Neighborhood Barbecue
Sheila and Duncan Cochran had no idea where they went wrong. They did not consider themselves bad parents. They had always been loving and supportive and tried to spend quality time with their son and daughter. Yet even though they always played by the rules, they were still losing the game. Their children were getting completely out of hand.
It all started innocently enough with teachers making comments about their son's and daughter's lack of attention in class and their failure to complete homework assignments. Then it slowly escalated from detentions for minor infractions of the rules to suspension. School psychologists were called in, and eventually, the children were sent to special education classes. The worry and aggravation were taking their toll on Duncan's and Sheila's nerves. Hardly a week went by without a phone call from the school, another parent or, in some cases, the police, complaining about one or both of their children.
"I just don't know what to do anymore," Sheila cried on her sister's shoulder. "I've tried reasoning with them and grounding them. I've even tried bribing them! Nothing works. Ever since Tyler was in kindergarten, the teachers have been telling us not to yell at our kids or punish them because it gives them a bad self-image. 'Use positive reinforcement,' they said. Now they turn to me and complain that our children have no discipline! Honestly," she said with exasperation. "I sometimes feel our parents and grandparents had the right idea. I think a good smack on the ass when those kids were younger would have done them a world of good, but it's too late for that now. Besides, that's the first thing all the psychologists ask Tyler and Kristen: do your parents ever hit you? And when they learn that we don't, they change their tactics and say we're too lenient. It's as though they're bound to the theory that there are no bad kids, just bad parents."
After their son Tyler was expelled from school for having marijuana in his locker, Sheila and Duncan were desperate. Their discussions with the school administrators, the psychologists and the police were not encouraging. Tyler, it seemed, was headed for serious trouble unless drastic measures were taken.
"What measures?" the parents wanted to know.
Again, none of the experts could agree, although there were three possible alternatives: a private school geared specifically for children with discipline problems, a residential care facility for emotionally disturbed children or a military-style boot camp.
When Sheila and Duncan were at the peak of despair, a man from the state's youth services department paid them a visit.
"My name is Whittaker," he said. "I wanted to talk to you two because I know exactly what you're going through. I had the same problems with my kids."
"What did you do?" Sheila asked.
"I packed up and moved out of the city."
The Cochrans immediately lost interest.
"I realize relocating is a drastic step, but believe me it was well worth it."
"If our kids have problems," Duncan replied, "I don't see how moving is going to solve them. They'll just continue the same behavior in a new school."
"That's what I thought, too, until I visited Rockwell Corners."
"I've never heard of it," Sheila said.
"I'm not surprised. It's a small, quiet community about two hours north of here."
"What's so special about Rockwell Corners?" Duncan asked.
"It's a private community. The people who live in it all share one common goal: to provide a safe haven for their children. The lifestyle in Rockwell Corners is like that of a 1950s family television show. It's Ozzie and Harriet, Leave it to Beaver and Father Knows Best all rolled into one. Kids in Rockwell Corners are obedient, well-mannered and respectful toward adults and each other."
"And just how do the people of Rockwell Corners work this miracle?" Duncan asked skeptically.
"Since it's a private community, the parents can control the environment. Everything there, from the homes to the schools to the churches, reflects good, old-fashioned, wholesome family values. Look, you'd really have to see this place to believe it. If you're interested, maybe you should pay my family a visit some Saturday or Sunday."
"I don't mean to sound cynical," Sheila said, "but what do you hope to gain out of this, Mr. Whittaker?"
"I don't gain anything, Mrs. Cochran, except maybe the satisfaction of knowing that I've helped another family in trouble."
At first, the Cochrans refused to even consider Mr. Whittaker's invitation. They had no desire to move, especially since they believed a mere change in location would do little good. Three weeks later, however, their daughter Kristen made a half-hearted attempt at slashing her wrists. Sheila phoned Mr. Whittaker the following day.
* * *
On a warm Saturday morning in late April, Sheila and Duncan Cochran made the two-hour drive to Rockwell Corners. It wasn't an easy place to find, but Mr. Whittaker had given them excellent directions.
It was as though they had journeyed back in time to the days of Donna Reed and Robert Young. The boys that they passed looked like Beaver and Wally Cleaver and the girls like Marsha and Cindy Brady. There were no shaved heads or blue Mohawks, no cadaverous-looking teenagers wearing black leather and chains. The boys of Rockwell Corners wore clean, pressed pants and white shirts, and the girls wore dresses or jumpers with hemlines below the knee.
