The Back of the Book

The Back of the Book

I have read the back of the book and the good news is we win. There is another lesson that can be learned from the back of the book as well – things are not always what they appear to be.

* * *

My younger boy, Micah, was rough. Blame it on his dad, me, who was not there during his formative years. I separated from his mother when his age was still in the single digits. As a result, in the years that followed, he skipped school at times, didn’t study much, if at all, and tried to get in with the wrong crowd. Now, he and I both are paying for those lapses. Some 10 years after the divorce, I had the opportunity to visit with him.

* * *

The room where he stayed was one of four block rooms which sat two on each side of a large corridor. There was a communal dining area near one end of the corridor and a kitchen beyond that. The room doors of the occupants in each room opened at 5:45am, and the residents popped out as if on cue, sleepy eyed, ready or not to begin that day’s routine. They marched out to meet other residents of other rooms of similar arrangement to perform morning drills and instruction.

The physical distance between our respective locations was great and consequently I was able to visit Micah only at certain times, and it was not nearly enough…maybe twice a year. On this particular visit I was permitted to observe his living conditions while he went about his daily activities.

His room was about 8 feet by 8 feet. As I walked into the space, there was a small door to the right that led to the toilet area. This too, was communal. It seemed there was no area that was just his. Backing out of the toilet area I was in his room again. There was a very small closet on my right that held his ‘uniforms’. Micah’s room was in the Deep South. Consequently, he usually wore t-shirts and shorts, the same as the residents of the other rooms.

His bed sat upon cinder blocks; that way he could put his more personal belongings under his bed and make use of that normally ‘empty space’. After all, space was very limited here. The bedspread was a plain navy blue, no flowers or animated characters, and lay rumpled. He had been trained to be tidier but somehow he got away with the messiness of leaving his bunk unmade.

On the opposite wall from the door to the toilet room, adjacent to the closet, was a window with a black curtain hanging over it. Was it so no one could see in or so he couldn’t see out? It wasn’t clear. The carpet was black, like the window covering. Outside those walls people met, laughed, came and went in their sports cars and four wheel drive vehicles. Sometimes they tossed a ball or even hollered to the others inside. Micah couldn’t participate – his ‘assignments’ kept him in his room. Under the black curtained window was a boom box. It was new and a prize possession in a prime location for this occupant. It sat in contrast to an older one that, for some reason he didn’t want to discard. Perhaps he didn’t want to let go of all of his past. The room didn’t speak and the resident was not there when I took the tour. He was in the arena.

On the last wall, narrower than the others due to the entrance, was a small chest of drawers and a simple desk made of compressed plywood. The chest and desk were a dirty white color, and gave the room a very plain feeling. On his desk was an old computer. The Internet connection never worked when he wanted it to and when it did it was slow. Very slow. Time dragged on here, and it seemed appropriate.

Micah was permitted to put up posters. From corner to corner of the ceiling on a short part that hung down just over his bunk there were posters of surfers; pictures actually that were torn from magazines. The ocean called from just a couple of miles away – it invited him to partake in the activities depicted in these posters which showed what he most likely would rather be doing. But for now he had to endure. He had been assigned to this room for two years and still had more than one year to go on his commitment. The first things I noticed in his room and the last things I am describing hung prominently on the wall above his bed. Spike-haired Hideki of X-Japan was strumming a guitar and screaming. The colors were in black and white (what else?). Micah was ‘made in Japan.’ His mother is Japanese and his father is American. The baby boomer dad in me hoped that only the music had influenced Micah and not also the lifestyle of this punk rock singer. The other poster indicated his real passion: Matt Biondi, America’s record holder for the most swimming medals in all Summer Olympics combined. The outline of the picture was thick black. In the center was deep blue water. Biondi wearing a cap with the Olympic logo etched on the left side, was gasping for breath mid-stroke, doing the butterfly. At the bottom was written – “Victory is when 10,000 hours of preparation meet with one moment of opportunity.”

* * *

Later that night Micah slapped the water hard and grimaced before letting out a scream. He jumped but went nowhere because the water was too deep for his feet to reach bottom. I flew across the country, from California to Florida to see him in this agony, or was it ecstasy. In truth, I was quite happy to be there.

“Papa, I won!” he whispered loudly in my ear as we embraced. I didn’t mind at all the wetness from his body getting on my dry clothes.

Those days were happy days. The arena Micah was participating in was a pool and the circumstances were the national college swim championships. Micah won again and again and came away with two gold medals, one individual, and one relay. Add to that a silver medal and a bronze medal and what fun!

I had been hanging out in his col

lege dorm room.