I'm not sure of the dates of these stories, but Chuck, Scott, Chris, and I posted different parts of the story over a few months time. We regretably never finished telling it, but I though it nice to resurrect it and post it here. It's a long read:
(Tickets may be purchased at the door...)
The street was empty except for a tall, lanky figure in a long trench coat. The clicking of his boots on the pavement was the only sound to be heard, a cold echo in a concrete canyon. He paused under a streetlight for a moment, looked up, then quickly stepped out of the circle of light and into the shadows. Shrinking back against the cold wall, his hand strayed to the hilt of the sword beneath his coat. His heart raced and the adrenaline began to flow through his body, but it was not fear that moved. It was the memory of countless battles, lives taken and friends lost.
Strangely enough, he did not feel the quickening of his soul that indicated the presence of another immortal. Yet something was out there, something very ancient and very evil--something he had encountered before. He pushed the flap of his coat aside and took the hilt of his sword, the blade whispering excitedly as it emerged for battle. A frown had twisted his face, for the night was as still as the inside of a coffin. And a coffin it may very well become for one of us, he thought grimly.
He stepped away from the wall in one fluid movement, expecting a sudden attack. None came, however, and his eyes swept the street for signs of his foe. He frowned again, becoming slightly annoyed. Whatever was out there, he had seen it before--of that at least he was sure. Yet he couldn't place the cold, sinister aura that gripped the streets with its icy hand. Not until the voice came from behind him.
"It's been quite some time, Mr. Figglesworth, hasn't it?"
The voice was saturated in evil, and Figglesworth knew immediately that Vampir, his ancient foe, was back. He slowly turned around to see a dark figure examining his manicured nails beneath the streetlight. His long, flowing hair was pulled back and his face was shadowed by a well-trimmed beard. He flicked one of his nails and looked up.
"I see the centuries have been good to you, highlander" he said.
"And to you as well," said the highlander dryly. "I'm surprised no one has driven a stake through your heart yet."
The vampire laughed. "Not that they haven't tried, my friend. I've just been a bit too quick for them."
With that, the highlander found himself staring at empty space as a breeze blew past him. Then a voice came from a few paces behind him.
"I've heard some of the things you've been saying, Figglesworth," he said, shaking his head disappointedly. Slowly he began to walk toward the highlander. "That you're going to kill me? Have you gone daft?"
The highlander pivoted, bringing his sword to the guard position. He opened his mouth as if to answer, but then suddenly leaped forward and swung his blade. It sliced through the air where the vampire had been, and was suddenly hit from behind. He flew a dozen feet through the air, but somersaulted into an upright position again, retaining his weapon. The vampire merely looked at him curiously.
"Not bad," he said, shrugging, "but unless you've learned some new tricks you're going to find yourself in a delicious amount of pain tonight."
With that he smacked his lips and flew through the air like lightning from the fist of Zeus. He raked his nails across Figglesworth's chest, knocking him to the ground. The highlander struggled to his feet, his coat torn and blood oozing from four deep gashes. The vampire slowly licked the blood from his nails, smiling.
"Ah," he sighed. "The blood of an immortal does have that extra kick, doesn't it?"
Figglesworth's eyes blazed and he swung his blade swiftly, again to find only air. Quickly he spun around, but there was no sign of the vampire. A drop of blood landed on his shoulder, and he looked up to find the vampire hanging upside down from a fire escape above him.
"Come, Figglesworth," he said, smiling, "I believe we need a change of venue."
With that he flew up the fire escape to the roof of the building. The highlander raced up behind him, breathing heavily when he reached the roof. He was immortal, but the four deep wounds to his chest did not help his condition any. The vampire was standing near the ledge with his back turned, gazing out over the city.
"It's wonderful, isn't it? All those souls out there, waiting to be fed upon. One does tire of solely Asian cuisine after a while. Nothing like some good old Italian take-out."
