The Life and Times of Nebraska

2005-01-29T22:27:00.000-08:00

Week 16

He slipped in front of his desk and leaned against it, his sneaker-shod feet crossed at the ankles. "As you have probably guessed by now, I am Professor Heaton. My reputation as an unorthodox teacher may or may not have preceded me. Frankly, I don't care. What I do care about is that in this room you will write and you will write well. Some of you may already the talent, some the drive, others may be here thinking they'll get an easy grade. It's this last group that will be sorely disappointed. Can anyone tell me why I started the class the way I did?"

His students looked at each other quizzically, realization dawning in their eyes that this professor was, as they'd heard, unlike their previous professors. They had no idea yet if this was going to be a good or a bad thing.

Week 17

Heaton looked around again. "No one has the least idea why I refused to talk?" Heads about the room shook negatively.

"Maybe this group won't be quite as interesting as I thought." He stood upright and moved to the seat to the center of the front row. He looked down at the student - a ridiculously young looking boy with white blond hair and pinkish pale skin. "What's your name?"

"Jessie Strater, sir." His cheeks nearly radiated with a red flush at being singled out.

"First rule: no 'sir'." His gaze took in the entire room. "I do expect to be called Professor Heaton, but I loath being 'sir'-d. Yes, I will occasionally make up words, and I have no objection to you doing so, as long as it's done effectively and sparingly. Now, Jessie Strater," he continued, his attention back to the nervous boy in front of him, "tell me, what was your first thought when you walked in and saw me sitting at my desk."

Jessie dropped his eyes to study his hands, reluctant to answer, his face glowing even redder as if his blushing were as compulsive someone unable to stop washing his hands or counting fringes on a rug.

2005-01-06T19:38:00.000-08:00

Week 13

The door stood propped open as a steady stream of students filed in. He took yet one more deep breath, then merged with the human traffic and let the flow carry him into the room.

He paused for a moment, scanning the classroom for an empty seat next to a friendly face. One leapt into his field of vision. A seat near the back, next to a vaguely familiar pretty girl with glasses, dark hair and a mango hued sweater. Having still retained some of his former swiftness, he moved gracefully down the aisle and slid into the targeted seat mere seconds ahead of an artistic looking boy with pale skin and floppy black hair.

Nebraska glanced up at the boy and spied an expression of fury on his face before it took on a bland look. The former athlete tried to school his face into one of innocence, but was too honest to entirely keep away the triumph that he felt.

Week 14

Nebraska thought about turning to the dark-haired girl to introduce himself, but the filling room picked that moment to quiet down and the professor stepped from behind his desk at the front of the room.

At first unassuming in appearance, his stillness as the students settled in seemed to fill the large space. Soon not even a rustle of paper was heard. Yet not a muscle did he move, save only the movement of his eyes alighting on each and every person before him. As the seconds stretched into minutes, the absolute silence slowly gave way to uncomfortable shifting and an occasional cleared throat. Still no movement.

Week 15

After five minutes the students, unable to take their eyes off the front, felt an uneasy calm settle on the room. They knew that something strange, something wholly unusual might happen at any minute and they knew they didn't want to miss an instant of it even as they silently wished the instructor would just do something, anything to halt the creeping silence.

Finally a pen hit the linoleum floor with an ear-deafening thwack. Nearly everyone started in their seats, with a more than a few students bumping their knees on the undersides of their desks. In unison heads turned towards the direction of the noise and watched as the BIC pen rolled away from the still figure before them and come to a rest at the foot of the desk directly in front of him.

The man took a glance at his watch, then uttered his first words.

"Seven minutes. Not quite a record, but close. This will be an interesting semester."

2004-11-17T01:16:00.000-08:00

Week 12

Okay, maybe the tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches that he had contemplated buying one afternoon would have been a little much (which was why he opted not to buy it) but as he stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom that Monday morning - carefully pressed Oxford shirt and wool slacks with knife-sharp creases fitting him so well his bulk seemed minimized to his eyes - he felt a bubble of nervousness pop in his stomach and spread through his long limbs.

