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Freedom in
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There were four
friends—Jeff, Paul, Kevin, and Tim. Ours
was the generation that saw the death of idealism.
Yes, we formed our worldview out of the Beatles anthems,
but the Rolling Stones better symbolized our descent into cynicism. And though we discarded the ideals of the
hippie generation, we kept its mantra refrain—if it
feels good do it. So, imagining
we were just too smart to be “straight,” we embarked on an
all-out campaign to experience freedom in its various forms. Unfortunately, we found too little restraint
in our quest for freedom. At sixteen and
seventeen, we boldly declared our intent to leave for Yakima Washington
for the summer and our parents surrendered to our unwise
plan. Jeff Cupp was the
natural leader. Years before, in the 7th
grade, he heroically vanquished a cheif Junior High bully.
The guy had picked me out as the new kid in school
and routinely followed me home for “fun.”
And as bullies often do, he focused primarily on
humiliation. Some time later I learned he
had been schooled in public humiliation at the hands of
his father. So one day at school,
Jeff told him to stop harressing me and he snarled,
“Who’s gunna make me?” and lunged at him. Jeff stepped aside, grabbed his
ears, and bounced his head down every handle of locker row C. Jeff’s heroic deed went down in Madison
Junior High legend and we were now fast friends. Paul Doty was our
technician and social conscience. He
always carried the right tool for our assorted needs—a
multi-function pocketknife, fingernail clippers, baling wire, Chap
Stick, and other paraphernalia. Through
Paul’s older siblings we learned of the ideals of the sixties and
in him we were reminded of the meager fruit of that generation. Thus we dared never litter when Paul was
present, since he continually goaded our otherwise dysfunctional
conscience. In time he converted us also
as Jeff illustrated by summarizing our moral credo, “Just so
long you don’t murder or litter, it’s OK.” Before this time
it was just the three of us, but Kevin Culver was to round out our
number that fateful summer. Kevin was the
one always getting in the most trouble, and we thought, the one always
having the most fun. He seemed to have a
way with the girls, and thereby, a way into fights.
On one occasion I remember crashing a rival-school party
and Kevin so enraged the guys by the way he sweet-talked the girls, a
fight broke out which ended only when Sky Overstreet bested a 300-pound
giant. With all the girls that Kevin had
chased, he caught me off guard when he said that he was going to Yakima
to forget one in particular. We did have
parties in that house. As people walked by
our open door they would hear the Rolling Stones playing
“Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” in an endless loop and
then see our furniture made from stacked cases of Rainier beer. One night as we sat at the kitchen table a
June Bug, the size of a Huey helicopter, roared in the window and
landed on the table before us. We looked
at each other in dumfounded amazement until Kevin jumped up, grabbed a
butcher knife, and with a scream impaled the monster onto the table. Another night I remember Kevin and I standing
head to head, drunk out of our minds, and making vows about what we
would always… and would never do. Sadly,
neither of us was up to keeping vows. Even
so, Kevin and I formed a friendship that I will always remember. Then one particular
night while I stood alone in front of a grocery store, it struck me
that I had no one to answer to and no curfew to keep.
I felt I was finally “self-ruled” and an
uncommon sense of freedom sweep over me. This
was really the first time I had ever experienced such a feeling and it
seemed profound and deep. And yet I later
found that this summer set a course for me—and really all of
us—that would eventually lead to bondage and not the freedom we
so desired. One typically hot Yakima
day a group of us decided to go rafting down the Wenatchee River. We got our hands on inner-tubes,
air-mattresses, and anything else that might float and tied it all
together in a makeshift raft. This was a
perfect day for a laid-back ride down a cool waterway through this hot,
dry country. Little did we know that
countless others had been drowned on this same treacherous stretch of
the river. At first we moved at a
leisurely pace, but soon we were swept down the rapids and perilously
close to death. Kevin was ripped one-way,
Chubby another, as the raft was quickly dismembered.
Chubby was pulled down under the roaring waters and was
caught on a sunken tree that held him there so long that when he
finally came up he lay on the shore vomiting water.
