The Trap's First Fall

The start of the very first draft of History of the Trap, written in early high school.

Part 1:

Alpha

September 8, 1 D. T. (1970 A.D.)

to

Oct 8, 1 D.T. (1970 A.D.)

Chapter 1

The Beginning

      I really don't know where to begin.  It is already the second day of the trap.  How shall I start?  Shall I write facts or dates, or shall I write how I feel?  Please give me a few moments to think.

     I think I shall start at the first day of school.  It was a fair, slightly warm day in early September.  It was warm enough whee I decided not to wear my vest.  I usually wore a vest to school and felt extremely uncomfortable if I didn't.  But since it was warm and I had not worn one all summer, I thought maybe I could get by without it for one day.  It has been three. 

     I was ready to leave home before my father.  It was the first day, and like most schoolchildren, I was anxious to meet my friends whom I had not seen all summer.  Unlike most students, I did not ride the bus.  Since my father works at the high school, I'm usually able to snatch a ride from him.  I'm very careful to get up early so I can get a ride with him.  The one thing I cannot stand about school is riding that damn bus. The crowding and pushing.  The three-to-a-seat and ten-to-an-aisle.  The childish pranks and dirty words.  And above all, yes, so far above all, is the realization of how cruel people can be.

     I wonder now if maybe that is what it will come to in this cage.  The conditions are so similar to the bus.

     By the war, my father's job at the high school is Principal.  The students do not tease or mistreat me because of this.  They are a very understanding bunch in that respect.

     The last thing I did before going to school that morning, was to decide whether or not to take a pill to settle my stomach down.  My stomach upsets easily, and it makes me go to the bathroom.  The doctor and my parents say it is because I worry too much.  But today I didn't take one.  Pressure would mount later when I knew what to expect.

     We rode in my father's over-the-hill at age 2 Buick Opal Kadett, a German car of the time period.  The clanky motor led us slowly out of the subdivision.

     The only living things that were awake were the hundreds of birds upon the people's yards.  They flew up in stupendous grace when our little car approached the piece of road next to them.

     To give you an idea of how the sub (short for subdivision) was shaped, the roads were formed like a circle split in two.  At the top of the circle was a short piece of road which led to the road which went to the main highway.

     We came to the road which was Williamson.  I looked at the familiar landscape.  I saw a dozen cows silently grazing in a small, well-trampled pasture.  Next to the pasture stood a tired, but proud, farmhouse.  In it was an old man who would shoot the young boys full of buckshot when they journeyed through his cornfield across the street.

    Next to the old farmhouse, a little one-story house was placed.  A large family of three or more occupied its tiny space.  I have no idea how to tell how small the house was.  The best I can tell you is that it's about the size of our family's living room.  Our living room is of fair size, about the size of the living rooms of most middle-class people on TV shows.

     In the house lives a girl of fairly huge size, whom the kids tease without mercy.

     We continue to pass houses.  Finally, we pass a subdivision of great proportion on the right.  The title upon the entrance is "Southfield Village". Upon a huge flagpole is an American flag.  Most of Bridgeport's extremely well off people live there.  Some of the people living there figured high in shaping my destiny.

     On the left is a good sized one-story school building.  I went to that school in 6th grade.  The tension-free atmosphere beckoned me back.  But no one could go back in time.  That would be the only way back.

     I leaned back in the bucket seat of the car.  I looked up at the telephone wires and watched them as they dizzily went by.  The treetops intermingled with the wires as drooped slowly down and then up and hooked upon a pole, only to go down again.

     We passed a Catholic church.  A modern one.  I had only been in there several times when I was 11 or 12 for bot scout meetings.  I only stayed in Boy Scouts for about one year because I couldn't get passed Tenderfoot when all my buddies were in 2nd Class.  You see, one of the basic requirements is that you knew how to tie knots. I couldn't, so I quit. 

    The houses and trees became thicker, and it was beginning to look more like you were going to enter a small community.  Finally, the road curves way over and you burst upon a railroad crossing.  With a slow bump-bump, the small car leaps over the crossing.

    On the next page is a small map of downtown Bridgeport.  I am not a good artist, but neither do I believe I can describe it without a picture,

I'm sure there's more, but that's all I  had in the folder I stumbled across.

The first paragraph accidentally brings into play one of the significant writing discussion points raging right now - are you a storyteller or a story-show-er?  Do you describe what's happening, or how somebody feels about what's happening?  I still don't know the answer.  I lean more towards tell, but I'm willing to play the field.