Nebeaska took a few deep measured breaths to calm his trembling hands, then left the house with books tucked in his canvas bag and a parting kiss from his mother. For a moment he was five again, embarking on his first day of school.

The walk to the campus - all of fifteen minutes - helped to still the butterflies. Or so he thought. Another five minutes brought him to the building where his new life would begin. As he crossed the threshhold the butterflies started beating their wings again, growing in intensity with each step down the hall. Until finally he stood before the closed door of his first writing class.

2004-11-14T19:24:00.000-08:00

Week 7

He experienced a freedom he had never felt before. The freedom to be his own person. Sometimes that freedom was dimmed slightly - for instance, whenever his father saw fit to acknowledge his son's calling with a muttered, "Damned if my son is going to be some fruity writer." For a moment Nebraska would feel as tiny as he used to feel when the old man would berate him in front of his teammates for some perceived botched play.

But then his mother would look at her husband coldly, fire at him, "You wouldn't call Hemingway a fruit to his face," and turn her back on him. It was usually an effective tactic because Hemingway, not surprisingly, was one of the few writers his father could stand.

For the most part, though, Nebraska's mood was an upbeat one. Soon enough he was moving around well enough to dispense with his crutches. It was then that he registered for and got all the classes he wanted.

Week 8

He was excited enough about his writing classes that he considered going to the student center to check out the board for any prospective writing groups, but then thought maybe he should ease into anything resembling public reading of his work. He wasn't sure if he was ready to have anything completed - or nearly completed - read by people he hardly knew. Time to get the foundation laid, then he would build on that.

As the minutes passed with excruciating slowness, Nebraska found himself more and more impatient to get his calling officially underway. As a result he found himself writing more than ever. Short fiction, journal entries, character studies - it all came pouring out of him in an endless font of words. Soon it got to the point where he grew frustrated with the human speed of his hands because they could neither type nor write fast enough to transcribe everything that was screaming to be written down.

Still, the fact that he no longer felt restricted to write in the privacy of his room helped to stem his impatience. The kitchen, the quad, the library - it was all fair game for his fever pitch.

2004-11-14T19:20:00.000-08:00

Week 9

Granted, his father would grumble whenever he saw his son at the table or in a chair, scribbling away in his notebooks, but Nebraska learned to tune out the mumbled barbs and jabs of the old man.

He was almost amazed at how the bitterness of his father no longer bothered him the way it used to. The fear, the recoiling, toeing the line - it all dissipated once the former college athlete grew more into the person he wanted to be, felt he was meant to be, rather than the extension of his father's failed dreams.

The old man felt the change in the attitudes of his wife and son. He slowly realized the power he once held over them was gradually becoming no more than an unpleasant memory. At first he railed at the quiet rebellion- screaming, throwing breakables, denying even the small slivers of affection he once showed them. But his violent fury was stemmed one night when, frustrated that nothing else worked to bring them back under his thumb, he threatened to hit his wife. He raised his hand, but she looked at him calmly, no fear left in her eyes.

Then Nebraska stepped forward and grabbed his father's wrist. The old man looked up at his son, saw the calmness in the eyes that looked so much like his - minus the ever present anger - and realized that his old regime had fallen away.

He yanked his wrist back, impotent fury burning in his breast, and shuffled into the other room.

Week 10

Had Nebraska wanted to admit it to himself, he would have recognized a bit of sadness at his father's seeming deflation. Though he had grown up with an edge of fear threaded through every thought, every action of his youth, he had looked up to the old man for many years, seeing him as a larger than life personality to be respected. And yes, perhaps loved, if his father had ever allowed it.

But as Nebraska grew older he saw the cracks appear in the blustering facade the old man wore like an increasingly badly fitting suit. It was the recent diminishing of his father's role in the family - and his own supersedence - that caused Nebraska to subconsciously mourn for what once was.

