Tarzan Syndrome Breakout
by J. Clayton Stoker
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
A Theory and a Crime Revealed by the Border
“People break through all the time,” says the Professor, standing on the dirt in the middle of the night darkness at the southern edge of the United States. “There are hundreds of miles of border fence, but that doesn’t stop Latin Americans from making it up north. We know that. They either scale the fence, or squeeze through the bars, or come through tunnels. The fence can be breached. We just need to find an opening.”
They had ditched the Chevy about fifty miles east of the official border crossing at San Ysidro. Looking for a deserted area, they left it on a quiet dirt road with no buildings in sight. Using their flashlights, they hiked down an inclining gravel path to get to the border wall.
“I wonder how many people try to sneak across the US-Mexican border to get into Mexico,” says Charlie.
“Not many. If we succeed, we may be the first.”
No headlights or streetlights in sight. If not for their flashlights, it would be pitch black.
“While we look for an opening, will you tell me why you shot that — what did you call him? — academic advisor? What was that about?” asks Charlie.
Why does he ask now? ponders the Professor. Is he suddenly worried about who he is escaping with?
“I’ll tell you, but we gotta keep moving and looking at the same time. Searching for that opening.” They continue on the flat dirt path walking parallel to the fence.
It’s a muggy night. The sky is cloudy. The Professor detects the faint smell of exhaust fumes or engine oil burning from somewhere, maybe the other side of the border.
“On the day in question,” he says. “I drove to campus to defend my dissertation, which is what you need to do to get a doctorate. It was a small college in San Bernardino.”
Both men are walking and shining their flashlights on the fence and the ground before them.
“I went to a conference room, come to think of it, not unlike the one at Jungle Lake where we first saw Berta.”
“Don’t remind me,” says Charlie.
“There were three people there. There was Dr. Kleinman and two women who were also on the dissertation committee. Kleinman was my academic advisor. He was supposed to have read my dissertation beforehand. But for some reason, I don’t think he did.
“One of the women was older, about Kleinman’s age. She had short, blonde hair and wire-frame glasses. The other was Asian, probably in her thirties.”
“Got it,” says Charlie while examining the metal bars with his free hand.
“I said, ‘My dissertation is called ‘The Tarzan Syndrome: Symptoms and Seriousness’.”
“What the hell is the Tarzan Syndrome?” asks Charlie.
“It’s a term I coined for the condition that exists when one tries to function in an environment that is more sophisticated than the environment in which one grew up.
“As I explained to Kleinman and the committee, many people grow up in families with severely dysfunctional parents. Before long, they have to interact with the world beyond. And when they do, they find themselves like Tarzan, trying to function in civilized society after being raised by apes. Now as I soon as I said that, the woman with the wire framed glasses chuckled. I glared at her and said, ‘It’s not funny.’”
“Good for you, man. Good for you,” says Charlie, continuing to shine his flashlight up and down the border fence. “Then what happened?”
“Then I said, ‘The Tarzan Syndrome is manifested by four symptoms. The first is: anger usually accompanied by violent tendencies.’”
“Sounds like me,” says Charlie.
“Hang on. I’m just getting started,” says the Professor.
“The second symptom is: inability to fit in,” says the Professor, illuminating his flashlight on the wall in conjunction with Charlie’s efforts. “Those afflicted by TS tend to be misfits and loners who do not do well in groups.”
“Two for two,” says Charlie. “Damn, this is really interesting.”
“Glad you like it. The women also started warming up to it. The Asian took copious notes and the one with the glasses looked intrigued.”
“That’s good,” says Charlie, examining the bars of the border fence with one hand while shining his flashlight with the other.
“Dr. Kleinman, on the other hand, was another story. He was seated at the head of the long mahogany table. He had a yellow wooden pencil in his right hand with a soft red eraser on top. Must have been new, because it was long, like it had never been sharpened. He was tapping the eraser end on the table while I was speaking. His face had no expression.”
“‘The third symptom may in fact be the most significant’ I said.”
“‘And what would that be?’ asked Dr. Kleinman, barely looking up at me, still knocking the table with his pencil. His tone was challenging and hostile. And he wasn’t smiling.”
Charlie stops for a moment and turns toward the Professor.
“So, speaking slowly and making sure to enunciate every syllable, I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Total, complete rejection by all well-adjusted mainstream people.’”
“Right. Very true,” says Charlie. “What did Kleinman say to that?”
“He didn’t care for it. He placed his pencil under the fists of both his hands, his short fingers curled under the yellow wooden cylinder. He snapped it in two. The committee women stared at him.
“‘Do you have authority for this?’ he barked. ‘Your research seems thin.’
“So I said, ‘May I finish my presentation and then explain how I arrived at this theory?’
“He said, ‘I think the committee members would prefer to first see your research.’
“I turned toward the women. They shrugged.
“Then he says, ‘You see, sir, The College of Cucamonga is an institution of higher learning. Not a bar where patrons can spew whatever ideas come to mind. Not a talk show. Doctoral dissertations should be serious works based on research, data, studies, empirical evidence, academic sources.’”
Charlie shakes his head and points his flashlight on the rough terrain looking for tunnels.
“So I say, ‘How about nonacademic sources, Dr. Kleinman? For example, if you log onto Wikipedia and look up the bios of accomplished people, you’ll find 95% of them have accomplished parents. In addition to that being a jolting slap in the face for those of us without accomplished parents, it’s something from which certain inferences can be drawn. Wouldn’t you have to agree?’”