"I don't believe what I'm seeing," Duncan said with astonishment.
"Me either," his wife responded. "Could you imagine Tyler or Kristen dressing like that?"
They drove several blocks before Duncan spotted the white clapboard house where the Whittakers lived.
"Here we are," he announced, pulling his Camry into the driveway.
Hoyt Whittaker came out the front door and greeted the Cochrans warmly.
"I hope you folks didn't have any trouble finding the place."
"None at all. You gave us very good directions," Duncan said, shaking the other man's hand.
Whittaker led the two inside the house and introduced them to his wife, Ernestine.
"What was your first impression of our little town?" Hoyt asked.
"From what we've seen, it certainly looks ideal," Sheila replied. "Tell me, do all the children in Rockwell Corners look like they just stepped out of an Andy Hardy movie?"
"Refreshing, isn't it?" Ernestine laughed. "You won't find any of those god-awful hooded sweatshirts and baggy pants dragging on the ground, no tattoos or blue hair."
"And no body piercings," Hoyt added.
"Sounds like our son, Tyler," Duncan laughed.
"Our Justin was like that once, too," Ernestine confessed. "After living here in Rockwell Corners for only a few weeks, he cut his hair, took out his tongue ring and ear gauges, and bought a new wardrobe."
"What a relief that was!" Hoyt said. "Come on, I'll introduce you to some of the neighbors, and you'll see what I mean."
Hoyt Whittaker introduced the Cochrans to several other sets of parents, all of whom had stories to tell similar to that of the Whittakers.
"This is amazing!" Duncan exclaimed. "What's the secret? Is there something in the water?"
"No," Hoyt laughed. "We use our own form of child psychology. You know people always think it's the parents who influence children the most. That may be true when you're dealing with a three- or four-year-old, but not an adolescent or teenager. Once kids go off to school, they are influenced more by their peers than their parents. By removing the bad influence of unsuitable peers, we've created a population of nice, clean-cut, respectable children."
"That sounds logical," Duncan agreed.
* * *
On the drive home, Duncan turned to his wife and asked, "Well, honey, what do you think?"
"I think it would be well worth the trouble and expense of moving if our children dressed and behaved like those teenagers we saw today."
Duncan agreed, and the following afternoon he phoned Hoyt Whittaker and asked about the real estate market in Rockwell Corners. Hoyt told him about a Cape Cod on his street that was up for sale.
Tyler had balked at the idea of leaving the city even before he set foot in Rockwell Corners. Once the family relocated there, he became filled with rage.
"How could you bring me here?" he shouted angrily. "What kind of a mother are you? Take a look around here. This place is like the f--king Twilight Zone."
"Please don't use that kind of language when you talk to me," Sheila cautioned, but it did little good; as usual, Tyler behaved and talked exactly as he wanted.
"I hate this place!" he screamed. "And I hate you and Dad for bringing me here!"
Kristen, on the other hand, didn't yell or swear; she simply cried. But once those difficult early days in Rockwell Corners passed, a change came over the morose teenager. For the first time in three years, Kristen began to wear brightly colored skirts, blouses and dresses—a far cry from the gothic widow's weeds she normally wore. Kristen, at least, succumbed to the magic that had seduced the other children of Rockwell Corners.
"Good morning," she said cheerfully as she sat down for breakfast one morning.
Duncan stared at his daughter, who was dressed in a navy blue jumper, white blouse, bobby socks and saddle shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her freshly scrubbed, shining face was free of makeup. Amazed at the transformation, the father looked from his daughter to his wife. The mother's face was glowing with parental pride.
"Mom, is it okay for me to go to the dance on Friday night?" Kristen asked.
"Sure, honey," Sheila replied. "Your father won't mind driving you."
Kristen had never gone to a school dance when they lived in the city. She and her gothic friends had always shunned school activities.
"Oh, that won't be necessary. Justin Whittaker is going to take me."
"That geek?" Tyler scoffed as he came into the room.
Kristen didn't bother to argue with her brother. She simply gathered her books, kissed her parents goodbye and left for school.
"Aren't you going to be late?" Duncan asked when his son took a seat at the table.
"I'm not going to school today," the teenager said sullenly.
"What's wrong?" Sheila asked. "Are you feeling all right?"
"I haven't felt good since we moved to this f--king place!"
"Don't talk to your mother like that," Duncan warned.
