ABOUT THE ART OF RAISING HELL “There are some people that walk around on two feet and others like me that run on all four.” To most people, that’s a bold statement. I just wish I’d been the one to say it, but I wasn’t. In fact, until a few days ago, I wasn’t even sure what it meant. You might say that, on the surface, it’s a very simple concept: Either you’re the type of person who lives within a set of boundaries or the type who knows none. But life is never that simple, is it? No, I’d say that the most important insights about who we are, what we say, and why we do things are not always the obvious ones. Instead, they’re discovered on the streets of your hometown, revealed late at night in a dark backroom, or sometimes forced upon you at knifepoint where your only choices for survival are between bad and worse. In The Art of Raising Hell, Newbie Johnson has recently moved to Bunsen Creek, Illinois, when his mother is killed in a tragic car crash. His father does his best to maintain a normal household, but his broken heart is just not up to the task. Newbie finds solace by hanging out with his three buddies in their clandestine Backroom hideout. Getting into mischief becomes their favorite pastime as they try to follow in the footsteps of Lonny Nack, who has perfected the art of running on all four. “Running on all four” takes on a new meaning for Newbie when he finds his inner voice and begins to understand the difference between chasing life and being chased by it.
CHAPTER ONE “There are some people that walk around on two feet and others like me that run on all four.” To most people, that’s a bold statement. I just wish I’d been the one to say it, but I wasn’t. In fact, until a few days ago, I wasn’t even sure what it meant. And if that’s not strange enough, I’ll let you in on another little secret: It’s probably not what you think. You might say that, on the surface, it’s a very simple concept: Either you’re the type of person who lives within a set of boundaries or the type who knows none. But life is never that simple, is it? No, I’d say that the most important insights about who we are, what we say, and why we do things are not always the obvious ones. Instead, they’re discovered on the streets of your hometown, revealed late at night in a dark backroom, or sometimes forced upon you at knifepoint where your only choices for survival are between bad and worse. The one person that knew no boundaries in Bunsen Creek was Lonny Nack. At the time when he proudly delivered that line, I didn’t give it much thought. You see, he was the type of guy who loved to hear himself talk. Half the time, his words seemed larger than life. Other times, he just rambled on until he ran out of breath. It didn’t matter, though. He was always entertaining. I mean, the man had a saying for everything: “That’s slicker than snot on a glass door knob.” “I could sell a drowning man a glass of water.” “The more you keep stirring an old turd, the more it stinks.” “Just because you have a crack up your ass doesn’t make you a cripple.” The list goes on.
Yet, that one phrase, that daring metaphor about people who don’t walk around on two feet, did grab my attention. So much that I wanted to know, with all my heart, if he was really chasing some elusive level of enlightened bliss or running away from it. I know now. And I hope by telling you his story, you’ll understand how it was that his life became entangled with mine, forever. Allow me to explain. This story begins five years ago when I was a newly minted teenager in the second year of a new decade. It was the 1970s in the Midwest, and I was ready to take on the world. I wasn’t your typical wallflower who kept his head down in the hallway or cradled The Catcher in the Rye under his pillow at night. No, it’s safe to say that I was quite the opposite. When I hit puberty, a whole new world order of romance and mischief opened up for me that most kids could only dream about. But there was the other side of growing up that I wasn’t even close to figuring out: the hormonal urges, the awkward conversations, and that “special” girl who made me believe, made me wonder, and made me feel. Then there were the different paths we cross in life, never quite knowing which one to take, which friends to make, and which enemies to avoid. Add to that the loss of the one person who meant the most to me, and you had one screwed up teenager. I still remember what my mother said-—God rest her soul—that morning when I turned thirteen and asked what was so different about today as opposed to yesterday. “Well,” she said in a perky tone while rubbing her belly, “becoming a teenager is kind of like giving birth. After months of preparation and pain, all of a sudden, you’ve created a new human being. But, instead of it being a helpless, little baby, you’ve created a full-grown person.” My shoulders gently collapsed as I exclaimed, “What the heck kind of advice is that? That’s about as useful as dried up spit.”
She took my hand, brushed back my bangs, and said something that I’ll never forget: “My sweet son, no matter how much you learn from books and teachers, in the end you must give birth to that voice deep down inside of you. It will tell you what is right and what is wrong. Just follow that inner voice.” “You mean my soul?” She smiled and gently nodded. “They are one and the same.” “So…when I give birth to this inner voice, am I going to have labor pains and grow big breasts or start eating pickles or cry for no reason in the middle of a movie theater?” She chuckled. “Don’t ever lose that sense of humor. It’ll come in handy when you get older.” For the last five years, I’ve been trying to find that inner voice. Unfortunately, I’ve come up with nothing, nada, diddly-squat, zilch...until now. I don’t know why it took so long. Maybe it was because, after she died, I did everything in my power to deny it for the longest time. Maybe I just wasn’t ready. Or maybe, it took meeting Lonny, that one person, that kindred spirit and friend, who could make that “voice” be heard. It’s his words, along with my mother’s, that guide me now. To say that he changed my life is an understatement. Hell, he made me into a local hero twice and almost got me killed! Fate being what it is, I sit here now telling you this story as I, literally, ride off into the sunset. But if it hadn’t been for Lonny and those few simple words, that might not have been the case.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thomas Lopinski grew up in a quaint small town in Illinois called Georgetown with one stoplight, one high school, one square, one lake, one police car, and one hundred ways to get into trouble. It was a wonderful place to be a child. He studied at the University of Illinois and later moved to Southern California with his wife and children to work in the music business. He is also a member of the Independent Writers of Southern California (IWOSC). His first novel, Document 512, won several awards and recognition in 2012-2013 from Readers View Reviewers Choice Awards, Best Indie Book Awards, IndieFab Awards and the National Indie Excellence Book Awards.