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First
of all, his name wasn't Vinnie. Hell, he wasn't even Italian. He did claim
to have connections to the mob, but then again, everybody in northern
New Jersey did, especially teenagers who didn't have the money of the
kids from the north end of my town but didn't have the caché of the really
tough kids the town down. I remember that I wrote a semifictional story
once, which, as with most young authors' stories, was merely myself and
my friends put into a slightly idealized situation, in which this particular
friend's part was filled by a character named Vinnie. But whether he got
the nickname from the character or I named the character after his nickname,
I don't remember.
Second
of all, I didn't really kill him, either, so don't go thinking this is
some kind of confession and get out the dogs or anything. He's still out
there living, as far as what he calls living goes. To tell the truth,
if Vinnie can be said to have been murdered, it was done by that
evil duo of Washington and Hollywood, and I don't even vote or watch TV
much anymore… but I'll get to that.
In
fact, when you come right down to it, even my part in what I'm calling
murder wasn't anything that I could be blamed for. I mean, I was only
trying to figure myself out and become a better person. So what if I didn't
have a clue what that meant back then… I thought I did, and I had good
intentions. Those things have to count for something, anyway.
Like
I said, Vinnie and I were from the south side of a middle-class town that
ran from the highway to New York, where all the little houses were packed
together so you could practically shake the hand of your neighbor out
the window, to the road that ran past the mall and the high school that
we shared with the town to the north, which was even richer than the north
end of our town.
The
local school system was set up so that three elementary schools, two in
my town and one in the town to the north, fed into one junior high school
and then the high school, so of course each grade school became known
for producing only a handful of student types, which, to the extent that
they were based on anything, were the result of the strangely rapid increase
in annual household income from south to north. As my world expanded and
I began to ride my bike almost to the north end of the northern town to
glide by rich girls' houses, it often seemed to me that a better math
student than myself would be able to deduce a formula to describe our
community based upon latitude on one end of the equal sign and square
footage on the other. This is not to say that each house was exactly an
increment bigger than the previous (or smaller as I went home), but that
the one-floor homes near my apartment complex petered off into small split-level
houses, which gradual lost themselves in two-story houses, which blended
into two- or three-story mansions and houses that were so uniquely opulent
that they defied description by the usual terms.
These
last always confused me, when I got older and began actually going inside
them, and I sometimes became lost trying to find bathrooms or exits or
some such thing during parties to which I hadn't been invited and at which
I probably wasn't welcome, though I didn't even have the social standing
to be able to understand the subtle signals to leave. Not that I could
have left, mind you, because I would have probably gotten lost walking
in the yard or driving down the driveway. But I would be lying if I didn't
give due credit for both my lack of observation and my confusion to the
increased likelihood of my being drunk in these rich houses, an admission
that leads me back very well to the point that I thought I had been about
to make about a page ago: that each grade school contributed only a handful
of stereotypes to the high school.
I won't
go into the stereotypes of the girls in my community because I'm not sure
I understood them entirely. To be honest, all of the girls seemed out
of my reach for so many years that I feel absolved of any shame for not
having paid much attention to whether they were from the south (where
they were supposedly easy or prudish, a distinction which could be made,
with fair accuracy, by block), from the north (where they had already
either learned to practically prostitute themselves to the college-age
sons of wealthy grownups or been taught that they were too precious for
anybody short of the President, or at least a Senator, to touch), or from
the appropriately situated middle. The problem with stereotyping the girls
was that, apart from general guidelines, their groupings were much too
subtle for most adolescent guys to discern. (I only know what I do of
them by my being taken, by some strange circumstance that could only be
that I was, for some humiliating reason, not threatening to them, into
some of their confidences.)
The
guys, however, broke simply, and with a remarkable degree of accuracy,
into their groups. Families of the far north raised snobs. Oh, there were
druggy snobs, athlete snobs, academic snobs, nice snobs, mean snobs, white
snobs, green snobs… but, with a few exceptions, all united by their snobbiness.