He continued to look out over the lights, and Figglesworth slowly walked up behind him. Suddenly he lunged, but the vampire backflipped over him and struck with his fist. The highlander dove to the side, barely escaping a blow that would have sent him over the side of the building. Not much sense in living forever if you're going to be a pancake.
"Yes, that's much better," said the vampire, laughing. "I was beginning to think this would be no fun at all."
The highlander threw down his sword in disgust and lifted his hands over his head. "I've had enough of your games, you corrupted minion of darkness. Now it's time to play my way."
He began chanting, and the smile on the vampire's face slowly faded. Suddenly the highlander thrust a hand forward and a great fist of energy shot forth at the speed of light, knocking the vampire backward and over the opposite ledge. Suddenly the night was quite again, punctuated only by the faint sounds from below. The highlander began muttering again, casting one of his limited healing spells on himself. He would be sore for quite a while, but none the worse for it.
Slowly he walked toward the opposite ledge. He listened carefully, and upon hearing no sound leaned over to look down. Suddenly the vampire shot upwards into the sky and over the highlander, landing directly behind him. Before Figglesworth could turn around, the vampire had grabbed him and thrown him over his shoulder. He landed hard on the roof of the building, but he muttered a quick spell and his hands were flaming when he got up.
The vampire was brushing off his clothing. "Now that's the Figglesworth that I remembered," he said. "But the dawn is drawing near and there is precious little time for more reminiscing."
A fist flashed between the highlander's flaming hands and caught him in the chest. Then the vampire brought a boot around with a vicious kick to the head that left the highlander sprawled out on the roof. In an instant the vampire was beside him. He picked up the highlander, raised him above his head, and slammed him down so hard that the building trembled.
The vampire paused for a moment, then thrust a hand forward and dug again into the highlander's chest with his nails. Gripping the flesh he picked the highlander up and held him dangling in the air. Waves of pain flooded Figglesworth's brain, and it was all he could do to remain conscious. The last thing he remembered seeing was the vampire's face, twisted into a cruel grin.
"There are times when it sucks to be immortal, aren't there, Mr. Figglesworth."
With a glance toward the faint glow on the eastern horizon, the vampire sighed. Then he effortlessly threw the highlander over the side of the building. Peering over the edge, he watched the figure plunge to the earth, landing in an open dumpster. He frowned slightly and then turned, and the next moment a black bat was winging its way away from the city to some unknown destination.
(I've been out of practice for while, so excuse my clunky prose. Glad to have you back from vacation, Figglesworth...)
End of First Author's Story
He woke up with a start of pain and a shocking realization that he was still alive. It never failed to amaze him: during the minutes it took his body to heal and start his heart beating again, he was not there. It was different than dreaming. When he slept he knew he was there, but just not in control of his being. During those moments that his heart stopped beating, however, he really wasn’t there. He didn’t exist as he understood existence. There was no “he” during those moments. But luckily those moments passed quickly and he took a deep breath.
That was his first mistake. Breathing really shouldn’t be that difficult. He looked down and saw the four gorges in his chest. They were knitting up slowly. He felt each skin cell grow and attach itself to a newly grown neighbor until the skin stretched across the wound. He felt the ribs in his chest and the bones in his leg reforming from the fall. A number of audible cracks were heard as his spine began to reorient itself with the normal curvature of his back. He felt his body healing, but his thoughts were still clouded -- it was difficult to go from non-existence to existence. It always took his mind a while to accept that it was there again.
His second thought was that he definitely shouldn’t have taken that breath. The air smelled faintly of manure mixed with rotten meat. After thinking about it for a moment, he realized that there must be some overcooked asparagus buried somewhere around him. Dumpsters collected the strangest odors over time.
He glanced up and saw that a small crowd had gathered around him. From the looks of them, two of them were bums, and one of them was a well-dressed man in a business suit. His mouth seemed to be moving, but no words were coming out. In a rush of sensation, he began to decipher what the man was saying.
“Are you okay, Sir? Don’t move. We’ve called an ambulance. That was a long drop you had -- a very long drop. Are you okay?”
