The Deluded Youth

Francis Foreman sat through another incomprehensible Pre Calculus class. His
teacher, Mr. Martin, might as well have been speaking in foreign language, for
Francis could decipher not much of anything that was being said. Presently he let
loose a sigh. It had been like this since the inauguration, this mode of
incomprehension, and it would be with him to the very end of the semester, this he
was most sure of. He looked at his watch. The time read 2:35. There was nearly
thirty minutes left! How was he going to endure this drivel until then? True, he
had ways of preoccupying himself, but they had been nearly exhausted up until
now. He looked out of the window and saw groups of children who had already
been liberated for the day. Ah yes, liberation. The thought reverberated
throughout his mind like an intoxicating elixir. He could use some of that right
about now, in spades. He looked at his classmates. It was true, he perceived that
some of them were getting a grasp of the material, but for the most part there was
an overwhelming sense of frustration mingled with a desire to pack up their
belongings and simply go about their way. When the bell finally did ring, the
students gathered their things with the quickness, and some were so eager to leave
that they missed Mr. Martin’s homework assignment. Francis managed to copy it.
It was not like he was going to attempt it, but he at least wanted to give Mr. Martin
the impression that he was trying, even though he had long ago given up.

His walk home was wholly uneventful save for a few observations and feelings he
was having. He saw his fellow students, some talking, some laughing, others
engaged in a good deal of folly, and there was a longing in his eyes. Why not me,
he thought. It was a mystery to him, why he didn’t fit into the cogs of their inner
circles. He could not understand it. It did not resonate with him how he had
become so transformed into the individual not given to partake with others in
either thought or action. He had just become. The how of it all perhaps might
never be known to him. It would take a good fifteen minutes for him to make it
home, so he had ample time to think on other things, a habit which he was so
inclined to partake in, thinking. So he thought on what he’d do when he made it
home, and the thought came that he could listen to his music. Indeed, you could
catch Francis listening to his music for whole blocks at a time. His favorite was
Russian Classical, with Rachmaninoff being his favorite composer, followed by
Prokofiev and Shostakovich respectively. He had first become acquainted with
Rachmaninoff through his music teacher, who invited the boy to attend a classical
concert. The performance was of the Third Piano Concerto, and he had become
simitten by it. It even re-ignited his dying interest in music and he now wished to
become a great composer himself, among other things.

So he kept himself busy by playing tunes in his head until he made it to his block.
And as he was coming nearer to his home, he cut across his neighbor’s lawn and
headed for the back entranceway of his house. His father was home. He must
have had the day off. As he entered the house, the blaring of the vacuum cleaner
caught his attention. He headed straight for his room and caught glances of his
mother vacuuming and his father reading a newspaper. Francis changed his
clothes hurriedly, and just as he was heading for the basement (which is where
they kept a television) the vacuum cleaner was shut off and his father confronted
him at that very moment.

“How was school, Francis?” Francis just stared at him blankly for a few moments.
It was as if he was frozen in time, unable to move. Finally he spoke.

“School? School was...school was boring, as it was yesterday, and the day before
that day, and the day before that day. School’s always boring. I don’t know why I
even bother with it.”

Now it must be noted that this reply was entirely anticipated by his father. For you
see, Francis has--on many an occassion--expressed to his parents his utter disdain
for the academic process, and Mr. Foreman only did this to show Francis that he
was completely dedicated to seeing his son finish his schooling. His disdain for
school was so full that, in fact, his grades were suffering because of it, with
English being the only class which he consistently outperformed all others, which
is why he also wanted to become a writer. He mostly managed C’s in all his other
classes, with the exception of Pre Calculus, but those C’s only came about as a
result of his father’s watchful eye.

“You put up with it because I tell you to put up with it,” he said, folding his
newspaper. Now his mother felt the need to say something.

“You’re only in the eleventh grade, Francis. You still have a long way to go, what
with college and all. Don’t be so inclined to give up just yet.”

“Yeah, well...maybe I won’t go to college. Maybe I’ll travel the world as a touring
virtuoso. I got a bright future ahead of me, and you two can’t even see it.

