauty involved. Everyone does the same thing.
Claire Briar was the reason I enjoyed math class. While Mr. Armstrong talked about how to find the circumference of a rectangle, I studied the measurements of Claire. She was set perfect. It seemed like an experienced sculptor had made her. She certainly wasn't just another mass produced piece of garbage. I felt like a consumer searching for a rare hard to find antique. In her desk she sat lively as ever. She was the last of the good. The old saying goes "they don't make em' like they used to." She was the last of the beautiful girls created on the sperm assembly line. Her father did well.
