A Tall Tale, part 2

letters from the future by dune loring

THE WITCH FINDER GENERALS
(c) Copyrighted 1999, All Rights Reserved

Last week I wrote of the disappearance of my brother into the Internet.

Well, after my brother disappeared, and after the missing persons bureau was notified, and after a ton of reports were filed, and after the word got out and the press learned of the sad disappearance, and of the circumstances involved, and my family was under siege by tv cameras, and became the object of vicious rumors and slander, and hysteria, after all of this, when it looked like things couldn't get worse, the witch finder generals descended upon us like the Assyrians of old, who came down like wolves upon the fold. Witch finder generals? Grief counselors! Jackals that attack in packs! Fiends out to skin a person alive! Rip off his head! Force a person to spill out all of his insides! Want to know more? Read on.

But first, let me tell you about the hysteria from people whom I knew all of my life and whom my parents had known for years. Let me start with the kids at school. Do you know I couldn't get a date? I went from being very popular with the honeys to rating a zero, becoming the nada kid. My car suddenly developed the case of four flat tires. Nobody would lend me a spare. Nobody knew how my tires got flat, either. Nobody knew a thing. Nobody would give me a lift home. I had to call mom. She told me to catch the bus.

"Mom, will you come pick me up? They won't let me on the school bus. Suddenly, I've become a threat."

"What?" she began to complain about the narrow minds of stupid people. She told me that I should have demanded a seat on the bus.

"Mom, it is sorta useless to fight them all. Ever since Billy went missing, all the kids want to stay away from me."

"That's not fair!" Mom shouted into the phone.

"I know mom, but you are coming?"

Twenty minutes later, Mom pulled up in front of the school building. She started to park. I told her don't. I jumped in the car and told her to please drive.

"No," she said. "I shall have a few choice words with your principal."

"Mom, he's probably gone. Most of the teachers are gone."

There were only a few people milling around. When mom got out of the car, they all began to look at us. They were all obviously concerned about mom's presence. After all, she was the mom whose lonely, introverted son had been lost to the Internet, had disappeared into cyberspace, was physically gone, the son was a left-hander and a heavy downloader. He once used so much time on the school's computers that he crashed them. The principal, the president of the parents-teachers association, and the superintendent of schools had all addressed the school assembly and had warned the kids of the Internet, and of heavy downloading, and of moms and dads who weren't there enough for their own children to protect them from the temptations of cyberspace. The kids were told they had to help protect themselves.

Well, mom tuned-out the kids' stares and went marching "left, right, left" into the school building and towards the principal. "Keep your chin up and follow me," she said. Mom thought she was handling the tragedy of Billy's disappearance into the Internet pretty well, and that she could handle a few hostile stares.

As mom led the way, I noticed how mom-like she looked for a mom in the house, but for a mom coming to school to speak to the principal, well, she wasn't dressed correctly. In her defense, she came racing to school at my urging, because I was being picked-on. She hadn't expected my phone call. She dropped what she was doing and came to help her first born son. Well, she was wearing sweats, not a dress. She didn't have on make-up. Her hair was pushed into one of dad's baseball caps, and what you could see of it looked like a mess. Well, to the kids' minds, she looked just like a neglectful mom who would lose one of her children to the Internet.

I was glad the football coach didn't come running to the door to stop her by planting his big bulk in the doorway. Mom met no real resistance until she got to the principal office. I have a theory about high school teachers which the passing of time, getting older and learning more haven't changed. I believe that all college graduates are given a test and the less able among the graduates are offered jobs as high school teachers, and those who rank at the bottom of the less able, the least able, are made high school principals.

Mr. Price, the high school principal, was a little man right down to his very soul. He wasn't short by height, just short where it counted. I am no brain, myself, I didn't slight him for his limited abilities, where I took offense --and the word is offense-- was with his lack of common sense. When mom entered his office, he nearly had a fit of paranoia. Really. Mom didn't help by scowling when she reminded him whose mom she was, though he didn't need reminding.

"I can't believe what is happening to my son. You know my children?"

"Yes," Mr. Price replied testily.

"My children have gone to schools in this city since kindergarten. They are good kids, never in trouble. My youngest was straight honor roll; my oldest boy excels in sports. My children have won recognition in this school."

Mom went on, said a few more things, then Mr. Price took his turn to speak.

"Well, we had an assembly this morning, and we had a moment of silence for your boy, Billy."

