Sol had a paper route, his first regular job. A step up from climbing trees in November to pick mistletoe he would then sell outside the neighborhood coffee shop. His mom laughed it was more of a hobby because he was lax at collecting from customers. He would collect enough to pay his route manager for the papers, then a bit more to buy records. That was about it.
Sol seemed to be a moody kid, often in his room, music settling his thoughts. He could listen to Dylan, but is was Simon and Garfunkel who played to deepest waters.
He knew it by heart:
The night sets softly With the hush of falling leaves Casting shivering shadows On the houses through the trees And the light from a street lamp Paints a pattern on my wall Like the pieces of a puzzle Or a child's uneven scrawl Up a narrow flight of stairs In a narrow little room As I lie upon my bed In the early evening gloom Impaled on my wall My eyes can dimly see The pattern of my life And the puzzle that is me From the moment of my birth To the instant of my death There are patterns I must follow Just as I must breathe each breath Like a rat in a maze The path before me lies And the pattern never alters Until the rat dies The pattern still remains On the wall where darkness fell And it's fitting that it should For in darkness I must dwell Like the color of my skin Or the day that I grow old My life is made of patterns That can scarcely be controlled
Sol was more than just a moody kid. As he got older, the patterns of his life could scarcely be controlled. He would soon be questioning his experiences.