The Men of Jasper Hill
In accents of menace and wrath; the Saviour house stood as a beacon for the perfect American family. Night after night the skies were wine-blue and bubbling with stars. Inside the house, behind closed doors, the spirit was palpitating with rage and wounded sensibility. Every morning celebrated the ecstasy and festival of summer, and at dusk, deep within the house, yellowed-eyed demons prowled. The night Peter returned was a night of little ease, and every night after became a nightmare. Jeff Saviour was emancipated in 1969. The summer of Jeff–seven years old. 184 Brewster Place, Glen Cove, New York City, was incapable of verity. The calls were coming from inside the house. Life was slow to reveal, and it seemed intolerably tragic. Everyone in the family was aware of it. Father Saviour only cared about his millions, and mother Saviour never stayed sober after four-thirty. Summer was in full swing, and the heat was rising. Brewster street, once a lonely, empty playground, was now brimming with children. How do you paint a true picture with untrue words? How do you describe the emotions, and conflicts that are mixed with tragic intensity, when you wish it would go away? Sometimes the Universe makes mistakes. Sometimes you have to getaway, somewhere you can become the man that you were meant to be. It is called a dream. A dream of a better life, with real family made of friends. Happiness can be real, not like a thirty-minute sitcom, or a radio show, with exception to radio play of Skyline Pigeon, by Elton John, if you simply dream big. To survive, ill-bred insolence became the weapon of choice. Why care how they feel? They were aware of everything and did nothing.