The 7th Man.

Not many people are aware of this, but for a period of two days in July, The Library had a secret, additional member.

8 years ago I found myself on the unfavorable end of an academic taint-slap which took the form of a 2 day suspension. In a bout of ill advised, adolescent tomfoolery (which , I feel compelled to mention, shouldn't be confused with 'adolescent rebellion' or 'angst', cuz that shit is straight up tacky and lame) my close (and perhaps at the time, best) friend and I shared, in a most romantic manner, a 32oz bottle of St. Ides during our lunch break. Yep. Not the coolest shit I'd ever done, but gosh darnit, that Wu-Tang commercial was the single most persuasive instance of pro-St. Ides propaganda to have surfaced since this gem. Anyways, we made it through a good portion of the day with nary a curious look, gallivanting gaily from class to class within the confines of our our plush, highly-selective private high school.

Our principal was later discovered to be a pederast. But that is a story for a different day. Tomorrow, perhaps.

We arrived at gym class, the final 45 minutes of the school day. Having drunkenly danced our way past several real teachers, with real degrees from accredited universities, the last thing we expected was to be discovered as drunks by two excessively-muscular hillbilly women.

Alas, our logic proved flawed.

After a Kelly Morgan-esque badminton doubles victory, he and I basked in the celestial radiance that Allah projects down upon you after having demonstrated exemplary athleticism. The gym teachers call for us, no doubt to offer their congratulations on a supremely awesome win. We were escorted into their office, glowing with untethered masculine virility, huffing and hi-fiving and forcefully (yet, lovingly) ass-patting. That half a beer actually got us pretty drunk.

"Well, you guys took home the win and that's great. That's very great...But...Well, fellas we smell the alcohol. We smell it on you."

Uhmmm.

"You guys have a win under your belts; that's great. But, we need you guys to leave, though. Now."

Appropriately rattled and nonplussed, we left the office, headed to the locker room and changed out of our persperate-soaked uniforms. I watched my good friend unravel in the throws of a breakdown.

"Like...FUCK!!! What the fuck am I going to do what the fuck am I going to do. My parents are going to FUCKING kill me." He said, shaking profusely, clearly on the brink of tears. I marveled at his discernible lack of assertiveness or youthful backbone. More disturbing still was the complete and all encompassing fear that his outwardly amiable and accommodating parents had systematically instilled in this generally jovial and otherwise charming kid. It was a result of the fiercest, most subversive and evil variety of conditioning and mind control I've ever witnessed. Though its effects manifested them selves in a variety of scenarios; Instances in which he'd be out past 11pm or times when he'd be forced to ride the subway by himself or produce any academic work without the aid of Harvard grad tutor, but never to this visceral degree. To see such a close friend reduced to such a whimpering virginal pussy at the hands of overly coddling, massively wealthy and covertly oppressive parents shook me to my core and rendered me lucid and sober. Situations such as these are no doubt instituted by some wise and playful deity to test and forge a young man's character and mettle. Faced with the prospect of expulsion and subsequent flagellation at the hands of merciless, tyrannical parents does one retreat into a state of placid, half zen half comatose acceptance? Does one crack in anticipation of the impending rape of your social independence by those who bore you forth?

F- it. I go and I chat with the hillbillies who did this to me.

I exit the locker room with zeal and forceful resolve. I walk out through the southern corridor, down a flight of stairs, into the gymnasium and finally, into the rednecks' office.

Ms. Redneck, Mrs. Redneck.

"Hello Steven"

Well, I'll come straight out with it.

"Yes. Please do"

It was at this moment that I entered a state of argumentative zen, spurred by a brash, youthful arrogance. The evil little angel, whispering in my ear. 'You are smarter than them.' The conversation can be distilled into the following:

Steve: I didn't drink anything. I don't know about Chris; he and I weren't together this afternoon. You guys are mistaken about me, though.

Them: OK. Sorry about that Steve.

