Delusions of Honesty

Over the weekend, Stanislaw had taken to wearing his rapier in public, and it was causing a great deal of commotion at Herbert Hoover High School on Monday morning. Caterwauling greeted Dean Keating as he entered the front office - "He came in wearing a SWORD!", "He was threatening you to a duel!", "Mr. Buckner is here and he's furious!"

Visibile behind glass, Stanislaw sat alone in the detention room, drumming a beat onto the table, dressed very much like an eighteenth century pirate. He noticed Keating and waved, patronizingly. Keating exhaled deeply and walked into his office, where sat Principal Buckner, holding aloft a large fencing sword. He bellowed - "EXPULSION! That is now our only option. He has outlived his stay at my school."
"Please let me talk to him."
"Talk to him?!" Buckner thundered, "He is beyond talk. He must be taken very seriously and we must stop him before his crimes can multiply."
"Sir, he is having problems."
"Thank you doctor! I couldn't tell, what with the pirate vagabond look coming back in vogue. It's totally preposterous."
"His brother just died in Iraq."
Buckner harrumphed and set the rapier on Keating's desk.
"This I was unaware of," he mumbled. "Huh. Well, I'll let you talk to him and then we'll see if a suspension isn't enough for now. But I'm still convinced the sooner we're rid of him, the better." Buckner stood and marched out of the office.

Keating made his way to the detention room, where Stanislaw had taken liberty to partially disrobe and sprawl across the table. "Get your stuff and come to my office, please," he said.

"I want to know why I am being held against my will - is this Guantanamo?"
"You brought a sword to school. Now get up, let's talk."
"Our enemies are innovative and resourceful... They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we. Know who said that?"
"Yes, I do. And he never brought a sword to class at Yale. Now get your stuff, get fully dressed, and come into my office please."
Stanislaw sat up.
"Don't you understand that insurrection is near? Where's that philistine fucking retard Buckner? Where is my property?"
"He's gone, let's go."

They went into Keating's office and he closed the door. Stanislaw sat down across from the desk and reached for the rapier. Keating snatched it away and placed it in the corner of the room before seating himself in the executive leather chair. "That will remain there," he said.

The two stared at each other.
"How's life, Stan?"
"Don't call me that."
"C'mon, Stan. Stan the man."
"Stan is dead. Only Stanislaw now. The first condition of immortality is death."
"So let me get this right - you're a revolutionary poet who dresses like an extra from Mad Max. Am I missing anything?"
"Some like to understand what they believe in. Others like to believe in what they understand."
Keating took out a pad of paper from his desk.
"Let me write that down," he said, "That's special."
"More where that came from. How about this one - 'Forget this Great Depression - let's all go to Europe!' Know who said that?"
"Let me guess - Bob Hope?"
"Wrong. Herbert Hoover, our fearless shiteating namesake. When can I have my rapier back?"

Keating made note of this expletive - the young Stan Jankowski's second in as many minutes - on his pad, and looked up at the teenager with something resembling pity.
"Stan, I'm sorry about what happened to your brother."
"In a war of ideas, it is people who get killed," Stanislaw recited.
"And I understand that you're going through a rough period..."
"Your ignorance is encyclopedic."
"... but it's imperative that I state that we can't really have you dressing this way, and we certainly can't have you bringing weapons to school."
"Just because I wanted a duel? Do you know that men used to wear these everywhere? Rapier literally means 'dress sword.' It was a status symbol."
"Well, now it's called a lawsuit. Or worse."

Stanislaw titled his head back, feigning great exasperation.
"You know, I know who you're quoting," said Keating, "I was halfway educated once upon a time. Stanislaw Jerzy Lec. I took an Eastern European Literature course sophomore year... how about, 'Mankind deserves sacrifice - but not of mankind.'"
"Is this where you tell me that you see a lot of yourself in me, and you want to help me reach my potential? Because honestly..."
"Not exactly. But to torture a man, you have to know his pleasures."
"Stop appropriating my favorite shit, man!"
"Look, the point is, I know you're a good guy. Exceptional student. You even ran track last year, right? This is a tough time, and the questions don't ever get any easier. And I want you to know, I know what it feels like for you."
Stanislaw stood fiercely upright, thrusting his chest forward.
"Gimme that sword back so I can thrust it into your dead yuppie heart."
He lunged forward, quite unprepared, and Keating grabbed the boy by his shoulders, easily wrestling him to the floor. They wrestled awkwardly into the wall, and back near the chair that Stanislaw had leapt from. While they clenched each other aside the desk, Keating said into the boy's ear, "I lost my brother in Vietnam, 1971." It sounded like something from another voice, something he hadn't practiced saying in a long time. Stanislaw let go.

"That's right," Keating said, brushing wrinkles from his shirt.
Stanislaw stood up. "I don't believe it." he said.
"Do you think you're the only one that's lost anything?"
"Whatever."
"You want to hear one of my favorite quotes?"
"Not really."
"It goes like this. 'If everyone demanded peace instead of another television set, then there'd be peace.' Guess who said that? Lennon. The singer, not the reformer."
"Imposter," Stanislaw looked right into Keating's eyes. "Are you lying to me?"
"Want to hear another quote? It goes 'you're expelled.' I'll give you one guess."

Stanislaw the boy pirate had reached a standstill. He sat down and put his head in his hands out of frustration, but suddenly tears erupted from his eyes. They were everywhere. They came before he could stop them. For some ridiculous reason, all that came to his mind as he cried was the time his brother Jake had, in a rage, thrown a basketball at him from point blank range over a disputed foul call. When he had tried to catch the ball, one of his fingers snapped back straight and broke, tearing two ligaments right off the bone. He could only remember this awful moment for the reaction on his brother's face, a look that he would never forget, a look as vacant and helpless and dumb as slaughtered prey. It shattered his glory.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Keating.
Stanislaw didn't look up.
"I think it's important that you articulate your loss, Stan. You don't just let it build."
"He was an asshole. OK? My brother. He wasn't a great warrior or anything like that. He was just another fucking guy. An idiot following orders."
"Most of us are."
"Well, that's not how it's going to be for me. I'm embarassed for him and for the whole system. Nobody has any idea what's going on."
"I tell you what, mix in some normal twenty-first century clothing, ditch the fantasies you are hiding behind, and become your own person and not just a memorization of someone else. Then you can judge."
"Better than listening to people today. Who are people supposed to be today?"
"You want to talk, come see me. You'd be surprised how much I hate people too. Now in the meantime, please do your best to assimilate, at least until the end of the day. You can pick up your sword after school."

He stood to leave and right before he was at the door, Stanislaw said, "Don't forget. A dream will always triumph over reality, once it is given the chance. I like that one."

posted by ZHorton at 10:40 AM