Peter McFeely

E. A. D. G. D. The strings bounced as Jacob’s fingers danced along the fretboard, enacting the rhythm his brain recited. With his back turned, the dancing fans could not see that Jacob’s eyes were closed. Nor could they see his lips mouthing the sound of each note as it pulled tight and bounced off the polished wood as it was released. Had they been able to, they may have mistaken Jacob as a possessed being, moving in trance like the evangelicals who seek out the help of preachers in shoulder-padded suits on cable television, desperate to alleviate some long suffering through a transcendent experience. E. A. D. G. D. He weaved in and out of the speakers, cables and half drunk plastic cups of beer which littered the tiny stage like landmines; he charted a course which circumnavigated less than it orbited, padding a small series of repeated steps. E. A. D. G. D. The order in which his brain told his fingers to pluck. Yet his brain could as easily have been repeating the grades so frequently delivered in school and inside fat blood-red imperfect circles.

–

He sat outside the office, dangling his feet from the chair. The carpet was made up of synthetic tiles and the square in front of his seat was worn thin from the shoes of older boys who shuffled nervously as they awaited the Principal. Jacob picked at the strings of fabric protruding from the arm of the chair, his predecessors having stripped it to within threads of nudity at the same time as they derobed the floor tiles. He could not pick out words as easily as strings of fabric, but he could hear the anger in his mother’s voice as it slipped around the edges of the textured glass which sat in the upper half of the door. It seemed to be a one way argument, for the low tones he paired with the tall man’s kind face did not chase his mother’s words as they escaped the room. The door raced inwards, the dirty brass knob sending vibrations through the whole frame, as his mother flung it from her grasp. “Come on Jacob, we’re leaving.” “Mrs. Jones,” Jacob heard the deep voice for the first time since his mother had arrived and stormed through the door, stopping only to say don’t worry, Jacob, none of this is your fault. In truth, Jacob wasn’t sure of what he was being accused and the escalation of the short conversation behind the marbled glass had done little to reassure him that he was not at fault. “Mrs. Jones. We genuinely believe this is the best thing for Jacob. It will help him in the long-run.” The sentence was laced with compassion and a resignation that it would be ignored. Belying her stout frame, Jacob’s mother spun on her heel with grace a ballerina would envy. “You will not treat my son like this!” Her finger jabbed the air to emphasise each word. “Just because your teachers can’t do their jobs properly.” “Mrs. Jones,” the Principal lowered his voice as if Jacob were somehow unable to hear certain octaves at which only adults could communicate, “this isn’t optional. We have to see Jacob achieve a certain standard before he can progress.” Jacob heard the exchange without understanding, but now he questioned whether there really was a unique adult tone which his ears could not detect, the human equivalent of a dog whistle, for his mother’s mouth hung open and yet neither a shriek nor roar could he hear. She grabbed Jacob by the hand, pulling him clean over the empty tile and away from the decaying chair. “In that case, Jacob will not be attending this school.” The fierceness of her voice cut through the cold corridor, bouncing off steel pipes which hissed as hot water escaped them. Once more she performed the about turn, pirouetting Jacob alongside her. “Mrs Jones…” the Principal felt duty-bound to make one more attempt to reason but his pleading voice was met with only an echo as it returned off her broad back. Jacob looked over his shoulder as he walked-skipped-jogged at his mother’s side. The Principal’s shoulders sagged and, as the afternoon light cast a beam through his open office door, the air seemed overrun with dirt and his suit jacket appeared as balled and thin as the arms of the chair in which Jacob had sat only moments ago. The Principal smiled meekly and slowly waved. Jacob flashed an incomplete, toothy, smile and waved back, nearly tripping as his mother marched him from the school.

The second chair had plastic arms so there was little to pull or pick, though an enterprising soul or two had carved deep enough scores that allowed the current occupant to bury his nails within and peel back fraying edges of black rubber. The fading carpet tile was the same, down to colour Jacob thought, but now his legs were long enough to allow his feet to rub away the last strands or grey blue weave. His mother’s voice seeped through the poorly fitted door once more. Though this time it was tinged with sadness. By the third school, he heard her speak with resignation. For the most part, only silence forced it’s way through the doorframe. He wore a hole in that particular carpet tile, down to the rubber underlay, as he waited for the conversation which wasn’t happening to end. When his mother emerged there was no venom or fury. She lifted Jacob from the seat by his hand and reached up to drape her arm over his shoulders. By the fourth time Jacob sat in one of the chairs outside one of the offices, he was doing so only while he waited for his mother to arrive. The smooth pyrex arms seemed immune to any nervous destruction, but Jacob was not bothered. His shoes did not scuff the carpet, lying, instead, a tile’s width away from the chair as he slid almost horizontal, fingers clasped as he rested his hands on his chest. He and his mother sat alongside each other in the Principal’s office, but it was now he who did the talking. Once again, he would be withdrawing from school, but this for the last time. No longer was he legally required to study. He wished instead to earn a living and, after returning something to his parents, to begin to build his own life. He did not raise the fact that he heard teachers describe him as ‘unteachable’, ‘a lost cause’, ‘slow’ and ‘simple’. After years of trying, he thought it most likely that these were accurate descriptions. Jacob had truly tried, but spelling, grammar, mathematics, chemistry, French… no matter the subject he failed abjectly and hated the process required to confirm the inevitable. The last time Jacob had felt happy at school was when he waved what he later learnt was goodbye to his first Principal.