"I hate it here! And you two won't do a damned thing about it, will you?" Tyler screamed as he put his fist into the wall.
"Stop that, young man!"
"No, I won't. And you can't make me," Tyler shouted, storming out of the house.
"I don't know what to do with him," Sheila cried. "Kristen has made such a smooth adjustment. Rockwell Corners has done wonders with her. But Tyler! If anything, he seems to be getting worse."
* * *
As Duncan Cochran mowed his lawn and Sheila and Kristen cleaned the house one Saturday afternoon, Tyler shut himself in his room, with the Insane Clown Posse blasting out of the open bedroom window. Duncan was at least spared having to listen to the music by the lawn mower's deafening hum. When he cut the Lawn-Boy's engine, however, he heard ICP screaming out, "Mass murder makes me happy. Dead bodies make me happy. Say what you will of me. I'll always have Juggalo family."
Juggalo family? Duncan thought with disgust. What better way to market CDs, T-shirts and posters than to tell disaffected teenagers who considered themselves outcasts that they were all part of one big, happy family? Yeah, right! Meanwhile, troubled kids like my son hate their parents and reject the only family that means a damn in this world!
As Duncan wiped his sweating brow with a cool cloth, he saw Hoyt Whittaker walking down the street. Hoyt looked up at Tyler's window and grimaced.
"I almost forgot how awful music like that sounded," he laughed.
"I wish I could forget what it sounds like," Duncan said sadly.
Hoyt changed the subject.
"I saw your daughter the other night. She's quite pretty without that Morticia Adams getup."
Duncan beamed with pride.
"That's my little girl. I've got to thank you, Hoyt. This place has really meant a world of difference to Kristen. I only wish it would have some effect on my son."
"Yes," his neighbor agreed. "And I hope it happens soon."
Duncan looked at him questioningly.
"We have to be very careful here in Rockwell Corners," Hoyt continued. "With our children so susceptible to peer pressure, we have to weed out anyone that might influence them the wrong way."
"I don't follow you. Are you saying that if my son doesn't come around, then we'll have to move?"
"Let's not worry about that now. Some kids just take longer to make the adjustment."
Duncan was worried, though. He mentioned the conversation to Sheila later that night.
"Can they make us leave? Is that legal?" she asked.
"I don't know, honey. I'm not a lawyer."
"It's not right! Kristen's been so happy lately. I couldn't bear it if she went back to being a suicidal zombie."
"I know what you mean," Duncan agreed. "These past few weeks I've discovered that I actually like my daughter."
"Tyler has always been more difficult," Sheila said, carefully choosing her words.
She did not want to play favoritism, but it was increasingly hard to give her son the benefit of the doubt.
* * *
Tyler's behavior only got worse as the weeks passed. He started cutting school and sometimes stayed out all night. Money began disappearing out of Sheila's purse, and there were reports of several cases of petty vandalism in Rockwell Corners. So far, the neighbors had not complained about the Cochrans' errant son, but the looks on their faces revealed their displeasure.
Matters came to a head the day Tyler picked a fight with Justin Whittaker. When Justin went home from school with a swollen lip and a bloody nose, Hoyt comforted his son.
"Don't worry, Justin. You'll be fine. Tyler is probably upset because you're dating his sister."
"Tyler's nothing but a social outcast and a juvenile delinquent," he said, forgetting that he once dressed and behaved the same way. "His family is nice enough, but Tyler is trouble. He says he'd like nothing better than to turn our high school into another Columbine."
"He did, did he?"
Hoyt turned to his wife and sighed.
"I think maybe it's time for a neighborhood barbecue. Don't you agree, dear?"
Ernestine nodded solemnly and said, "I'll start making plans tonight after dinner."
* * *
Days of preparation were required for the huge barbecue that was to be held at the community park. At least a dozen volunteers were needed to make salads, shuck corn on the cob and bake apple pies.
"Apple pie and barbecued chicken," Duncan smiled. "You can't get any more American than that."
As he helped his wife peel potatoes for her salad, Duncan heard the front doorbell chime.
"I'll get it," he said, quickly wiping his hands on a paper towel.
Hoyt Whittaker stood on the stoop.
"Howdy, neighbor," Duncan said cheerfully. "Are you and Ernestine all ready for the big barbecue tomorrow?"
A frown cut deeply into Hoyt's handsome face.
"Duncan, I'd like to have a word with you and Sheila. It's about your son."
