The Beautiful Words

George’s father threw his hands down onto the table, launching his spoon into the vat of gravy. The splatter caused a cast-off spray pattern of all over the faces of Missy Prissy Pre-med and the Archetype Architect. The mother had her head down, buried in her hands, crying into the caldera in her mashed potatoes.

                “You know what happens to English majors?” her father asked rhetorically, “They live poor, and they die poor. You want to live in a cardboard box for the rest of your life? You’re a disappointment to me, and this family. You’re killing your mother; you know she’s a nervous person. Now she’ll be up every night worrying about how you are going to survive!”

                ‘Fretting’, would be a more appropriate word.” George replied icily. Her father continued his ranting and raving in an attempt to drive his agenda into her earlobes in the hopes that they would infiltrate, and eventually infest her gray matter. As his lecture continued he grew redder and redder, and the veins began to pop out of his neck.

                “Dad, you’re veins are popping out of your neck, you’re going to have an aneurism! STOP IT! George, look what you’ve done!” Miss Prissy Pre-med cried out.

                “Actually, those are probably his carotid arteries, and he won’t have an aneurism, he just needs to breathe before he faints.” George said while looking chipped black polish on her finger nails, “Well, this has been another super fun family gathering, but I must go before the villagers come with their pitch forks.”

                “Resistance is futile!” her father said with a cold, determined stare as he watched George put her arms though her jacket. She opened the door, and began to walk out. Right before she was about to shut it she popped in her head and only her head.

                “If it weren’t for writers, that phrase wouldn’t exist.” She shut the door just in time, as she hear the clankity-clank of silverware hitting the door.

                The long drive back to campus forced George to reflect on the twenty three years of her life. From the very beginning she had never lived up to her father’s expectations. For starters, he had all of his hope set on a second son; another architect just like him, just like her brother would be. He desperately wanted to see the golden placard etched, “Mr. George Jacobs & Sons” on his building. However, not even changing George’s diapers was enough to prove to him that he had, in fact, bore another daughter. George’s father didn’t allow her to have pretty things like dolls, dresses, and other things suitable of the female persuasion; George was given blocks and Legos and other things against her feminine nature. The only pleasure she took in building was setting the projects on fire the moment they were completed. The only girly thing she had ever owned was a single porcelain doll her grandmother had given her in secret.

                George walked into her dorm, Connie and Raymond, who where were supposed to be at home with their parents, were making out in the common room of her and Connie’s dorm.

                “GAH!” George exclaimed while covering her eyes, “No making out in the champagne room! Hey wait a minute; aren’t you two supposed to be visiting your parents?”

                “We told them that we were getting married, my mother told me, and I quote, “It is ridiculous of me to even consider marring English major.” Connie said, all in one breath, and then let out a long sigh.

                “My father thought it was great I found a woman who’s ready to be a house wife.” Raymond interjected.

                “It isn’t fair, how could your father say something like that about me, while I’m sitting there?” Connie began to sob, until George chimed in.

                “Well, I am glad your night was just as fabulous as mine, and I’d hate to miss more melodrama, but I am taxed. Let’s go seek sanctuary tomorrow? Please proceed with eating face upon my departure.” George said as she headed towards the fridge.

                “John K. King?” Connie asked.

                “WRONG, all answers must be submitted in the form of a question.”

                “What is John K. King?” Connie and Raymond said in union, while hanging over the back of the couch to watch George.

                “Ding, ding, ding.” George said line a lifeless tone, as she reached for the vodka,” I’m looking for something out of print.”

                “I’ll take potent potables for two hundred.” Raymond said sarcastically.

                “Daily Double!” George exclaimed as she lifted two shot glasses in a cheer, and gulped them down. “I bid adieu, to you, and you, and you.” She said to Connie, Raymond, and the bottle of vodka. Then placed it back in the fridge, and retreated to her room.