Hidden rocks pummeled the others. Only
I was saved by grasping a tree branch that kept me from being pulled
through the deadly whitewater. This
experience was much like what would later happen to us as we traveled
down the river of life—ill-prepared for rapids that would sweep
us under deep waters. Then there was the hot summer night that Sky Overstreet came over from West Seattle with a pickup full of cheap beer and wild friends. That night we drove recklessly down the otherwise peaceful orchard-lined country roads. After a number of insane driving stunts—some jumped from a speeding car bumper to the bed of the pickup—we finally stopped to lie in the middle of the still-warm asphalt road. In minutes the crickets calmed our raging hearts. Even now I remember how clear was the night, how bright were the stars, and how sweet was freedom that swept over us. As our summer
stumbled on we “began to be in want.” You
see, we found it difficult to remain faithful to the rigors of orchard
work, so we soon ran out of food and money. One
particular week we ate nothing but pancakes with peanut butter, and
when the peanut butter ran out, it was pancakes alone.
In time Paul returned from Seattle with some cash and we
all rushed to the grocery store to buy some eggs, bread, and mayonnaise. Kevin made fried-egg-sandwiches and I remember
thinking that nothing in the world could possibly taste so good and
wholesome. To this day, when left to fend
for myself, I know what to eat when I “begin to be in want.” Because we were all so
reckless, we often found ourselves on the brink of disaster. Kevin and I often joked about a childhood
cartoon where “Tooter Turtle” always got in trouble and
when he wanted to go home would shout, “Help Mr. Wizard!” Then Mr. Wizard would say, “Drizzle,
drazzle, druzzle, drone. Time for dis one
to come home.” One particular night
we were riding a wave of reckless abandon. We
had already been drinking a good deal at a party but then went on to
purchase a large quantity of Hashish. As
we drove heedlessly to another gathering, we finally noticed some
flashing lights and heard the siren. Kevin
and I were obviously drunk, so the police locked us in the squad car
while they discussed our fate. As we
waited for them to return to the car, Kevin whispered, “Give me
the hash!” and since I didn’t want to arouse attention, I
handed it over. Kevin stuffed it in
between the car seats and then we waited for a search of the car, or
us, and the bigger “bust” to follow. They
never did find the Hashish, but we were given a night at “Juvy
Hall.” Our parents were called and
my Mom said she would be there in the morning, but Kevin’s
parents were nowhere to be found. Only as
we showered did they search our belongings. Finally,
we were each locked down in solitary cells. As
I lay silently on a cot, I heard Kevin’s voice echo down the
empty hall. In his characteristic comical
tone, Kevin cried, “Help Mr. Wizard! Help Mr. Wizard! I want to
go home.” Silence was the
appropriate response. About six months before
this ill-fated summer, Dave Brown helped share the gospel of Jesus
Christ with me, but even though the promise of “freedom from
sin” seemed real enough, it soon became apparent that my own
experience was shallow. Nevertheless, in
Yakima we were seeking freedom—autonomous freedom, that is. And yet it was here that we rushed into
relationships that should be saved for a commitment of marriage. None of us appreciated the indispensable role
of purity in truly loving relationships, and so, the choices we made
sowed the seeds of later relational failures. Two
thirds of the way through the summer, Jeff got that devastating call
about the divorce of his parents. He left
the next day and soon after we each were torn off in different
directions. The mounting waves of disaster began to break over lives. Then there was Paul. Without a moral rudder, Paul soon went off
course in an otherwise decent pursuit of happiness.
For years he attempted to swim in the strong current of
the West Seattle drug culture, but eventually he floundered. He was married, then divorced, and ultimately
lost visiting rights to his children. Still
later, he lost a baby born out of wedlock to Sudden Infant Death
Syndrome. Once again, we can only imagine
how difficult it would be to bear such heavy burdens, but under the
influence of drugs and alcohol, it would be impossible.
Paul, who was always the most thoughtful, ingenious, and
handsome of the four, was now a soul adrift. Paul
took his own life while sitting alone in a hotel room on Rainier Avenue. Paul, I miss you.
Tim Nordgren, 6/16/02
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