It took a moment for his eyes to properly focus on the businessman. He slowly brought his hands together and started mumbling. The businessman’s words began slurring and his face went blank. The bums around him continued to stare, but their eyes no longer looked. He picked himself up and climbed out of the dumpster. He looked around for a moment and smiled when he spotted what he was looking for. He limped over to where the street met an alleyway and found a mangy dog gnawing at an old chicken bone.
Mr. Figglesworth began chanting softly and the dog slowly began rising up toward the roof. Within moments it was standing at the edge of where he had fallen off. With a slight twist of his hand, the dog jumped, and fell down the side of the building, crashing into the dumpster with a thud. He continued to chant and turned his attention to the bystanders. He whispered quietly into their subconscious minds. After a few moments, he was satisfied and walked toward the building to collect his sword.
As he returned through the front of the building, his katana now safely in its sheath, he heard an ambulance’s wailing getting louder and saw the red lights reflected off the dark walls of the building. He saw the two bums and the businessman shaking the dying form of the dog. He should have felt some sympathy for the canine, but it was difficult to feel sympathy after so many years. He knew it was important to be protected from discovery. He also knew that his suggestion spell was not very powerful. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made. It was either the dog or the three men. The advent of modern technology complicated things. In an hour, a video of any of his feats could be broadcast to millions of homes. He had learned to be careful and avoid that at all costs. If one of the men that found him had had a video camera…. He tried not to think of such things.
It took ten minutes to limp to his car. Once in his car he began thinking of his encounter with the vampire. It had been many years since he’d last fought one. Over a century since he’d come across this particular one. Mr. Figglesworth usually stayed clear of their kind, only dispatching them when they got too close to him, or became a serious public menace. But this Vampir was different. It had been over a century since he’d run into him. For one thing, he was more intelligent than most of the vampires he’d run across. He enjoyed playing games with his victims and seemed to have an almost insatiable hunger for Asian victims. The one thing he was sure about from his encounter was that this was not the last time he would see the vampire. Vampir enjoyed the hunt too much. He fed off the fear he imparted in his victims almost as much as the blood he took from them. He was going to have to be careful with this one.
Mr. Figglesworth drove to his loft. It was on the shore of the river and had a panoramic view that overlooked the city on one side and the river on the other. The river was crowded this evening. Many vessels, mostly pleasure boats, floated slowly down the river, like flickering stars across the black water. As soon as the elevator closed behind him, he stripped off his clothes and walked toward a small altar in the corner of the room. The Highlander kneeled and placed his katana before him. He felt the strong steel and could sense and smell the magic emanating from the blade. He placed the blade before him, and with a glance lit the three white and one black candle and the incense holder. In a moment he was deep in a meditative state. He was preparing himself to cast the wards that would allow him to fight the vampire on his own terms.
He drifted in his meditative state for a while, having trouble finding a place to anchor his thoughts and become one with himself. After shuffling through the blackened corridors of his mind for an hour, he finally came to the room he was looking for. The door was slightly ajar, and with a dark, blue light oozing from underneath it. He reached out and opened it. The full force of memory fell upon him.
***
It was a late autumn night in Binghamton, a small village about a week’s carriage ride from the harbor of New York. The hills surrounding the town were sporting their autumn best: the dazzling greens, oranges, and browns that competed with the brilliant blue of an afternoon sky. By night, however, the colors were lost and the multi-hued trees were painted with a dull blue light cast from the stars and moon. Mr. Figglesworth was lost in the musty smell of the woods as he road leisurely through its hills. He had lived in the town for almost twenty years now, and he could never get over the smells and sights of autumn.
Over the sound of the trotting of his horse he heard a scream coming from the village. He turned his horse mid-stride and kicked it into a run back toward the village. The villagers had put out a fire yesterday that had threatened to engulf the entire town. Only Mr. Figglesworth knew how lucky the town was to have the Highlander living within its boundaries. Had it not been for a fortuitous rainstorm, the village would have been lost. Mr. Figglesworth had grown to like the village, and while it took a considerable amount of energy to save it from its fiery doom, it was worth it. Starting over was always more taxing then expending magical energies.
