WORK IN PROGRESS

This is an excerpt from the novel Finnegan's Wake Up Call.
It is the story of one man's need to find meaning in his life. An ancient theme that is recast and forged in each persons life as ones unique way is found or lost. Our protagonist, Jason Finnigan is a 35 year old wanna-be-poet who during the summer of 1977 sets out to travel across the American continent to find meaning. This excerpt is a flashback. Each chapter begins with an excerpt from his 'poets' note book.





Theory of Absolution - Consent of the Species.
It is the task of man to now realize that he is not an adaptation, but environment itself; to come to the dual realization that he “is” and “is not” the center of the universe. He neither ascents (Teilhard) nor descents (Darwin) but consents. The world does have an end; out task is not to create it, but to celebrate it. 'Consider the lily how it grows.'
-from the Notebook of Jason Finnegan-


Chapter Eight

“What’s the matter Kid? Cat got your tongue? I asked how old you are.”
He answered quietly, his face tuned away from the old man, not wanting to let go of his reverie.
“Twenty three.”
“You look younger.”
Jason ignored the old man and tried to see down the empty corridor, straining his senses, trying to hold on to the images and echos of the two men who were able to turn their backs and walk away from the sound of steel locking against itself. His hand gripped the steel bar. It’s coldness drew something out of him. A memory of New England winters and a third grade recess on the playground during below freezing weather. The kids would dare each other to touch tongues to the metal swing poles. Jason wanted to look brave so he did it. His tongue stuck. Skin and metal welded together until the teacher poured her thermos bottle of coffee on the pole to separate them.
“Sit down and relax kid. They ain’t coming back,”
Jason turned toward the old man.
“I’m thirsty.”
“There’s the sink.”
Jason moved to the sink and turned on the water. As he bent to drink he noticed the faucet was the old fashioned type. What his grandfather called a spigot, not at all like the taps in their kitchen. Their kitchen. They, their, them, that’s how their friends always referred to them. He and she were a third person. That years magic couple. They even shared the first initial. Sometimes ‘they’ were referred to as simply ‘J’. Jason and Janice and ‘their’ kitchen taps in ‘their’ apartment on “R” St in ‘their’ Washington. He felt angry. He straightened up and wiped his mouth.
During the past couple of weeks a cloudiness had obscured his thoughts, a mental grayness mercifully dulling and keeping him from to much feeling. The water refreshed him. He started to notice the details of his new home. The bedroll he was given lay on top of a plastic mattress. It reminded him of dirty laundry. Why did they call it a roll he wondered. It wasn’t rolled. It wasn’t even folded. It was a poke of awkwardness. Something to hold against the recurring nakedness, physical and mental that he was alternately subjected to. Strip, search, pick up bedroll, put it down, put on grays, pick up bedroll, strip, shower, search, dress and for each humiliation in the series of manipulations he was required to punctuate it with ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’. He would come to know that his purpose was their process. They was not them.
“Hey kid, while I think of it, do me a favor will ya?”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t piss in the sink, use the toilet.”
“I was raised better than that.”
“Yea, sure. That’s why you’re here. Good breeding in the first degree.”
“You don’t know nothing.”
“I know all about you. I typed out your admits.”
The old man raised himself from the bunk, dropped his pants and sat on the toilet. Jason turned his head away. He’s gonna stink, he thought, old men always do that. He remembered his grandfather and other old men who would leave a territorial mark as if to say, I stink, therefore I am. His hand absent-mindedly fumbled in an empty pocket for a match recalling the only advice his father ever gave him. ‘If you ever foul someone’s bathroom, strike a match.” The old man continued talking. “Yeah, I know all about you. Seen all your records. That’s my job here. Cause I’ve got the whole book. I guess they don’t wanna have to break somebody in every ten years.” he laughed at his joke. “I see you asked for library.”
“It’s better than making license plates.”
“You’ve seen too many Paul Muni movies. We don’t do that any more.
“Paul Muni?”
“Before your time, baby face, guess I should have said Jimmy Cagney.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Better get use to it, ‘cause when you get out in population they is gonna go crazy over a fresh looking piece like you. You gonna have a lot of trouble unless you wanna be put in ‘keep lock’.”
“I ain’t that way.”
“Not yet you ain’t.”
Jason felt angry and turned toward the man and then turned away embarrassed.
“What’s ‘keep lock’.”
“Boy are you wet behind the ears. You’re as innocent as you look.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Oh sure. Baby face ain’t a lady killer. Why I bet you knocked ‘em dead right and left. I bet you left bodies lying all over the place.” He laughed.
Jason’s mind wandered again. Keep lock. Protection. Words and rules and regulations heard during orientation. His mind had also wandered then, for although he knew the words were meant for him he could not accept that they belonged to him. There were to many words to absorb, they overwhelmed him.
“It is the order of the court that Jason Finnegan be bound over to the Lorton Reformatory until the executory decree of this court is...”
Those words. If only memory would fail him he could count it a blessing. There was to much to think about now, and memory made thinking difficult. If only he could now put his mind to a thought and allow it to wander through the still hours of the night when the noise of the world is reduced to a hum. The picture in his mind shifted to the apartment on 'R' Street. Not of any particular time or event, but a constellation of nights spent with Janice. They would make love or she would softly sing before falling asleep. She had perfect pitch, a talent Jason lacked, to compensate he would think, ‘perhaps I can have a perfect thought’. He would lay there by her side trying to make his mind a blank, hoping that the unexpected would appear; desiring to draw from some secret depth an intuition that would surprise or succor, he was convinced that there was something inside him that could burst forth, that something was damned up, he could feel it move and kick, but the only image that came was of an invisible finger that wrote his name in water. These were his thoughts before falling asleep; until that day she explained that perfect pitch was inferior to absolute pitch. He wondered why he never thought of that.
“How come you aren’t laughing kid? Ya better learn to laugh around here.” The old man was finished and pulled his clothes back together.
“My mind was wandering.”
“Yea, I noticed.”
“How come you asked how old I am if you seen my records.”
“I wanted to see if you would lie. Most guys in here lie about everything. I know ‘cause I work records. You know some guys are afraid of me, because they go around bragging about how they done in the old lady when I know different. Their lives wouldn’t be worth spit if I let out what they really were in for.”
A picture with children came to Jason’s mind, an ugly picture.” It made him feel sick. He erased it.
“How come the sinks got such big bolts holding it?” A dumb question to help clear the mind. The old man leaned forward and lowered his voice to a confiding whisper.
“That’s because there are a lot of guys around here with sticky fingers.” The old man fell back on the bunk laughing. Jason felt a familiar frustration.
“Ah, come on, damn it.”
“Better get use to it baby face, ‘cause that’s all ya get from now on." The old man sat up on the bunk and looked Jason up and down. "Ah what the hell. Sorry kid. I know what’s going through your mind.”
“How would you know?”
“Boy, you’re funnier than I am. In case you didn’t gather. He leaned forward again in mock confidentiality. “I am in the can too.” again he laughed. Jason stared at him wondering what kind of cell mate he’d been stuck with. “Good god“, he thought, “I hope he ain’t a practical joker.”
“Relax kid, I felt the same way first time. First you try to understand, then you get angry, then a bunch of other feelings and all the time anger because you don’t know from what. It really twists you up. I’ve drawn it all this trip and I know what to expect. In the morning a bell will ring to wake me and I have to go out and see the same old faces. Then another bell for mess to eat the same old slop. A bell for work and a bell for sleep. All day long that goddam ringing. It’s enough to drive you. Let me give you some advice kid. When you hear a bell, don’t drag ass. Just get moving with the rest of us. And another thing, and I don’t mean this to be no army joke, but if you drop a bar of soap, let it lie, don’t go for it. You just say, “Fuck it, I lost a bar of soap”. Otherwise dudes gonna make remarks and remarks lead to labels and before you know it you got a swarm in your cell. Life ain’t no movie. I guess I was about your age when I first drew hard time. I’d heard the stories and believe you me, there weren’t no way I was gonna be somebody’s pussy. The first time some guy came up to me and gave me lip I told him to back off. And when he said ‘why’ I look him in the eye and said, “that’s the way I am.” remember that. Most guys will let you be. But some guys if they want something they will take it. Because they been doing it all their life. That’s when you gonna find out how much of a man you are.”
Jason’s attention was captured. He concentrated on the old man’s features. A gray complexion paled by lack of sun, yet with an even tone; the skin of people who smelled of money, but in this case it came from years of regular dietary habits. His eye had a particularly cunning look. It blinked strangely; like the eye of the ‘Worlds Greatest Magician.”



