The Briers



  The Briers

  V.J. Goll

  Author

  Copyright © 2016 by V.J. Goll

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Published, 2016

  ISBN 978-0-9961377-1-3

  Published by Author

  Contact:

  vjgoll.publishing@gmail.com

  The Briers is based on true events, but the opinions and occurrences in the story are complete works of fiction. They are not personal opinions of real individuals or real events. In the practice of legal advocacy, it is important to always seek experts in the field first. Care was taken to remove legal or advocacy counsel from this book. This is no way is an accurate portrayal of a case and the inner workings. This is a fictional story, written with no intention to be a legal guide whatsoever or to follow real stories cases.

  Dedication:

  To the Strange Lady that I met,

  awkwardly dressed,

  societally and physically,

  an adult who had no functional place to share,

  no future to share.

  She took the door so strongly locked,

  unlocked,

  in the aftermath of the events like the Briers.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Author's Note

  One

  “Nope,” he said to me in his southern drawl. I could almost hear a tone of celebration in his voice. It was like he was winning something. I didn’t understand where his glee about this whole situation came from in this moment. I shuffled slightly in my seat trying to understand this man with a white pointed goatee. It complimented his triangular form of face. I guess his paleness and bureaucratic type of glasses leaning on his long-pointed nose. They had narrow frames that seemed to magnify his eyes. He was enjoying holding me hostage. I guess this is one way to approach the job. He seemed like a bad wizard that popped out of behind the curtains.

  I guess I will tell you the setting of this strange encounter. This meeting happened in red brick building of narrow windows that seemed to be almost as if it was a prison in its past life. They coined it the “Disability Resource Center” at the University. I was in a room with dark aged carpet and cheap furniture sprawled in it. The staleness in this place was surprising considering this was a prominent university in the south. I sat in a metal folding chair that just echoed the prestige. It was set back twenty years ago when the nation just elected a revolutionary president. He sat in a computer chair by a desk piled with papers. I guess we will call him Bad Wizard. I try not to convey the race of the people involved in this story. Though, for you, I may specify to ease the reading. The “he” is not really confirming of his sexuality. I just picked it because I promised to lie.

  I had a look on my face with something he just told me. You have to be kidding me, I thought as I listened to him. It was bothersome. I mean people lose paperwork, but I took great care in making sure that it was turned in. I had confirmations.

  "Nope," he said to me again responding to my body language, "we don't have your paperwork here. So, no services for you." He said it almost gleefully. I hated in Deaf culture that body language was considered a reply sometimes. It was rude in hearing culture, but in deaf culture, it was an appropriate response. His assumption on how I felt made me uneasy. Something people often tended to do. He was a short man, a small man, but a man that someone invested in so much having control of my future. He wore the University's school shirt and some form of blue jeans.

  I clasped my hands. This was a way that I hid my unease. "I faxed them to the office," I said, "I am sure the papers arrived here.” He shook his head. I frowned at him. “Then, can you tell me the fax number again?” I said to him. I kept my voice neutral. It felt eerily adult like, but I was still a child that somehow uncomfortably fitted in this oversized clothing on a human body.

  "Oh, yes, yes," he said writing down the number after shuffling some papers from his messy desk. I took it from him, feeling wary. I saw something that started with Allison laying on the desk. My eyes narrowed at him. He was lying to me, but I had to be careful.

  "I will get you the paperwork as soon as possible," I said to him, "let's reschedule to meet on Monday.”

  “How about 4 pm?” he said to me. I knew what he was doing here. He was intentionally setting the time where there would be no supervisory presence. It was a catch 22. I either move quickly to have services for my disability done, or I wait to schedule the meeting where there would be a supervisor on site. I choose to go ahead and schedule the meeting. I left that meeting feeling tired since this was becoming an all too familiar experience for me. The building was dark as I walked through its narrow hallway towards the door. We were the last people who were there. Most of the lights were shut off. The light from the long narrow windows let light into this place. I could see the dust particles lingering in the air as they were stirred by the last remnants of movement. It felt as if the south was clinging so hard to an idea of the past that they were afraid of losing it. They were afraid of losing control.

