Renaissance Man - Part 1

Scene 30 _ Second Meeting (Plot Point 1)

Scene 30 Rev A

Scene 30 “Second Meeting”
(Plot Point 1)

Torey Campbell – Protagonist
Brodey Campbell – Torey’s father / Antagonist
Nessie Campbell – Torey’s mother
Johnathan – Spirit

         “Torey! Brodey! Supper is ready!” Nessie called from the kitchen.
         One could almost figure out the menu from the dishes on the table and the utensils in the sink. Soup bowls, bread plates, spoons and knives, along with jars of jam and nut butter dressed the table; a baking sheet and mixing bowls filled the sink; a large stockpot with steam rising sat on the stove. Signs that Nessie had been busy in the kitchen all afternoon.
         Clumping down the stairs like a herd of elephants or a teenage boy, Torey bounced into the kitchen. Always hungry, the call to dinner got an immediate response, especially today, after having played his first soccer game. “Smells good, Mom. What is it?”
         Brodey, carrying his third beer of the day, entered the kitchen from the living room where he had been watching baseball on TV.
         “Tonight, we have Cock-A -Leekie Soup and Bannock Bread, both Grandma Campbell's recipes,” Nessie said. She always felt accomplished when she put a good meal on the table for her two men.
         This traditional Scottish dish dates back to the 16th century, a chicken and leek soup. Nessie adds chopped grilled bacon to the soup; sometimes, she uses beef stock or vegetable stock. She usually slices some stewed prunes on top as garnish.
         “Goin' old country tonight? That's one of my favorites.” said Brodey, pulling back his yellow vinyl chair and taking his place, facing the open kitchen door.
         Bannock bread originated in Scotland and is a flat, often unleavened bread, sometimes described as a giant scone. Bannock is most commonly made of oats, but can also be made with flour, barley, and even ground dried peas. Scottish explorers brought bannock bread to North America.
         “Did you figure out what was wrong with the car?” Nessie asked Brodey.
         “Slipping fan belt.”
         “Is that expensive?”
         “Naa. I picked one up at Pep Boys for five bucks. Car’s fixed.”
         Outside, neighborhood sounds grew louder as people returned home from Saturday activities. The aroma of Cock-A-Leekie Soup and Bannock Bread filled the kitchen as the Campbell family began dinner. Nessie smiled, knowing that the smell of her cooking would reach the kitchens of every house on the block.
         Nessie wanted to start a pleasant conversation. “Torey, you had quite a day. Tell us about it.”
         “Sure did, Mom,” he replied. “I really love this game. Maybe, I can play in high school.”
         “I see no reason why not.”
         “Because he's gonna get a job, that's why not,” Brodey snarled.
         Here we go again, thought Torey.
         Torey and Nessie ritually ignored Brodey, especially on Saturday.
         “So, what was the game like today?” his mother asked.
         “We won, 2 to 1. Addo scored the first goal, and I scored the second. There were lots of parents there.”
         “Torey, I'm so sorry. I should have been there.”
         “That's okay Mom. I understand”
         Brodey rejoined the conversation. “Addo? Ain't that the black kid you been hangin' 'round with?”
         “Yeah. Oh! He and the coach gave me some practice gear,” Torey said, ignoring the inference.
         “What gear?” Nessie asked.
         “Shirt, shorts, and a soccer bag for practice so I don't have to wear my game uniform."
         Brodey was curious but skeptical. “Gave it to you — free? Practice gear and practice uniform. Think you're a pro?”
         “Pass the bread, please,” Torey said, again ignoring Brodey.
         Nessie reached for the large pan of Bannock Bread. She winced and jerked her hand away from the still-hot pan. Instead, she took Torey's plate and used a spatula to serve him a piece.
         Torey was proud of the gift. “Yep. Addo gave me the shirt. It's from his collection. It's the team shirt for the Argentina National Team. Coach gave me the shorts and bag.”
         “This kid is awful generous,” Brodey said. “What's his angle?”
         Torey looked away and spooned jam onto his bread.
         “No angle, Pop. He's my friend and wants to help me, and I'll help him when I can.”
         “First a $25 loan, now a free shirt. Something stinks. I sure don't trust them darkies.”
         Nessie remembered the extra $20 Brodey had given her, which she still had tucked away, but said nothing. “What else, Torey.”