A categorization once laid forth by the humor columnist for the school
paper (a young man from my side of town) used the euphemism "the popular
guys." The boys of the moderately-incomed households in the middle made
up the jock spectrum, perhaps owing to their having enough money to avoid
some time-consuming troubles, such as child labor or the even more insidious
depressed-parent syndrome, but not enough to forgo playing outside. My
end of town produced two distinct stereotypes: the nerds and the tough(ish)
kids. Perhaps the former picked up their habits from parents who may have
been determined to move north a block or two and the latter developed
behavior that was in keeping with the harsher realities of their lives
(and, again, by example of their parents).
Of
course, all categories have outliers, so I can only attest to these guidelines
as true on average. Every school had "inbetweeners," and since our grade
school had two male stereotypes that weren't as polarized by block as
their female counterparts, there were those who were even more drastically
"inbetween," which, as may be inferable by my being a writer/drinker and
Vinnie's being a very smart kid who also claimed to have mafia connections,
included me and Vinnie. As a result, neither of us felt entirely comfortable
with anybody, and so we became the best of friends.
The
problem with being inbetweeners is that you can't compete, in degree,
with any of those people who devote themselves wholeheartedly to one state
of being or another, so you end up competing and both Vinnie and
I were very competitive with each other. This, in turn, brings
the problem that, since there are really no stiff boundaries to inbetweenness,
there can be no objective point of judgment. What I mean is that, young
men who were of the nerd set had, at some point, decided (or been told)
that academics and, more specifically, grades mattered, so those could
be used as points of comparison. Tough kids could fight; jocks could hold
athletic competitions; snobs… well I guess snobs could snub each other
until one began to feel he could no longer afford to snub the other; but
me and Vinnie were drawn into competition with each other by our very
dislike of being hemmed in by a given set of rules of competition.
I think
it would be fair to say now that I'm getting to what it was I wanted
to say in the first place that Vinnie took advantage of this loophole
much more than I did. If I could demonstrate that my grades were better,
he could profess that he did not abide by that largely arbitrary, at our
level of thinking (by our thinking at the time), measurement. If I proved
to be a better soccer player than he was, he could sock me in the jaw,
if I gained the upper hand in a fist fight, he could claim morality. If
I presented witnesses to testify to my being more handsome, he could explain
that he had had sex at a ridiculously young age. And so on, and so on.
One
quality to which Vinnie could always retreat when necessary during our
but-I-am-and-you-are debates was perceived popularity. Of course, I never
had the heart (because it would swing too nearly to a painful truth) to
go so far as to suggest that his working at a grocery store, and thus
being able to buy huge amounts of chewing gum to hand out at recess, contributed
to the way in which he was treated by our peers.
But
I go dangerously close to taking advantage of the fact that I am the writer
and Vinnie is not here to defend himself. There is no denying that he
was more popular than I was, in almost any way the question might be handled.
I don't know whether it was that some of the more popular girls in our
grade school took a liking to his waifishness and lifted him a couple
rungs up the ladder or that he did, in fact, possess some innate quality
that made him more likable than me. I imagine the truth is somewhere in
between all of the possibilities, most of which would be properly phrased
in his favor.
One
of the more ambiguous factors that probably contributed to the disparity
between our relative popularities was my desperate flinging of myself
against life. At a very early age, I began to struggle with truth and
meaning. I wanted to live in a deeper sense than I think I would
have been able to verbalize at the time so I tested various behaviors,
postures, and philosophies within the context of my school (i.e., my reality).
Needless to say both that my experiments very rarely resulted in the expected
reactions and that my fellow students began to think me strange. The latter
result I attribute less to my constant shifting of personalities, because
I don't think I changed my core behaviors all that much, than to my being
intrinsically different than the other kids; the former, I feel confident
in deducing, came about simply because the other children were neither
grown-ups nor superheroes.
But
perhaps the key difference between myself and Vinnie was that he had,
at some point, settled the question of individuality's value for himself,
while I was still not sure where individuality might cross the line into
dangerous behavior. For Vinnie, there was no such ambiguity. He was fiercely
individual, to the point at which the fact that nobody was behaving in
a certain way was enough of a void for him to squeeze himself into the
gap that was left, regardless of the wisdom of those who avoided the behavior.
