An excerpt from the forthcoming memoir, Amongst the Eyes and Sage:

“There is absolutely no reason, ever, that you should feel bored in life,” Dr. Margolies says. “I don’t have a TV. I have books, a farm, beehives, a banjo. If you have the slightest bit of imagination, you should never find yourself bored. Boredom is a choice, not an unavoidable state.”

            I look around the room. Everyone is choosing to be bored. I am enthralled. Dr. Margolies is an American Renaissance man, his beard long and thick. He is an expert in traditional Appalachian bluegrass. His voice confident but calm, he has told us stories of being an extra in the opening scenes of Pretty Woman. “You can try and find me on your own time. My hair was down to my ass,” he said. He told us he wandered California for a while looking like that. He leaves the rest of the story up to our imaginations. The discussion of his class is about reading between the lines of history to find stories beyond the common narrative. He and I usually have a dialogue while the rest of the class sleep off the night before. I wonder how he can stand teaching at a college with kids who could give a fuck about the knowledge he wants to impart.

“Boredom is a choice.”

            Margolies leaves us with that piece of wisdom and tells us to finish reading about tragedy of the whaling ship named The Essex. The tragedy apparently inspired Moby Dick. I’ve briefly scanned the book and plan to use SparkNotes to fill the gaps.

            I walk out of his classroom and head towards my education class with Dr. Ferris. Walking across campus I nod at strangers, smiling. Boredom is a choice. Nobody smiles back. I miss home. Everyone in Colorado smiles back at you.

            I sit in Dr. Ferris’ class and begin sketching mountains. She begins class by talking about the history of education in the United States. We review The Scopes Trial. What can and cannot be taught in a school’s curriculum. I wonder if we will eventually discuss the efforts of assimilation within schools on Native Reservations. I fade out, into my sketch. The lines almost choose themselves. I just keep the pen moving. I fill in the jagged triangles with places of steep avalanche lines and gradual ridges. I tuck a half-circled sun behind the rigid triangles, rays shooting across the page’s horizon.

            Boredom is a choice.

            I think on the history of my education. I think about sitting in the therapist’s office at nine years old. I remember it being dark. Only one window, blinds drawn. I sat across from the therapist, my little arms akimbo.

His beard big, black and grey it covers everything but the top of his pudgy cheeks. He asks me questions with a soft voice, almost baby talk. I wish he would talk to me like my football coach does. Maybe then I would take him seriously. I am not a child. I am nine. I can run through the biggest kid on the team in tackling drills if I get low enough. I like the pop my pads make when I do.

            His questions don’t make a ton of sense. I want to know what they are getting at. I won’t let him tell me I have A.D.D. I will answer every question better than he thinks I can. I won’t lose focus.

            I won’t let that bitch be right, I think. I just started cussing. I feel bad about it sometimes. But my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Kaczynski is definitely a bitch. I miss Mrs. Hayen, my second-grade teacher. She let us write our own books. I wrote an entire series of books in her class. “Snowdog 1-7.” I drew pictures for each page. Mrs. Hayen loved it.

            The therapist pauses from the questions. He is resting his hands on his belly. His belly is huge. He probably is slow. He probably sucked at football when he was a boy. I would have mowed him over. “Alright buddy, I’d like to do a test. I’m going to leave the room and I just want you to press this button every time you see the green light flash on this screen. Can we do that?”

            “Okay.”

            He leaves the room and the light flashes. I press the button. This seems simple enough. If I don’t pay attention and miss flashes, I have A.D.D. All I need to do is make sure I press the button when there are green flashes. Then I will prove that I am not a freak and I can go back to school with my friends.

            Back to the green flash. I haven’t missed one yet. I am smarter than the green flash. Smarter than the asshole with the beard. I don’t care if I think he is an asshole. He is. He’s trying to prove that I am an idiot. He wants me to be a freak. He wants his test to be right. I will make him wrong.

            Green flash. Press the button.

            I start to count between green flashes. I begin to test them. I am smarter than that asshole, than that bitch. I am tired of Mrs. Kaczynski calling my mom after school. My mom says she keeps calling. That we need to figure things out for me. My mom asks why I don’t turn in homework. I don’t have an answer for her. I just want to go to football practice. But she keeps asking and keeps getting calls after school. Her questions make me cry. She thinks I’m the dumbest kid in class, just like Mrs. Kaczynski. She drops me off at football. I put my maroon helmet on before I walk up to my teammates. I can’t cry around them. I am not a wimp. I make music with my pads when I run through kids. POP. I can run through anyone on the team. I am not a freak. I just need my mom to believe that.

            Green flash. Press the button.

            I figure out there are seven seconds between each flash. I have tested it about five times to make sure I am right. I am smarter than that asshole. I never needed a therapist and I obviously don’t have A.D.D. I put my head down and count. At seven seconds I press the button. I don’t have to watch for the flash anymore.

            I lay my head down and keep counting. One, two, three…

            I am not a freak. I won’t let a green flash, a fat asshole, or bitch tell me that I am. I am smarter than them.

            Five, six, seven. Press the button.

            My mom turns into the neighborhood. I have practice off today. I wonder about going over to Tay’s to play that afternoon. We can practice backflips on her tramp and eat raspberries that grow wild in her yard.

            “So, I talked to Dr. Brooks,” my mom says. “We think it may help you in school if we get you on some meds.”

            “What?”

            “They could help, Steve.”

            “I don’t need any help. I’m fine.”

            “They could make school better.”

            Did I miss a green flash? I’m not different. I’m not a freak. I am just like all the other kids. I don’t want to be an idiot. I create the stories we play on the playground. All of my friends follow along with my ideas. And I can run through anyone in football. I’m going to be a great linebacker, like Al Wilson or Bill Romanowski. I am going to play for the Broncos like them.

            We pull into the garage. I begin to cry. “I’m fine, mom!” I don’t need anything! I’m not stupid. I’ll turn in my homework. I don’t want to take meds. I don’t need anything.”

            “Stephen, I know you’re not stupid—”

            I open the door to the car and run into the house. I sprint past Kody and Keno, as they wag their tails to greet me. I run upstairs. My calves extend on each step, pushing up. My knees pump up and down. At the top of the stairs I turn right, fly across the hall, to my room, and in a fluid motion, slam the door and lock it.

            I jump over piles of Legos, army men, football pads, and clothes and onto my bed. I turn on my bedside stereo and play a burned CD Jeff gave me. Goo-Goo Dolls, Stone Temple Pilots, Newfound Glory, Blink 182, Nirvana, Counting Crows.

            I lie on my bed for a while, burying my tears in my dinosaur blanket. My mom knocks on the door. I tell her to go away.

            Eventually she does and I stop crying.

            I move to the floor, pulling up a Jim Kjelgaard book, Snow Dog. I bought it with my own money after reading his classic, Irish Red.

            I struggle with the words. It’s not a fourth-grade book, but I can do it. After a few paragraphs and no mention of a wolf, I set it down. I begin to draw and write. It calms me. I write my own story, mentioning wolves right away. I look at the framed photograph of a wolf above my bed and imagine him. He is standing in autumn leaves between four aspens. I wonder what he is doing there. Where does he live? Where is his family? My pencil moves towards answers.

Those answers that my bedroom reveries used to provide are long gone.

Dr. Ferris walks around the room. My mountain sketch has moved down the page. A river now rolls from the peaks and hills. Pine trees come into focus further down the page. A wolf hides within them.

“Don’t forget about your paper next Friday. It’s a big one, so give yourselves time with it.”