The way he mentioned Billy, the tone of voice he used, didn't go over well with mom. He might as well dropped a bomb on her because she cracked. Though mom had come storming into the Principal's office, dressed to do battle, she wasn't fit to fight a flea. She was a see-through-person, not made of the indifferent material it takes to back into a corner a cockroach like Mr. Price, and to stomp on him. Mr. Price was astute enough to see this. I mean, it takes no smarts to see the obvious. And mom revealed herself, she couldn't help it. Mom could conceal nothing, not even the stress pimple on her neck. She erupted in tears. She boo-hooed so hard, she even scared me. And I have loads of the indifferent material that it takes to fend off attacks from the cockroaches of the world.

Mr. Price took this condescending attitude, asked mom if she considered counseling. Mom didn't answer him. She allowed me to escort her back to the car. I drove us home. Mom cried too hard to drive.

The neighbors were worse than the frightened people at school. We went from being the most popular family in the neighborhood to being the scum of the earth. The next door neighbor, a long-time family friend, a parent too, verbally attacked mom for "losing" Billy. Anyway, things kept getting worse, until came the plague of fat locust, the doctors of grief, and things got so bad that they went beyond worse.

The moment I first laid eyes on this fat woman in the green skirt and blouse, I knew she was going to be bad news. First she was too candy jolly, jolly in a candy way, a hollow jolly. Her face smiled, said, "ho, ho, hi, hi,", but her eyes were all cold business, said, "the meter is ticking, be worthy of my time or get out of my way." And she had a tape recorder. It wasn't on, as far I could tell. The red light wasn't blinking. She had it in a bag strapped around her waist, like it was a weapon of some kind. I thought of being rude. You know, telling her to carry her fat butt someplace else. Mom was in the house and mom wouldn't have liked it if I'd slammed the door in a stranger's face.

Well, the woman put her foot in the door, like she was Willie Loman or something, trying to sell something that nobody needed. I guess she thought I wouldn't dare slam the door on her foot. She didn't know me. If mom wasn't on the pill bottle, put there by my brother's disappearance, I would have showed that candy, smiling fatty.

"You must be Jerry! Hello, I'm Dr. Penny Krautmiller, the sheriff department sent me. Are your parents home?"

Before I could answer no, Mom appeared, right from nowhere, it seemed. In fact, mom had been listening. She nudged me aside, offered the stranger a chair and a cup of coffee. She suggested that I should have a cup too. Well, I was suitably stinking drunk, but standing. I got drunk more often, though my parents never noticed. They were worrying about Billy, and I was drinking more alone, because the kids from school wouldn't drink with me, or have anything to do with me. To them, it was like brother, like brother. -- Like I was going get grabbed by the Internet. They didn't bother to ask me if I knew how to log on.

Minutes passed. The fat woman was seated in the best chair in the living room. Dad and mom were on the sofa. I stood post, my back leaning on the mantel. The stranger repeated her name. Mom asked if she had any news of my brother Billy.

"Sorry, no news of your Billy," the woman said.

"Why are you here?" dad asked.

The stranger took a large yellow envelope from her black bag, opened it by untwisting its clamps. She removed a sheet of white legal size paper, held it as if it held magic. And what magic the paper held!

"This is my charge," the stranger said, as though the paper gave her power and a rush. She extended her arm out. The paper moved in the air, as she held it firmly in her hand. A scent rose from the paper and rushed my parents noses and mine. The paper smelled like the air in the middle of a mob of kids on a hot night, at the gate of a rock concert, where there are too many kids and not enough seats, and a ton of bogus tickets. A suffocating stench!

"What is that?" dad asked.

The stranger smiled. "I am a doctor."

I got ready, steadied myself on my feet. I just knew it was only a matter of time. Dad would have enough of this stranger and kick her out. Her smile now resemble that of a local tv reporter who had dogged us for a week.

"My fees are covered by the state victims fund," the stranger said. "A few years ago, the state, through the local sheriffs and police departments, started a program to assist victims of crime and their families, to cope with tragedy. Coping is a journey filled with dangers. In fact, I, myself, am a survivor of a violent crime, and ..." The stranger continued in this vein for a good while. I guess dad listened as long as he did because the stranger said she had come from the sheriff's department.

Finally, dad interrupted. "What does this have to do with my son?"

