Chapter 27If you're new to this, start atThe Beginning. And thanks for sharing my stories with all your friends.
Installment #28 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Chapter 27I sympathize with innocence. Ask yourselves, is it better to condemn a man who punishes the wicked, in order to save the smallest of children from a brutal death? Or is it better to applaud such a hero and strive to improve our culture so that parents prioritize the family?It’s a common belief that all cultures are good and that we should respect them all. I heartily disagree. There are successful cultures, and there are unsuccessful cultures. There are cultures that encourage kindness and cultures that tear apart the fabric of decency. Daunting as it is, we live in an unsuccessful and immoral culture. If we are ever to live the life we dream of, then we have to make that leap from our comfortable norm.Whatever your beliefs or disbeliefs in a higher power may be, don’t stand idle while our culture punishes a hero.Today, Tuesday, the man, lovingly called Daddy Smiling, known to most of us as the mythical hangman of the woods, will go to trial. The trial won’t be fair. It’s being done in haste to prevent sympathy from spreading. This vigilante that our murderers have created will be put to death. Only with considerable persuasive pressure from us will he stand a chance. I will be at the courthouse to protest from sunrise until sunset. If you maintain any shred of compassion for these children and their protector, you will join me for a peaceable protest. By standing together we can make a difference.It was still only Monday, and I signed my name at the bottom of my article. On the off chance that it would get published, I knew my signature wouldn’t make the final print. Still, it felt good to scribble my own name at the bottom. It was like I was sealing a pact with myself.All morning as I labored at one of the school’s common-room tables, writing my petition to the masses, I kept getting interrupted by strangers. This wasn’t surprising, because I'd hoped this would happen. I was on a crusade, and I would do anything to advance my cause.This is how my morning began:After rushing back to my apartment, since I smelled very foul, I showered. As the water cleansed my body, each drop of stinging water revealed how badly my back really was hurt. Then I put on a fresh pair of pants. Just as I contemplated how to pull a shirt on without having to endure agonizing pain, I had an idea. I threw the shirt back into my room and walked to campus bare chested, or, more important, bare backed.The school generally frowns on shirtless students, but I resolved to park myself at one of the most heavily trafficked hallways in school. Stealing a small desk, I leaned over to begin my petition. This was one of those times when it helped to be short and fat. Short because I didn’t have to lean too far over on the desk to write my article; fat because it presented a larger billboard for all to see the abuse heaped upon me. Just above my belt line, I’d scrawled in poor handwriting, since it’s really hard to write on your own back: “Ask me about it.” I’d tried to tape a paper that said as much, but the tape kept falling off. Maybe a string to hold it on like a necklace, but by the time I thought of that, I'd put the ink on my back.That whole morning, amid interruptions, I composed my article. Many people did ask me to tell them about my experience, but few lingered. Somewhere I’d heard that the only people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who actually do. I had no sure way to publish my article, and I doubted that enough people would get my message in this hallway to make a difference. But somehow I would publish it.I read my article one last time before standing up. I still had other things to do today. Since I was on campus, I went ahead and visited my professors, turning in my homework for the past week.“Mr. Iddo, what are you doing here without a shirt?” my first professor asked as I stepped into his office.I told him everything. He paid rapt attention. “If you have any suggestions that might help me, I’d love to hear them,” I finished.“Sounds to me like you have your work cut out for you. I’m sorry I can’t help, but it’s a compelling story. Perhaps, though, I could recommend a topical cream for your back. I’m not good at social movements, but I am a doctor.”“No, thank you. I’ll heal eventually. For now, I’ll let my back stand as a testament against those men.”“You’re a brave young man, Mr. Iddo. I hope, though, that you don’t let this whole thing keep you from your studies. You will still attend to your schooling while you fight for this vigilante’s life, won’t you? Promise me you will. You’re too good a student to drop out of becoming a doctor, regardless of which outcome befalls your friend.”