Chapter 1: The Art of War (Rickie Johnson)

“The art of war is of vital importance to the state...”
This first line of my recitation for the Tanager Cultural Festival repeats itself over and over in my head. Twenty-five pairs of eyes staring back at me—maybe more, maybe less—and all I can think about is, “The art of war is of vital importance to the state.” The first stupid line of the whole monologue, that’s all. Just that first stupid line.
What a load of bull this is. When I signed up to recite at this festival, I had envisioned myself reciting with the soul of a lyricist, sprinkling my spoken word with bold, powerful flourishes, maybe with a tear or two in my eyes to show just how deeply affected I was by the meaning of the piece. I had imagined every pair of eyes in Tanager widening as their owners took in the true power of my recitation. I'd imagined Greta Slokov, who was somewhere between an 8.5 and a 10, wrapping her long arms around me and looking right into my eyes. “Rickie Johnson,” she would tell me, “a passion for literature is a lovely thing to have.” I'd tell her, “Not as lovely as you, cherie.” But my imagination ended there.
But now here I am, and all I can think of is, “The art of war is of vital importance to the state.” That and “uhhh,” with a sprinkling of “ummmm.”
The twenty-five-or-so pairs of eyes staring back at me are the very picture of the word “blank” in the dictionary. Most of them are on their phones. Somebody's kids wander off. My eyes fall on Greta Slokov, furiously tapping away on a touchscreen. “The art of war,” I say, raising my voice and drawing out my words just for her, “is of vital im-por-tance to the state...” For just a second, she glances at me, before returning her attention to her phone. “Uhhhh…” Dammit!
I just need to remember the words, those magic words that will make her look at me and stay that way. “The art of war...” I begin, and I become increasingly aware that I have to piss.
Bex saves me, or at least she tries to. “It is a matter of life and death,” she whispers over the dead silence, “a road to safety or to ruin.” I inhale. “It..is a matter of life and death,” I stammer, “aroadtosafetyortoruin.” I've lost control. My bladder's screaming at me. “I gotta go,” I say, “like..really go.” Bex looks at me with “sorry” in her eyes, and the silence is broken by uncomfortable laughter that can basically sum up my entire life. I refuse to look at Greta as I make my way past all the folding chairs. It's fine, she's probably not looking at me either. Or maybe she is looking at me, and she feels sorry for me like Bex does. Man, that hurts. Forgetting the piece, fucking up in front of twenty-five-some-odd people, and becoming the laughingstock of the Tanager Cultural Festival are all small potatoes compared to the possibility that Greta Slokov deems me pathetic. Now I've got to see if she's looking at me…
My cheek connects with something cold and metallic, and I fall backwards. More laughter from the crowd. I look up at a metal sign that mocks me in big orange letters reading “5TH ANNUAL TANAGER CULTURAL FESTIVAL.” “Son of a bitch,” I mutter, rubbing where my cheek hit the sign.
Suddenly Bex is there. “Aw man,” she says, shaking her head and holding out her hand for me. Her smile is full of sympathy rather than pity. She knows how things like this are gonna happen to people like us, and if you're people like us, you just gotta smile and laugh. It’s that, or you'll spend your entire life crying.
“I'm fine, Bex,” I say, getting up on my own. “I just gotta piss something awful.” I want to run for the safety of the civic center's open doors and its men's room, but I know that if I run it's all gonna come out right there, and I've endured enough today.
In a surprisingly apt metaphor for my life as a whole, I manage to make it there just in the nick of time.

Prologue: We Are The RiffRaff

Every small town has That Person, the one that makes everyone stare, that one person the neighbors regard as a confusing, enigmatic creature. There's the guy who walks around in his boxer shorts and ruminates aloud on all of his previous contacts with extraterrestrial life. There's the girl who comes out to water her plants and talks to them too—not just talks to them, but sings “Fight Song” and “I Dreamed a Dream” to them on repeat, because she insists that it makes them grow. There's the four weirdos that duck under the hills and scramble round the bushes playing Manhunt at 6-o-clock, marking the community gazebo as their base and therefore getting in the way of the smokers and the lovers holding hands.
You know, Those People. The people that make you stop, look, and go, “What the hell are they doing?” If your town doesn't have at least one of Those People, you probably don't know that you are one of Those People.
We are Those People. We're the local what-the-hells.
We are the RiffRaff.