“Jacob!” his father’s gruff shout made it’s way up the stairs and into his room. He was half-way down the flight when he heard the second call for his presence. “Coming.” He sounded like he was being asked to deconstruct and rebuild Mt. Everest stone by stone with nothing but a household chisel, such was the exasperation in his response, typical of that plaintively offered by teenagers multiple times a day. He was walking down the hall when he realised when he realised from where the call came. The den. He froze in his tracks. “Jacob!” He was unsure how long he had been standing in the hall and considered turning, fleeing through the kitchen, grabbing whatever food was on the table and exiting out the backdoor never to be heard from again. His dad stuck his head into the hallway and, though he considered his plan for another moment, Jacob realised it was probably ill-advised. He followed his father into the room. His easel stood in the corner, the varnish glistening over oils as it dried. He was surprised that his first reaction was relief that it hand’t in some way been damaged. Then he remembered his dad had seen his painting and felt terror once more wash over him. His second feeling was confusion when he saw two of his father standing to the side of the easel – two chubby men in pastel coloured jumpers with ruddy cheeks, though one had considerably more hair than the other. And was taller. His third feeling was terror when he realised there weren’t two of his dad, rather his dad had a friend standing alongside him. Looking at this painting.
“Jacob, you remember Mr. Woods don’t you?”
“Jacob!” a fat paw was proffered, “call me Andrew.”
“Unggun,” Jacob responded.
“ Jacob, I love this painting. It’s just so expressive. Knowing your father, I never would have guessed that there was any artistic talent in your family! Anyway, I was wondering… how much would you like for it?”
Jacob stood mouth agape. Mr. Woods’ wasn’t making much sense. It sounded like he wanted to buy his painting. And his father was beetroot red with an unfamiliar smile plastered over his face. Was it of pride? But that couldn’t be right. Jacob eyed the men suspiciously. Slowly, his eyes narrowed and his mandible reconnected, settling in a scowl. The pastel jumpers. The ruddy cheeks. It was Wednesday. They had been golfing since lunch. No doubt they had sunk more pints than putts. He thought slowly, choosing the right expletive, before parsing his lips. Whether it was their inebriated idea of a joke or his father was forcing his friend into this misguided attempt at building self-worth within his son didn’t interest Jacob. He opened his mouth, ready to spit insults at the pair.
“Ok, Ok, I know what you’re going to say. ‘Make me an offer’. Am I right? Ok… haha, quite the negotiator! I’ll give you…” Mr. Woods turned to study the painting once more and involuntarily broke into a smile. Turning back, he said “100”. Jacob’s mouth dropped open once more. “Ok, Ok, 125.” Jacob didn’t hear much else of their conversation. Something about the painting being perfect for his office. Reminding him of a particular moment in his childhood. The game being about to start, that he’d better go. And could he check with his mother when dinner would be ready? He was walking back up the stairs unsure what had just happened, certain only that he was holding a fistful of notes and had made a promise to do another painting by the end of the month.

It was a friend in art school who got him into music. He couldn’t tolerate the long-winded conversations about artists and literature even when he was stoned. In fact, the conversations were worse when there was pot on hand. It didn’t leave him much choice as to which outside interest to pursue to make social time with his classmates non-suicidal, but he took to the bass pretty quickly. He soon realised that holding the instrument and plucking the strings provided the same release of dopamine as holding a brush and swiping it across canvas. Art school didn’t last long, it turned out it no type of school seemed to be for him, but both the painting and playing continued long after he’d said goodbye to another educator. Jacob took his cousin’s word that his three friends were good guys, so he joined the band, even if he was a little older than them. He had done a second painting for Mr. Woods but remained eternally suspicious of his motivations. He played the bass turned away from the audience and danced with his eyes closed, eternally conditioned to be shy and cautious of displaying his talents but he never complained about the way he’d been treated at school. He was a simple man. In art and in music he was happy. E. A. D. G. D.

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