correspondence course for only forty-nine fifty, he tended to agree with his Uncle Julian that it was some kind of clip joint, and did not pursue the matter any further.
Just the same, he had proved the point he had set out to prove, and right off. When he had been called up by the draft board for his two years’ service, his father had said that he hoped a little military discipline would do something toward maturing his son. He himself seemed willing to admit bunglingthe job. Well, the way things turned out, Roy had matured, and plenty, too. But it wasn’t discipline that had done it; it was, to put it bluntly, being away from them. In high school he may have been willing to slide through with C’s and C-minuses, when with a little application of his intelligence (
Alice Bassart:
Which you have, Roy, in abundance), he could easily have had straight B’s—probably even A’s, if he had wanted them. But the point he wished to make was that he was no longer that C student, and no longer would be treated like him either. If he put his mind to a job he could do it, and do it well. The only problem now was which job it was going to be. At the age of twenty, nobody had to tell him that it was high time to begin thinking about becoming a man. Because he was thinking about it, and plenty, don’t worry.
He continued to work on his own out of the art manual, in exasperation moving on to the neck and the shoulders, after four days of going from bad to worse with the mouth. Though he by no means relinquished his first choice of being a professional artist, he was willing to meet his family halfway and at least listen to whatever suggestions they might have. He had to admit being tempted by Uncle Julian’s suggestion that he come to work for him and learn the laundromat business from the ground up. What was particularly appealing about the idea was that the people in the towns along the river would see him driving around in Julian’s pickup truck and think of him as some punk kid; and the ladies who managed the laundromats would think of him as the boss’s nephew, and suppose his life was just a bed of roses—when in actuality his real work would only begin at night, after everyone was asleep, and behind his bedroom door he stayed awake till dawn, perfecting his talent.
What wasn’t too appealing was the idea of using family as a crutch, and right at the outset. He couldn’t bear the thought of hearing for the rest of his life, “Of course, it was Julian gave him his start …” But of more significance was the damage that accepting something like this could do to his individuality. Not only would he never really respect himselfif he just stepped into a job and rose solely on the basis of personal privilege, but how would he ever realize his own potential if he was going to be treated like one of those rich kids who were just coddled up the ladder of success their whole life long?
And there was Julian to consider. He said he was altogether serious about the offer, provided Roy really wanted to work the long hard hours he would demand of him. Well, the long hard hours didn’t bother him. A really vicious mess sergeant had once, just out of meanness, kept him on KP for seventeen consecutive hours scrubbing pots and pans, and after that experience Roy realized he could do just about anything. So once he had made up his mind about the direction his life was going to take, he had every intention—to throw Julian’s language right back at him—of working his balls into the ground.
But what if he went in with Julian, started taking a salary, and then decided to go off in September to the Art Institute in Chicago; or even to art school in New York, which was by no means impossible? He was giving his parents’ objection every consideration (whether they appreciated that or not), but if he finally did decide in favor of professional artist as a career, wouldn’t he have wasted not only his time, but Julian’s as well?
Just the same, he had proved the point he had set out to prove, and right off. When he had been called up by the draft board for his two years’ service, his father had said that he hoped a little military discipline would do something toward maturing his son. He himself seemed willing to admit bunglingthe job. Well, the way things turned out, Roy had matured, and plenty, too. But it wasn’t discipline that had done it; it was, to put it bluntly, being away from them. In high school he may have been willing to slide through with C’s and C-minuses, when with a little application of his intelligence (
Alice Bassart:
Which you have, Roy, in abundance), he could easily have had straight B’s—probably even A’s, if he had wanted them. But the point he wished to make was that he was no longer that C student, and no longer would be treated like him either. If he put his mind to a job he could do it, and do it well. The only problem now was which job it was going to be. At the age of twenty, nobody had to tell him that it was high time to begin thinking about becoming a man. Because he was thinking about it, and plenty, don’t worry.
He continued to work on his own out of the art manual, in exasperation moving on to the neck and the shoulders, after four days of going from bad to worse with the mouth. Though he by no means relinquished his first choice of being a professional artist, he was willing to meet his family halfway and at least listen to whatever suggestions they might have. He had to admit being tempted by Uncle Julian’s suggestion that he come to work for him and learn the laundromat business from the ground up. What was particularly appealing about the idea was that the people in the towns along the river would see him driving around in Julian’s pickup truck and think of him as some punk kid; and the ladies who managed the laundromats would think of him as the boss’s nephew, and suppose his life was just a bed of roses—when in actuality his real work would only begin at night, after everyone was asleep, and behind his bedroom door he stayed awake till dawn, perfecting his talent.
What wasn’t too appealing was the idea of using family as a crutch, and right at the outset. He couldn’t bear the thought of hearing for the rest of his life, “Of course, it was Julian gave him his start …” But of more significance was the damage that accepting something like this could do to his individuality. Not only would he never really respect himselfif he just stepped into a job and rose solely on the basis of personal privilege, but how would he ever realize his own potential if he was going to be treated like one of those rich kids who were just coddled up the ladder of success their whole life long?
And there was Julian to consider. He said he was altogether serious about the offer, provided Roy really wanted to work the long hard hours he would demand of him. Well, the long hard hours didn’t bother him. A really vicious mess sergeant had once, just out of meanness, kept him on KP for seventeen consecutive hours scrubbing pots and pans, and after that experience Roy realized he could do just about anything. So once he had made up his mind about the direction his life was going to take, he had every intention—to throw Julian’s language right back at him—of working his balls into the ground.
But what if he went in with Julian, started taking a salary, and then decided to go off in September to the Art Institute in Chicago; or even to art school in New York, which was by no means impossible? He was giving his parents’ objection every consideration (whether they appreciated that or not), but if he finally did decide in favor of professional artist as a career, wouldn’t he have wasted not only his time, but Julian’s as well?
Similar Books