There was no way Nebraska would ever cop to that. Not to himself, not to his mother, and most certainly not to his father. Especially when he saw his mother's quiet strength grow and flourish under the new order of things.

2004-11-14T19:16:00.000-08:00

Week 11

Whatever subconscious mourning he might experience was quickly lost in his excitement about the upcoming semester. Nebraska came as close to bouncing up and down as he ever got when he realized that his new educational course was slated to start in just a few days. Then those days passed and on the Sunday evening before his first day of non-athletic classes he found himself picking out his clothes with the utmost care. He had lost about twenty pounds during his convalescence, so none of his old clothes fit him properly. He had had to buy almost an entire wardrobe - a little at a time. Which was fine with him, since he felt his former wardrobe was no longer representative of the person he felt he was becoming. So while he still had a few pairs of jeans and t-shirts, his new wardrobe tended towards tweed and wool slacks, button down shirts and penny loafers.

2004-09-21T23:41:00.000-07:00

Week 6

Nebraska's eyes narrowed, just a little bit. For a moment he thought his mother was engaging in uncharacteristic good-natured, though somewhat cruel, ribbing at his expense. But the pride on her face was almost palpable in its sincerity. He shared her smile, his heart lifting from his knees and soaring higher than it had ever been.

Every accomplishment he'd ever achieved - sports accolades, deans list, trophies - all paled in comparison to that moment. His past achivements faded away to faint background noise, leaving one thought looping itself in his brain:

Nebraska was a writer. And he was good.

2004-09-14T23:20:00.000-07:00

Week 5

When he handed her his essays and short stories, there was trepidation in his eyes, even though he was happy to be able to share this long hidden part of him with the only staunch ally he'd ever really had. She took the pages from her only son, almost contrite for the way he hadn't felt comfortable showing his work to her before now. She smiled that smile reserved only for Nebraska, full of love and tenderness, and retired to the kitchen - this only room in the house her husband rarely entered.

Rather than wait in the house, his nerves jumping, Nebraska took himself to the student union, hoping the presence of those students still around during the break would distract him. It did no good and neither did the book he brought with him. Two hours later he was back at home, just in time to see his mother leave the kitchen with his papers in her hands.

She met him at the front door, her bottom lip trembling, tears hovering unshed in rims of her eyes. His face fell. He knew, without any doubt, that his writing was beyond awful and that his mother was trying to find a kind way to tell him so.

Nebraska wanted to run away, to forstall the words he knew she was struggling to say. Instead he put his meaty hands on her slender arms, gently kissed the top of her head, and looked at her with the same kind expression he often saw on her face.

"It's okay, Mom. You don't have to say anything. I know."

"I would think so!" she exclaimed, breaking into a tremulous grin. He read relief in that grin and his heart sunk even further, coming to rest in his knees. "A person can't write something this good, this beautiful without knowing it!"

2004-07-28T11:32:00.000-07:00

Week 4

Those thoughts ran through his mind again, the old nightmares threatening to stop him, but he remembered how satisfying his minute moment of rebellion had felt, how proud he was of his mother's bravery in the face of his father's unreasonableness, and he felt he owed it to both of them to put aside his fears, to at least give writing a serious attempt. If his peers laughed at him - or worse, he wasn't any good - well, he wouldn't die from mortification. At least, he didn't think he would.

First thing's first, he thought. He would show some of his writing to his mother. True, her first instinct would be to protect her baby boy from any unkindness - even from herself - but, though she tended to be timid, Nebraska knew she would be gently honest with him. Her love of the English language was second only to her love for her son and both would ensure that she wouldn't let him live with illusions that might ultimately cause him disappointment.

When he told her his secret a combination of pride and hurt flashed across her face, but the pride won out. She required no explanation for his need of secrecy, understanding his reticence even with her. She was happy that her son had at last confided in her.

