Shivering Mind

Chapter 7

But as I was saying, it is a fact that Derek has compassion deep

inside of him, which is the real reason we got involved with the

Max. Maybe at first Derek thought of it all simply as a way of

getting money for beer and cigarettes, but the second we met the

old man, Derek changed, even though he won’t admit it. As a matter of fact, it was this very compassion that made Derek finally

introduce himself to me and invite me for a beer in Moravian

Cemetery. He always went to Moravian Cemetery to drink beer,

which sounds a little crazy, but it isn’t if you explore his source

problem a bit. Although I didn’t know Derek and his family until

two years ago when I moved into the neighborhood, from what

I’ve been able to gather I think his father was a compulsive

alcoholic. I’ve spent hours trying to analyze the situation, and the

closest I’ve been able to come to a theory is that his father set a

bad example at an age when Derek was impressionable. I think his

father made it seem as though drinking alcoholic beverages was a

sign of maturity. This particular sign of maturity ended up giving

his father sclerosis of the liver, so he doesn’t drink anymore, but

Derek does.

I had moved into Derek’s neighborhood at the start of my freshman

year, and he and a bunch of other kids used to wait for the same

bus I did on the corner of Victory Boulevard and Eddy Street. I

was in a severe state of depression the first few weeks because no

one spoke to me. It wasn’t that I was expecting the boys to buzz

around and ask me out, but I was sort of hoping that at least one

of the girls would be friendly enough to borrow a hairpin or

something. I stood on that corner day after day with all the kids,

and nobody talked to me. I made believe I was interested in

looking at the trees and houses and clouds and stray dogs and

whatever—anything not to let on how lonesome I felt inside.

Many of the houses were interesting as far as middle-class

neighborhoods go. In fact, I suppose you’d say it was a

multi-class neighborhood because both the houses and the kids ranged from wrecks to rich. There’d be a lovely brick home with a

lot of land, and right next to it there’d be a plain wooden house

with a postage-stamp-sized lawn that needed cutting. The only

thing that was completely high class was the trees. Large old trees

lined most of the streets and had grown so tall and wide they

almost touched. I loved looking at the trees more than anything at

first, but after awhile even those started to depress me.

Then there was Derek.

I noticed him the very first day mainly because of his eyes. As I

told you, he has these fantastic eyes that take in everything that’s

going on, and whenever they came my way, I looked in the other

direction. His eyes reminded me of a description of a gigantic

Egyptian eye that was found in one of the pyramids I read about

in a book on black magic. Somehow an archaeologist’s wife

ended up with this huge stone eye in her bedroom, and in the

middle of the night it exploded and a big cat started biting the

archaeologist’s wife’s neck. When she put the lights on, the cat

was gone. Only the pieces of the eye were scattered all over the

floor. That’s what Derek’s eyes remind me of. I knew even from

the first moment I saw him he had to be something special.

Then one day Derek had to sit next to me on the bus because all the

other seats were taken. He wasn’t sitting there for more than two

minutes before he started laughing. Laughing right out loud, but

not to anyone. I was so embarrassed I wanted to cry because I

thought for sure he was laughing at me, and I turned my head all

the way so the only thing I could see out the window of the bus

was telephone poles going by. They call that paranoia. I knew that because some magazine did a whole article on mental

disturbances, and after I read the symptoms of each of them, I

realized I had all of them—but most of all I had paranoia. That’s

when you think everybody’s making fun of you when they’re not.

Some extremely advanced paranoiacs can’t even watch television

because they think the canned laughter is about them. Freud

would probably say it started with my mother picking on how I

look all the time. But no matter how it started, I’ve got to admit

that when anyone looks at me I’m sure they’re noticing how awful

my hair is or I’m too fat or my dress is funny. So I did think Derek

was laughing at me, and it made me feel terrible, until

finally—and the psychiatrists would say this was healthy—I

began to get mad!

“Would you mind not laughing,” I said, “because people think

I’m sitting with a lunatic.” He jumped when I spoke to him, so I

realized he wasn’t laughing at me. I don’t think he even knew I

was there.

“I’m sorry,” he said. I just turned my head away and watched the

telephone poles some more. Then I heard him whisper something

under his breath, and it had just the tone of a first-class smart

aleck.

“I am a lunatic.”

I made believe I didn’t hear it, but then he said it again a little

louder.

“I am a lunatic.” “Well, I wouldn’t go around bragging about it,” I said, and I was

so nervous I dropped one of my books on the floor. I was

mortified picking it up because it fell between the seat and the

window, and I was sure I’d look like an enormous cow bending

over to get it. All I could think of at that moment was wishing one

of his eyeballs would explode and a nice big cat would get at his

neck, but I managed to get the book and sit straight up with this

real annoyed look on my face.

Then he started that laughing again. Very quietly at first, and boy,

did it burn me! And then I decided I was going to let out a little

laugh, so I did. Then he laughed a little louder, and I laughed a

little louder, and before I knew what was happening I couldn’t

stand it, so I really started laughing, and he started laughing, and

we laughed so much the whole bus thought we were out of our

minds.

Like Lorraine told you, I really am very handsome and do have

fabulous eyes. But that doesn’t get me much, except perhaps with

Miss King, this English teacher I’m going to tell you about. I