Francis left before his father could get in a last retort. He wasn’t particularly close
to either of them, but it wasn’t something which he tended to dwell upon, his
relationship with his parents. What he did tend to dwell upon though, was his
future. He wanted to do things, grand things, with writing and composing being
the epicenter of his aspirations. He even had plans for fixing the ailing educational
system. He felt that children’s gifts should be searched out early on and from there
onward there should be a focus on said gifts. Maybe as he became mature in his
years he would help to establish these special schools all across America. He could
never share this vision with his parents, his father specifically. He would say that
every person has a God-given right to choose what they want to become,
regardless of whatever their gifts may be. Francis was most sure of this.

As he situated himself on the couch, he determined in his mind that he would
forget about the argument with his parents and enjoy his favorite cartoon, a
Japanese anime. But as time went on it didn’t provide an adequate enough escape
for him, so he decided to do a little writing. His writings were mostly of a fantasy
nature. That, he was sure, would provide an adequate enough escape. Actually, he
had not yet begun to write the story, he was only writing things as they came to
him: names, places, scenarios, that sort of thing. He was actually quite talented
and came up with some rather marketable names. For instance, his main character
was called Tonomoli Foster. He had several wizard-like men, their names were
Master Fenfarah, Master Hrenhaflen, and Master Felfadel. He also had martial
artists, their names being Jebzian and Master Archameadees. He felt very proud of
what he had accomplished thus far. Even in its infancy it was shaping up to be a
bonafide blockbuster.

He went to school the next day and it was the same for him. He went from
Chemistry class to Economics, from Economics to Criminal Justice, from Criminal
Justice to Visual Communications, and he felt nothing for them whatsoever. He
just couldn’t get the gist of what school was all about. It, too, was a mystery to
him. He felt it was naive of teachers going around teaching, expecting students to
retain all this information over vast periods of time. Surely there must be a better
way to learn than this, he thought. And there was a better way. His way. But he
knew he must play along and do something in these classes, not only to appease the
demands of his father, but also to bide his time until he came into fruition. The
only bastion of hope for the day came at fifth hour English class, when the teacher,
Mr. Alexander, asked the students to write an essay dealing with their dreams and
aspirations.

“I want a one page essay on your goals,” he said. “I know how it was when I was
young, so I’m hoping that I’ll get a few surprises.”

Francis was so elated with this that it produced a smile on his face, something of a
peculiarity for him. And what was this talk of him wanting only one page, Francis
could talk on this subject for hours on end. He began writing almost immediately,
being very deliberate in the process. Every word, every sentence had to pass his
vigorous scrutinization. This slowed him down immeasurably, but he was still on
track to complete two pages worth of aspirations. When the class was coming to
an end, Francis was hesistant to conclude his paper. He had yet to journey into his
desire to write screenplays and someday direct, but the teacher was calling for
everyone to complete their papers, there being only five minutes left of class.

Normally he would’ve been a little downcast at lunch, seeing as how he ate alone,
but he was actually quite excited over the prospect of his English teacher reading
his essay. It gave him a chance to share his dreams with another, something he
never got a chance to do. He was already visualizing the shock on the face of his
teacher, for surely that is what he’d be, shocked. He ate his french fries and
chicken fingers with a smile. Then he noticed something. There was a girl
looking at him, and she too sat alone. He knew her well, for she was, he surmised,
infatuated with him. Her name was Claire and she was in his English class. He
had caught her many times staring at him and then looking away quickly, as if she
hadn’t been doing anything. Francis now stared at her as he ate. He had formerly
outlawed relationships with the other sex. He felt that any relationship would get
in the way of his dreams. He had previously noticed that his musical aptitude was
suffering as a result of his desire for a girlfriend and decided right then and there
what was most important in his life. Yes, it was painful at times, but he was
wholly dedicated to seeing the realization of his dreams. With males it was
different. Males dream, he thought. We dream big. And he could share his
visions with males, it just so happened that there weren’t any males in the school
like Francis, or if there were he certainly didn’t know about them. So the two
continued to exchange glances until Claire collected her tray and headed for his
table.

“Hi!” she said.

“Hello,” he said. There was really no reason to be rude to her, he thought.

“Your name’s Francis, right? We have English together.”

“I know,” he said. “And you’re Claire.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “So...lunch is pretty good today, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I like chicken fingers.”