“I promise,” I said. Dropping out of school had crossed my mind yesterday during my bout of depression. Even during that self-pitying spiral, I'd dismissed thoughts of dropping out. My life would go on no matter how things turned out. At least for me they would.My meetings with my other professors went similarly. With each, I had another opportunity to share my story. Each professor skirted the subject of offering any real advice that could help the hangman or the children of the woods. I got the impression that the professors didn’t want to be involved. They were more concerned about my back healing faster than about saving a man’s life.They had their reasons, I’m sure. They hadn’t experienced what I’d been through. I couldn’t blame them. They lived in a different world. They might talk about it for weeks or years to come, but it would be an academic exercise to them. A distant ethical event and debate.Afterward I walked back to the only place I could think to go. I couldn’t publish this article by myself. Yes, there was the Internet, but I didn’t know enough about it to do my own publishing. Besides, I couldn’t imagine how my article could go viral in time to make a difference. I should have learned how to use the social media tools available there to voice my concern over a year ago. That had never crossed my mind. Anything I’d ever wanted to say or write always got published, anyway.There was only one person I knew who could help me get this article published.“Absolutely not!” Krystal emphasized in a hushed tone. She didn’t want the chief editor to hear her talking to me. She showed me out of the building so we could talk more openly.Passing ahead, she led me across the street. When she felt we were far enough away from the company, she stopped, turned around, and just as I approached, she gave me a shove that was almost hard enough to topple me backward.“How dare you! First you get fired for trying to help a freakish murderer. Now you want to get me fired, too?”Her shoulders tightened as if she was about to push me again, but I stepped back. “Krystal, you’ve heard my side of the story more than once.” The Tuesday edition of the paper, like all our papers, would be printed and delivered for distribution early in the morning. I didn’t have much time. I needed this. “How else am I to get word out in time for the trial? Besides, you know that Biahn is just manipulating this whole thing to his own personal advantage.”“Biahn still has his job. So do I, and I don’t need you to ruin that for me.”“Is your job more important to you than the life of a good man and the future of so many children?”“Don’t play on my sympathies, Iddo. I’m not going to get involved.”“Just read the article before you throw it out altogether.”“No, Iddo, I won’t. I have a good thing going here.”“Well, then just sneak it into the public commentary. I know you can find a place to put it that won’t get you fired.”“Iddo, you’re nice but naive. Understand, I don’t owe you any favors. If anything, I’ve overextended my goodwill to you already.”I wanted to accuse her of being selfish, just like her father. Was she really keeping score? I knew that line of thinking wouldn’t be very productive. Apparently, though, my stare was accusation enough.“Since when did you grow such a spine?” Krystal suddenly accused.My mouth dropped open. The affront surprised me. I didn’t know how to respond.“That’s right, you have always been the timid one, afraid of your own shadow. Now you want to guilt me into this cause of yours. I’m not a philanthropist, Iddo. I’m struggling to make my own way in this world, just like everyone else. You’ve seen my dad. I’m not going to get any help from him. I’ve got to find my own way. What I don’t need is for you, of all people, to get pushy with me. I’ve got to do what’s best for me. And what’s best for me is what’s best for the company I work for right now.”“I know I’m asking a lot—”“No! You’re asking too much! We’re done here.”She took one step. I raised a hand in protest, but she caught it with one of hers. Her grip was manly-strong. The finger on her other hand threatened to skewer my forehead like a dagger. I closed my mouth, my teeth clicking shut as if to signal my resigned silence.Without a word she let go of my hand and marched back to her office. I was left alone next to the street holding my article. It would not get published by her. And if not by her, then not by anyone. I recalled the cliché about how people see their whole life passing before their eyes when they’re about to die. My life wasn’t in any danger, but my chances of publishing this petition were. Regret suddenly flashed its ugly montage across my mind.I remembered every instance since the day I’d met Krystal that I could have been a better friend. Even if only once I’d made the simplest effort, or at least not shied away from her, maybe then things would've turned out differently. Some people burn bridges that they may someday need. Usually this happens in sudden disagreements. I’d allowed mine to slowly be eaten away by termites and rot over the course of several years, this despite the many chances Krystal had afforded me to fix it.I was back at square one. Maybe square two, if there is such a thing. I wasn’t hopeless. Quite the opposite, in fact. One door had closed, but maybe I could open another. I had to hurry, though. I had a lot to do and time wasn’t on my side.I jogged back to campus. Using my school credit, I planned to run a bunch of copies off in the student copy center. I would then post them everywhere that people might pass and read them. I was just about to place my article on the scanner when a hand grabbed my shoulder.