  I knew I was due back at my dorms, but I choose to walk another way. The sun told me that I had two hours before dusk, but I wanted to see the old graveyard that was left on campus with the molding tombstones. It was a contradiction. The sidewalks and the majority of the buildings were refreshed and new. I could tell that they repainted the old bricks red to match the newer buildings. Then, I stumbled upon it. The plot of old land marked by some thick ancient oaks. This place was once of a battleground in the civil war. I looked at the old stones marking the graves. A lot of old families were buried here.

  The University was not a bad place aesthetically. Walking through the school, it was littered with strong trees that were planted after the devastation of the civil war. It was peaceful despite having a history of being ravaged. The foliage of the flowers that surrounded the trees with the dried wood chips range from daisies to tulips. Despite it being an overbearing summer drought with water restrictions, the plants were flushed with green and well-watered. I believe it had something to do with a research grant about the differences between plants nourishment in a drought that some very rich donor created. Science sometimes can create convenience.

  I was lucky and got to live on one of the dorms in central campus. Most freshmen lived slightly off campus at what we would call the Towers which are the larger and taller dorms obviously. The campus was filled with brick buildings with some stone ones. I will just call my dorm, the West Wing. It flanked a quadrant courtyard with the East Wing on the other side. I walked into it, passed the front desk, which wasn’t that important. There was some other students moving in, but I passed them. When I think back to this time, the faces of people were rather blurred. There was so many that came here, but there will be so few that is remembered. The dorm itself had a meek lobby with speckle grey tiles that just seemed to be the whole floor plan. It was littered with some old couches with some suspiciously off green color that aged differently over the years. The unevenness in the fabric must have came from a coffee or caffeine spills. It was a worn place of study. I walked pass the clerk in the lobby already receive my keys from my parent. It was filled with scattered group of freshmen.

  “So, is Ally honors?” asked D to my mom as I walked into the dorm. I guess I sh
ould explain that people did well earning themselves one letter names because their contribution into this story was minor and done by many other people. D did represent my roommate, but she also represented a whole lot of other people, too. I just think it would be frustrating for you the reader to have to deal with a ton of people doing the similar things over and over again. I guess if I had to apply a description to her. She was the kind of person who sat on the couch with football games giving commentary towards a sport that she didn’t completely understand. She was a southern bell type who was picky about her clothes and her status. She absolutely had to be queen bee. As much as she was quick to point out the inherent flaws in others, she was everything that she pointed out. If it was over someone’s weight, I can tell you she was also on the heavy side. If it was being rude, she was rude. It was difficult. Yet, people who do bad things tend to want to be significant, but they stay insignificant. It wasn’t much of a dorm with a small living room space and a bathroom. The school provided a couch of the same sort of the lobby and a small plywood coffee table stained dark brown. The lighting in this place was dimmer. I couldn’t explain to you how dark it was. We would have to buy lamps to brighten the space. It wasn't exactly cozy, but I guess we made it cozy enough. There were two rooms, each with two roommates assigned to them. There was one bathroom to share between all of us. My bed was lofted as was my roommate’s bed. The room had two dressers, one closet, and two desks that was assigned to us. It was standard for a college dorm. D had stuck a rug in the middle of the room. It was some store bought Persian. I guess that was the only place to get a Persian rug.

  “Yes, she is,” said my mother quickly catching me off guard. I frowned at her. I wasn’t honors, but she had a reason for it. I said nothing to this letting my silence being blamed on my hearing loss. I put the rest of the stuff in my room, and I said to D, “it is nice meeting you. I am Ally.”

  D looked at me. “Likewise,” she said as she sat on her bed. Her response to me wasn’t necessarily a welcoming one, but it was good enough. I could hear chatter in the other room near us. There was a man and my other suitemates. I glanced out of my room to see a tall man just standing there staring at us. My mom and D were too busy with things to notice. He wore a suit, a dark grey suit to be exact. The darkness hid his face making him almost like a shadow. He had a pure white long sleeve collar shirt under his jacket with a tie. He gave one of those missionary type feels of people. I got more of a feeling that he was a salesman. I guess to make it easier to tell the story. He was a light skinned folk. His hair was a brown. His eyes were dark brown. He wore an expression that was hard to understand. It was a hard expression. It bore a ton of weight in it. He felt like he was analyzing my weight and my being. He looked right through me with a piercing look. Then, he smiled. It was a charismatic smile. He suddenly looked tired.

