History of the Trap: August Blues Part 1

Chapter 7

August Blues

1

Sometimes I wonder about the value of this exercise, Doctor Duncan. It has taken me days to write this much.  It's not making it any easier for me, and I'm not sure if it will bring you to any real insight. I doubt if this will have any real credibility to you.

Nevertheless, it is better than simply staring at the walls, or watching television I no longer understand, or reading books that I cannot concentrate on.  I have three days to go before our first appointment to review what I have written, so I may as that the spectacular, so I will continue as far as I can until that time.  And remember I am doing this, in large part, so that you will leave the others alone.  You must keep your pledge on that.
With the spectacular, tragic failures of the month before, August was a time for absorbing the dashing of our hopes and expectations.  Some adjusted very well, almost thriving in our new little dominion, others found ways to muddle through, and more than a few you had a very rough time. A very rough time, indeed.

The Black Marketeers continued to thrive, despite the administration trying to run interference.  Smoking did become rarer, at least in public.  My Dad and Mr. Tate had done a fairly good job of rounding up contraband and disposing of it.  There were a few wild hair experiments in trying to smoke some of the grasses and weeds found in the area, but those attempts must have been pretty nasty as they did not take hold.    The monstrous addiction to nicotine was losing its grip on many, although not all.

The first council meeting of the month was horrendous.  Vice Principal Crowler was taking the full blame for the failed tunnel and flight experiments.  My Dad thought that was ridiculous, as did the rest of us, but he could not be dissuaded from shouldering the guilt.  Mr. Bruschow, the biology teacher who had worked with the tunnel team, was devastated as well, but was at least trying to lead the group to more practical considerations.  He reported on the continued success of gardening efforts, stating that we could reach some major harvests by November.  But he warned that we would need to continue to use the food stored in the fallout shelter. 

This led to much concern about the safety of the whole underground area.  The foodstores had not been cut off by the collapse, but there was more awareness that they were limited and finite in nature.  After much rancorousness, it was decided that a small group of teachers and staff would continue to go underground and bring up whatever they could.  The decision to exclude students from going down there would prove to be unpopular, as some of us, particularly some seniors, felt like this whole experience had aged and matured us, at least to the point that we should not be considered children.  Indeed, a good many in the upper grade had passed eighteen years of age.   If they were in the outside world, they could already vote and if they desired, join the military.

Mr. Cairn, the physics teacher who was in charge of our flight experiment was there, but he had little to say.  His eyes were bloodshot; under his eyes his skin was puffy and dark.  He couldn't figure out what wrong.  Scientific explanations completely eluded him.  He didn't know whether there was a scientific answer that lay beyond his ability to figure out, which made him feel stupid, or whether the answer lay more in the realm of magic, which made him feel terrified.

One of the recognitions that we were maturing in the Trap was the decision to allow marriage, under the condition that both parties were eighteen and they undergo a series of counseling appointments with Mr. Bowtin, our sociology and religions teacher who was also a preacher, and Mrs., Fourdyce, our elderly English Department Chair.  This was a small concession that might not have even covered Tom and Sue (they were not eighteen), but it was an important concession, the beginning of others that would occur over the next year and a half.

Special events were scheduled throughout the month, in order to try to improve morale (or at least distract us).  This included a special basketball tournament and a joint band/choir concert at the end of the month.  They were extending probation to Mr., Black, the band director caught with the moonshine stills, and allowing him, under supervision, to direct the band again.  Trials and prison had not yet come to our little world.  At most we had detention, including some that had been detained for a few days, but nothing formal.  Not yet.

The drama group would start up again.  My father recommended we do an old fashioned farce.  He brought up something he did as a kid, called Aaron Slick from Pumpkin Crick, but we were spared that when the Drama Director, Mr. Strang, said we did not have a copy in house.  The play Charley's Aunt was picked, which I thought was pretty old as well, but I guess it's what we had.  Would I try out for it?  I was very unsure.  My plate, what with writing the TV soap, The Sands of Loren, was pretty full.

If the meeting was not depressing enough, the count was now 1,065, down 74 from last month's count.  It was by far our steepest drop to date, and one that had touched us all personally.  Little did we know at the time how low our count would actually go.