Apple-gate

Joe Swanson                                                                     1056 Words

Eugene Or. 97401

joebswanson@hotmail.com

Apple-Gate

Apple-gate

“You ever see that movie about this guy who is the character someone is writing a book about. His life is directed by the author. This guy believes that she is making him do things he wouldn’t normally do, and can hear her dictating his life to the typewriter. Interesting concept I thought. Not too far fetched really. Our lives are all, more or less, guided by someone or something we don’t realize is guiding us. Not that they are writing about us necessarily, but their actions push us in one direction or another. Same kind of thing.”

“I really don’t have time to self-diagnose the possibility that I’m being manipulated by someone or something out there. I promised James I’d get him a pumpkin today. We are going to carve it this weekend for Halloween. I also thought if we were going to the farm stand, we’d pick some apples. Nothing like a nice cinnamon apple pie to go with hot chocolate, marshmallows, and peanut butter. What do you say? Want to come. It will be fun, promise.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got allergies, but you know that. Going out this time of year, is like asking to be accosted by every piece of fluff out there. The grasses, the… well everything. It’s like I’m going to a gun fight with a knife, as they say. It’s not very appealing if you must know.”

“Well, I’m going. Come if you want. I got some allergy medicine in the cabinet if it will help, but I promised James a pumpkin, and I promised myself some apple pie, so I’m going.”

I never really know if he’s just using that allergy stuff for an excuse or whether it really controls him that much. I know they have medicines that help with that kind of thing. I know I’m lucky, don’t suffer from any of those things. 

I did see that movie. I liked it. I liked the idea that the tax guy was being directed by a complete stranger. He was right about being influenced by things we neither see, nor even know are there. I wonder if that would be possible; control someone’s behavior by writing or just thinking about them and how they live their lives. It would be like you were God, pulling the puppet strings, putting thoughts in their heads.

I kind of do that now. I leave James notes about things I want him to do. He doesn’t like it when I confront him directly about anything really. He gets all nervous, like he’s guilty before I even accuse him of anything. And I don’t accuse him really. I suggest changes in behavior, because I believe it’s in his best interest to learn how to co-op with other people. Usually about things like picking up his clothes, putting away his basketball, little things, but they add up to a mess, and dangerous even. 

His father was like that. He seemed to live in a bubble, just him. He didn’t seem to see that his actions impacted those around him, especially me. I just don’t understand how someone can criticize others or their actions and then do the same things themselves and think nothing of it. He complained about Roger, our neighbor, and how he had to cut his grass every Sunday morning, rain, or shine. Come to find out after he got into it with Roger about the noise, and him not being able to sleep in, that Roger worked six days a week and felt obligated to keep his yard up for the good of the neighborhood, and that was the only free time he had. His wife, Janett, told me about the disagreement. I tried to explain it to Tim, but he said that was a bunch of garbage, just an excuse for getting back at him for playing music too loud on Saturdays.

Tim is the kind of guy who thinks everyone likes the kind of music he does. He’d go out in the back yard, pull out his lawn chair lounge thing, and crank up the tunes, as he calls them. Roger and Janett are older. They liked to listen to Jazz and the Public Radio News in the quiet and comfort of their own living room, she told me. I tried to explain it to Tim, but he said it was a free country and a person could do what he liked in his own yard. Free country, he was fond of saying that whenever anyone challenged him about anything.

No! I don’t want James growing up thinking he can do what ever he wants no matter the effect it has on other people. There has to be some decorum if we are to get along. We have to give up some of our freedom when it impacts others. It got so bad for awhile that even old Roger got out his chair and sat in his back yard playing Coltrane and Monk, as loud as his old boom box could get. Janett and I had to put a stop to that, Bill, and Grace on the other side of us complained to the police, and when they showed up everything seemed to calm down for a bit. I still talk to Janett, but Roger and Tim hadn’t said two words since the cops left, and that went on for a couple of months before I asked Tim to leave. Janett and I still talk when Roger isn’t around.

I just think it’s important for people to consider other people in what they do. I don’t want James to grow up to be one of those people who just does whatever and doesn’t consider how his behavior effects other people. I put a note on his bed about how making your bed every morning, is a discipline. Everyone needs discipline. Without it, there can be no order, and without order, there can be no civility, and then we all end up like Tim and Bill.

“Here, try this, if you think you might want to come to the farm stand and help get a pumpkin and some apples. I make a really good pie. My grandmother taught me this trick with sour cream, chocolate bits, marshmallows, and of course, peanut butter.”

“What’s with the peanut butter?”