“No shirt, no service,” an attendant with a prickly little mustache declared.“Please, I just need to run a few copies, then I’ll be out. I don’t have time to get a shirt. Please just let me—”The man grabbed my article, crumpled it, then threw it out the door. I chased after it, terrified that it would get trampled or worse. “Everyone, including you, needs to respect the rules. Come back when you decide to be responsible.” He shut the door behind me.I wasn’t angry with the man. I just felt like a fool. Everything wrong up to this point had been a result of my poor judgment. This fit in line with my growing list of consequences. I had a feeling that when this whole thing was over, I was going to look back on the experience as a positive life-altering lesson in dealing with people. It didn’t make sense, but something was happening to me. Despite the fact that nothing was going right, deep inside my confidence was growing. Weird, I know, but that’s how I felt.As my confidence increased, so did my boldness. I might not be able to get anything out of the copy center, but there were alternatives. I hurried back to the office of one of my professors. The door was locked. I ran to the next one. The professor wasn’t in, but his door was open. I looked at the clock and realized that he was teaching a class that I was supposed to be in. I had fifteen more minutes before he would be back. With nobody watching, I slipped into the room and surveyed his desk.On top of the monitor read “Dr. Dac Kien.” Folders and files littered the office, but no printer. I knew he had to have some way of printing. I opened his word processor, typed a character, and clicked on the print icon. There was indeed a printer networked and I confirmed the print. Nothing in the room made a sound. If the printer wasn’t in the office, then it must be a shared printer. If I could find the printer, I could type my article, then just run a bunch of prints.I printed three more copies of the letter T and ran out of the office, my ears straining to hear the familiar mechanics. Hear them I did. I followed the noise. The machine finished before I found it, but by then I knew where to look. A common area, exclusive to professors and staff, contained not just a printer but a large copy machine. I smiled. I wouldn’t have to type this thing after all.There was one other person moving about, but her attention was elsewhere. I strolled up to the machine, as normal as could be. Easy to say, really. But when you’re shirtless in a place like this, attention has a way of gravitating toward you. I felt like a large fleshy beacon.Luckily the other person, probably a student teacher or some other type of clerk, was busy enough that she didn’t look in my direction.I placed my crinkled papers on the copy machine’s feeder, then tried to decipher the control panel. I’d never used anything like this, so it was completely foreign to me. I took a guess and typed in “99,” then pressed the biggest round button.Each of my lined drafts were suddenly sucked into the machine with a crumpling sound. I held my breath. The papers were ejected from a different slot. The machine hadn’t jammed with my imperfectly flat notepaper. The copier fired to life and spit out one copy after another. I risked a look over my bare shoulder at the other person in the room. She hadn’t looked my way yet. Copying would take at least a full minute, maybe more. I knew I couldn’t hold my luck for that long.I faded back around a corner, just out of sight. With my back to the copier, I released my breath through pursed lips. My heart was thumping, but I was grinning. I felt amazing. Iddo of yesterday would never have been so bold. Today I was bold. I was going to make my own luck.Normally I would've jumped through the ceiling when I felt the cold thin fingers tap my shoulder, but instead I just froze.“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice—you,” the young woman said with a pause, and maybe a hint of disdain. She seemed unsure just what to think of me. With the copy machine running, she must have taken a break from her work to see who was here. “Is there something I can help you with?”No need. I’m just here running a copying errand for Professor Dac Kien. That was a lie. And it was a lie that I wanted to say, but even my newfound confidence couldn’t bring it to my lips. Why did I feel so compelled to be honest? “I’m staging a protest on behalf of the hangman, and the copy center wouldn’t let me in,” I said reluctantly.I was so sure that this time I’d found a way to spread my letter. But the confused eyes of this young lady said I wasn’t welcome here, either. Finally her face tightened, and she turned her back to me. She left me standing while she walked back to the copier just as it finished printing its last page.Grabbing the stack, she read through the first few pages that now made up a stack of almost three hundred papers. Returning, she examined me closely. “You do this again, and I’ll report you.” She then shoved the heavy stack of paper into my arms.