Lizard King Chapter 1

© J.D. Ralston 2012

Lizard King
By
J.D. Ralston



ONE -- Rolling Acres  
In an effort to combat the rise in abductions of children by sexual predators, Techno-Alert Industries developed a personal wrist-mounted Gazing Parent Security unit in 2010.
techno-alertind.com/aboutus

Caden Fletcher walked without purpose and with nowhere to go. He couldn't go home. He couldn't go back to high school. He'd blown it and it was only a matter of when and where they'd catch him. But, he didn't care. He hadn't cared for the last couple of months and why should now be any different.

His parents didn't care either. He was an annoying bit of inconsequential data on their GPS units: a pop-up in the window of his mother's pretty little life. He was a greasy smudge she
could never completely clean off the big glass window in her all-white living room in her pretty little pastel-colored house that looked out upon the other pretty little pastel-colored houses in their pathetic gated-community that stretched for miles in a precise geometric pattern. No matter how hard she scrubbed, Caden interfered with her vision of perfection.

"Caden," his mother had said just last night, her Corporate Woman perfume stinking up the entire room. "Sit down, please."

Caden wasn't really sure when his mother had decided he was stupid. It may have been in the third grade when he'd finally been diagnosed with dyslexia, but he suspected it'd been the first time he'd mixed up letters. It didn't matter that now in eleventh grade his reading comprehension scored at college level because he still couldn't spell and he still couldn't write. Well, not very well, anyway. And those are the indicators of future intellectual success: "We are always being measured, Caden, and you don't measure up." Is what she'd said after she'd opened his ACT scores.

"I've called a nice family meeting for us tonight because your father and I have something very important to say to you. Something you don't seem to understand yet about being a part of this family." His mother sat on the edge of her all-white leather couch in her white business suit and white leather pumps, her knees drawn tight together. She perched there for every meeting, like a snowy owl searching for a small, helpless mouse.
Caden twisted the expensive, indestructible band on his left wrist. His parents had had him fitted first at birth with a Techno-Alert band, a medical-grade stainless steel interior expansion band with a laminated insulator – shock-proof, waterproof, hypo-allergenic and available in five adjustable sizes: infant, toddler, preschooler, school-age and teenage.

Securely attached to this band was the Gazing Parent Security unit, allowing Caden's parents to monitor his whereabouts at all times. Once the pediatrician fit the band to Caden's wrist and secured the band's latch mechanism, the band could only be removed by one of his parents when they sent a release signal from their personal computer to the flash drive that was incorporated into the latch mechanism. Access to the flash drive was granted only through fingerprint identification on his parents' computers.
Caden continued to twist his band and watched his mother, waiting for her to pounce. But this time, he stayed his full self. He did not shrink into her white leather side chair. He lifted his chest and relaxed his shoulders and realized that he was stronger than his father now. He could, if he wanted, overpower him. This made him listen to them from a different place inside.

"Don't we have something very important to say, Michael," she said to his father.
His father nodded, slipping his handheld into the right pocket of his dark business suit. Then he tugged at his power tie, straining his thick neck away from it. He couldn't breathe around her either, he just didn't know it.
His mother always spoke to Caden very slowly, enunciating her words. "Your father and I work very hard to give you everything no child deserves. We make a lot of sacrifices for you. Don't we, Michael."

"Uh, huh." His father pursed his lips.

"And what do we really ask of you in return, Caden? Not much. As we've said many times before, make us proud on the football field. Do what you are told, when you are told and without reserve. That's not much to ask, is it, for all of the things we've given you." She paused. "It has been very stressful to deal with the blow to our reputation that your academic inferiority has caused. When you were playing football, we could overlook this deficiency in you. But now, now that you've come up with some half-crocked idea of being an artist … I cannot begin to tell you, Caden, how embarrassing this has been for me. Hearing the derisive remarks and seeing the shocked looks on the other parent's faces when I have to explain your absence on the football field." She breathed deeply and re-composed herself. She attempted to soften her tone, "We're concerned for your future, Caden."
And then Caden had an epiphany. Why at that moment, he wasn't totally sure. He had been enduring these exact kinds of moments all of his life. But this moment became elevated for him, removed from its fog of emotion, and he could see through it.

