Zeroland: A tale

He wasn’t sure how long this had been going on, when he realized, there he was, and there they were, the Woman and the Man, the Woman doing these things in the kitchen, while he’d watch tv or something, the Man would come home and harass him, if he said anything to the Woman. 
It went on like this for about ten years.  Sometimes he would hang out after school with some other kids.  The Woman and the Man, contentedly enjoying their garden, didn’t have anything better for him to do but didn’t like it all the same. 
One day the Man spoke up and said, You will obey me, now, or else I will hurt you.  And so he did. 
Afterwards he called the police.   They came and had words with the Man.  In the morning the Man or the Woman, maybe both, took his phone out so he couldn’t do that anymore.  This is like a declaration of war, he thought.  On second thought, they blame that on you. 

This place they called school was interesting. There were 25 or so kids seated at little chairs with desks that folded up.  There was a teacher in front who would say stuff.   The others in their places sometimes would, usually when the teacher spoke to them then they would speak.  He saw these as bodies that emit sounds.  He didn’t ever get too involved in anything they said or did, and years later, he couldn’t remember much of what was said.  Sometimes there was a fat book, like the one on the history of their country and what you were supposed to believe.  He remembered they would read together a paragraph.  

There were things they were supposed to do, in the class, on the playground, where he would stand shivering for 20 minutes in a coat that wasn’t adequate to the midwestern winter, and sometimes someone would say something or he would say something but usually not and then it would be over and they would go back inside.  
This went on for about ten years. 

So tell me how you feel, said the lady doctor.  Feel?  What do you mean?  He thought he was feeling some sensations.  She was kind of cute.
What do you want, said the man.  Want?  Is a person supposed to want something?  What does that mean?Seeing he didn’t act like the other bodies, a helper man or woman would sometimes tell him he must be ‘mentally’ sick.  Does that mean they don’t like how he thinks, or don’t want him to?  It seemed what they meant was he was different from the others.  He didn’t want to be different from or the same as anyone, what could that mean.  But he began to learn that they can hurt you if they think you’re not like them.  
I dreamt, he said, that I keep encountered big people, they are much bigger than me, they know what they are doing, are sure of themselves, and if I have to talk to one of them, they remind me that the world is for big people like them.  Little ones like me always lose.  They’ll say I’m wrong somehow, or did something wrong.
Sometimes one of the people would demand something from him.  He learned that if he didn’t do it, they might cause more trouble, maybe hurt him.  But if he did?  Many years later, he realized that they didn’t want that either, it was a challenge, and guys do that.  
He did not often get angry.  He knew what could happen then.  What if you were a guy and the other were a girl and you were angry about anything, something else, someone else, but she noticed, then you would be blamed.  
They would punish you.  He knew about this.  Eventually he would said to himself, they want you to do something or be a certain way, and since you are not, they punish.  
If the big person is angry, it’s your fault.  If she is a female, you are a rapist.  It was the seventies and feminism was on.  An angry woman or person of color is getting back at the oppressors, an angry guy is an oppressor and a violator.  
He learned never to disagree with a female person.  It was even worse than with guys.  The guys would threaten in reply, the girls would scream bloody murder.  He - he - spoke to me, she might complain, bewildered.  But of course, outraged. 
There were the permanently outraged, with their righteous indignation, of the intolerant moralists, the judging jews and gentlefolk. 
He was always in the wrong, it didn’t matter why.  That was the lesson.
People whose thinking was medical or therapeutic would think him schizoid or autistic and so crazy and that’s bad.  People whose thinking was legal and punitive would wonder which crime he was liable to commit.  People he applied to work for usually didn’t like the way he applied and how he spoke when he did.  People who are angry already for their own reasons would provoke him.
They put him in a jail with 25 guys, and they all started wondering what his problem is, what kind of person you are.  What are you, gay, mentally ill, you’re not Jewish then we’d give you kosher food and if you’re good you can pray on Saturdays and study with the rebbe, there are some Jewish guys who are pretty tough but they’ve been at a for a while, no, you’re not, that’s not your thing, so what are you. 
If you’re gay you get fucked but maybe you can decide who with, get a little love, that’s right.  If you don’t make it with anybody you must be mentally ill so we’ll put you in solitary.  
And he said I’m not a fucking this or that kind of person, I’m a fucking artist.  Yeah well what the fuck does that mean.  

I can’t help you, said the doctor.  I think you will always be a misfit.  If you were a different kind of person, we might expect you would become some kind of artist or something.  But I think you will always feel the way you do. 
My suggestion is you read our manual and give it a try for a little while, and if that doesn’t work, we can give you something to end it all.  
Check out of the whole life, he asked.
Why not, said the Man.  

Many years later, many experiences, with artworks, literature, his own writing, millions of words, he looked back on all this and wondered.      
And aren’t you wondering what he wondered, what we wondered.  
Wonderful things await you, wouldn’t you know.  He wouldn’t know, would you.