Exceptional Mental Inventory Novella - Unwanted Dog : Unwanted Dog-8 by Brett Matthew West Artwork by Linda Wetzel at FanArtReview.com

If I could only pick the lyrics of one song to define the depths of my hatred of Hermitage Hall, especially when I was twelve years old, unquestionably that tune would be the "Man in Black" Johnny Cash's "San Quentin." The 31st album, and 2nd Live album, by Johnny Cash recorded at San Quentin State Prison in California, "Johnny Cash At San Quentin" was released by Columbia Records on June 16, 1969. The actual concert had been performed on February 24, 1969. "Johnny Cash At San Quentin" was nominated for several Grammy Awards including Album of the Year, and won the Best Male Country Vocal Performance Grammy Award for "A Boy Named Sue." The album cover for "Johnny Cash At San Quentin" has become an iconic image of the "Man in Black." Lyrics from "San Quentin" I so easily applied to my hatred of Hermitage Hall, and the prison I felt I was locked in tighter than a snare drum, included: "I hate every inch of you." "What good do you think you do?" "May you rot and burn in hell! May your walls fall and may I live to tell. May all the world forget you ever stood. May all the world regret you did no good." (All lyrics written by Johnny Cash.) Any questions about how I felt? **************************************************************************************** **************************************************************************************** EVENING SHADOWS CREPT OVER THE DOWNTOWN AREA. Faint light from the city's bustling nightlife, and a sky full of twinkling stars, cast an eerie sliver of light around me. I laid back as comfortably as I could and allowed my mind to mentally inventory the day's activities. Looking up, I spotted Venus and Jupiter, two of the so called "bright planets" that can easily be seen with the human eyes. I told myself what I fantasized, "If only I had a way to get there." Of course, I did not. I would have gone right then. I knew the dangers of sleeping beneath a downtown underpass. This tot could wake up dead. It sure felt cozier than I ever did sleeping in a Hermitage Hall bed. The first thought that popped into my tired head was rules, and how many I'd broken that day. The notion pleased me. Hermitage Hall seemed to be chocked full of mundane regulations that affected every miniscule breath boys confined there drew. To make matters worse, I'd violated the strictest of them all. The cream of the crop cherry on top of the ice cream. A warm feeling of pride settled over my being as I realized this fact. No boys, myself included, or probably more accurately stated, ESPECIALLY me, were permitted to leave the premises of Hermitage Hall for any reason whatsoever without being accompanied by an appointed staffmember. You know what? I didn't care. King Tubbo departed my room earlier that day, having informed me I was required to attend his precious Summer Solstice Ball against my fervent desires. This made me furious. I slammed my room's door in anger. The BANG!!! echoed down the hall. I was fed up with him, his wacky cockamamy staff, Hermitage Hall, all their endless demands, and the rest of the whole shebang pertaining to the place. They danced on my very last nerve. In more ways than one. That was not a good place to be. I decided I'd make an appearance alright, just not the kind King Tubbo expected. Instead, for the live performance of the day, I'd imitate Escape Artiste Extraordinnaire Harry Houdini and magically disappear. I threw on a white tee shirt and my worn out Durangos. Nonchalantly, I made my way down the wooden floor hallway to the stairs that led to the foyer of Hermitage Hall as if I wasn't up to any deviousness. I passed a couple boys seated on overstuffed lounge chairs, donated Goodwill specials. Wrapped up in Gotham City escapades, they read Batman comic books. Neither one of them noticed my presence, so I did not speak to either Robbie Kowalski or Georgie Andrews, though I knew them well. They were what you may refer to as running buddies of mine. It felt like a mile-and-a-half's distance from where I'd passed Robbie and Georgie to the electric, sliding glass door entrance of the facility. "Church mice," I reminded myself to remain as quiet as possible. A quick survey of the area ensured my movements weren't observed by Eleanor Salisbury. The old matron attended the Visitors Desk. Pushing nine decades for all she was worth, the ancient battle-axe was consumed in working a puzzle. One of those Word Finds from what I could determine. So far, Lady Luck treated me well. Usually she played a mean game where I was concerned. Scurrying outside to freedom, I sped across the gravel parking lot that only had four Crown Victorias parked in it. The vehicles belonged to Upper Management members of Hermitage Hall. I battled the urge to key everyone of them as I strolled by. My heart ached to! Even though it was difficult for me to contain myself, I refrained from those cravings, with one exception. You guessed it, the car King Tubbo drove. So much for its pretty little new paint job. My intentional vandalism act with the small end of my room key scratched my calling card, my initials, across the hood. For good measure, I kicked a dent in the driver's door with the sole of my boot. When the tape was reviewed in the Security Office later that afternoon, which was standard protocol, my decampment from Hermitage Hall would become readily noticed. King Tubbo would immediately place a Missing Person All Points Bulletin on me with local law enforcement officials. My advantage was I would have about a three hour headstart on being located. Should I be found and returned back to the Center, as all previous runaways had been, I would face what King Tubbo called "the swiftest, direst, consequences" he and his henchmen could fathom. If they could get away with such trivial pursuits, no doubt they'd publicly tar and feather me, or boil me in a vat of oil to a crisp, crackling, crunch. Fried moppet. Our disdain for one another ran rampant. We sure weren't old friends making fond memories. Meted out, my punishment would be corporal and severe. King Tubbo enjoyed making examples out of boys to dissuade others from breaking his precious rules. The thought made me squirm. The more I considered that prospect the more I felt slight tinges of angst race down the grimy seat of my jeans. However, I could not worry about that burning bridge until I crossed its trusses. I rolled over on my belly and placed my sleepy head on top of my folded arms. What this exhausted squirt would have given to have his comfy pillow. (TO BE CONTINUED:) In Chapter Nine, I continue to recount the events of the day I ran away from Hermitage Hall, including five sticky little fingers and my creative decorating capabilities. Recognized Author Notes Boscoe, by Linda Wetzel, selected to complement my autobiography.

© Copyright 2024. Brett Matthew West All rights reserved. Brett Matthew West has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.