"You don't love me," he blurted out. He had thought they did. But he must have known they didn't really, because recently he had stopped trying to be what they wanted.  
"It's not about love, Caden," she said. "It's about being a respectable member of Rolling Acres. And as your parents we are obligated to raise you to be exactly that. How are you going to support yourself when you turn eighteen if you don't get into college? You think artists make any money?" She laughed as if that were truly funny, amusing, comedic.
With great difficulty, he swallowed the bile that threatened to erupt from within him and spoil her perfect little living room.

"You have to have a real job, son," said his father. "It's not that you have to follow in our footsteps exactly."

"We have been phenomenally successful though, dear. We can open doors for him, if he wanted," she said.

"You're right, Charity. But I just don't think Caden is up to climbing the corporate ladder. Caden is a football player. It's in his genes." His father puffed out his chest and grinned at his mother. "Just think, Caden, after a few years in the NFL you could own a luxury car dealership."

"Ah, but he doesn't want to play football, remember?" his mother said. "He threw away his college scholarship to the Big Ten. It wasn't what he wanted to do with his life."
"What is there to do, if you don't play football?" his father asked.

Caden used to think this too. Football had been everything to him, back when it'd been fun. "I'm tired of getting hurt, playing hurt, playing with a headache that makes me think fuzzy, getting screamed at and my helmet pounded by Coach Peterson for every little mistake."

"Don't be ridiculous," his father said. "Coach Peterson is the best high school coach Rolling Acres has ever had."

"He's not going to listen to us, Michael. We're wasting our time, and obviously, we've wasted a lot of money. He isn't going to be the son we dreamed of having."

"Why don't you just get rid of me if you hate me so much?" asked Caden. He didn't cry though. Yes, it cut into him but he'd learned long ago how to keep that a secret from her.
"What are you suggesting?" his mother asked.

"You could have more children. Release me and send me somewhere far from here for the next two years and when I'm eighteen, I'll take care of myself. Live my own life. I can even change my name. We'll never miss each other."

"We cannot just send you somewhere, not monitor you and still be legally responsible for you. Your actions could ruin our lives and I just won't take that risk. But if that is how you feel about us, Caden, your very own parents, there is a solution to this problem. Is that what you want?"

"Sure. Whatever. I'll go anywhere but here. Anywhere I don't have to be banded anymore. I'm tired of disappointing you."

"Be careful what you ask for, Caden," his mother said. "You have no idea how good you have it here in Rolling Acres." She stood up, looked down on him for a few seconds then turned and walked away, her high heels clicking across the ceramic floor tile.

His parents weren't home when he went to school in the morning. They never had been. Once he'd hit the ripe old age of twelve, and it was legal for him stay home alone, they fired the nanny and relied completely on the GPS band. But this morning, it felt sad. He'd said some things the night before maybe he shouldn't have. She was his mother after all; the only one he had.

And then on the bus and at school Caden began to notice things he hadn't before. How quiet everyone was, most of the time. Even in the hallways and the cafeteria. The only time anyone said anything in class, it was to give the correct answer. Sure, they talked to each other outside of class, but it was about everyday stuff. Clothes and hair, who liked who, video games. And speaking of clothes and hair, most of the kids looked like clones of their parents. The small percentage of ones that didn't were socially shunned and huddled in their own group.

He realized that the clone-like kids were deciding to grow up to be what their parents told them to be and that they were going to use the GPS bands on their kids. And he used to be one of those kids. He was embarrassed that he ever had been (why had he when she'd never really loved him only her fantasy of him) and glad that something recently changed him. He was thinking his own thoughts, making his own decisions, understanding what he needed out of life. He was awake.

If he thought about it though, it was easier to let his parents continue to make all of the decisions about his life. Tell him what to be when he grew up, where to go to college, what would make him happy. They already controlled all the information he was given. His books, movies, television, video games and internet access all met their discerning approval.

Life was vastly complicated and why spend unhappy days in the prime of his life, sorting through so many complexities. On this level, he understood why his peers conceded to their parents, but now, he knew he could never again be friends with someone who was nothing but a paper cut-out of their true self. He'd never be able to endure another meaningless conversation, ever again.

