Michael Hobson Productions

ROLLING THUNDER

by

Michael G. Hobson

     Are we just going to sit here; me talking and you writing on that pad you’re holding? What if I don’t feel like talking? Everyone here keeps pushing me to talk. I mean, why should I? They don’t seem to understand that what happened happened and no amount of talking will change anything. Maybe I want to forget, did you think of that? Maybe I don’t want to think about it anymore. I don’t want to relive it. But that’s not what you want, is it? It’s not why you’re here? You want me to talk.

     I know you’re going to sit there, in that nice comfy chair, just like the others. But I hear you’re different. They said you were the best, that you’ve helped dozens of people. Helped them how? Helped them to talk?

     What if I attack you? They say I’m crazy and there’s nobody here to protect you. I know they’re watching from behind the glass, but that’s too far away. I could jump you, take your pen and stick it in your eye, or stab you in the throat. I could kill you a number of ways before they can save you. Doesn’t that concern you? You’re shifting in your chair. Are you nervous? Uncomfortable? Afraid? Ha. Gotcha.

     I don’t mean it. I’m not the violent type. Really. I’ve been told I have an active imagination, probably because I love reading books. I love stories. I feel safe when I’m inside a story; it’s my sanctuary. I have fun playing with people’s minds though. Especially here; the patient screwing with the doctor. I hope that doesn’t change the paper you’re going to write. That’s really why you’re here, isn’t it? To try and figure me out, publish a paper, go on tour, make some money. You’re not here to help me. You don’t give a damn about me. I’m just a victim destined to be lost in the system. But you want to write my story, maybe make us famous—like Truman Capote made those killers famous. Is that who you want to be? Truman Capote.

     I have a complaint, and since nobody around here seems to care I’m going to tell you; all I get is magazines. I don’t want magazines. I want books. I don’t want articles, I want stories. I remember one story—A Perfect Day for Bananafish. A man goes out for a walk on the beach, he meets this young girl, they talk, they have a nice time…it’s a nice normal day in the sun, until he goes home and shoots himself in the head. I love stories like that, a normal day turns tragic in a split second. How about you, Mr. Helped Dozens, can you get me some books? Can you do that for me? You know; we can make a deal. I’ll tell you my story and you somehow arrange to get me some books. And none of that grocery store crap; I can’t stand fake stories. I need to know what I’m reading is real. Can you do that? You can? Promise? Okay. Good.

    First thing you need to know—it wasn’t planned. It just happened. I reacted. Not nearly as interesting, am I right? It’s a much better story if you can dive into the details—follow the plan, track my thoughts, my actions, from beginning to end. It’s not nearly as interesting when I say that it just happened. Am I right? Not nearly as interesting. It was a nice normal day; that’s how the day began.

     You really aren’t going to say anything, are you? I’m getting a little tired of doing all the talking. Maybe I’ll just sit and be quiet. Wouldn’t that be interesting, if we just sat quietly for the hour? Or we can play a game—who can make the scariest face, or the funniest. The first one who blinks loses. Nah…that wouldn’t be interesting, would it?

     You know my sentence was reduced? That’s the agreement signed by my lawyer and the prosecuting attorney. My lawyer said it was the safest route.  Both he and my father said you can never tell what a jury decides. I wasn’t afraid of the jury. I never said I didn’t do it.

     Okay, so I can’t stay quiet. Silence is overrated anyway. To be honest with you, I’m lonely. There’s only my father to visit. There’s my lawyer, but I don’t consider him people. And the shrinks are boring; of course, its’s not like you’re a barrel of laughs. I’m not depressed. And I don’t feel regret. Let’s get that out of the way.

     I’m also not going crazy; I don’t hear a beating heart under the floor. I don’t see bananafish and I don’t want to blow my brains out. You guys need to stop thinking I’m going to kill myself. I like being alive. And you need to stop thinking I’m a killer…that I’m a danger to society. I know you need to be certain that I’m not a danger to myself or others before I can get my release—whenever that is. I just want you to know, I’m good.

     I wasn’t so good sitting in that cell after I was arrested though. I was nervous, scared of being in a small cage with seven strange men, and two mean looking women. I thought they separated the sexes. One man talked the whole time; talked to himself, the whole time I was there. I thought someone was going to kill him, but everyone kept their distance. People are always afraid of the unfamiliar. After a while the sound of the man’s voice calmed me down. He wasn’t old so it must have been drugs. Or maybe that’s how he showed his nervousness, by talking. Not me, when I’m nervous I’m quiet as a mouse. I was grateful for the talker though. He got all the attention. I just sat there and didn’t say a word, like I was invisible. Maybe that’s why I like to talk, so I don’t become invisible.

     I read that sometimes violence comes after drinking, like some kind of metamorphosis takes place—the mild-mannered guy turns into a monster. But that’s not our story. And sometimes it’s someone bitter about life, unhappy; feels trapped and is looking for an escape inside of a bottle, and then boom—they snap. That’s not our story either.

     Do I wish we led a normal life? Of course. Who wouldn’t? But what is normal? Do you know what normal is? You don’t talk to many normal people, do you? Other than those who pay you...maybe. I have friends…well, had friends, who live in nice homes and lead supposedly normal lives. Your home is supposed to be your sanctuary; the place you feel safest in a dangerous world. My friends; they had it, nothing ever happened in their homes. Maybe that’s the definition of normal—nothing happens.