For example, when we were younger and nobody would eat live ants, Vinnie
would be the only "individual" to snatch a handful and chew them up, proclaiming
afterwards how "cool" the feeling was and how good they tasted.
I think,
too, that the issue of individuality between Vinnie and me could be consolidated
into the image of a rope on which we both pulled in different directions
until we ended up swinging past, over, and under each other… when we were
able to keep our feet, that is. Vinnie's insistence on individuality,
and his apparently pursuant acceptance by "the group," as our fellow students
might be called, tugged me into attempts at self validation that often
bordered on dangerous due to my half-hearted participation.
As
I think about it now, however, I think it might make for a more accurate
symbol to say that Vinnie stood in place with a stubborn grip on his end
of the rope while I flailed about trying to test the strength of his position,
because, as far as my memory's eye can see, my hesitation to dive into
individuality never had any effect on Vinnie. To my knowledge, he never
envied anything about me, while I made no effort to conceal the aspects
of his life, even those that were entirely external, that I admired. Yes,
now that I look back, I can't find a single instance of his ever supporting
my trials to the extent that he put me ahead of himself in anything, while
I, even in putting him down, tacitly acknowledged his advantages.
The
thing of it was that, having been privy to quieter moments of reflection
on Vinnie's part, I could see where his public "persona" (said with a
chuckle to remind myself that I'm talking about grade-school children,
here) was not necessarily in keeping with what I had assessed to be his
personality. Perhaps this is what prolonged my hesitation to become a
fanatical individual and, in turn, saved me from Vinnie's ultimate fate.
What
I mean by this is that Vinnie became the archetypal example of how individuality
has been perverted into the mechanical rabbit that keeps us all running
about the course at a dictated speed. This is to say that individuality,
or the concept of it, has been made into the ultimate marketing tool
it has turned us from the structures and gradual progressions that
can be the only means of achieving anything approaching true individuality:
individuality that is defined by arriving somewhere that no one else can
follow, exactly, but all can appreciate.
In
the context of Vinnie and myself, the problem was and the reason
that I feel what guilt over his "death" that I do that I was trying
to find individuality in proximity to the prescribed structures of the
pack. I was pushing the rules to test their durability so that I might
place the weight of my growth upon them and reach for new heights. But
this is like maneuvering across a series of overlapping tightropes in
that to fall might mean a plummet into either a rabid meaninglessness
or a tame homogeneity. Moreover, all of that pushing against rules and
theories and philosophies is a painful business, especially among so many
others laying all value on establishing themselves in the hierarchy, and
even more especially at those tender teenage ages at which nothing, even
the bases of reality, makes sense.
So
the reason that Vinnie's choices were my fault is that I played a significant
role in the combination of his being told by the world that living was
living by the rules and the only way to remain himself an individual
was to avoid those rules and my apparently fruitless experiment
within the rules. I looked at whatever we were learning at the time as
a step toward finally "knowing" (naïve as I was), and he saw it as part
of an endless series of arbitrarily "valuable" trivia that helped to define
individuals only through its being avoided. Seeing me toppled and chewed,
Vinnie resolved that it made more sense to be as a lone wolf.
Perhaps
you agree with him; to be honest, given the information that each of us
had at the time, his was a more sound and more intellectually plausible
argument that I would take up tinkering with much later on. The problem
was that Vinnie put too much emphasis on the "avoiding" part of his conclusion
and not enough on considering the "arbitrarily valuable" part. In short,
for a boy who would eat ants simply because he was told not to, being
told to do school work, or any other activity intended for self
improvement, could not do otherwise than thrust him into a life of counterproductive
activities.
Of
course, we were not old enough to figure out, for ourselves, what we would
rather be doing with our time than studying, just as a newly wild dog
will not know how to hunt effectively. This confluence of circumstances,
our ages, our lack of ideas concerning what we might do with our time,
and a hunter with a slab of raw meat in the form of a large-scale, multibillion-dollar
marketing ploy dangling nifty gadgets led Vinnie to cease to exist as
a person and to become a dependent, a follower, and a demographic. Once
he had starved himself into susceptibility, he was given products
games, movies, music, drinks, drugs that the rule makers, themselves,
used to perpetuate his servility by telling him that they broke the rules.
