CHAPTER 11

© GREG DUNAJ

11.

             

              Daedalus was the one who made it. His son, Icarus, did not. The two of them were to make their escape from Crete by flying on wings crafted from feathers and held together by wax. Daedalus created them. According to Greek mythology he was an inventor and architect and he fashioned the wings so that he and his son could escape the evil King Minos. They had been imprisoned by Minos in the labyrinth at Knossos, another of Daedalus’ creations, and the only way out was to fly.

              The feathers were held together by wax and evidently they worked well enough to get Daedalus to safety. But his boy, in a show of youthful exuberance and so enamored with this newly found ability to fly, soared too near to the sun. The wax melted and Icarus plummeted to this death. There was nothing the great inventor Daedalus could do, but watch Icarus fall. The grief of losing a child, a son, is unimaginable but considering the boy died because of a flaw in his invention, at the very moment of a heart swelling show of passion, of vitality, of youth and promise, it is a wonder Daedalus was able to continue. He did make it to the safety of Sicily and there lived the rest of his days protected by the king, but unprotected from his sadness and memories.

              To be sure, it was a desperate act that forced Daedalus’ hand in fashioning the wings to escape King Minos. But it was love that started him on this journey.

              He was hired by Minos to design the inescapable labyrinth. Its purpose was to house the Minotaur, a man-eating, half-man half-bull monster. The beast was actually a son of King Minos that was turned foul by the god Poseidon as punishment for a transgression by the king. Yet another son lost, and there was nothing the great king could do about it either. He could not save his son, though he did attempt to seek revenge and the labyrinth helped him gain satisfaction.

              Minos was sovereign over many Greek city-states at the time, including Athens. Every few years he demanded and received 7 young men and 7 young women from Athens as a tribute. These youths were sent to Crete and to their subsequent deaths. They were locked in the labyrinth and were killed by the Minotaur. Perhaps Minos gained some solace from robbing the Athenians of their progenies as he was robbed of his own.

              There is a fleeting, but highly implausible theory that Minos was not trying to kill innocent people, but was simply acting out of love for his son. Perhaps he was just trying to arrange play dates for his misshapen, misunderstood boy. Surely this idea will never seriously be considered by scholars of mythology, despite the wonderful, colorful frescos that have survived from these times. They depict the youths leaping over a bull in some type of athletic event. Some claim this is the beginning of gymnastics, though scholars will claim these frescos show desperate, doomed attempts to escape death by Minotaur.

              Whatever drove Minos to doom the youths to an untimely death, whether it was out of revenge or filial love, it certainly was love that caused Daedalus to reveal the secret of the labyrinth to Minos’ daughter Ariadne. The selfless act that betrayed Minos would cost Daedalus his freedom and the life of his own son, but it saved the life of Theseus. Ariadne had fallen in love with the Athenian who was slated to play with the Minotaur and she had pleaded to Daedalus for his help. Only Daedalus knew the secret of the labyrinth, but in the name of love he revealed it to the king’s daughter. So well designed was the labyrinth, no one had ever escaped it until Theseus, armed with a weapon and string that Ariadne provided him, killed the Minotaur. Theseus unwound the string as he crept through the labyrinth and followed it back to the arms of Ariadne.

              So angered was Minos with Daedalus’ deceit, he had father and son imprisoned in the labyrinth itself. Unable to escape using the front door, Daedalus fashioned the wings and they flew away.

              Icarus flew too close to the sun, dooming him. The wax that held the feathered wings was melted by the sun and Icarus plunged to his death in the Aegean Sea. Daedalus made it to Sicily and lived the rest of his days there, perhaps constantly thinking of his lost son and the hope he once represented.

              The life of the Jersey Dedalus had the potential to be as dramatic. It did not involve flying though, but buses. He was from the central part of the Garden State, which meant he could be out of it within an hour, and he soon seized the opportunity. When he was eleven, his Mom took a job and could not get home earlier than 4:30 p.m. The young Dedalus had to endure the after school program. Imprisoned against his will, his freedom a fleeting memory, the boy suffered greatly, glum and depressed. But, that was only until he learned he could give the after-school program the slip and hop a bus.