“You’re going to let me take these?” I asked with some surprise.“What good is the paper to me? You’ve already printed it. Take it, get out of here, and good luck.”I cradled the bundle and exhaled a breathy laugh. “Thank you.”“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got work to do,” she said in dismissal.For once something had gone right. I was just about to go down the stairs to the main floor when I realized that I’d left my original handwritten copies on the printer. I turned on my heels to look back, then promptly tripped. I caught myself before I tumbled down the stairs, but in doing so, I let the whole stack of papers fly out of my arms. Some pages stayed close, but most of them fluttered down the entire staircase. I stood and watched until each piece landed. “Figures,” I whispered to myself.Five minutes later I had everything back in my arms, but it took another fifteen minutes to organize them. I looked at a hall clock. Four forty-five. My heart sank. The last classes were just about to finish for the day. Voices down the halls were getting louder, signaling that some of these last classes were already ending a few minutes early. I could run around the whole campus and post these all. But even if I miraculously accomplished that in the next fifteen minutes, very few people, if any would read it in time to be useful.Only one option remained that I could think of. I ran as fast as I could to the main student center. Students were lining up at the copy office that had kicked me out less than an hour ago. But that’s not where I was going. Next door to the copy center was the school’s computer lab. Soon that place would be packed with people trying to get their homework ready for the next day. It was also conveniently located right next to the main doors of the building. A huge flow of students would be exiting through those doors to go home for the night.I posted myself right outside the computer lab door. From there I could give a handout to anybody going into the computer lab and also catch those on their way home. I had to hope that people would read my petition and share it with their friends and family. If not in person, then maybe on the computer.Without any more time to think about it, I was busy trying to shove papers into distracted hands. Thirty minutes later, I was out. I leaned against the cinder-block wall. Sharp pangs of discomfort reached deeper than the wounds should have permitted. The cool masonry seemed a balm for my aches. I let myself rest for a minute until my body heated the wall to the point where it no longer soothed.Pulling away from the wall hurt worse than leaning against it. My back wanted to stick to the roughly painted blocks. I looked where my back had just been. Yellowy milky-pink stripes patterned the off-white walls. Maybe I should have taken my professor’s advice and gotten an ointment for my back. I couldn’t afford to let it become infected.Exhausted, I pushed the doors open. A small shred of guilt tugged at me for leaving those marks on the school’s wall, but I ignored it and left the building. My lips parted in disbelief as I saw a few pages of my petition blowing across the road. I briefly considered chasing down the loose papers. I’d have to dodge foot traffic and cars at the same time. But as I considered this, I felt a drop of water on my back. It was followed by more until I was standing in a short burst of rain. It was the kind that would only last a few minutes, but it was enough to ruin every page that was exposed.I looked in the nearest waste bin where any copies might still be dry. As expected, several copies had been tossed in there. They were ruined, not by rainwater, but by discarded food and drink that had been dropped on top. Would anyone care to read my article?I didn’t wait for the rain to let up. I walked home. After a few minutes, the rain cleared up. It was followed by the balmy shirt plastering humidity that generally follows the rain on a hot day like today. Luckily I wasn’t wearing my shirt. Unluckily, my back began to itch with intolerable zeal. I couldn’t scratch it, or I’d risk reopening some of the deeper gashes.Once home I filled a tub with water. The soap was gone. For lack of any better idea, I sprinkled half a box of baking soda into the tub. With pants still on, I tested the water. My tub wasn’t like American tubs. I couldn’t fully soak my whole body. But leaning at an awkward angle, I was able to get most of my back into the basin. There I stayed for a while. I let the water work on my back until the strain on my backbone hurt worse than the pain in my wounds.After carefully drying off, I cooked some rice and dumped a cold can of spiced tuna on it. I nearly inhaled it, then went to my room and collapsed on my stomach. Unlike the nightmares of the night before, I was blissfully unaware of any dreams this night. I’d done all I could today.All that effort; all wasted.Click here to read Chapter 28Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.