Problem solved. Mostly. They were curious as to whether my enabler was coming to the office to plead his case or confess or whatever. Truest thing ever: communication is awesome. If you've got a talent for it, you can do darn near anything. Get your kids into private school on a full scholarship. Get ace grades while exerting minimal effort. Talk your way into a job you're not qualified for. Talk your way out of debt. Fuck girls that our discernibly out of your league. Be president. It's all there for you and, if you're smart, you don't even need to lie. All to often, the thin-skinned youths of privilege seek to insulate themselves from situations that are alien or confrontations that take place in an alien arena. No doubt, this is often a direct consequence of the social retardation that stems from parents treating their kids like delicate, oriental vaginas. Kids fail to develop these skills of eloquent persuasion because they have high powered agents in the form of misguided parents to negotiate the child's life's lot. Despite my insistence that Chris dialogue with the redneck sheriffs of gym-town, he felt compelled instead to leave his fate to chance, hoping that my persuasive testimony would work in his favor.

It really didn't.

For a victory lap, I engage our Dean in a conversation about the whole ordeal:

It's the strangest thing, I explain. I have absolutely no idea how or why they would have gotten that impression.

"Well, Steven, you did the right thing. You spoke with your teachers. You came and spoke with me. Clearly you are...uhm, very, what's the word...lucid. Very sharp. You've articulated yourself in a very adult way. This is good stuff. Good stuff we've got here, you know?"

I appreciate you're saying so sir. Thank you sir.

I go home, watch law and order, eat my supper and sleep a peaceful, satisfied sleep. I lie like a motherfucker.

First period of the following day is History, a class that Chris and I share. He is still shaken and uncharacteristically quiet. Today I give a superficial, poorly researched report on present day incarnations of Jingoism. This was prior to George W. taking office, by the way. Mr. Milton, our gallant, nubian teacher was not at all impressed.

"Is it any wonder why you're earning a C"?

Chris and I exit the classroom together. The dean is waiting in the hall.

"Hey, Chris? I'm gonna need you too come downstairs with me. We need to speak about the incident. The one yesterday."

Right on time. You see Chris' mouth well up with nervous puke.

I spend my free period in the 'common room' (ever seen Oz? It was a lot like that) reading last month's Soldier of Fortune, which I'd swiped from my dentist. Its all terribly visceral. In stark contrast to the high school experience.

"Steven..."

I turn reluctantly.

"Can you come downstairs with me for a moment, please?"

Of course Mr. Sternstein. Is there a problem?

"No Problem. Just wanna talk."

During the elevator ride to the gymnasium the dean ignores my probing questions. He's no sucker, this one. He won't allow me to orient myself with information.

He doesn't speak until we arrive inside the fucking gymnasium. I'm growing dreadfully tired of this place. The large window into the gym office, roughly conforming to the dimensions of your average 42" plasma screen TV, is showing me the two gym teachers, standing, simultaneously expressionless and smug and Chris, seated and hunched, redfaced and bawling.

Imagine a world in which it is perfectly acceptable for adult figures of authority to mercilessly beat the absolute shit out of children. Imagine you'd walked in to witness the aftermath of a massacre.

The dean says, with an uncharacteristic force and frustration: "Steven, you are not being honest with us."

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Now for the interesting part; despite my having been sold out, Chris and I remained good friends. Over the course of 7 or so years that followed this heinous incident, he and I made lots and lots of music together and developed our respective, uniquely individual gifts in a manner that reciprocally complemented. When The Library attained record deal/nascent-rockstar status, I invited him to come out to LA and rock really hard with us.
The invitation was motivated in great part by my respect for his talent and my belief that his contribution to what we do, particularly post horn-section departure, would be appropriate and well-suited.

"Holy shit! Dude, I'm soo down. It's crazy, it feels like I'm coming home."

Honestly, though, I felt more than a bit bad for son. 24 years of life and he still hadn't shimmied out of the subversive electrical dog-collar his folks had clamped on his neck. He lived at home, had no job, no job prospects and smoked an amount of marijuana that was entirely fucking unreal. Oh my god. And he'd watch Empire Records over and over...This was the best thing for him, in most everyones opinions. (his girlfriend included, who while appropriatly saddened by his departure, was suprisingly supportive of his West Coast adventure )
He'd find a place with Sean and I, maybe find an entry-level audio production/editing gig, skate/surf to his hearts content, get the fuck away from his crazy-ass parents and grow the fuck up.