              His inspiration came from a chance withdrawal from the school library. The book was a compilation of mythology from around the world. The story of Daedalus struck a nerve with him. He too was imprisoned in the labyrinthian halls of the school and well, desperate situations require desperate acts. The school aide that ran the program became the Minotaur and he became Daedalus. At the family dinner the night before he made his first big break he announced to his mom and dad to thereafter call him by the name of the ultimate escape artist. His mom told her apprentice prestidigitator, Daniel, to eat his peas.

              With an excuse of a bathroom visit, he was able to get away. His first trip was to the local mall. His wings were the courtesy of a NJ Transit bus. He walked the cavernous halls of the mall, his backpack in tow, for an hour before catching a return bus to the school in time to meet his mother. She was none the wiser, even the Minotaur was unsure, having lost track of the boy.

              These first treks were harmless, unless candy and a milkshake were great evils to be avoided. He did this a couple of times before discovering, during lunch one day, the convenience store near the school sold bus tickets for destinations further afield. He quickly bought an orange Popsicle and a round trip to New York and did not return to the school after lunch.

              The allure of this great city and its spires was strong with the boy. His father often regaled him with stories of the city’s wide streets and canyons formed by buildings that blotted the sun. There was no corn fields found there, not like those that hedged his small town. His father spoke with widened eyes of the distances seen from atop these buildings that stretched further than the horizon, allowing one to see clear into next week. With the waning light of the sun the window panes of New York City seemed afire with promise and aspiration. At night one could marvel how the city glowed with earthbound stars and her pavements glinted with diamonds. His father said the wide rivers that bounded New York were joys in themselves, with great boats coursing their lengths. And, the museums found in New York City stretched for blocks and crammed within were all sorts of wondrous and fascinating displays, from flying whales and knights in full armor galloping into battle to corpses thousands of years old wrapped in linen cloth. His father spoke in hushed, revered tones about his favored Yankees and crazily ranted about the haphazard abilities of his Giants and to the boy New York was indeed a place for titans. He had to go!

              As orange Popsicle juice dribbled down his chin, the words leaped from his mouth. “Two ways, New York,” he said his eyes wide, his jaw set.

              He sat in the front of the bus, mesmerized by the macadam, watching it unfurl before the coach like an unending carpet. Eventually, the New Jersey vistas calmed the boy. For, despite his elan, this was a huge, even shaky endeavor. But, with the state’s rolling fields and town after town of gabled homes and manicured lawns, the boy felt he had made the correct decision. He was sure to get in trouble; there was no way he’d make it back in time for his mom to pick him up after school. Yet, New York, with all her stories, awaited him and he figured the consequences would be minor.

              With the first sighting of a city’s spires from the Turnpike the boy leaped from his chair excitedly and cried out that they were passing the beautiful city that rose proudly from the meadowlands. But the boy was wrong.

              “That’s Newark,” said the driver, glumly, “we’re not going there.”

              Embarrassed, the boy sat on his hands, even when the bus rounded the swooping curving ramp that led to the Lincoln tunnel. He practically ignored the first views of New York standing brazenly, magically floating on the Hudson.

              The boy found out quickly that New York was too much for him to handle alone. He was ill-prepared for the cadaverous cretins that plied the Port Authority Bus Terminal awaiting children just like him. He barely avoided their clutches to make it to Eighth Avenue and there to stand wide-eyed and agape before the writhing tumult; a perfunctory glance; before a tearful retreat to the sacristy of a police booth. This was not the trip he imagined, this was not the destination that he had hoped for. This was more like Icarus plummeting to his death than Daedalus escaping the labyrinth.

              His parents had to drive into Manhattan to pick up the boy.

              On the ride home, he did not hear their lectures and admonishments, nor did he hear his father’s offer to return with him to New York in the future to see the museums and the Yankees and the boats slipping along the river. No. No, the boy only heard the cry of the factory whistles, the churn of a locomotive and the roar of trucks along the Turnpike.