He arrived at the village and found his neighbor, the butcher, holding his wife in his arms. He jumped off his horse and pushed his way through the crowd to see if he could help the butcher’s wife. What he saw sent a shiver down his spine. There were two puncture holes in the side of her neck. What truly made it horrible, however, was that the body was completely white. No blood spilled from the wounds. He knew at once that his weak healing arts would not help the poor woman. Her soul was lost; sucked out to fill the soulless void of a vampire. Mr. Figglesworth had fought such evil before. He turned and mounted his horse, checked his sword, and ran toward the border of town. Already, his mouth was moving and runes were forming in his mind. When he was out of view a traveling and tracking spell had already been cast. He would find this bloodsucker that threatened his quiet existence.
It only took three days to track the vampire down. It had holed itself up in a bear cave. He had little doubt that the bear no longer lived there. In fact, nothing would live there. Vampires have a way of sucking the life from everything around them, even unintentionally. The Highlander waited until the sun rose over the horizon, drew his blade from underneath his cloak, and entered the cave.
“I can smell you, blood sucker. Come out where I can see you.” Mr. Figglesworth said.
He felt a gust of wind forming at the back of the cave. When it reached him, a dust cloud began to coalesce, slowly forming the outlines of a man. Within moments the outlines became solid and a fleshy man stood before Mr. Figglesworth.
The man was of medium height and slight build. He wore light brown hair short and curly on top. His eyes were green, and his nose was slightly pointed. What one noticed first, however, was the paleness of his skin. A blue vein could clearly be seen on his forehead, branching down from his hairline to the top of his cheek. The man was smiling, and sharpened canines could clearly be seen poking out from his upper lip.
“I am Vampir. It seems you have gone to some trouble to track me down. I hope your effort was not wasted.” His voice was soft and the sounds whistled and oozed out of his mouth. Each word was articulated clearly and seemed part of a grander orchestral piece.
Mr. Figglesworth began to feel awe for the pale man. He began to stare at him in admiration. Slowly the admiration began turning to affection. With an enormous effort, the Highlander grabbed the blade of his sword with his right hand, effectively cutting the arteries leading to his fingers. The pain shocked his system and the vampire’s spell was broken. Mr. Figglesworth stepped back into a low fighting stance, his right hand held behind his back, red crimson running down his hand and onto his leather trousers.
“Such a waste of good blood. Had I known you’d be this cooperative, I would have brought a container to store your blood in. The ground does not truly appreciate blood like I do.” Vampir said.
“I am known as Mr. Figglesworth. I was born in the highlands of Scotland. Your mind tricks will not work on me, vampire. I am here because you have taken the soul of a person I respect. If you wouldn’t mind setting it free, I will have no further quarrel with you.”
Vampir laughed quietly. “Of course, Mr. Figglesworth. I’ll just set it free. Was it the traveling monk that I passed last night? No. I can’t imagine he would be missed too much. It must have been that butcher’s wife then. She was quite delightful. She was a little too American for my tastes, but still satisfying, in that not-so-finger-licking good way. I’m afraid that her soul does not want to leave, though. I, of course, gave her the option before I took her. She was more than willing to join me. Now, be on your way Highlander. You do not know what you face.”
The Highlander looked at Vampir. His sword tip fell to the earth and he began to turn away. He continued to turn until his sword whipped around toward the space between where he had stood and where the vampire was. In an instant he knew he was too late. The blade bit into nothing but air. He tried to pull back, but it was too late. He felt a sharp rip across his shoulder as the vampire’s fingernail severed the muscle to his left arm. Limply, the sword fell from his hand.
Vampir smiled and slowly approached the Highlander. He began humming softly to himself, licking his lips with his dry tongue. “Come here, Mr. Figglesworth. I have a nice spot reserved for your soul as well.”
