Scene One
Jack on the Bus
Rocking and jostling to the motion of the bus, Jack reads from a novel: “Winston turned around abruptly.”
The words bounce with the bus, but he persists in reading:
“He set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen.“
Though reading word by word, Jack overhears conversations all around him. He sits against the wall of the bus while a young man with a gentle demeanor sits on his left in the aisle seat. The youth’s slightly raspy and halting voice betrays wryness perhaps even some fear or anxiety.
Another young man sits in front of Jack at a 90 degree angle because his seat is designed to face the aisle. Soon Jack discovers he is 18. Both of the youths graze Jack lightly with their extremities. The guy to the left allows his leg to casually remain in contact with Jack’s leg and the guy in front of him, whose long hair and smooth youthful skin contrast slightly with his confident and full voice, his elbow occasionally, unconsciously nudged Jack’s left leg.
In that way the three of them all formed a confirmation of humanity, of flesh and blood. The contact was perhaps intimate, but by no means flirtatious or “gay.” Jack couldn’t help but feel joy at the contact, at the confirmation that he was not an entirely awful human and that he was among not entirely awful humans.
The jumbling words of the novel before him continued:
“The thing he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws) but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punishable by death…”
Jack hears the confident voice of the long haired youth say, “Oregon is like Texas, nothing but steers and queers there.”
His friend with olive skin, apparently of latin american decent yet fully acculturated into the American way (sickness…?) asks, “What’s a steer?”
“I don’t know. A cowboy or something.”
Involuntarily, as if suddenly shocked by a prod, Jack’s head jerks up and he says, “A steer is not a cowboy. A steer is a castrated male cow.”
“A what?”
“A steer…look I’m from Montana that’s how I know…a steer is a cow that would’ve been a bull if it hadn’t been caster…er…had its balls chopped off.” he says, trying to be as understandable as possible.
“oh” says the youth, unimpressed with the technicality.
But Jack presses on anyway, encouraged by nearly imperceptible nudges on his leg.
“So whats wrong with Oregon?” asks Jack.
“There’s just not much there. I mean, well, I was in Ashland. That town…Jeez, its jus’ a bunch of hippies! Its like the haight-ashbury but a whole town of them.” Says the long-haired youth gesturing through the air with his long fingers.
“Don’t they hold some sort of Renaissance Fair there?” Jack asks.
“Yea, all those people get all dressed up like they are in Shakespeare and talk with English accents.” He’s on the verge of laughter, his smile beaming at the recollection. The whole of the back of the bus tunes into his story, his gestures, and his face. “I mean you get some skater kid with punked red hair dressed up in Roman Garb talking with a British Accent and thinking he can speak Shakespearian! Jeez dude what are you Julius Caesar?”
“Sounds like fun to me” Jack replies. Ah, the liberation of life-experience, no longer does Jack fear being on the side of the ridiculed.
“Well if you’re stoned its great.” He says.
“Sounds like a stoner kinda place.”
“Yea man, they are all hippies.” He says ‘hippies’ as a derogatory term. Then long-hair says, “If I had a suit of armor I’d wear it everywhere. I’d carry a gladius!”
And so they talked for several minutes like that. Others on the bus were drawn into their interaction, attracted by the jocularity and easiness of the conversation.
“I grew up in San Francisco,” recites the long-hair, “then, when I was 15, we moved to Ashland. I was there for three years. Now I’m back here–gonna get a 9-5 job and go to school…” His voice trailed off ever so slightly, a hint of doubt, or uncertainty Jack wondered.
“There are a lot of jobs here.” Jack says supportively. “Especially if you know computers. Otherwise they’ll send you to the mail room!”
A third young man, in his early 20s, wearing business casual dress and sporting a lazy, rolling look sitting on the far side of long-hair snorted, and looked at Jack. Noticing his suddenly piqued interest Jack surmised the young man worked in a mail room. So Jack says with all sincerity, “That’s not a bad job at all.”
So Jack says with all sincerity, “That’s not a bad job at all.”
The mail room youth rolls his head lazy-like in affirmation, “Naw man, $20 an hour for not much work and the internet all day long.”
Again, supportively, Jack says, “Ah the Internet! what was the office like before the internet!”
“It must’ve been primitive.” chimes in long hair. After a short pause he says, “But all these corporations are destroying the environment and enslaving people.”
“I agree.” Jack says, “But it can’t last and everyone knows it. I used to get all worked up about it, now I realize its going to have to run its course.”
Wistfully long hair responds, “Me too.”
Moments later the two youths’ stop arrives: Haight-Ashbury. They leave, they bidding Jack fare-thee-wells–fellow strangers in a strange land.
With a slight sigh and small smile Jack returns to his novel and reads:
“He dipped his pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote:
April 4th, 1984
“He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him…”
Jack knew that helplessness; the helplessness of the man who crosses the line.