“Me too!” she said. “That’s something we have in common.”

“I guess,” he said. There was a moment of silence and eating, in which he had
time to think. This isn’t half bad, he thought. Maybe it was time for him to rethink
his position on women. Could he tell her some of his aspirations? Not likely.
Regardless of how pleasant it was he wasn’t even sure if it was wise for it to
continue, despite what he was feeling. But he did begin to wonder what her
response was to the assignment.

“What did you think about the essay we did?’

“Oh, that,” she said, with a motion of her hand. “Well, I have a few nieces and
nephews, so I wrote about my desire to start a day care center one day.”

“Oh really?” he said. “That’s cool.” It wasn’t, he noted, as sweepingly ambitious
as what he wanted to do, but it was still something.

“What about you?” she said. “What did you write about?”

“Oh me? Well...that is...” Before he could come up with a palatable excuse the bell
rang, and he seized on the oppourtunity.

“Sorry, I gotta go,” he said. And he just left her there sitting in absolute
astonishment


The rest of the day went pretty well for him. He had only Study Hall and Pre
Calculus left before school let out, and because of his experiences in English class
and with Claire, he gave no time to moping. He mostly spent the time thinking to
himself, and in the case of his Pre Calculus class staring out of the window. And
his thoughts were, as ever, on his future. What a grand destiny that lay before him.
Just the enormity of it was enough to make one dizzy, he thought. What an
awesome array of activities one could latch upon to live out one’s life. And he was
going to do all of these things, all these great and marvelous things: directing,
composing, writing, fixing education, and giving. For you see, he--too--wanted to
give. He was, to be sure, a humanitarian in the making. It pained him to see
sorrow lived out in the hearts of God’s children. Poverty reigned supreme
throughout most of the world. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything about it? Greed
was probably the answer, he thought. Well, he wouldn’t be greedy. He would
give and give exceedingly. After school Francis made his way home quickly,
keeping his uncharacteristic aura with him the whole way. His mother saw this as
he entered the house and thought to question him.

“Hello, Francis.”

“Hi!” he said.

“You seem...happy today,” she said, smiling.

“Is that a crime, mother?” he said, smiling back.

“Oh no, not a crime, not a crime at all. But...how was school?”

“Better than its ever been in a long time,” he said, and immediately he headed for
his room where his keyboard was. It was time to practice. Indeed, you could catch
Francis practicing songs for whole hours at a time. He was currently working on
Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor, but he was having problems with it.
For Francis had a recording of Rachmaninoff playing the piece himself, and
Francis--being the perfectionist that he was--wanted to play it exactly as
Rachmanioff played it. Therefore, to accomplish this, he would listen to the piece
over and over and over again. He wanted no variation in tone or pitch whatsoever.
But he did have trouble with it. His problem lie in the section of the piece where it
begins to speed up. He found that he wasn’t able to play at such extreme speeds.
But his persistence with it, he was sure, would pay off. So he played and played
and played, and frustration--as always--began to seep in. Then he played some
more, but the frustration would not let up. So he continued to play until his fingers
began to ache, then he banged on the keyboard, hitting a host of random notes in
uncontrollable anger. At this rate, he’d never become a composer, he thought. But
wait! He musn’t think negatively! He would become a composer, he just had to
work a little harder. He looked at his watch and the time read 7:53. He had been
playing for almost five hours! So then it was settled: tomorrow he would work a
little harder. As for now, it was time for a little rest.

School came again the next day, and at first he was adrift in a swarm of thoughts
concerning his future when he at last remembered that his teacher would most
likely be returning their papers today. Suddenly that uncharacteristic
happy-go-lucky aura returned to him, and he began to think on what his response
would be. Perhaps Mr. Alexander would congratulate him privately for his
heartfelt desires, or maybe he’d even read his paper to the class--or let him read
it--letting everyone partake of his glory. Indeed, there was a whole host of things
that could occur. And that is what he filled himself up with until fifth hour English
class came, thoughts on what his teacher’s response would be.

When English class finally did come, Francis made certain he was one of the first
kids in class. He wanted to see if his teacher would attempt to impart some hidden
message to him by way of a facial expression, or some other gesture, and sure
enough he did just that. He smiled at Francis. Francis took this as a good sign and
just sat back and waited for the rest of what was to come. When all the students
had made it in the classroom, the teacher told the students about what he thought
of the assignment.