* * *
Sheila and Duncan were still sitting at the kitchen table the following morning amidst potato skins and eggshells. The huge bowl of potato salad lay unfinished on the kitchen counter. The Cochrans stared silently at the rising sun through tear-stained, bloodshot eyes. Finally, Sheila broke the ominous silence.
"I had such high hopes when we moved here."
Again she broke into tears. She was glad that Kristen had spent the night at the Whittakers' house and that she hadn't been there to hear the horrible news.
"I know it's hard, but we've got to face facts. We've tried every way we could to reach Tyler. We've had psychologists, psychiatrists, social workers, special ed classes ...."
"We could try that boot camp," Sheila suggested, grasping at straws.
"What then? Reform school? Prison? And what about Kristen? Do we want to undo the progress she's made since we moved here?"
"No. It's just that I feel like Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice, having to choose between my son and my daughter."
"And if we go back to the city?" he asked sadly. "We stand the chance of losing both of them. Kristen's already made one suicide attempt. What if the next one is successful?"
Sheila buried her head in her hands and cried for her teenage son with the foul mouth and the pierced eyebrow, who spent his days defiantly hating the world around him. She wept for the toddler who had once watched Sesame Street, listened to her bedtime stories and called her "Mommy." Her heart broke for the tiny infant who had slept in her arms and fed at her breast.
Duncan took his wife in his arms and cried with her, but his tears were for the son he always wanted but never had. They were shed for the ball games, fishing trips and heart-to-heart talks that never were. To him, Tyler was a stranger, a responsibility, a burden, but he had never been a son.
Finally, Sheila and Duncan forced themselves to get up, finish the potato salad and get ready for the barbecue. Afterward, they slowly walked over to the park where they were warmly greeted by their fellow residents of Rockwell Corners. Sheila bit her lip to hold back her tears. Then she spotted Kristen smiling happily at Justin Whittaker. She closed her eyes and tried to burn that image in her brain. It would help her make it through the day. Duncan, on the other hand, sought the solace of alcohol, which was in no short supply at the Rockwell Corners' family barbecues.
The women gathered at the long tables, arranging and rearranging the salads, hot vegetables, bread and desserts. The men congregated near the bandstand, speaking of business, politics and sports—of anything to take their minds off the matter at hand.
When the church bell rang the noon hour, Hoyt Whittaker nodded to his family. Ernestine and Justin convinced Kristen, with some trumped-up story, to return with them to their house. They would keep her there until the worst was over.
When Hoyt gave the signal for the fire in the pit to be lit, Sheila fainted. Duncan, already feeling the numbing effects of the alcohol he'd consumed, went to her aid.
"Maybe it's best she doesn't see the preparations," Hoyt suggested.
Duncan agreed and made no attempt to revive his wife. She'd wake up to the horror soon enough.
As the flames in the pit grew and the heat intensified, two men carried out the meat already mounted on the heavy iron spit. Duncan had one look at the butchered remains of his son Tyler and vomited. Hoyt took hold of his arm in sympathy.
"I know it's hard, but believe me, it's for the best," he said. "Just think of Kristen and all these other good kids. My daughter, your son and the others who wouldn't adapt are like the proverbial bad apples. We have to remove them from the basket before they spoil the whole bunch."
Duncan nodded but said nothing. The smell of burning flesh was making his stomach turn. Thank God Sheila and Kristen were not witness to this nightmare. He was a man, however, one determined to do what was best for his family. With Tyler gone, the three remaining Cochrans could live a happy, well-adjusted life. Therefore, he must not view his son's death as murder but rather as surgical removal of a malignancy that threatened to destroy the entire body of his family.
Family. The word suddenly reminded Duncan of his son's music, the lyrics of which now haunted him: Mass murder makes me happy. Dead bodies make me happy. Say what you will of me. I'll always have Juggalo family.
"My poor boy," Duncan moaned with crushing guilt and emotional agony. "What turned you against the people who loved you most? What led you to rebel against the values we cherish? What filled you with such hatred?"
But there were no answers. There were only the sounds of the crackling fire, the muffled sobs and whispers of his neighbors and the clinking of dishes and silverware being placed on the picnic tables.
Lyrics of "Juggalo Family" © Psychopathic Records, Inc.
My apologies to ICP fans everywhere. This story is just a work of fiction. Please don't take it personally. (My two children were Juggalos as teenagers.)
"Did anyone mention a barbecue?"
