A Plague Year

The cute girl took the initiative. She held out her arms so that they encompassed Arthur, Lilly, and me. “How about if the four of us form a group?”

I replied eagerly, “Sure. Okay.”

Arthur just frowned at her.

Lilly didn’t even do that. I could tell by her eyes that she had checked out completely.

Still, the girl smiled gamely and told us, “I’m Wendy Lyle. And… you guys must all be related, right?”

I smiled back. “How did you know that?”

She pointed to Lilly. “You two have the same last name, and the same face.” She looked at Arthur. “And I’ve heard you call him ‘cuz’ in English class. Am I right?”

“You are,” I assured her, then added, “That’s very perceptive of you.”

She beamed at me, so I tried, “And you have the same name as our group leader, but not the same face.”

She gave me a short finger point. “That is very perceptive of you. Catherine is my stepmom. We just moved here for my dad’s job. He’s a professor at the university.”

Arthur said sourly, “My dad’s a drunk.”

Wendy looked right at him. “I’m sorry. I hope that will change.”

“I don’t think so. He’s dead.”

She kept looking at him. “Sorry again.”

I liked how Wendy kept her cool in the face of this open hostility from my cousin, and the open indifference from my sister. I didn’t know why they were being so rude. Because she was an outsider? Because she was cute? Because she was kind of a teacher’s pet? I turned to Arthur, determined to ask him what his problem was, but I stopped when he waved at someone outside.

Looking through the window, I saw Arthur’s stepfather, Jimmy Giles.

Jimmy is a wiry, scraggly guy who always looks like he just woke up. He was standing in the school office, wearing a threadbare jeans jacket. Jimmy’s brother Warren was out there with him, jangling a set of keys. (Jimmy had his driver’s license revoked by a judge, so Warren has to drive him around.)

Warren is a handsome guy of about forty. He’s the same age as my dad, but he looks a lot younger. Warren was wearing a jacket, too, but his was striking. It was green satin with gold lettering on the back. When he turned, I saw that the lettering said Haven High Football.

I asked Arthur, “What’s your stepdad doing here? And Warren?”

Arthur nodded toward Catherine Lyle. “A judge sent Jimmy to this counselor lady.”

“Yeah? Really? So is he in our group?”

“Nah. He’s here to do community service.”

Since Arthur wasn’t exactly answering my question, Wendy Lyle added, “My stepmom asked him to talk here today.”

“About what?”

“He’s talking about drugs. About what they did to his life.”

I looked at Arthur. “That doesn’t sound like Jimmy.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Well, public speaking.”

Arthur smiled. “You just might be surprised about that.”

Catherine Lyle walked over to the door. She had a very classy walk, like a model. She opened it and spoke softly, “Mr. Giles? Are you ready?”

Jimmy nodded and entered the room. Warren stayed outside, watching through the glass.

Mrs. Lyle told us, “It takes courage to face an addiction and to overcome it. I’d like to introduce you to someone who is facing that challenge right now. Actually, I will let him introduce himself and tell you about his own experiences getting into, and then getting away from, drug addiction.”

She smiled sweetly and reclaimed her seat. Jimmy Giles stood by the door, avoiding eye contact with us. He seemed to be talking to himself for a few seconds. Then he pulled a white note card from his pants pocket and started to read from it.

“I am here to tell you about my experience so that it does not become your experience.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Any dumb animal can learn from a mistake. If a horse walks into an electric fence and gets a shock, it don’t walk into that fence again. It learns from it. But humans can also learn from others’ mistakes. I hope that’s what will happen today.”

Catherine Lyle encouraged him. “That’s an excellent point.”

Arthur suddenly spoke up, as if he were at an old-time-religion camp-revival meeting. “Amen, Jimmy! Well told.”

Jimmy grinned at Arthur. Then he looked at the rest of us. His nerves seemed to melt away as his glance passed from face to face. When he spoke again, he was relaxed. “I should tell you my name is Jimmy Giles, and I’m from Blackwater. I have worked as a wildcat coal miner, on and off. I have worked as a mover”—he looked back through the door—“with my brother Warren. We move kids in and out of Blackwater University. We also sell Christmas trees.”

He paused to clear his throat. From my side view, I could see his large Adam’s apple bob up and down.

“I got involved with marijuana in junior high school.” He looked around at the walls of the room. “At this junior high school, in fact. I started smoking it when I was twelve, and I was still smoking it three months ago when I got arrested for the second time. If I get arrested a third time, I go straight to jail.”

Jimmy hung his head, as if looking back into his days at Haven Junior High. “Here’s what I learned between then and now—what I learned the hard way.” He suddenly pointed at Wendy. “Miss? Name something that you love to do.”

“Me? I read. I read a lot.”

“Okay.” He pointed at me. “What about you, Tom?”

I answered, “Uh, play video games. Nintendo 64.”

“Okay. Got it. Now let me break it down for you.

“You love to read, miss. And then you get high, and you love to read even more when you’re high.

“And you love to play video games, Tom, and then you get high, and you love to play video games even more when you’re high.”

He looked from Wendy to me. “But then something bad happens.” He pointed at Wendy. “You find that you don’t love to read anymore when you’re not high. It’s not good enough.” He switched to me. “And video games? You don’t love to play when you’re not high. No way. It’s not good enough.”

Jimmy stopped, then said, “Now, here’s the really awful part.

“Miss, you soon realize that you don’t love reading anymore even when you are high. And Tom, you don’t love video games anymore, high or not. You don’t love anything anymore. Not books, not games, not even getting high.

“But you keep getting high anyway because… well, that’s what you do.” He glanced at the kids against the wall. “Right, stoners? That’s what you do, so you keep on doing it. Even though you hate it now. You have officially arrived at zombieland. You don’t love anything. You don’t like anything. You don’t care about anything. It has all been taken away from you… by drugs.”

A few of the stoners nodded at him.

Arthur suddenly said in his tent-revival voice, “Preach, Jimmy!”

Jimmy looked at Arthur. His voice started to rise. “I am thirty-eight years old, with a wife and kids, and I have a job that only pays minimum wage. And I have had some jobs that paid less than minimum wage. What can I thank for that?”

Arthur answered, “Drugs. You can thank drugs for that.”

Jimmy went on. “I am a professional driver, licensed for any vehicle up to fourteen tons. Yet I have to get driven around in my pickup like I’m some two-year-old. What can I thank for that?”

Arthur’s voice dropped this time. It was barely audible. “Drugs. You can thank drugs for that.”

“My wife, and my son, and my stepson live on a piece of land that has been condemned by the United States government as unsafe for human habitation. What can I thank for that?”