     My mother and I were never close. We got along, mostly: and we had fun, sometimes, I think. She wasn’t an affectionate person. She didn’t know how. And she wasn’t much of a talker. I know, I tried. I asked her once if my father really wanted a boy. She said I was imagining it; that the books I was reading gave me ideas. Yes, they gave me ideas, they gave me answers too, just not to my most pressing question. I had to figure it out for myself.

     I don’t know why she was like that. I was a big baby when I was born and she said I caused some permanent damage inside. Maybe not being able to have more children affected her mood. I asked her about it once. You know what she said? She told me not to ask, so I never asked again. I asked my father; he said he wanted three children originally, but he was happy with one. Not like he had a choice.

     I know it frustrated him—me being a girl, him wanting a boy; knowing it was never going to happen. He wanted to do all those male things with his son...as if I couldn’t shoot a gun at the range, or go hunting, or hit a baseball. I spent so much time trying to impress him, trying to make him feel like having a girl wasn’t a bad thing. That I could do all the things a boy could. I used to bug him to take me hunting but he always said it wasn’t something for girls. Bah! After a while I got tired of trying to impress him. I think that frustrated him too.

     I love playing sports; basketball, baseball, hockey, soccer…I’m pretty good too. I play against the boys…when they let me. They don’t like it when I beat them. What’s the point of playing if you don’t play to win. I’m not interested in exercise or attending some kind of social gathering. I play to win. It’s not my fault I’m better. If they want to be better they should practice…and play hard. I have to insult them to make them play hard. They think playing a girl…that they need to take it easy on me. Fools.

     You know what’s strange? Those same boys who get upset when I beat them at sports; they turn around and ask me on a date, like the next day. So strange—boys and their hormones; angry one minute, excited the next. Talk about unstable. I’m not interested in dating. I’m not frigid or gay…I’m just not interested. My mother said, “You have the rest of your life to be an adult, stay a kid as long as possible.” I really believe that even though I never had the chance to be a kid.

     I remember one day my parents were arguing in the bathroom. They were loud. I heard my mother fall; I heard a bang; I heard her scream, then I heard her cry. My father barged out. I could see that she had hit her head on the toilet. Blood was dripping down her face. I was so scared I couldn’t move. I had never seen her like that. I heard my father drive away. He always went drinking after they argued. My mother asked for a towel but I couldn’t move. She kept yelling. Finally, I got a towel and tossed it to her. She slammed the door. She was in there for a long time. When she came out she had a black eye, a cut over her eyebrow, and a bruised cheekbone. She wouldn’t go to the hospital; she yelled at me when I suggested it.

     My mother liked to yell. If I got a poor grade she would yell. If my father was late for dinner she would yell. If we left stuff on the table, or on the counter, or if we left clothes on the bedroom floor, or if we didn’t empty the garbage…it didn’t matter, she would yell. We were two teams—me and my father on the receiving end of my mother’s constant yelling. She seemed happiest when she was yelling. I read in one of their magazines that some people are like that, happiest when they are miserable. And she hit my father. I didn’t find out until later; that day, she fell in the bathroom trying to punch him.

     I used to think all mothers were the same; that those happy mothers on television were fictional. I had no comparison. I mean, how do you ask someone—does your mother have a bad temper? Does she hit your father? Throw things? She once picked up a desk lamp and whacked him across the head—twice. He wouldn’t defend himself against her, and she knew it. And she wouldn’t drive him to the hospital afterward, he had to take a cab. I went with him. He had a concussion; told the doctor he tripped and banged his head on a table. The next day he’s still groggy but it didn’t matter, she threw the television remote at his head.

     I would ask him—why do you stay? He’d say—to protect me. I never felt that I was in danger. She never attacked me; she never hit me. It was always him. But he was afraid of the court system. He said it was heavily slanted toward the mother in custody battles. I told him my testimony would be enough. He said he couldn’t take that chance. What if he lost? Then he couldn’t protect me. I love my father but I don’t think he’s that smart. Maybe she knocked the sense out of him.

     I suppose you want to hear about that day. Like I said, it was a nice normal day. Other than me being in bed; I had a cold. My father was cooking soup for me. He came upstairs to check on me. We started talking; he forgot about the soup. We heard her yell so my father went downstairs. Maybe because I had a cold, I don’t know, but I was tired of hearing her yell. Then I heard him scream in pain. I got out of bed and went downstairs. He was on the floor, kneeling, rubbing his face. She had thrown the soup at him. His face was a horrible shade of red. I told my mother to get a wet towel, but she just kept yelling, told me to go back to bed. I was sick. I was tired. I was fed up. I went into my father’s office, found the key he thought was hidden, and opened two drawers—one to get the gun and the other to get the bullets. I put two in the chamber. I wasn’t planning on using the gun, I just wanted to scare her, make her stop yelling, but I couldn’t use the gun without bullets; she would see the empty chamber. I wanted the fear to be real. I walked into the kitchen and pointed the gun at her. She laughed. And then she yelled, and yelled, and yelled. I pulled the trigger. Like I said, I reacted.

     I remember the sound. So loud. Like an explosion. You know when there’s a thunderstorm approaching and you can hear the thunder in the distance…like it’s rolling across the sky. That’s what it sounded like…thunder rolling across the sky. I read that if you commit an insane act you don’t remember. I’m not insane, I remember everything. I remember my mother dropping to her knees, clutching her chest. I remember my father taking the gun from me. I remember my mother threatening to kill me as she fell to the floor. I remember her lying on the floor, blood gushing out of her chest. I remember my father kneeling on the floor beside her, crying, holding her.

     I wanted our pain to end. I failed.