  “Hi sir,” I said to him, “my name is Ally.” My mom glanced to see who I was talking to. She frowned out of sight of him because she was thinking the same as me. He was Christian. We weren’t fond of Christians in my family.

  “Pastor B,” he said to me, “it is a pleasure to meet you, Ally.” Again, with the first letter, but this time, I did it because of confidentiality. There wasn’t many of this man, trust me, but I made a promise to myself that I would try to erase as much as the real events from the fictional ones that I am writing. I guess when he spoke. He spoke with authority. It was purposeful. Yet, it was not of the southern Baptist fiery variety of speech. He was a man of weight. He weighed what he said, and he weighed what he heard. He weighed what he took, like fine gold slipping through his fingers. He had narrow fingers that seemed ill fitting on his large hands.

  I walked out of my room towards him extending my hand. I was aware he was one of those formal types. “Likewise,” I said to him. My voice was careful because I did not want to disturb whatever weight he had upon me. His hands had, I guess, a burning hot sensation to them. They seemed to rub into me like the wrong kind of sandpaper. I saw Mara who bore a similar frame to her father look at us rather surprised. It was like she hadn’t noticed that I existed till then.

  He nodded over to Mara, “This is my daughter, Mara.” I nodded. He spoke in a particular way. It was troubled. Something about her bothered him.

  “It is nice to meet you, Mara,” I said to her.

  She was a bit out of it, I guess. It took her a moment to respond. “It is nice to meet you, Ally,” she said to me. Her voice sounded plain. It was oddly neutral, but I decided to pay no heed to it. Her eyes seemed to convey an emptiness and a sense of defeat. We all must be tired.

  My mom looked at me like she didn’t want to be in my dorm anymore which was our signal. I knew this was my cue to drag my mom to dinner. D seemed to be busy with decorating her bed. Mara just left her stuff unpacked laying on the bed. Her father seemed ready to leave because he was finished with her.

  “Hey mom,” I said, “want to go get dinner? I don’t want to keep you here too long since you have a long drive home.”

  My mother sighed as if she was tired. “I suppose so,” she said to me, “I do want to spend some time alone with my favorite daughter. It was nice to meet you, D, Pastor B, and Mara, and have a good semester, girls.” Her curtness was strangled with a sense of dislike. I could tell that my mom disliked to my roommates. It might have been that she disliked leaving me here.

  D said her thanks. I said my goodbye. My mom and I went walking towards the north side of the campus in relative silence. The sun was still out bring above us. I never considered my mother a frail person. She was the type that was quick with words, a bit headstrong, and a touch of a fiery temper. They say we looked alike considering that I had her heart shaped face, medium frame, but I inherited my father’s height and his hands with box-like palms and good midsize fingers. My eyes were green. I had my father’s hair color of dirty blond. We contrasted though because I was more of a quiet personality. We started passing the black iron fencing letting us know we near downtown.

  Everyone imagines the protagonist being a proficient person. I wasn't. I had a speech impediment as a child so I spoke from the back of my throat and held my chin inwards like a turtle as people would joke with me. I spoke slightly mechanically from a strong memory of words, but I couldn't read them out loud to save my life being never taught to how to functionally read. I sucked at social stuff such as knowing what to wear and what to say. With my hearing loss, I struggled to thrive in groups so I stuck to one on one friendships to understand people better, but my face would often blank out while I was "listening" because I had to use all of the cues to understand the conversation. Somehow, successfully on this day, I managed to pick up a plain purple shirt and blue jeans to wear with flip flops. It was okay dress for the southern summer weather, but I probably should have went with shorts. I always been the more tom boyish type than a girl. I grew up on a farm with scars from the barb wire fencing covering my hands and elsewhere.