                Floors and floors, and rows and rows of books; an eccentric display of creative chaos, to the literary oriented mind this place is heaven on earth. The whole store smelled of paper, ink, and glue, the slow break down and decay over time. Connie had to pop a Claritin in preparation, but George walked up to the shelves nose first into the books to take in the aroma.  George loved the sound of the old wooden floor boards creaking beneath her feet, the sun creeping through the windows, the dust fragments reflecting the light like glitter. Raymond thumbed the spines, and grazed over the covers. A silent awe fell over them, and a blissful peaceful state of being. For about ten whole minutes…

                “I still can’t believe you father said that to me,” Connie blurted out; her faced all contorted like she couldn’t wrap her troubled little mind around the situation.

                “At least you didn’t have to deal with the Wrath of Khan.” George said.

                “Connie, ignore my dad, he’s just ignorant about the professional possibilities por poetic lyricists like you,” Raymond interjected.

                “I like how you had to use French to lengthen your alliteration,” George said while skimming through antique copy of Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities.

                “Thanks,” Raymond said putting his hand against his heart, and beamed with pride.

                “Honestly, you guys, enough is enough,” George said sternly while slamming the book closed and replacing it on the shelf, “I’m going to rebel, and you both are coming with me. I’m going to protest!”

                “Like a real protest? Connie asked.

                “Yeah, that’s perfect, with signs and shouting and stuff. DOWN WITH THE BOMB! VIVE LA FRANCE!” Raymond shouted, and was met by evil glares and shushes. “So how are we going to do this Madame Defarge?”

                George gave Raymond a look, “We’ll we can go to other campuses and post flyers, but why don’t we do a book drive, and collect money for literacy projects. So that way it isn’t just about us. We can get other students who have faced the same emotionally crippling opposition as ourselves. It’s brilliant!” She said as she bestowed kisses on a row of Dickens’ novels. “I love this place. It makes me brilliant!”

                Over the next few weeks the groups coordinated holding the rally on the pavement outside the bookstore. They were busy collaborating with student artists to create flyers, they wrote blogs, created social networking groups, met with city officials, contacted news stations; they decided that everyone should dress up as their favorite authors or characters. They went around to every college campus within the county and posted flyers, and gave presentations at some schools. For their costumes, Raymond decided upon Hemmingway, completed with a grey comb over, beard, an intricate knit sweater, and lots of padding. Connie was hell bent on dressing like Scarlett O’Hara, corset and all, despite her friend’s warnings, but the look accentuated her small features and stunning blue eyes.

                “Raymond, henceforth you shall be known as Sir Ashley Wilkes. O Ashley, Ashley.” George snickered, and then batted her eyes like Scarlett O’Hara would.

                “Sure, I’ll be glad to share in your misfortune of having a name unsuitable for your gender,” Raymond poked. George decided to dress as Austen, and even cut bangs so she could curl the shorter pieces around her face. To complete her look she ordered a cottage bonnet, and a sprig muslin cross-over dress directly from Bath. 

                With the rest of their funds combined they rented a moving truck, and a megaphone. When the day of the protest came, they were all excitement and nerves. They were asked to participate in an interview on the morning newscast, in full costume, for the daily six through ten morning broadcasts. Unfortunately, for the young group, it was the news station that their parents watched religiously. As their story began to air, the parents whose offspring were featured were soon wiping coffee they’d projected from their mouths and noses from the television sets. The sets were promptly abandoned as the parents set off for Detroit.

                That afternoon as the crowd began to gather, the three friends were awed by their work. People came from all over; students, professors, administrations, writers, avid readers. Some in costume, some in slogan shirts which read things like, “I’m With the Banned”, “Protagonist”, “Careful or you’ll end up in my novel,” and “Reading is Sexy!”

                George addressed the crowd via megaphone, “On behalf of my friends and myself, I’d like to thank you all for coming, and for your generous contributions to our joint literacy project. It was here that my friends and I become inspired to unite people under a common cause. Not just to protest the injustice that we face from people for forcing us to justify our love for the written word, but for us all to come together, united in love, and adoration for the great authors and poets that have come before us. Though not all of us have been called by the higher powers to write, some of us were meant to read, other were meant to teach; however, never mind your calling, because all of us make up a segment of the intricate web of the written word; the beautiful words that beckon us, like a lighthouse beckons a ship in a storm, through the monotony and gray dullness of day-to-day life. The three of us, found consolation in one another from the hardships we faced in the name of our most passionate love, never had we expected so many to share in this love. It is an abundant joy, to see all your beautiful faces, as you look around, I hope you all that in the imagery of this great and symbolic scene. Carry with you for inspiration for all your future endeavors. Now please meet, mingle, network, and form bonds through your common passion for literacy. Thank you!”

