History of the Trap: August Blues Part 3

There were no more horrendous accidents in August, nothing on the scale of July.  We were just faced with diminished hopes of ever escaping, of seeing our parents and loved ones ever again.  It was true that my father and my sister were trapped with me.  But I missed my mother.  I wondered how she was coping with all of us being gone.  I missed her cooking.  I missed her love and comfort, her unconditional support.  Heck, I even missed being nagged about cleaning up after myself, or doing my homework.

I missed my grandparents.  My Grandmother Martin was terribly ill, and feared I might not ever see her again, that even if we got out today it would already be too late.  She was loving and kind, and had encouraged me in my creative endeavors, in acting and writing.  I wanted to get out and tell her how much I loved her, how much she meant to me.

I even missed the sillier things.  I missed television.  Even though I wasn't a big a fan of The Three Wiseguys as some of my friends were, there were other shows I watched, like The Incredible Hulk and The Man From U.N.C.L.E.  And there was that show that Mel Brooks did - I forget its name.  I didn't normally watch a lot of westerns, but I must admit to missing that one with the four brothers. 

I missed the American League, and baseball.  We were huge Tiger fans in my family, and we had wondered if 1974 could be the year.  Now it was the end of August and the season would be into the pennant races.  And we were missing it.  They play sports here, but it's not the same.

We had the books in the library, but I had read many of those.  Whatever new was coming out, we were missing.  I knew Kurt Vonnegut had released a book called Breakfast of Champions, and I wanted to read it, but of course our library had not carried it yet.

I was a comic book fan, and missed my monthly fix of new comic books. I missed Superman, my favorite, but there were others, including Plant Lad and Spider-Man.

We went to the movies often, a habit that my parents started us in, even when we were little and went to the drive-in.  Later we would go to the large theatre in downtown Huron, the Coliseum, which had two balconies.  There were no movies in the trap with us. Just some school footage of sports events, some graduation ceremonies, and a band concert.  We were stuck with the Lookout Variety Hour of Power, featuring episodes of the soap I wrote, The Sands of Loren.  My father and his staff struggled hard to figure out ways to keep us entertained and occupied.  But there was nothing as satisfying as going to the movies.

Food was surprisingly plentiful, at least so far.  There were concerns since the tunnel collapse, but the faculty said that a previously undiscovered warehouse of food items had turned up.  That didn't seem very logical to me, but I had to believe my Dad if he said it was true.  Nevertheless, for the first time, some began to seriously contemplate what would happen when the food ran out.

All of this, and more, was weighing on many of us.  The month was filled with despair, despite my father's best efforts.  Sadly, Sue was not the only suicide (if that's what it was) experienced in August.  There were at least twelve, accelerating as the month went on, almost as if they were some sort of contagion.  None of the others were of people that I was close to, not that they weren't tragic in their own right.  Except the last one.

He had been taking on more and more responsibility as the ugly month went on.  Every tragedy, every life lost, weighed on him.  He spent many conversations with my Dad, trying to figure out how he could have done things differently to stop the awful stuff from happening.

Then in the last week, he pretty much stopped talking altogether.  He tried to do his job, but he was only going through the motions.  Then he disappeared altogether, and my father couldn't find him anywhere.  He was missing two days when he was found in a supply closet near the gym. He was pallid and almost blue, his tongue out and eyes bulged.  There was a chair knocked to the floor, and he hung from a rope.

My father had lost another one of his closest friends.  Oscar Crowler had as much as he could bear.  He ordered him taken down, and a respectful service was conducted.  My father spent a short time grieving, and then came out more determined than ever to restore our hope and determination to survive.

With  Joe Oliver, the Guidance Councilor murdered last June, and Vice Principal Crowler now gone, my father would have to rely more and more on Kevin Tate, the Vice Principal who was in charge of discipline.  Over time, this would have dire consequences.  If only Mr. Crowler had known what a difference his presence would have made, maybe he would have made a stronger effort to hang in there.

I sure wish that he had.