              They were the Siren’s call.

              Instead of meeting the imploring stares of his parents in their sedan, who were rightfully worried over the possible loss of their own offspring, the boy’s eyes were ever on the roads and views of New Jersey. Her refineries and highways held him close. He marveled over the meadowlands, its water looking primordial and secretive. Further south, the salt marshes and estuaries, now awash in golden light, the grasses swaying on a graceful wind, reminded the boy of his real reason he went through all this trouble. It wasn’t New York at all.

              Again, the undulating macadam stretched out before him and it was then he decided that it was not the destination but the act of traveling that was appealing. He had been too young to travel to New York alone, he knew that now. But he would not stop.

              Later in life, when he found music and took to it with an innate ability and verve, this would be a recurring theme in his songs. His search for a wind to grace his face, to blow back his hair, would become a holy quest for him. New vistas would beckon him even upon his return from a trip. An incessant exploration of other places was the allure. Several of his albums would be travelogues by the young singer from remote sites in the world. His tours found him playing in some obscure, wayward places. It was all an escape, but from what exactly he would never, could ever say. Instead, escape for Dedalus represented freedom and fresh opportunity. It never meant fleeing consequences or trouble to the artist, but life itself.

              “It’s a big world out there,” he’d say, “I gotta see it.”

              This seemingly simple message also became a rallying cry for the legions of fans he picked up along the way. Some of the more hardened souls tramped about after him as best they could, turning up in some of the oddest places to hear Dedalus strum his guitar. From islands in Micronesia to mining towns in the Australian outback where there usually were more opals than people, Dedalus would show up. Those fortunate to have the time and inclination and ability to stretch a buck until it quivered and snapped like one too many face lifts were rewarded with shows that some said were enlightening and would give new meaning to their own lives. To this Dedalus would simply roll his eyes and say, “It’s a big world out there, I gotta see it.”

              In truth, he was always surprised at these odd places to see anyone familiar with his music. He was adrift constantly, anchored nowhere, going only with the moment. When he was corralled into a larger venue, he was suddenly reacquainted with the enormity of his popularity and his fans ready to show their admiration. But more often than not, with guitar in tow, his destinations were picked not for their dollar potential, but for the memory potential. He would disappear for months at a time, turning up in a bar or dance hall basically unannounced. Still, the fans would be there, somehow getting wind of his movements, even as he was plotting his course. He didn’t mind, but he did not mingle, disappearing out a back door and into the night after a show. He was a mysterious character who remained aloof from adoring fans. They understood; he was off to somewhere else. They knew the ache in his heart for other places would not be readily soothed and it was this aloofness, this unattainable connection that endeared the fans ever more to Dedalus. They understood.

              Unfortunately, when he was a boy, his parents had no hope of understanding his motives. They projected these troubles onto themselves. The boy’s malicious behavior was to seek revenge on them or the wreak havoc in the home because they as parents had done something wrong. Had he been able to articulate his emotions at the tender age of eleven, it still would not have been sufficient enough to appease his parent’s angst over the boy’s escapades. They lamented how other children were seemingly happy enough with a trampoline in the backyard or with a bicycle tootling around the streets of the town, but the boy would not be placated by bouncing and biking. Besides, even if he was able to describe his feelings when he was on that bus on the move, it would have been like telling your parents you are only reading the articles in a Playboy when caught with the goods. It is a plausible excuse, but you are still grounded!

              Indeed, he was grounded. His parents practically chained the boy to the radiator. They pointed out to the convenience store owner that sold him the bus tickets of their stupidity and demanded they avoid repeating the act. They told the particular parties involved at the school they had better take greater care in watching after their son and they threatened to keel-haul the lot if it ever happened again.

              His parents thought that this might be the end of their grief; that their son would no longer stray alone so far from home. For a time, they were so lucky. They became the doting parents and resolved to coddle their only child. They convinced themselves the boy was simply crying out for attention and so they rarely left him alone. His mother staggered her hours at work so that for three days she would get home by 3:00 and in time to avoid the potential for the boy to escape all together. He was dragged off on errands and shopping sprees and play dates. Then, after his father got home from work, the boy was dragged outside and forced to play catch with baseballs and mitts and footballs especially purchased for this occasion. They were bonding. But, after a few sessions of getting beaned by errant throws; he was never a sports lover; the young Dedalus hid the equipment in a dark corner of the basement and feigned fatigue every possible time his father came looking for him.