                The group was met with a wall of applause. The people began to talk with one another, debate about different authors, and discuss the up and comings of the present century. As the small group of friends began to make their way through the crowd and join in discussions, church bells throughout the city began to chime noon. As the bells ceases, screams rang from the edges of the assembly.

                “GEORGE! GEORGE!” her parents yelled as they fought through the crowd to approach her. “This is all very cute, but we think it is best that you leave school and come home for awhile. Obviously, school is not your calling at the moment, and your mother and I believe that it is best you come home for awhile to put your head back together. To get your priorities straight.” The people began to crowd around the little side show, and watch in awe. George felt overwhelmed by the mass of people, and the mass of anger she was trying to fight back.

                “Are you serious? Why are you doing this to me? Obviously, my head is together, otherwise none of these people would be here right now. Look at what my friends and I have done! We’ve brought people together; we raised money and awareness for Literacy Projects here in the city!”

                “This is all very cute and fun George, but this post-teenage angst rebellion is getting a little old, and don’t you think it’s about time you pull your head out of these books and being to do something useful.” George’s dad said as he tried pulling her to the car by her arm, but the crowd grabbed her and started pulling back.

                “Useful, USEFUL?” George, scream in their faces,” You see that van there it’s full of books and money. We’re not just here to protests against people like YOU, but to preserve a legacy for future generation by assisting with literacy project in the area. So don’t tell me that I am not being useful, stop telling me that I am wrong. Your path is not the only path, your view isn’t the only view, your thought and ideas are your own, but they are too narrow to share with me. You build foundations, and structures your way. I’ll build foundations and structure my way.” George began to walk back into the crowd, but her father reached out, grabbed her bonnet and ripped it off her head. George cried out as the pins in her bonnet pulled out her hair. He threw it on the ground and stomped on it.

                “Son of a bitch, that’s from England.” George cried.

                Other parents began to show, and the crowd already angered by George’s father’s actions met the ignorance of the other parents head on. Ignorance and intolerance pulled apart the gathering by the seams, just as it had tried to pull apart every individual dreamer. Chaos ensued, and not before long the scene took on a similar feel to the ’67 riots. By the grace of God, all the books had been safely stored in the moving truck or all of the literature would have been destroyed, and all their efforts would have been gone with the water as the fire trucks were forced to use hoses to break apart the mob. Later, many of the parents were taken away in squat cars, and students were forced to use what little remaining financial aid they had to bail them out. After the trio had taken the books and money to various locations they had to use the trucks to collect their childhood valuables off their parents’ lawns, where they had been abandoned, before the crazies of suburbia began to crawl out of the word works to pick apart the dead reminisces of childhood like vultures.  To them it was the sweet smell of success sweeter than the smell of must, paper, glue and ink. They were heroes, trailblazers, and that in itself was enough satisfaction to patch the twinges of disappointment and guilt the scene caused them. It was more to them than any memory they could muster up from their childhoods past.

                “I guess our parents were right.” Raymond said.

                Startled, George threw the only doll she had ever owned on the pavement, and its porcelain face shattered on the cement. “What are you crazy? No, we proved if we put our head together we can accomplish anything! Isn’t that enough? After we began this it stopped being about proving a point, it was about doing something greater than just doing something for ourselves.”

                “I only meant that we’ll probably have to live in cardboard boxes this summer. I know a great viaduct, near a field of daffodils.” Raymond replied, as the friends giggled grabbed things to finish loading the truck. Then George got really serious for a moment.

                “No need for that, I got a job, from someone at the rally. I’ve also found an apartment; we’re going after we’re done here to sign the lease. Rent is one me until you guys can find something. Do be quick about it, I’m not a fricken Vanderbilt.” Connie and Raymond stood in front of George in awe and just stared for a moment, “SURPRISE!” she yelled in their face, and turned around to pick up the pieces of the doll off the pavement. The friends were silent, as the contemplated their next adventure, real life.