         “Coach said I have natural talent, and with training, I could be a very good soccer player.”
         “That's wonderful,” Nessie said, genuinely pleased, “I'm glad you found something you like.”
         Brodey got more sarcastic as the beer took hold. “How about that,” he said, “my kid's gonna be a superstar in a sissy sport.”
         Brodey took a long drink from his bottle. He never used a glass; he didn't own one. The word 'Pilsner' had no meaning to him.
         “Oh. Pop, I almost forgot – I met your boss, Mr. Claussen.”
         “Claussen. What was he doing there?”
         “He's our team sponsor.”
         Brodey was not pleased. “Hmmph. He's watching soccer games while his employees work to make him rich and laying off workers to buy soccer gear for kids.”
         Brodey extracted beer number four from the refrigerator, kicking the door shut. The motor started, as if in protest.
         The Campbell refrigerator never contained any micro-brew master's limited edition dry-hopped seasonal specialties. Brodey's beer always came from the bottom slot. The first choice was always what was on sale; beyond that, he had a few favorites, and a snapshot over time would reveal a lot of American history.
         The tag line for Schaefer Beer, “the one beer to have when you're having more than one,” frequently caught Brodey's attention and wound up in his refrigerator.
         “When Coach introduced me, he recognized the name, so I told him I was your son,” Torey explained. “Coach told him I came up with the team name.”
         “You picked the team name?” Brodey asked, his attention level jumping several notches.
         “Yeah. I told you about that.”
         “No, you didn't.”
         “Yes, I … Okay, whatever.”
         “So, what's the name?” Brodey asked, now very curious.
         “Flywheel Force,” Torey replied, smiling proudly.
         “What does that mean?” asked Nessie.
         Brodey answered. “A flywheel is a mechanical device, a spinning wheel, used to store energy then produce a sudden force.”
         “Oh … more soup?” Nessie asked.
         Brodey and Torey both returned negative nods, and Nessie began clearing the table. The two men lingered.
         As much as he resisted, Brodey’s mouth cracked a smile. “That's not a bad name. I think I like it.”
         “Thanks, Pop. Mr. Claussen liked it too. Said it was a powerful name.”
         Brodey finally asked the question that was on his mind from the beginning. “He say anything about me?”
         “He said you were one of his best machinists." Torey lied then moved on quickly, “Oh. He knows Addo's father too.”
         Brodey was proud. “Damn right I am. Over twenty years runnin' his machines, makin' parts for everything under the sun. Who's his father?”
         “Dr. Okoro. Works at the University on some kind of project to help Allerford. Mr. Claussen is involved somehow and thinks Addo's dad is really smart and doing a good job for the city.”
         Brodey looked up, a flash of jealousy crossing his face.
         “Doctor Okoro? A smart jigaboo? Never heard of such a thing,” Brodey commented. “I think I remember reading about that project in the newspaper.”
         Brodey got up from the table, pitched the bottle from number four into the trash can, and secured frosty number five. A tipsy walk was now noticeable.
         Brodey enjoyed Rolling Rock when it was on sale. The mysterious matter of the “33” never occurred to him. It comes on every bottle, and its origins are murkily linked to horse racing, linguistics, and company lore. The pledge on the back of the bottle is still 33 words long, followed by the mysterious number 33. Maybe that's a coincidence, and the 33 stands for the year Prohibition ended, or the ideal serving temperature.
         Genesee; Lone Star; and Yuengling, the oldest brewery in America; were also frequent stars in Brodey's Saturday binges.
         Torey concluded the conversation. “Anyway, Mr. Claussen wants to come to our games and maybe sponsor a party at the end of the season.”
         “That would be nice,” Nessie commented from the kitchen sink, where she was washing the supper dishes.
         “A party! What for?” Brodey barked. “He ought to wait to see if you guys are any good first?”
         With dinner finished, Brodey pulled another beer from the refrigerator and headed for the living room, his favorite chair, and Saturday night TV. Maybe he noticed that this beer, number six, left the cardboard container empty, perhaps not.
         Flipping TV channels, Brodey called to his wife, “Hey Ness, ‘I love Lucy’ is on!”
         Saturday nights in September were different, and the difference was palpable. The resumption of school changed the rhythm of the week. Vacations were over; professional baseball was approaching the World Series; radios and TVs all tuned to the same station could be heard through the open windows.