              On his twelfth birthday he was given a guitar by his mother and that proved to be inspirational. She found the instrument in a church bazaar flea market. She had gone there to pick through the used clothes in search of the Hawaiian shirts that her husband so loved. The guitar was propped up in the corner with no strings, but Daniel’s mother somehow gravitated to it, a latter day Arthur and his sword. It “called” to her, she would later say. Well, the boy took to the instrument rabidly. An epiphany of sorts overtook the young Daniel. His parents started him with weekly guitar lessons with someone in the next town over, but soon the boy was forcing the fellow to accelerate the process. He began to wile his time now on his front porch, improving his guitar skills, rather than sneaking bus trips. For that alone his parents were thrilled and relieved. Yes, home proved to be a good place to be. Instead of escaping, he wrote little songs that he performed after dinner for his parents, emerging from behind the pantry door used as a makeshift curtain. He would strum and sing to the delight of his parents, casual musicians themselves and their house hummed, contented and calm. Eventually the family upright joined the act with mom on some nights. Previously it had simply been another place to display photographs. Even dad would get into the act, dragging out his alto sax stored since high school days and the three would hoot and honk their way into the night, happy, happy, happy.

              But it all turned too serious with a chance invitation. What had been a family gathering of joyful tunes and happy times was turned into an arduous chore with a move towards making music professionally. A carnival had come to town that summer, sponsored by the volunteer fire department, and everyone in town turned out to walk the Midway and sample the corn dogs and funnel cakes.  The rides creaked and moaned. The gap-toothed carneys scanned the crowd for teenagers and the chance to do what comes naturally, though usually this meant purchasing charms with folderol or hidden flasks. At one end of the Midway there was a wooden stage strung with bare light bulbs. Several different bands from the area would play each night at the carnival. The band playing this night happened to be fronted by the boy’s guitar teacher. From the stage he saw the boy, already a prodigy in his eyes, and he dragged him up to play a song. The young Daniel sang something he had written. It was about breezes and porches and faraway places. The boy’s parents and his guitar teacher were aglow. The Midway crowd paused and heads turned. Even the whirling rides seemed to slow to a crawl in a strained effort to hear the boy. The local paper wrote about the event on the next week’s edition and had displayed a large photograph on its cover of the boy with a guitar borrowed from his teacher. For weeks people and friends approached his Mom or Dad on the street or in the supermarket to say how impressed they were with their son’s performance.

              It changed everything.

              Afterwards, nothing was the same for the family. Emboldened by all the attention given their son, his parents began a headstrong dash to further his career in music. ‘Career,’ what a deadly word. No longer was music a warm, cherished moment in the kitchen, a boy emerging from behind the pantry door, a family gathered together around the upright piano, but a career. His talent was there, it could not be denied and the potential was there, courtesy of his parents, for they were resolved to push him swiftly along. His abilities would not go untapped. The time after school became a blur for the boy, filled with guitar, voice and piano lessons.

              Week nights and weekends were crammed with gigs. Any place that agreed to take him, and his parents had him there. He often played for free, for they felt money at this point was of little concern. It was more important the boy was seen and heard. They were furthering his career. To a point, they were successful. The young man with a high, clear voice and a guitar in tow became a local phenomenon. For a time he seemed to be everywhere at once. He played every carnival and craft fair they could reach by car. They got him a 3:00 a.m. slot on a local cablethon that was raising money for the Kiwanis Club.  He played retirement homes, though those were particularly tough for the boy to play. The elderly people they rolled into the foyer were either not cognizant, or they would cackle and hack as they tried to cajole the boy into playing something they knew. Shouting out song titles from their youth, the retirees did more interrupting than listening.