2004-07-20T23:32:00.000-07:00

Week 3

His parents' marriage, never the easiest of unions, took on an additional tension after his injury. He felt bad for the renewed, if unspoken, acrimony that darted between his mother and father, but he honestly couldn't regret that barely conscious hesitation. Besides, the old man now looked at his wife with a tentative respect that had never been there before. How could Nebraska ever regret anything that caused such a miracle?

After he had healed enough to go back to classes he realized that he had to find something to replace the credits lost due to no football. Lucky for him it was close enough to the end of term that he could start up with a new subject with no lost time during the next term. During the break he poured over the catalog, searching for something to take the place of football. He wanted something creative, for once.

Art? No. Film? Not interested. Acting? No way in hell.

Then he saw the description of the creative writing course. It appealed to him in a way that little else in school ever had. He loved to read, had actually started when he was three, which pleased his librarian mother, even if his father had barely taken an interest, reminding them not to let the books get in the way of his athletic duties.

Nebraska had never told anyone, not even his mother, that whenever he had a moment of down-time he liked to jot down ideas. All sorts of ideas. Story ideas, character ideas, snippets of dialogue. Sometimes even lines that he heard as music in his head, so he called them songs. He had always been afraid to tell anyone about these ideas or the 500 word essays and fiction he sometimes dashed off between classes or under his blanket in his dorm room. He was sure everyone would make fun of the big dumb jock with the John Irving complex and if there was one thing Nebraska had learned to hate over the years it was being laughed at by people who assumed they knew who he was just by looking at him. As a consequence his hundreds of notebooks, filled over the course of fifteen years, sat unseen in boxes under his bed and in the attic where no one ever went except for him.

2004-07-09T01:17:00.000-07:00

Week 1

Nebraska reneged on his promise to submit fresh writing. He didn't mean to. He fully intended to bring something new, untried for him. But one thing led to another and the next thing he knew Thursday had arrived and he had nothing interesting to bring to the table.

While it frustrated his literary journal mates, their annoyance with him was nothing compared to Nebraska's annoyance with himself. And he was sure that they talked about him after he left the meeting that night, uttering all sorts of denigrating, superior comments behind his back, because none of them was brave enough to say anything to his face.

Thing was, Nebraska was as big and solid and friendly as his namesake state and people constantly misread him. His open, placid face and linebacker body hid a love for and facility for the written word. It was a talent he didn't even know he possessed until a knee injury at Ohio State ruined his chances of ever playing pro football.

Not that he minded. He'd played football all of his life because, as a boy that grew big and strong and burly much earlier than any of his classmates, that's what he was expected to do. And he was a very good linebacker. But he didn't enjoy it. Not the way he enjoyed reading.

That didn't matter to his dad, though. An old alumni of Nebraska State and second string running back, he was determined that his son have the sports career he wasn't talented enough to have. Nebraska's knee injury seemed like a personal affront to the old man. And maybe it was. As painful as the cracked kneecap and torn ligaments were, the young linebacker thought his now valid excuse for leaving the gridiron was a godsend.

Week 2

So maybe, when the fullbacks were headed straight for him, he didn't try as hard as he could have to get out of their way. His usual agility and finesse, rather uncommon for someone his size, seemed to desert him for a split second. And that split second was all that was needed to find him under a dogpile of young men his size or bigger. The football popped from his strong hands and landed outside the bruised battery of players that blocked the gray November sky from his view. As the referee blew his whistle the pigskin wobbled uncertainly, almost seeming confused by its sudden abandonment.

Nebraska's father let him know - in no uncertain terms - that he noticed the boy's hesitation in the face of the opposing defense. As he shouted at his son for what he saw as the kid's cowardice Nebraska's mother walked in the hospital room. For the first time that he could remember, the tiny quiet woman esesentially shut the old man up with a fire neither of them had ever seen. His father never brought up Nebraska's perceived cowardice again. But he still treated the injured player with barely concealed disappointment.