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In the other corner weighing in at three hundred and twenty-eight pounds, Elvis Wickswired entered the program from Baton Rouge. I immediately had basic cable hooked up and talked to Tuck about the constant flow of porno in the common area. “You’ve gotta get your own box,” I told him.
“This ain’t mine?” he asked. The recording guys smoked a lot of pot. No, no, no I couldn’t smoke it no more, especially driving around in a truck overloaded with heavy water jugs, many of them glass, and basically making my living driving in a marked truck. I still enjoyed liquor straight and women with a twist. But I was counting on remembering what they taught me for all the money I was on the hook.
The six new film/video students entering the program in July included two young women, Betty and Veronica, in their twenties which was a welcomed balance since we would be working on two film projects as a group: One mid term short film and a final film project. The new group also included a nineteen year old diabetic, a high energy black teenager who claimed to have worked for Spike Lee and a seemingly normal kid named Fred in his mid twenties. Of course there was Elvis who moved in with Tuck and me. Elvis was so happy to be a part of a group and happy to have roommates in a nice apartment. Elvis was a happy kid with a big round faced smile and tiny sausage like fingers. “Thank you so much,” he said, “Jesus loves you.”
“Do we read the same Rolling Stone,” I asked.
THE UNCLASS
Being old in the RocknRoll University was not a good thing. I was already the enemy. The slacker generation hated their fathers, except for Elvis. My June classmates were Brian 29, Woodlee 21, Tom 23, Ben and Jerry. During the seminar things were hectic and I seldom ran into anyone in the chaos, and the times when I spent any time with anyone they complained about the school and the instructors and just about everything. After living alone for a long time, usually in my own head and story, it took a lot for anyone or anything to make an impact. The school was making an impact because it was a new adventure and I was enjoying the entire process. When we finally began our classes I was soon told that I was making an impact. One of the “Guidance counselors” approached me and said that I should watch my self. “There have been complaints about you,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“People don’t like you,” she said.
“And this is a problem?” I asked. “Haven’t you noticed that even those who claim to like one another aren’t very kind.”
“Just remember what I’m telling you,” she said, “they’re going to try to get rid of you.”
The summer wasn’t even over. This was a good thing. I was there to learn about the technical aspects of film making. But it certainly was the jungle and I didn’t really like most of what I saw going on but I felt I was learning new things; it was only my responsibility to do the work. One of the problems was the class projects took teamwork. I either observed or worked on every project of which I had gotten wind, an option at the RockNRoll Temple of Doom. There was only one project that made me very uncomfortable and that was when a ten year old actor, in the presence of his mother, amputated fingers and laughed hysterically for the camera while holding a bloody knife. Of course it was a fictional recreation but I thought it odd for film school and wondered about the future implications on this child’s psyche.
“It’s a movie,” I was told.
“It’s a student film,” I said, “should you be teaching this kid to be happy about dismemberment?” I said without a clue forgetting God and Country for the moment—An American Value.
Tuck was bounced out of the recording engineer school before the summer was over, owing me money, of course. Elvis was consistent in his rent though his consumption of peanut butter and baloney sandwiches was a bit unnerving. “Elvis, Jesus never ate baloney and peanut butter sandwiches.”
“What do you know, you don’t even go to church,” he said. Elvis went every Sunday.
“They say public prayers in this school and have kids dismembering people. Isn’t there something odd about that? And about that Jesus thing—Elvis, it’s another manipulation by a group of phonies.” And I still loved the school with all of its contradictions.
That was it. Elvis hated me.
Mr. J was missing his payments and I was in trouble going into Autumn. “What’s wrong,” I asked. “Junior isn’t doing that well with your old route so I can’t pay you right now.” I had to find a way to make money. I called on an old alter ego, Rupert, and I applied for a job at Yellow Taxi in Orlando.