“Nice one,” says Charlie. “What did he say to that?”
“He turned red-faced with rage, stood up and said, ‘How dare you walk through the halls of this distinguished university to defend your doctoral dissertation and cite Wikipedia. We will entertain not another point, not another symptom, not another word until we see the scholarly research on which this so-called theory is based.’
“Then he says, ‘If you don’t have it, you may want to consider another career. Academia is not for everyone, you know. The university setting is not for all. Some wannabe academics would be better suited to standing at a corner on Hollywood Boulevard with a megaphone and shouting their theories to passersby. Now then, do you have any scholarly research for us or not?’”
Charlie stops moving.
“‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I have it right here in my backpack. Shall I take it out?’”
“‘If it’s not asking too much,’ he said. Then he sat back down and rolled his eyes. That’s when I reached into my backpack and pulled out the revolver. I fired the first shot into his stomach. A loud pop ricocheted off the walls. Kleinman reeled back and gagged and struggled to breathe. His expression was a mix of disbelief and agonizing pain. Blood flowed profusely from the wound. The women shrieked in horror.
“I said, ‘How is that, Dr. Kleinman? Would you like to see more scholarly research?’ The next shot went through his bowtie into his neck. I aimed the last one at the center of his forehead: Italian restaurant in the Bronx, Michael Corleone style.”
“Wow!” says Charlie, pointing his flashlight directly at the Professor’s face.
“Kleinman was motionless after that. I looked at him and noticed his eyes were still open as if he were deep in thought. But he was dead, silent, permanently muted, incapable of ever emitting another peep about scholarly research.”
“I know I’m not one to talk, Professor,” says Charlie, shining his flashlight along the bars of the border fence. “But don’t you think you may have overreacted?”.
“At the time, I didn’t. Looking back now, I can see how I might have handled it differently.”
“Good thing we broke out of Jungle Lake when we did, Professor. I don’t think that answer would have gone over very well with the Parole Board.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Hold on now. Do you see what I see? Under the fence. Here. The ground. Those flowers. Daisies? Bougainvillea? They don’t look right. They don’t belong there do they? We may have found a tunnel,” exclaims Charlie.
They push away the flowers and clear away a huge layer of earth. Sure enough there is a ladder and a passage beneath.
“Can you believe our luck?” says Charlie.
“Thank God for drug lords and smugglers,” says the Professor. “Let’s vamonos.”
They make their way down a wooden ladder and see fluorescent lights hanging from a ceiling-mounted PVC pipe. They walk through a narrow passage between gray stone walls. Under their feet are metal tracks which could also be used for a small motorcycle.
“By the way,” says Charlie, walking behind the Professor. “What is the fourth symptom of the Tarzan Syndrome?”
“Social acceptance by other misfits only.”
“Makes perfect sense,” says Charlie, his voice echoing in the tunnel. “But misfits don’t have much in common with each other. People are misfits in different ways. Isn’t that a problem?”
“Excellent, Charlie. If you were my student, you would have just earned an ‘A’ for that astute analysis.”
The Professor’s Conclusion
They climb up the ladder and step onto Mexican soil. The terrain is deserted and even darker than the American side. The Professor wonders if there might be farmhouses or other structures within a few miles. He imagines the landscape in daylight: green fields separated by a narrow winding road, cows and brown horses on one side and a muddy river on the other. But sunrise is hours away. The air is thick and there is a faint smell of gasoline.
“What now?” Charlie says.
“We look for someplace abandoned with food and shelter.”
In a flash, there are sirens and red lights all around them.
A police vehicle with Federales is surrounding them and shining orange lights in their eyes. Two officers are standing with guns drawn.
“MANOS ARRIBA. NO SE MUEVEN!”
“Damn!” says Charlie, raising his hands. “Professor, what’s that crazy look in your eyes?”
Last time this happened to the Professor was when Riverside PD surrounded his apartment building after his deadly dissertation defense. Happens under stress. The Professor is looking at the Mexican Federal Police vehicle, the flashing red lights and uniformed officers approaching, but his mind is playing tricks on him:
He sees a ship with red beams from a planet millions of miles away and two-legged creatures in black speaking strange sounds who will take him there. And when he arrives, he will be astonished to find there are no borders or prisons or walls and that all variations of life forms in this world accept each other. After processing this, he might try to explain behavior on Earth. But his efforts will be in vain. Concepts like rejection will be so alien as to be beyond comprehension.
“NO SE MUEVEN. MANOS ARRIBA!”
“Professor, Professor!” Charlie elbows him. The hallucination vanishes. Back on earth, the Professor realizes that guns are pointed at them. He smells exhaust fumes and smoke and hears sirens of more vehicles. They stop. More uniforms approach with weapons drawn. The Professor squints and sees a short, stocky woman in the distance carrying a long, metal object in her hand. Could it be? Can’t be sure. They’ll find out soon enough.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” says the Professor, his hands at last reaching toward the sky.
“What?” asks Charlie. “That we could get caught so fast?”
“No. Not that. The conclusion of my thesis. Very last page, final sentence. I had planned to present it to the late Dr. Kleinman before his untimely demise. I arrived at it after much thought and reflection, but deep down, I refused to believe it.”
“What? Better tell me quick.”
“Not only is there no cure for the Tarzan Syndrome, there is no escape.”
Copyright © 2022 by J. Clayton Stoker