              Their attempts at securing fame for the boy soon became aggressive and ludicrous. Fame did not come quick enough for their boy. Places or events that did not agree to showcase the young man’s talents were still graced by his presence. His parents once thrust him out at a local political rally. The poor wanna-be alderman would then have to endure a song, smiling weakly all the while from his dais, lest he offended anyone in the crowd.

       Once, his parents read about how the governor would preside over the opening of a new highway ramp and the boy was there. He did not get close to the event, but the endeavor was still a success. The Star-Ledger ran a photograph of the boy with the ramp looming in the background. The caption read: Local boy sings where traffic will soon zip.

              Two events, a ribbon cutting, grand opening celebration at a strip mall and a new delicatessen each had the incredible, fortuitous luck to have Daniel suddenly appear and play for them. He appeared out of the blue!  Like the others, Daniel was not invited to either of these events. The difference her was, his parents did not plan on attending them either. They simply pulled over when they saw the commotion and got the boy out of the car. They stood aglow on the sidelines as the boy played on the sidewalk without embarrassment and beyond the earshot of the murmurs and snickers that chimed in along with his tunes.

              Throughout all these machinations the boy remained oblivious to the growing taunts. He enjoyed playing and performing and especially enjoyed the car rides to the different events. For two years he would pile into the back of the family sedan and stare out the window watching the world flit by. There was no concern on his part over his status in his middle school or neighborhood. But then, High School changed his perceptions on everything. What was once important became boring or frightfully, deathly embarrassing.

              His freshman year started off wrong with his parents prodding the school superintendent to allow him to play a song at the school assembly that kicked off the new school year. It was all terribly wrong. The skinny freshman kid was subjected to jeers and outright boos from the collected student body. Thereafter, he could not walk the hallways without catcalls, snickers and finger pointing. He was ridiculed constantly. Spitballs routinely splattered against the back of his neck or would land in his drink at the lunch table. More than once did he have to bang on a locker to summon the janitor to let him out and then only after suffering the worst indignity of all; being forced to promise NOT to sing when released from the oubliette.

              The community too had heard enough of his parents’ pontificating about the boy’s future as a professional. The local paper ran a “Where’s Daniel?” photo column and his image was spliced onto photos of flagpoles and cemeteries. A demo tape of a few of his songs they had made found its way to every radio station from Baltimore to New Haven. Save for a few, very small stations, it got no air play, until a free-form college radio station got hold of it and used snippets of it to create a discordant, ribald cacophony.  Local youths got a hold of it too, stealing it from a supermarket kiosk the family had begged the establishment to set up. The tape found itself in a much more lively entertainment form, by decorating statues and trees in the community.

              Still his parents pushed him, even as the boy suffered more and more and complained more and more bitterly. Success was just around the corner they cried. But the boy began to fight them and balked at certain performances. No longer would he would just “show up” at some event as his parents would have him do and instead he would refuse to get out of the car, lest someone from school would see him. He also balked at performing for retirement homes. He argued these points vehemently. He would lock himself in his room or run away from the house when his parents would call for him. Fearful that he was going to run away for good, his parents agreed to a few of his demands. They would not force him to perform any gig in town and they would only take gigs miles away. Even previously favored CYO communion breakfasts at his parish were out, despite their food.

              But still it was not enough. School was a disaster for him and he was miserable. Music was no longer fun for him. One morning, as the family prepared to leave for a trip to Richboro, Pennsylvania, to perform at a Bar Mitzvah there, Daniel climbed out his bedroom window and hopped on a bus to Atlantic City. He planned to play on a boardwalk bench deep into the night and then sleep on the beach to watch the sun rise over the Atlantic. He wanted to play for himself, to have fun again with his music. With his guitar in tow and armed with a clutch of candy bars he climbed onto the bus that offered him a way out of the noose his parents had tied for him. But he was foiled at the depot in Atlantic City. His parents somehow knew what he was up to, and the cops were waiting for him at the terminal.