The stranger looked surprised by the question. She cleared her throat. "Your son has disappeared. He was obsessed with the Internet." She lifted her hand, as if the answer to dad's question and the need for her presence and services were totally obvious. She answered Dad with, "Tell me, how does that make you feel?"

Dad was angry. "Who are you?"

"Dr. Penny Krautmiller, MD, Ph.D., MBA."

Dad was ready to throw the woman doctor out. I walked to the door and opened it. But Mom was only close to tossing the stranger out. Mom didn't want to do anything to tick off the sheriff department. She was afraid that if she made them mad, they wouldn't look hard enough for Billy. The doctor smiled and began speaking in a tone so earnest that I had to laugh.

"You must let it out. You must purge yourself of your grief. You must have a clear mind. Don't keep the anger inside, express your feelings." She pitched sh--!

"Mom, I want to kick the doctor out of the door," I announced.

The doctor acted insulted. Then she raised her chin ridiculously high. "Mr. and Mrs. ....., and Jerry, you are resisting. This is not healthy, not to yourselves, not to the community."

Dad glared. I grinned. Mom looked glum. The doctor targeted mom.

"Tell me how did you feel when you learned you've lost your son?"

"I haven't lost my son, he's missing," replied mom.

"Do you dream about him?"

"Doctor!" mom's jaw got tight.

"Mrs. ..., I am here for you and your family."

"My son, doctor --"

"Tell me, do you feel you drove him away? Drove him to lock himself in his room? To spend so much time alone on the Internet?"

"Doctor?"

"Look, I am a doctor. I know these things. Get out of denial. Your son is gone. Face the fact. Why did he leave? What did you do? What guilt do you feel? Are you a good cook? "

Dad yelled at the doctor. "What are you saying!"

"I am posing questions. How do you feel about the questions?"

Mom took a deep breath before she said. "Doctor, my son is just missing."

The doctor shook her head. "The Internet has him. I have seen it. I know what I am talking about. A million kids, worldwide, have been taken by the Internet. The Internet steals children."

"Please!" Mom lifted her hand for the doctor to stop.

The doctor wasn't ready to stop. "You are so vulnerable. Forget stoicism. Cary Cooper is dead. Today's hero is Woody Allen. You've got to let it all out. Tell it like it is. Keep nothing back. Unburden yourselves. This is healthy."

As you can see, the doctor wasn't much of a doctor, just a thin skinned, skunk with a lot of letters at the end of her name. The latter 's' for sh-, the letter 'f' for feather head, the letter 'b", well, you know what the 'b' is for. Mom kicked her out.

Well, we thought we were done with her. Wrong! The family got harassed, even more so. Mom got harassed at the supermarket. I got it at school, shovel loads of sh--. Dad on his job. We had more reporters tapping on the window asking us to come out on the front lawn for an interview. You know: Day 3 of Billy's disappearance! How are you holding up, folks? The neighbors started to look at us funny. The doctor had the school guidance counselor called me in for an interview. Doctor Quack interviewed the check-out girls at the supermarket about mom. Dad's boss was questioned about him. The neighbors were warned to be on the look-out for any signs that we might go off. Everybody was told that my family was holding back and needed to vent our feelings, or there might be trouble.

Well, you think that was bad, things got worse.

One morning, while we were having breakfast, three black vans pulled up into our driveway, and onto our lawn. Three dozen people in suits and one uniformed deputy sheriff jumped out. They surrounded the house. The uniformed deputy sheriff knocked on the door.

"Mr. and Mrs. ...., Jerry ....will you open the door?"

Dad went to the door. "What?"

"The door!"

"What is this about?"

"This house is surrounded, will you open the door?"

"Do you have a warrant?"

"Do you want me to speak through the door?"

"Do you have a warrant?"

"We have a complaint that residing in these premises are three unrepentant, unvented, troubled individuals, who may pose a danger to society. Do you want your neighbors to hear the rest? Or will you open this door?"

"You have no warrant?"

"Don't you want your minds vented? To be healthy? To undergo the cleansing ritual?"

Mom said to dad. "Dear, our neighbors are listening."

Dad muttered, "They have no warrant."

Mom told dad to open the door. He shook his head, but started doing what she said. Before he could get the door opened all the way, the deputy and the people in the suits bogarted their way through the door, bum rushing him and the rest of the family.

"What is this?" dad demanded.

Doctor bad Penny stepped through the door. She was the last to enter. She wanted to make a dramatic entrance.