How do your folks feel about this whole thing?

"Oh man, they're actually really supportive! They're paying for my ticket"

Really?

"Yeah, they even offered to buy me new cases for my gear. Oh and a new computer too."

Rad.

The boundless carnival that is the life of your average jet-setting dilettante is a satirists wet dream and has, indeed, inspired a great portion of this album that we're irreverantly assembling in Garageband, but the story of this particular dilettante lacks any sort of honest levity. Chris is more of a modern day Pagliacci. People think he's the most carefree, charming duck in the world but anyone who's known him for an extended duration knows that he's fucked on the inside. Mommy issues. It was a common observation and joke amongst those who attended our high school and the effects just grew more and more apparent as he aged in to the utterly helpless and entirely dependent human being he is presently.

I wasn't there for his arrival. He opted to stay with Blackmar in Claremont, as I had done a year earlier. Black's place is a modest 1-bedroom. It's a cozy home a stones throw from the village of the quaint college town best described as a John Updike meets Brent Easton Ellis mash-up. It's homey and welcoming.

When I visited the next day, Chris was noticeably displaced and shakey.

"Dude, is there, like...uhm, a gas station or something around here? I needs me some dramamine."

Doesn't that stuff put you to sleep? Are you not sleeping well?

"Not really. I mean, yeah, I'm sleeping fine. I mean it doesn't really make ME sleepy, really. It just sort of calms me down you know? And its good for my stomach. I think I'm jetlagged."

I'm not gonna lie; keeping son off the pot proved to be an interesting experiment. The withdrawal effects were almost immediately evident. And immediately depressing.

"Wait. You mean you guys AREN'T signed to SONY?"

Dude, I never said that. Perhaps I wasn't clear...

"Oh man. Man, my parents aren't going to be happy. Holy shit. I just had this terrible conversation with them, like, right before you got here."

Yeah? What is the deal?

"Dude I don't know man. It's like, one second they're all supportive and like, 'Yeah go to California' and stuff. And now they're just, like...I don't know. They're like 'Well, when you were home you were at least making music on your computer..."

What does that even mean? How is that an improvement?

"I'm just saying, I'm not doing anything here. I don't know anybody."

You've been here for about 15 hours.

"I know! But, dude. If my parents don't support this it's like...I don't know, i've never been in this position. I've never felt like this before."

At work, his girlfriend and I discussed strategies to get him to settle in and grow the fuck up. She put together a resume, I worked on finding him a job in Pitzer's AV department. She had a number of unique insights.

"He probably doesn't want me to tell you this, but his parents really don't give a fuck what he does. They're not pressuring him to come back. At all."

After work I called to check in with Blackmar.

"Yeah, he's kinda losing his mind. It's odd, I like the kid. I want him to stay, but...Jesus I've never seen anyone act like such a little bitch. Things were OK earlier. We went to the grocery store, got a shit load of awesome food and hung out for a bit."

Oh, that sounds pleasant.

"Yeah, but I split. I had to go to work. I came back a couple hours later; dude was on the phone, face totally red and I'm pretty sure he was crying. Or, like, WAS crying at some point. "

Jeez.

"So, I mean, what's this guys deal?"

Loaded question.

At this point, I simply didn't feel like making the pilgrimage from Los Angeles to Claremont. This whole arrangement and plan had gone super-sour in a very short time and frankly, at this point, I wanted him to go the fuck back home.

I called Chris a couple hours after speaking with Matt. He was drunk and alone.

"Man, I've never been like this. I've never really felt like this."

This is the sound of separation anxiety.

(In tears) "I'm sorry man, I feel like I'm letting you down."

He flew back the next day.
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EPILOGUE:

Chris loses his shit when he gets back home. Beats and brings suit against his girlfriend of 4 years. Resumes hourly marijuana smoking routine. Reconnects with parents. Is 25 years old, still lives at home and has no job or prospects of work.