         Saturday became a shopping day, a fix-the-car day, a chore day, a kid's sports day. Days, while still hot, were becoming shorter as the autumnal equinox crept closer. Boys began playing catch in the streets with a football instead of a baseball.
         Stuck between the weariness of the workweek ending on Friday and the solemnity of church and the ‘Monday Anticipation Blues’ on Sunday, sat Saturday. Saturday was different, and Saturday night was party time.
         Dinner finished and his after-dinner chores completed, Torey returned to his bedroom to resume reading Our World Moves Forward: Renaissance Men Who Made History. On the sixth day of his library loan, he had read about 12 of the 27 Renaissance Men covered by the book.
         Nessie and Brodey Campbell were asleep in the front bedroom. In the back bedroom, Torey lay sprawled on his bed reading. He still had eight days until he had to return the book to the school library.
         The hot stillness of the late summer night was broken by a light breeze finding its way into the bedroom. Unnoticed by Torey, deep in his book, a glow materialized on the top of his dresser, and Johnathan appeared.
         “Hello, Torey. What are you reading?”
         Torey looked up, startled. “A book about Renaissance Men. It's your fault.”
         “I happily plead guilty.”
         The lighted dial on Torey’s clock-radio glowed five past midnight.
         “Why are you here? Is this going to be a weekly thing?” Torey asked.
         “Oh my, I hope not. I'll show up when you need direction and are open to receiving it.”
         “I thought you were going to help me escape.”
         A trash can lid rattled on concrete, and two cats shrieked; a Saturday night feline food fight had begun.
         “I am. What did you learn this week?”
         “I don't think I learned much … I don't know.”
         “Don't sell yourself short,” Johnathan said. “You learn when you don't know you're learning. You learned a lot this week. I have been watching you.”
         “I learned that I want to play soccer.”
         Johnathan noticed the pile of dirty soccer clothes on the floor in the corner. “Yes, and that's good. Athletics has important lessons to teach. How about the newspaper?”
         “Oh yeah. I discovered a whole lot of stuff I never knew was in the newspaper. I never read the paper, and my parents skip over some sections.”
         Male voices could be heard in the alley. A gate squeaked then slammed. It was the four Bernardo boys arguing and joking while trying unsuccessfully to remain quiet as they returned from their Saturday night at the social club and stumbled up the steps to the back door of their house.
         “Explain,” said Johnathan.
         “The business section had a story about Addo Okoro's father, and the Society section had a story with a picture of Lars Claussen, my dad's boss, who I met today.”
         “So, picking up that newspaper taught you a couple of things about the world you didn't know before?”
         “Yeah. And there was stuff in there about concerts, plays, and other things happening in the city.
         Johnathan challenged Torey. “So what?”
         “I didn't know they were there, and I think I'd like to go to some of those things, you know – maybe a concert or a play – but I don’t have any money.”
         Johnathan was satisfied. “You learned more than you thought you did.”
         “I thought you meant what did I learn in school.”
         “Heavens, no. Only a small part of learning takes place in school. You learn much more outside school than inside.”
         “I learned that I have a real friend in Addo Okoro.
         “Yes, you do. I think that is the most valuable item you learned this week.”
         Torey hesitated and blushed. “Oh, and I think I have a girlfriend.”
         “I assure you; you will learn a lot from that experience.”
         “I got this book because of you,” Torey added.
         In the distance, a police car siren reminded everyone that it was Saturday night in Drullins.
         “So you learned that you could go to the library on your own and find out about things you want to know about — not just school stuff.”
         “Johnathan! I love this book.”
         “Why?”
         Torey truly admired the men he was reading about. “These guys were so neat. They knew everything.”
         Johnathan corrected him emphatically. “No. They didn't know everything. They wanted to know everything. It was the 'wanting' that made them great.”
         “I don't understand.”
         Johnathan explained, “By the end of their lives, they knew a lot because throughout their lives they wanted to learn. Knowledge was the result. The hunger to know was the fire that kept them going. Their brains were probably the same size as yours, but they kept using it, exercising it, expanding it, through their lives. Once you learn something, you can't unlearn it. You may forget it or think you forgot it, but the knowledge moves your mind to a new place, and that can never be undone. Most people quit using their brains when they finish high school.”
         Torey looked perplexed, not sure what Johnathan was saying. “Anyway, I love this book.”