"I have returned," she said, MacArthur-like.

Dad yelled a few choice curse words. I put my hand over my ears and laughed. Dr. Penny wasn't in charge of this group. The man in charge was bald and pink-headed. He was tall and he could growl. He was so angry-looking that dad's face froze in the middle of cursing.

"We are all credentialed professionals. Grief counselors. Experts in the field of grief, " the man said. He made it clear that he could give grief as well as grief counseling. "We are a state and federal strike team of grief counselors. You are not cooperating. This is unhealthy."

Dad crossed his arms and frowned at the lead doctor. "Will you say what you have to say and leave my house?" he asked.

"Leave?" the doctor shook his head. "You are wounded. It is our duty to care for the wounded. We can no more leave you alone than can we leave on the street bleeding, a man who has been hit by a car. We are here to help. We are sworn professionals of medical science."

Dad turned to the deputy sheriff. "Where is my freedom to be secure in my own house? My freedom to speak or not to speak to these hustlers?"

The lead doctor answered, "You do not have to speak. You may just sit quietly and reflect on your grief."

"Aren't we going through enough? Our son is missing!" Mom shouted.

"Good, shout. Vent," the lead doctor smiled.

Heads nodded all around among the grief doctors.

The lead doctor continued, "Stop repressing your grief, please!"

"Get out of my house!" Mom shouted.

The grief doctors smiled, nodded. Mom was on a roll.

"Venting is good. Be open. Tell us what you feel. Talk it out. Let it out. It is good for your mind and body. Heal yourself. Don't remain psychically disabled by this loss."

"My son is missing only!"

"Please, Mrs. .., that is denial."

"Vent, mom!" I said. "Vent!" I swirled around, doing the neat foot work that I remembered seeing somebody on Jerry Springer's show do while ranting and raving at some other person whom had ticked him off. There were looks of approval on the faces of every one of the grief doctors and on the deputy sheriff's. "Vent!" I screamed. I got in the groove of the game.

Dad told me to stop shouting in the house. I inored him.

"I've seen mom cry, I've heard dad too, and me --." I choked.

I'd hit a home run. The lead doctor said, "When the grief builds up, you can't suppress it. You must bleed it out!"

Yeah! I thought. You want people to go out and get a bunch of leeches like you. I said: "I am so sad!"

"No more private sorrow! Keep nothing buried! Let it out!" The lead doctor and the other doctors said or chanted. Which doctor said what, I don't know. I was too much into my own performance to closely follow theirs. I did notice mom. When I forced a tear from my eyes, she stared at me, her mouth agape.

Mom and dad wouldn't play the game. They remained defiant, continued to demand their constitutional rights. Dad started quoting dead European dudes on his rights. Then he told the deputy sheriff and the witch doctors again to leave his house. When they refused, he started quoting this dead German guy, Martin Niemoeller. You know the famous quote: "In Germany they came first for the Communists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade nionist ..." You know the quote. "Then they came for the Catholics, and I didn't speak up because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me, and by that time no one was left to speak up." I didn't get dad's point because he was speaking up and was getting "beat down." Maybe what he said could rally liked-minded people. Well, being nobel was dad's game. I was sixteen. All I wanted was to drink beer with my buds and to wrap my hand around my honey's legs. That was all. I wanted to do what I had to do to be accepted again by my peers. Kids know, life is a compromise. It is playing a game, paying the fool, dancing to a fool's tune, at home with your parents, at school with the teachers, and particularly with your peers. I mean, noble stuff aren't for you when you are sixteen, unless you want to windup like my brother, a nerd, an outcast, that nobody really liked, other than his kin, because you are supposed to like your kin, for real. Well, that was me at sixteen. I didn't know any better.

The grief doctors thought my parents were lacking. The grief doctors took me aside and told me I was great and deserved better parents. I was asked if I wanted foster care. The lead doctor, using his most kindly voice, said, "Jerry, you're sixteen and you can decide for yourself."

I told him. "They are the only parents I have." I sobbed. I could have asked that self-assured pompous ass for a hundred bucks and he would have gladly given it. I was a model griever.

"We won't do anything without your approval," he said.

I never told mom and dad how close they came to being declared by the state not good enough for me.

[END]

5/10/99

"Letters From the Future by Dune Loring, The Witch finder Generals", (c)
Copyrighted 1999 by Buster T. Flatt, All Rights Reserved