  The downtown was not special. It had it standard assortment of bars, a pizza place, Italian restaurant, and Asian food. In the sense of a good southern touch, it did have one of those Homestyle family restaurant. We choose to eat at a small Chinese food restaurant. My mother didn’t want to linger too long here. I didn’t want her to stay too long. The restaurant had booths instead of tables. With the standard menu plastered behind the counter, we ordered and took our seats in a booth a bit further than the people around us.

  “Why did you tell D that?” I asked her, “I am not honors.” Like I told you, I had a mechanical way of speaking. I had to speak from memory.

  “Those kind of girls look for every reason to attack you.” she said, “I don’t want them touching you.” She was an overly protective sort, I guess.

  I looked at my mom. I knew she was tired of people picking on me. Worry must have caused the lines on her face. I felt a sense of guilt. I had stolen her youth by being born sick. Yet, at the same time, I could sense hurt in her. No mother wants to see her child have t
o suffer as an adult. “It will be alright, mom,” I said to her, “after this, I am going to contact Eric as suggested. Hopefully, things will calm down."

  She didn’t say much more on the honors lie. We just ate talking. I told her about Bad

  Wizard and the missing paperwork, but like I said before earlier, this is common in the south. We talked on many things. When we left, I walked her to her car.

  She said to me, “Be careful, Ally. I know this place is a party school so just be careful when you do things and always be safe.”

  “I understand, mom,” I said to her, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” she said. We parted ways. The cement sidewalks seemed to absorb the August’s summer heat as I walked back towards the south part of campus. The north part of campus was a place of bushes and buildings. It was the administrative and scientific side of campus. The south part of campus was where the library, liberal arts, and the Churchhouse. I lost myself in thought thinking about what was happening. My mom and I never quite saw eye to eye on things. We had different perspectives. It was something that drove a wedge between us at times. I felt hurt that she would lie about me being an honors student. She ripped a choice from me without giving me a chance to decide my life. She has been deciding my life since I was young. I wanted my own decisions.

  "Hey, Ally," said D to me catching my attention from my trance, "we are going to party. Want to come?" Mara, D, and Z were all dressed to go. They wore night clothes for going out. Their shoes ranged from sandals to heels, but being the fashion klutz that I am. I admit that I named D and Z as such because their names appropriately rhyme. They seemed to fuel one another. Most of the trouble that would come resulted in always both of them, not just one of them. Yet, Mara had a name. I gave her a name. This isn’t her true name, but I think the name fits her. She was the type of person you would notice for a brief glance, and then, you wouldn’t notice. She was small, quiet, and yet interested in the world around her. Again, I don’t like taking away from people’s true personality, but she was born into the southern majority. She was one of them. With a deep accent and all, yet, the rebellious nature that was rooted of the south was in her. D and I locked eyes. I must have looked at her weary when I answered her.

  "No, thanks," I said quickly wanting to return to my thoughts. I guess they gave me an odd look. I felt that tension between us. The dorm room was still dark around us with the lamp lights doing little to make the place brighter.

  "Oh, okay," said D to me as if I ended the world. I shrugged continuing to walk not feeling up for conversation as I heard the door closed behind me. The doors of the dorms were left open. I noticed Mara still didn’t unpack her bed. I guess I was going to be the closeted introvert of this group, rubbing my eyes, I went to pull out a mound of papers from my desk. I wasn't the type to be organized. I sorted through them till I found the fax confirmation page clipped with the documentation. I scanned it quickly and opened my notebook with the information from the meeting with Bad Wizard. I matched the fax numbers. It had to come to the office. I frowned. Yet, I was too tired to consider these things further so I laid down on my bed falling asleep in my clothes. It was silent as all these thoughts kept arousing me from sleep.

  “What is the difference between soldiers and generals?” asked a voice to me as I drifted to sleep. It awoke me briefly as I considered the thought.

  “A soldier fights,” I thought, “and, a general knows how to fight.” I drifted to sleep feeling the heaviness of everything sinking me into darkness. My mind had a funny way of trying to tell me something sometimes. When I think about to this question, I realized then it was telling me to be aware. A general has awareness of the greater picture where the soldier just marches and fights the battle. This picture is far from complete.