         “That's a good start.”
         Torey was excited. “These guys are awesome. I've heard of a few of them, but there are so many more.”
         Johnathan poked his wing feathers with his beak, pausing before responding. “Yes. Those are just the ones that made it into the history books.”
         “Are there more?” Torey asked.
         “Of course, including women who history never remembered and men and women living today and yet to be born.”
         The bedspring creaked as Torey grunted and squirmed to find a more comfortable position. “How did they become great?”
         “They spent their life asking 'Why’.”
         “That's it? Just ask why?”
         Johnathan began to explain. “Of course not. They tried to learn when learning was tough.”
         “I don’t understand ... why was learning difficult?”
         Johnathan continued, “For all of history, most people spent their entire life scratching out a living. Few had time to spend asking why or money to travel. Archimedes lived in Syracuse, Sicily, 1,400 years before the printing press. Yet Galileo read his work 1,800 years later in Florence, Italy. Archimedes wrote on something with something, in Greek or Latin. What did Galileo read, and how did he get it? How did Archimedes' ideas get transcribed, translated, and transported across 1,800 years from Syracuse to Florence? There was no TV, telephone, very few books. How did that happen?”
         “I never thought about it.”
         Johnathan said, “Finding the great thinkers who came before you was as big a job as thinking for yourself.”
         Torey reflected on this realization that learning would have been difficult just because of the logistical challenges resulting from language, distance, communication, transportation, and of course, recording and reproduction. He closed his book as the enormity of it all settled into his brain. How could anyone learn so much when learning was so complicated?
         Johnathan continued the lecture. “They also wrote. They recorded their ideas with the best materials they had. A great idea poorly explained will probably not survive. So, we know that they were masters of language and communicating. Those who followed read their writings.”
         “Weren't most of them teachers?” asked Torey.
         “Many were. Producing thoughts doesn't put bread on the table like producing shoes or growing corn, so they assembled in universities where they could earn a living with their mind. Contemporaries and students sought them out.”
         “In this book, I read that a lot of them were mathematicians.”
         Johnathan clarified. “Yes, but they probably would not recognize that term, nor did they study mathematics as a subject to be learned for its own sake. Many were religious men who wanted to understand God's universe. In the process, they found the church to be no help and discovered that mathematics is God's language.”
         “I think I would like to be like them,” Torey mused, half to himself.
         “Why not?” Johnathan said. Yes!, he thought.
         Torey changed the subject. “Johnathan, if you're going to help me, I want to know about you. Who are you, anyway?”
         “I started as a character in an inspirational book, titled Johnathan Livingston Seagull,” Johnathan replied.
         “I never heard of that book. What’s it about?”
         Johnathan tried to synopsize with just enough to leave Torey curious. “I was a seagull who got bored with daily squabbles over food. I loved to fly, so I pushed myself to learn everything I could about flying. My unwillingness to conform finally got me expelled from the flock.”
         Torey’s interest perked up a notch. He rolled over and sat on the side of the bed with his feet on the floor. “Did the book have a message?”
         Johnathan would have smiled if seagulls could smile. “There are two. First: the pursuit of excellence simply for the sake of excellence is a satisfying way to live.”
         “... and second?”
         “Your family, friends, acquaintances will not appreciate you for it. In fact, you will be disparaged, even ridiculed for it.”
         “Why?”
         “Because the flock cannot stand anyone different. They want everyone to be the same as they are, and most importantly, they demand you be happy about it,” Johnathan answered with a touch of bitterness in his voice.
         “Then what happened to you?” Torey asked.
         Johnathan knew what Torey meant, but chose to take the other meaning. “I sat on the bookshelf for many years. That book is your next reading assignment.”
         “I will, but I know there’s more.”
         A street rod with hard rock pounding from big woofers mounted under the rear deck rolled by on Penrose Avenue, setting up its own sonic boom as it went.
         Johnathan shook his head, annoyed at the interruption. “The boss pulled me out of the book and told me to go spread my message of ‘excellence for the sake of excellence’ to people who might listen.”
         “So, that's what you do all day?”
         Johnathan hesitated. This was too complicated for Torey. “For the most part. I push here, nudge there. Once in a while, I find myself somewhere I shouldn't be, and the boss calls me off. Occasionally, the boss gives me a direct assignment.”
         “What's that?”
