A Plague Year

I thought, Yeah. Me, too.

He pointed to my right. “How about you, Arthur? I have a role in mind for you.”

“What is it?”

“The Bedlam.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s a very important character.”

Arthur cocked his head. He asked, like he was horse trading, “If I played him, would I get an A for your class?”

“Yes, you would.”

“For both semesters? Because that’s what I really need.”

Mr. Proctor thought for a moment, but then he agreed. “Sure. Why not.”

Arthur slapped his desk. “Then sign me up.”

Mr. Proctor pointed his book at other students. “Ben, Jenny, you could have parts, too. Let’s talk about it. I’d like this class to take as many parts as possible. The remaining parts will be filled by members of the Drama Club.”

So, for the next fifteen minutes, everybody who was interested in a part got one.

Everybody but me.

Because I had to work. For no money. At a family business that my family doesn’t even own.

After school, while we were waiting to go into the conference room, Arthur said, “Check this out: Jimmy Giles had on a white shirt and tie this morning.”

“No way.”

“Yeah. He’s got a new gig with WorkForce.” He explained, “They do day labor.”

“I know. We use those guys at the Food Giant.”

“Jimmy doesn’t like it. He says it’s like government work.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means you don’t really have to work. Close enough is good enough. That kind of thing.”

“Got it.”

Jenny came out of Mrs. Cantwell’s office. She joined Arthur and me and whispered, “Did you hear? Mike Szabo’s dad got arrested.”

I was shocked. “No!”

“Yes. Out on the turnpike. At a rest stop.”

“What did he do?”

Her voice dropped even more. “He tried to sell meth to an undercover cop.”

“Meth? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Mike told me himself. His mom was in the car when it happened, so they both got busted. Taken to the police station, the whole bit. Anyway, they’re gone.”

I was really stunned. “They’re gone? What do you mean? He has no parents, just like that?”

“Yeah. They had no money for bail, so they’re in the county jail, awaiting trial.”

Arthur, always skeptical, demanded to know, “How did you hear this?”

“Like I said, I talked to Mike. And his parents talked to my parents from the jail. They asked if Mike and the twins could stay with us.”

“The twins?”

“He has twin sisters. Two-year-olds.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So they’re all moving in with you?”

Jenny acted like it was no big deal. “They already have. The two little girls—Maggie and Dollie—and Mike.” She looked around furtively. “Anyway, don’t say anything to Mike. We’re doing a presentation today. He’s already nervous enough.”

Mikeszabo walked in shortly after. He had three white posters rolled up under his arm. If he was broken up about losing his parents, it did not show on his face. He joined Jenny at the front of the room, where they huddled with Catherine Lyle.

The rest of us took our seats. (They were the seats we had taken the very first day, back on September 10. No one in the group ever deviated.)

Catherine Lyle began, “We have been talking about drugs and how they can destroy a community. Jenny Weaver suggested to me that we could do more than just talk. We could take action in some way; perhaps sell T- shirts that warn people about getting involved with drugs. I thought that was a great idea. So today Jenny, with Mike’s help, is going to open our meeting. Jenny?”

Jenny and Mikeszabo stood up and unrolled one poster. It had a black-and-white drawing on it. The drawing looked like a robot bug, with round pods sticking out. Jenny said, “This is the molecule for dopamine. That’s the hormone that sends feelings of pleasure to the brain.”

Jenny held on to the poster while Mikeszabo unfurled the second one. The drawing looked like the first one, but with a slight variation. “This is the molecule for methamphetamine,” Jenny explained. “As you can see, it is very similar to the dopamine molecule, similar enough to fool the brain into thinking it is the pleasure molecule.

“But it is not. And the brain won’t stay fooled for long. The brain realizes it has been tricked by the meth molecule, and it shuts down. It refuses to send any feelings of pleasure to the brain.”

Mikeszabo put down the second poster and unfurled the third. In its center was a drawing of some drug paraphernalia—pipes, cigarette papers, needles. On top of the pile were three giant blue letters: NEO. Underneath the pile were the words, also in blue, Not Even Once.

Jenny put down her poster and explained. “Your own brain, your own body, will turn against you if you mess with drugs. It will shut down your ability to feel pleasure. It will make your life so much less than it could have been. That’s why we need to send out this message to everyone we can, in every way we can: NEO—Not Even Once.” She bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

The group applauded. Catherine Lyle positively beamed. Spontaneously, she said, “No, thank you! I would like to see this drawing, and this slogan, on a T-shirt. If it’s all right with you, I will advance the money to get those shirts made.”

Everyone approved of that.

Catherine Lyle then elaborated on the theme. “All it takes is one time for certain things—drugs, suicide, choking, sexually transmitted diseases. You don’t get a second chance with these things. These are things you cannot do even once.”

After thanking Jenny and Mikeszabo again, Mrs. Lyle switched gears. “Okay. Last month was Halloween, and we all got scared of vampires and zombies and other pretend monsters. Those were irrational fears.” Then, attempting a joke, she added, “Unless you happen to know any real monsters.” No one laughed. She went on. “This month we will face a real fear called claustrophobia. Who can tell me what that is?”

Wendy gave the answer right away: “Fear of confined spaces.”

Catherine frowned at her, I guess for not letting one of us answer. She continued: “Fear can be a major trigger for drug use, or for a drug relapse. So our next field trip will be to a local coal mine in order to face the fear of confined spaces. Anyone who would benefit from that should sign up and come along.”

I resisted the urge to look at Wendy. Was she looking at me? Was she thinking I would go, and sit with her, and be totally fascinated by everything she said and did?

Yeah. She probably was. But that wasn’t going to happen. At least I didn’t think so.

During my break at work, I grabbed my PSAT book and headed out back, hoping to do some vocabulary. But, to my surprise, Reg was there on the loading dock. He was standing with his back to me, posing like he was on a stage. His left arm extended outward, like it was the fret board of a guitar. His right arm was striking that guitar with sweeping blows. His voice, somewhat higher than normal, belted out the chorus of Ted Nugent’s “Wango Tango.”