PROLOGUE
1932
Theo sat next to his dad on a hard seat in the bank president’s office. He had never been inside the bank before, and the surroundings were intimidating. The walls of the high-ceilinged room were paneled in dark expensive-looking wood, and the space was larger than their entire house. The president’s desk before them seemed the size of a small boat, and the man himself was big and fat and didn’t look as though he’d ever had a hungry day in his life.
The president gave a cursory glance to the papers Theo’s dad had given him, then dropped them on top of his desk as though he found their touch greasy and unappealing. “I’m not sure what you want me to do here, Mr. Gianopuolos. My loan officer thoroughly examined your case and provided you with the reasons why he didn’t think it feasible for our bank to lend you the money you requested.” He spread out his hands expansively. “I’m not sure what you expect me to do here.”
“Overturn his decision.” Theo’s dad leaned forward in his chair. “This is a good idea, Mr. Jones.”
“Times are tough, Mr. Gianopuolos, as I’m sure you know. The bank is not in a position to take irresponsible risks.”
Theo could hear the frustration in his dad’s voice. “This is hardly irresponsible. And it’s barely even a risk. Yes, times are tough. But that’s exactly why this sort of business has such potential. The location I’ve chosen is down the block from the movie palace, on the same side of the street as the First Baptist Church, the biggest church in town. People will be walking by the restaurant constantly. And, as I explained in my interview with Mr. Thompson, I plan to leave the front of the restaurant open, no wall, like a grocer’s. That’s the way they do it in Europe, although they have tables on the sidewalk. They call them cafés.”
“As I indicated, there’s really nothing I can do here. If I start overruling the determinations of my staff, they’ll lose confidence in their ability to make decisions, and our entire system will cease to work. I have to trust my employees to do their jobs, a sentiment I’m sure you can understand, since if you had your own business, you would have to trust and believe in your employees as well.”
“But this is a good investment!”
“Be that as it may…”
His dad took a deep breath. “I understand that you might not believe in this idea, but if I could just show you—”
“Oh, we believe in the idea, Mr. Gianopuolos.” The president leaned forward. “We don’t believe in you.”
His dad was taken aback. “What?”
“That name. Gianopuolos. What is it? Greek? People aren’t going to want to buy food from a Greek. Not in this town. We want real food here. American food. Now, while the bank could not support an establishment that had tables on the sidewalk which would impede pedestrian traffic, your idea of a restaurant with an open front is intriguing, and if the right man came along, we might see fit to invest…”
Theo tuned out the president. Next to him, his dad had slumped in his chair, and when Theo hazarded a glance in that direction, he saw a look of humiliated defeat on his father’s reddening face. He wished his dad would jump up and punch that fat banker right in the nose. But his father was not that kind of man, and such an action would only get them kicked out of the bank, possibly arrested. As he’d learned already, even at age eight, rich people had power and poor people didn’t, and if you didn’t stay in your place there would be trouble.
So his dad had to sit there and take it, and afterward he shook the bank president’s hand, thanked him for his time, took back his papers, and he and Theo left the office. They walked, defeated, through the lobby toward the front door. Were the tellers smiling? Were people laughing at them behind their backs? It sure felt like it, and Theo wished that someone would rob the bank and take all of its money.
His dad must have misinterpreted his anger as disappointment. He put an arm around Theo’s shoulder. “It’s all right, son. We’ll be fine. Maybe not as rich as we could have been, but we’ll be fine.” He wanted Theo to believe that—he wanted to believe it—but Theo sensed a change in his father, a retreat from hope, a withdrawal into himself. It was a difference that showed in his voice, even in his walk, and Theo was afraid that change in his dad would be permanent, a fear that was to prove not unfounded.
They walked out of the double doors onto the sidewalk.
When he grew up, Theo vowed, nothing like this would ever happen to him.
He would make sure of it.
ONE
1
Dennis Whittaker, the Montgomery High School principal, a thin, stressed-looking man in an unfashionable brown suit, frowned as he looked from Kyle to Anita. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about your boy.”
Kyle glanced at Nick, sitting between them and staring at his shoes.
“If you’d tell us what he’s done,” Anita said crisply, “it might help.”
The principal picked up a stapled sheaf of papers from his desk, leaning forward and handing it to her. “This is your son’s play,” he said. “Just look at the title.”
Kyle leaned over to see the cover sheet. “I’m Taking a Shit By Nicholas Decker.”
“The play consists of a young man sitting upon a toilet for an hour and a half, staring at the audience, repeating the title over and over again.”
Kyle took the pages from his wife and flipped through them. Sure enough, the directions and dialogue on every page were the same:
KENNY
(Grunting)
Uhhh, I’m taking a shit. Uhhh, I’m taking a shit.
“You know we can’t have this in our school. I don’t care how avant garde Nick thinks he is, this is just not proper subject matter for Montgomery High.”
“Mrs. Nelson said we could write whatever we wanted!”
The principal fixed the boy with a stare that brooked no argument. “This is not what she meant and you know it, young man.”
“We’ll take care of this,” Kyle said, standing. “Thank you for bringing it to our attention.”
Whittaker sighed. “I’m afraid it’s not as easy as that. With the graffiti on the gym last week and the paper doing that series on cyber-bullying, the board’s under a lot of pressure to crack down on troublemakers. And if they’re under pressure, I’m under pressure. I can’t afford to be lenient here. We’re talking a minimum two-day suspension.”
“For writing a play?” Anita said.
“For writing that play, yes.”