         Johnathan was determined to keep it simple “That's when the boss sees someone special and decides to step in and give them a helping hand. Then I get a direct assignment.”
         Torey asked, “Does he do that often?”
         “Very rare, but over time it adds up.”
         Torey wanted more. “Give me some examples.”
         Gotcha, thought Johnathan. “You have a book full of them right in front of you.”
         The familiar metallic ring of a spilling trash can woke a sleeping dog, then the dialogue of barking and cursing told of a drunken neighbor returning home from a night out.
         “You did all that?” exclaimed Torey.
         “My predecessors did. I haven't been around that long.”
         Torey was more curious than ever. “What about you? How many direct assignments have you had?”
         “Just one.”
         “Just one? Who?”
         “You.”
         “Me! Why me?”
         “I don't know. The Boss sees something in you worth developing,” Johnathan answered.
         Torey turned the conversation back to the beginning. “You said you were going to help me escape from here.”
         “That will probably be a side result,” Johnathan said, “but you said you wanted to become a Renaissance Man.”
         “Yeah, that too.”
         Johnathan hesitated. This was important, known in school as a 'foot stomper.' “Maybe the things you do to become a Renaissance Man will be the same things that let you escape this world you hate so much.”
         “Explain?” Torey replied.
         “Let's start with school.”
         “I do good in school.”
         “What is good?”
         “Good grades.”
         This conversation was going exactly where Johnathan wanted it to go. “Good grades just reflect that you can repeat back to the teacher what he wants to hear.”
         “So, what should I do?” asked Torey.
         “School is divided into classes for the convenience of instruction. The world does not exist like that.”
         Torey rose from the bed and leaned against the wall. His worldview was being challenged or more accurately expanded. “I don't get it.”
         Johnathan decided an allegory was best here; besides, he loved to tell stories. “A carpenter may take a course on using a hammer, one on using a saw, one on reading blueprints; they are all tools. He is learning how to use those tools because his goal is to build a house — not become an expert on hammers and saws.”
         Johnathan fluttered to the footboard of the bed, his flapping wings making a ruckus in the confined space of the small bedroom.
         Torey thought a moment. “Okay. I get that.”
         Johnathan continued the lesson. “What you learn in school is the bare minimum on how to use the tools. To become proficient in the use of the tools and to be able to build a house is way beyond school. Plus, school doesn't even touch many subjects needed to make a complete life.”
         “You're saying high school is not enough?”
         “I’m saying any school is not enough.”
         “So, what should I do?”
         Johnathan finished the allegory. “For now, keep doing what you are doing but always ask yourself how does this fit into the world outside. In other words, while you are learning to use the hammer and saw, you should be looking at beautiful buildings.”
         Johnathan shook his head and hopped back on to the dresser. His image began to darken as if his batteries were running low.
         Laughter and muted conversation floated up from below. Four teenagers used the alley for a shortcut from Fletcher Avenue, where they had been using the abandoned soccer field as a secluded place for drinking and smoking to Penrose Avenue.
         “It's time for me to go,” Johnathan said.
         Torey screwed up his face. “You're doing it to me again!”
         “What?”
         “Leaving without answering my questions!”
         “Keep learning,” Johnathan said, flapping his wings.
          “Don't leave.”
         “I must. Read my book.”
         “It's always another reading assignment!”
         “Yes, it is. Read, read, read. Keep reading the newspaper.”
         “I don't like this,” Torey exclaimed, as he balled his fist and swung at the wall. His hesitation, caused by a realization of what a hole in the wall would mean to his father's relationship, saved the wall.
         “You can quit anytime,” said Johnathan.
         “No … I can't,” Torey moaned.
         “I'll be back from time to time,” Johnathan said. “Remember, you are my direct assignment.”
         “You sure make me feel miserable,” said Torey.
         “Pay attention in church. I may send you a message now and then.”
         “Johnathan!”
         “Later, Torey,” Johnathan faded away.
         The strange mix of excitement, frustration, optimism, and uncertainty flooding Torey’s mind meant no sleep tonight. Through the pitch blackness Johnathan left behind, he groped for his lamp, turned it on, and read until dawn.

###

Word Count: 3,957
Readability Consensus (based on seven readability formulas):
         Grade Level: 5
         Reading Level: easy to read.
         Reader’s Age: 8-9 years old (Fourth and Fifth graders)