And they told him this because the products that break the rules are easy
to make and hyper-replaceable like homogeneous pop stars all feigning
discontent and counter-culturality.
In
short, we were in such competition that, when I was having a horridly
difficult time finding a way to really live in a meaningful way, Vinnie
sought to out-do me by flaunting the ease with which he was able to discard
my apparently petty concerns by living virtually and by proxy. This, it
should be noted, was before the term "virtual reality" became en vogue
and after the meaning of the word proxy had been entirely forgotten by
the mass consciousness.
And
so Vinnie became a virtual bastion of individuality by becoming ensnared,
to fill the free time of his rebellion, in movies first and then computer
games and then the Internet so that his individuality subtly became programmed
and limited to the roles that his habits prescribed for him. He would
play the role, in the most limited sense possible, of a character in a
game or fantasize about living like people on the television or even in
a handful of science fiction novels. It followed, quite naturally, that
to keep himself in character (by being able to buy the things from which
he derived his characters), he defaulted to a money-making cog in the
great machine. Vinnie became the manager of a record store in a mall,
a job, even, which mirrored one that I had worked previously to answer
both my need for money and the desire to learn what I could, in my limited
scope, about the music industry, of which I wanted to be a part as a musician.
I never became a manager, though.
You're
possibly thinking that I'm being too hard on Vinnie, or at least that
I deserve more blame than I'm apparently willing to claim. I guess you
might even be blaming me but believe me to have left something out that
would really show the redness of my hands because you may not understand
why I should feel guilty. Most likely, though, you probably don't see
why I feel any guilt at all because Vinnie is not really dead. So let
me explain, as briefly as I'm able, why the forces that were acting on
Vinnie were much too strong for me to fend off for him, let alone create.
First
of all, you have to consider that, from Vinnie's point of view, he had
everything he could possibly want: games, videos, a television, a stereo,
a car, and money enough for beer, cigarettes, and McDonald's. With such
a limited goal of "not doing what I'm told I should be doing," Vinnie
was easily able to amass a hoard of those types of things that would allow
him to say, "Look, I haven't followed the rules, and I've still got everything
that following the rules is supposed to get you." And, in a limited sense,
he was correct.
But,
in my opinion (though I won't go too far into this murky topic), there's
much more to be gained by knowing the rules well enough to play with and
bend them, and it doesn't have anything to do with television or its abetting
gadgets in fact, it's quite the opposite. I can think of nothing
more entertaining, and even, ultimately, beneficial to the world, than
thinking and creating the very activities that the dull passivity
of "entertainment" is meant to allay. But my thinking while remaining
within the rules enough to not be dismissed outright by my extreme individuality
makes me a clog in the economic pipe.
Here's
the crux of my theory, though it's really not what I wanted to be talking
about: the aristocracy won whatever subtle philosophical battle was going
on over the past however-long, and dreams of a cyber utopia are sham.
The oligarchists and royalty, in the name and guise of capitalism, have
figured out, and now have the technology to make more productive the strategy
of, rather than suppressing the larger community and taking a luxurious
leadership by force, giving the rabble exactly what they want just
making sure that we all want exactly what we're told to want.
So
I murdered Vinnie, and I'll take all the blame if it can't be dispersed
among all those with whom it belongs, because I failed to save him. In
fact, I followed him down the path far enough to lend a sort of implicit
approval. His death from reality is my fault, even if only to the extent
that I've perpetuated the practices of his prison, which means that there
are those who are far more guilty than I. And even those who are not at
the end of the huge money-funnels, with all the Gateses and Turners and
a thousand others who prefer to shy from the truth-revealing spotlight,
are to blame. All those who do no more than exist within and use the machinations
of virtual death without even giving thought to the ripples of effect
that their activities and corresponding apathy send lapping into society
are the real and ultimate criminals. But of course they don't give thought
to it because to give it thought is to see its horror.
And
we ignore the horror so fully that we've even got Vinnie unknowingly playing
the central role in his own murder. His reward will be a tombstone reading
"Manager" and an epitaph of "thank you for shopping." That is, of course,
until we pave right over his grave.
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