Not that anyone talked to him anymore anyway since he'd quit the football team. He was a pariah. If they accidentally-on-purpose bumped into him in the halls, their faces wore an expression of horror as if they'd touched a leper and his flesh had fallen off right in their hands.

Gym class was the worst. He was still in the gym class for the football players — lifting, conditioning. Coach Peterson wouldn't let him transfer out. "You're a football player, Caden, whether you like it or not. I absolutely will not allow you to demean yourself by taking gym with a bunch of dorks."

And even though he was harassed in gym constantly and without reprieve, Caden didn't have any thoughts about causing a problem when he showed up to class that day, the day after. He was just going to get through it.

Then one of his former co-captains tripped Caden during a drill. Caden flew a few feet then skidded across the gym floor, crashing into some of the guys. They all laughed.
He picked himself up and stood there, twisting his GPS band. "What's up, McNeal?" The tone of his loud voice stopped the drill.

McNeal turned, faced him and shrugged his shoulders. Tall and skinny, the cheerleaders' favorite was a star no matter how many passes he dropped. "You're a loser, Fletcher. I'm sick of seeing you in this class."

"You think I like being in this class? You and everyone else in here are nothin' but drones, McNeal, and your parents are the pilots. The only mark you'll ever leave on this planet is gonna be where you crash and burn."

"Up yours, Fletcher. Only an idiot turns down a full-ride."

"McNeal's right, Caden," interjected Coach Peterson. He wore his hair clipped close and his polo shirts tucked in tight. With his fists at his waist and his nostrils flaring like a mad bull, he puffed out his chest and got in Caden's face. Caden could not back away; the team was right behind him.

"I just don't understand you, Fletcher. Why'd you quit football? Oh yeah, yeah, I forgot. " Coach distorted his face into that of a sad, grotesque clown and whined, "Your shoulder hurt. You had a headache. You wanna go to art school."

They laughed at him. Coach crossed his arms across his chest. "You could really use the boost in your image, son. Right now you're about next to nothing in the big scheme of things. And image is everything in Rolling Acres."

"Life is not about living up to somebody else's idea of who I should be," Caden said.
Coach leaned further into Caden's face and stared him in the eye. "Oh, I get it. You're too smart to play football. You got life all figured out. Caden's Guide to Being a Complete Moron."

Coach's breath reeked and Caden couldn't stand it. He was suffocating. Caden shoved him, but Coach didn't even fall down, he was just thrown off-guard, dropping his clipboard. Then Coach raised his arm, high in the air, and instead of letting him smash in his face, Caden ran. He ran through the circle of guys, plowed through the gym door and spilled out onto the sidewalk, setting off the alarm.

He raced across the practice field toward the wooded boundary. Three security guards burst out of the high school, shouting for the tracking dogs, and yelling at Caden not to make his situation worse by forcing them to hunt him down. Caden stumbled into the woods and stopped to catch his breath. The dogs barked. He'd never done anything like this, ever before. But instead of panicking, Caden could think more clearly.

Once, in fifth grade, his favorite science teacher had taken the class to the creek that ran through a section of Rolling Acres. Somewhere behind the high school. They caught bugs, put them into jars and studied them back at class. Then Mr. Loveswell had taken them back to the creek where they let the bugs go free. Caden closed his eyes to remember how to get to the creek. He listened for it.

When he finally found the creek, he stepped into the cold stream and walked calf-deep down its center. His feet squished around in his tennis shoes. After a good distance, he knelt and plunged his left wrist into the water. He did what he could to try and pry open the plastic protecting the innards of the GPS unit or even to loosen the band's latch. He walked farther along. He had left the sounds of the trackers behind him awhile ago. Why should they try very hard when his parents knew where he was?

He picked up a rock, positioned the GPS unit on a boulder embedded in the bank of the creek and smashed the rock against the plastic. He smashed and smashed and smashed again and the stupid thing didn't even get a hairline crack.

He climbed up the bank of the creek and walked toward where the woods thinned out. He walked through the tree line and back into his own neighborhood. He couldn't go home. He couldn't go back to high school. He'd blown it and it was only a matter of when and where they would catch him.