              Throughout the trip he was the delight of the geriatric gamblers heading for their comps and one armed bandits. At first the boy could not believe his misfortune. He was locked in a bus for hours with the types of people he had hoped to avoid. But, they won him over. They asked about his guitar and some asked him to sing and eventually the boy took great delight in playing for the seniors. At least they were fairly cognizant and ambulatory, not like those he visited at the homes, wheeled in and propped up before him. No, this captive crowd was appreciative, and they fawned over the boy. They were so enamored with him, that when they learned of his plans to sleep under the boardwalk, they chastised him. They were afraid for him. When the police were waiting for him at the bus stop in Atlantic City and all would be right, everyone on the bus cheered.

       But his resolve to break his parents’ stranglehold on him was strong and he did not quit. As determined as his parents were to keep their pursuit of his fame going he was as adamant in his rebellion. In his most determined, defiant act, he joined the football team. He thought he could endear himself to his jeering peers by playing the game and showing he was not as wacky as his mom and dad; that he could fit in. The shallowness of the act did not enter into the equation. He was too miserable in school. He sat alone at lunch picking spit balls out of his hair.

              His parents fought against this. Despite their earlier bonding attempts with sports, his father was afraid he would get hurt. His mother said the sport would take him away from his music, it would change him. Eventually, both his parents were correct. He did not care. After two years of unrelenting prodding by his parents he wanted it all to stop. Years later, in an interview that appeared in Rolling Stone Dedalus dispelled the urban myths that had been written about him. The story went, that frustration in early disappointments in his career led him to rebel against his parents. He said instead, he just wanted to get away from them and to have a normal life. He wanted other kids in school to like him and to accept him.

              Whatever his reason, acceptance proved a hard road to travel. He had his butt kicked by his teammates. They pounded him relentlessly on the practice field. He was the wacky kid with the snooty parents after all. A lesson had to be taught. He was forced to run extra laps and push-ups and yet, he endured all without complaint. Dragging his aching body home each day after practice, he ignored his parents’ protests and worries.

       Perhaps because of all the excessive abuse and pounding he received from his teammates, he became a fierce competitor. He learned to give it back as hard as he received, and he eventually earned the reputation of being a sinewy, vicious hitter and their respect. He made the team and played split end and safety. But, most importantly, he achieved his goal to be transformed into a regular kid and all the residual difficulties that lurked in the hallways at school drifted away.

              Playing guitar and gigs became easier after he made the team. It was as if he first needed to needed to establish himself as a regular guy before he could continue with his career. Looking back on this period of his life Dedalus shuddered to think of the shallowness of it all, but it was so desperately important for him to be accepted by his peers at the time. He would have leaped through hoops if it was necessary.

              He wrote a song about his attempts to fit in that appeared on his first album that was released during the spring on his senior year. It was the last song on the second side of “Escape”. It was a throw away song, something to fill out the side. The main chorus of Reflection went:

              What is him / I try to be / Something that the mirror cannot see / Well what are you / I ain’t telling / a con man and his snake oil selling? / For it’s one step forward and then two steps back...

              If anything, reflecting on this period of his life has made Dedalus shudder in embarrassment. The experience made him run away faster than ever.  Since this time of his youth he has gone out of his way not to fit in anywhere and to embrace a life of being alone.

              Well, before he could discover the folly of his ways, he did hurt himself consistently. Stretched ligaments in his knee forced him to sit out the final game of that season, but earlier, jammed fingers left him unable to hold a pick. A bruised shoulder forced him to put down the guitar. Cradling the instrument was too painful. But though he recovered from those injuries in a couple of weeks, he did serious, permanent damage to his vocal chords. It happened in practice during the week leading up to the heavily hyped homecoming game. The team was whipped into a froth with the bunting hung in the hallways and the hoots in the hallways. He had to admit they were better than the jeers. Throughout the week the team was encouraged to wear their football jerseys to school and Dedalus proudly displayed his green and gold 21 with the rest of them. One overzealous practice found him screaming during drills so vociferously that afterwards he could not talk above a whisper for weeks. His parents were furious. He took up smoking. He permanently scarred his voice. It left the still teenaged musician and split end with a constant garrulous timbre.

              It all suited him well.

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