The man in the fine silk clothes took the little boy by the hand and led him to the center of the stage. His wide dark eyes looked at the boy and then to the audience.
“What’s your name young man?”
“Jason.”
“And how old are you Jason?”
“Seven and a half.”
“Would you like to be my assistant.”
Jason shrugged, nodded, grinned and brought his right foot behind his left leg making polishing motions against his trousers. The audience laughed. A small cage with a canary was brought on stage. The magician held it between his two hands and explained that he would make it disappear while in the hands of his young assistant.
“Are you ready?”
Jason held up his finger, signaling. “Wait a moment” hitched up his trousers and took a deep breath, the audience laughed again.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Put your right hand on top of the cage. That’s right. Now put your left hand on the bottom. Hold it very, very tight.” He paused for effect;
“Do you feel a real cage with a real canary inside?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When I say the magic words and count to three, bird and cage will disappear into thin air.”
As Jason held the top and bottom tightly he saw a small hook with elastic running up the magicians sleeve. He wondered what it was and stared at it not hearing the magic words and numbers. It happened in a fraction of a second, the magician removed his hands from the side of the cage and Jason watching the elastic saw the cage flash into the sleeve, the audience applauded, the magician made a thank you gesture, turned and bowed to shake Jason’s hand. Jason looked at him and said, “Is it dead?”