“You’ll get your papers back today. I’ve graded them and placed comments on
them, and if need be corrections. I was really impressed, as I almost always am
when I give this assignment. A lot of you really have solid plans, and I applaud
you for it.”

He then went on to explain that for the rest of the day they’d be reading and
responding to a short story out of their text. Francis felt as if everything he had
been saying was directed primarily at him. Just who--out of all these other
students--would have had dreams coming anywhere near the scope of what he was
planning? No one, he thought. He was special in a very big way. The class period
passed quickly, and as students were turning in their papers, Mr. Alexander began
to pass back their graded assignments. Francis watched as Claire got hers back.
There was a small smile on her face. She then looked at him and held up her
paper, the letter A was circled in red ink along with red lettering along the side.
He was happy for her. But he was chiefly concerned about the teacher’s response
to his own work. Finally Mr. Alexander called his name.

“Francis Foreman.”

He walked toward his desk, handed him his paper and whispered, “I’d like to see
you after class, Francis.”

Francis looked at his paper. He then held it up so Claire could see it. There were
no comments made, only the letter A circled in red ink. I guess he’ll congratulate
me privately, he thought. So when the bell rang all of the students packed their
things hurriedly and headed for the exit, and Francis Foreman stayed after class.

“You wanted to see me Mr. Alexander?”

“Yes...ugh....Francis, about your paper...”

“Yes?” he said.

“Well, don’t you think it’s just a little bit too much?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Well, you want to write fantasy stories, you want to compose classical music, you
want be a concert pianist, you want to give to the needy...”

“But that’s not all, I also want to write screenplays and direct!”

“But...do you see where I’m coming from, Francis?”

Francis thought for a moment. No one had ever told him that you couldn’t do
everything you set your mind to. He had always thought that if the desire was
there, it could be accomplished.

“How many friends do you have, Francis?

Francis stood in silence.

“How about clearing up some of those agendas and making some friends. You
could focus on one or two things and fill the rest of your life with people. You
need people, Francis, regardless of how you feel about them.”

“But...how did you know that?”

“I used to be a kid, too,” he said, smiling. “I remember my teenage years. And one
thing I regret about my teenage years is that I wasn’t as receptive to people as I
probably could have been. It wasn’t my own fault, it just sort of happened over
time. But I never tried to fight against it. And now you have that opportunity,
Francis. Don’t let ostracism get one over on you, fight back.”

“...Ok,” he said.

“That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.”

There were already students from the other class filling up the room when Francis
left. His response to Mr. Alexander’s talk was really two-fold: on the one hand he
felt disappointed that he didn’t agree with and support him, and on the other hand
he was seriously considering his proposal. But they’re my dreams, he thought.
What would he have if he didn’t have them? People? Could people fill up some of
those empty spaces in his life? He wasn’t too inclined to believe it, but the advice
of Mr. Alexander was certainly in sincerity. And there most definitely must be
some wisdom in that middle-aged head of his. He put the thoughts behind him for
now. He’d think about them as he ate.

For lunch the lunch lady’s were serving pizza and french fries, another favorite of
his. He went to an empty table as always, and seated himself. He let loose a sigh
and began eating his food. To his surprise, Claire came and sat next to him.

“I’ve been looking all over for you, Francis. What took you so long?”

“I had a...conference with Mr. Alexander.”

“Oh yeah? What about?”

At first he didn’t know whether or not he should tell Claire about his situation, but
something inside of him told him there was no harm in doing so.

“About my dreams. He says I have too many.”

“Oh, that’s right! You never did tell me about your paper. What did you write
about?”

“Well, I wanted to do a lot of things. But now...I guess it’d be best if I just slowed
down and reexamined my life, and focus on the things that are most important.”

Francis would later on tell Claire all the things he wanted to do, and she would
listen to him intently. Maybe he would focus on nothing but his writings, or maybe
he’d go into the field of music. Whatever it turned out to be, he wasn’t overly
concerned about it at this point. He was now on a mission to affect the lives of as
many people as he could, with friendship.