Two guards came and motioned for Jason and the old man to stand up and step back. They unlocked the cell.
"Lets go old man . Time for a medical exam."
The old man didn’t respond right away. The guard grabbed his arm and jerked him toward the door.
“Let’s go, old man.”
“Leave the kid alone.”
“Shut up old fart.”
The old man was led away. The other guard stayed behind. Jason felt the fear.
“What are you gonna do.”
“Show you what happens when you get left alone.”



Language is a strand of barbed wire that tears the flesh off words. -from the notebook of Jason Finnegan-

Chapter Nine

Jason stared at the cell wall. It was full of deep cracks, spreading and fanning like meandering rivers. It’s delta shaped ends reminiscent of the branching limbs of New England trees against winter skies. A motif repeated under his skin in the network of nerves that felt so exposed. Everywhere forms tending to extend toward each other, forming specific and predictable types of junctions. He thought about the smooth, continuous, orderliness that life should be. A life whose patterns could delight the artistic mentality of scientist. His skin felt flushed. He felt separated from the world that circles the sun in orbits carefully calculated by centuries of mans math. How comforting it had been to flow with change that could be assigned numbers, like the varying motion of gases heated and cooled. He felt a tightening in his stomach. Life was still full of changes but the tension was different; for he had no yard stick to hold up to an erupting bubble, no scale in which to weigh the moment that separates standing and crumbling. His frustration and anger dug deeper. He felt like ice at its melting point.
He leaned against the wall and slid to a sitting position. His memory intruded again. He heard the voice of the prosecutor.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. What we have presented is a very simple, open and shut case. You have heard the testimony of neighbors, you have heard and seen the evidence of forensic scientist. The state has shown that motive and opportunity existed. The chain of circumstances is there. It is a fact that Jason Finnigan was discovered on his hands and knees washing the kitchen floor; washing away the evidence; the very blood of his victim.” He went on to enumerate his facts. Continued to make numbers pattern to his world. He continued, “Facts you can not ignore in your deliberations. I ask you to ask yourself if the defense has presented facts or have they presented nothing but a parade of psychological jargon. Have they presented a case or is it merely psychobabble."
As the prosecutor made his summation, Jason looked around the court room. Everyone was watching as the prosecutor preened before the jury box, carefully and logically linking circumstance to itself, adding case history to case law. Jason looked at the faces of the jurors, their eyes intent and penetrating. He thought of his Grandmother’s eyes.


“Where have you been Jason.”
“Just playing.”
“Come here and look at me.”
“He moved timidly. How does she know, he wondered. Nobody could have told her. I just came from there.
“You have been a naughty little boy haven’t you?”
“No, Grandma.”
“Look at me right in the eye and tell me what you did.”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“Oh, I can see it in your eyes, they say you did something naughty.”
He felt scared and believed her eyes magic.
“It was an accident honest.”
“What did you do?”
“We were just playing. We were at that old house that’s being torn down.” He started to cry. “...and Mia was looking through the window and I fell against her.”
“Fell?”
“Honest I did mean to hurt her.”
“You hurt Dr. Barlows little girl? Just wait until your parents come home.
That night there was a lot of nervous talk in the house. There were also phone calls from the girls family that upset his mother. He went to bed early, without being told, and pulled the covers over his head. Still he could hear the hushed tones of conversation from the other room. He made a promise to God that he would never hurt anyone again. And to be on the safe side he also said a few words to the trees that brushed against the window panes.



“Hey kid. Let me tell you about the first job I pulled. Jason looked at his cell mate with an I-could-care-less expression.
“Would you like to hear about the dream I had last night?”
“The old man shook is head and waved his hand.
“Naw. Who cares about somebody’s dreams. They never make any sense. You know something’. Whenever I come to a dream in a story I just skip over it.”
“Yea, I know what you mean. It’s like when old people reminisce.” The old man reacted to Jason’s tone.
“Oh boy, that was pretty low.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean it quite that way.”
“Forget it. I know.”
“Forget I said it.”
But he couldn’t forget. There were so many things that stuck so firmly they became part of him. Any of the senses could be stimulated, a touch, a sound, an odor and cause images from the past to unexpectedly appear. And these things that came out of time and forgotten places would become the grief of his dreams. During the six years and nine months of incarceration he would pray for magic but dream of sorcery. Many nights he dreamed he was the winner in a game of musical electric chairs.


end of the excerpt from Finnegan's Wake Up Call
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