Mr. Figglesworth began muttering beneath his breath. His eyes were wide and his words sounded like the ramblings of a man who knew that his end was near. The vampire’s smile broadened at the sound. In what seemed a moment of uncertainty, Mr. Figglesworth lifted his two arms and clasped his hands together. With a tremendous shout energy began forming over his arms. From outside the cave beams of light funneled through the Highlander’s body, increasing the glow of his clasped hands. The vampire covered his face with his forearm, no longer sure of the easy kill. He hissed and backed up further into the cave.
“There will be rest for lots of souls tonight, night crawler.” Mr. Figglesworth proclaimed. His shoulders tensed and a beam of pure white sunlight shot out from his hands and hit Vampir squarely in his chest. The vampire wheezed softly and then his form collapsed and dark ashes fell where he had stood. The Highlander walked over to where Vampir had been standing and slowly moved the ashes with his foot.
It was done. He imagined he felt the captured souls flying free from the ashes of the slain vampire. His magic did not let him bridge the gap of life and death and feel such things, though. The vampire had almost bested him this night. He had been ill prepared, and had the vampire known what Mr. Figglesworth’s true nature was, things might have gone much differently. A lesson learned. He would be more careful in the future. He would have to better research wards for his sword. He did not like relying on his magic for fighting. It was not a reliable instrument. It caused too much commotion among those who didn’t understand, and it drained him. He limped slowly out of the cave, his physical wounds slowly healing. His mental wounds caused by the raw energy, however, would take many months to fully heal.
***
The door closed slowly behind him in his mind. He floated easily through the dark corridors, remembering wards and spells that had not been cast in decades.
End of Second Author's Story
Four thousand, nine hundred and twelve years. Four thousand, nine hundred and twelve years. I wonder how many memories I have forgotten. Lost loves. Friends dead. Enemies slain. Too many nights like this one I suspect. I feel somewhat sorry for those two. Throughout all the years, neither one has found what they are looking for. Who am I to judge.
At least the battle was quick. A shame though that the Highlander was too slow to recognize his foe for what he was. Vampir has grown in power these last 2 centuries. Mental notes to myself: When documenting tonights transgression, include details on Vampir's new abilities. Oh, and note that the Highlander missed the security camera on the west corner of the Bank of America building. Personal note: I felt the pull again tonight. Stronger than in recent years. Looks like the highlander will probably call it a night. I should as well.
It is a lonely life, that of a watcher. The secret society begins to take its toll for most men. I guess that being immortal makes it that much easier for me. Although, not tonight. It was tough keeping my distance. Any closer and the Highlander would have felt my presence. For a instant I felt as if Vampir caught a glimpse. Even if he had, he would have thought nothing of the bumb on the roof two buildings away.
-------------------------------------
The cloaked figure moved from his perch atop the roof of the old brownstone. With a swift motion, he leaped through the air, over the side. The shadowy figure glided gracefully, landing on the run as his cloak settled in behind him. His hand instinctively reached for his side, his fingertips touching the cool tip of his swords hilt.
As he reached the end of the alley, he tested himself. Two rats scurrying against the right wall, three garbage cans, one on its side. Sounds of at least two more rats in the overturned tin. The walls were dripping with city sweat. The left wall had the words "Heart of Hell" scribbled carelessly about 4 feet off the ground. Kids. Not bad. Nothing slips by a watcher.
Yandros stepped from the dark onto the empty sidewalk. It was late. He probably could have finished in the morning. There were tasks to be done. With steps of certainty, the watcher crossed the trafficless street, careful not to tilt his head towards the rotating security camera. Once behind the view of the device, Yandros leaped to the 3rd floor air vent. With the stealth of a cat, he slipped inside. It took no longer than three minutes for the red blinking light on the camera to cease. A minute later, the dark shadow was again walking down a dark alley.
The plan was quite clear for this pre-dawn hour. Yandros would head east, towards the river. The sun would be up soon. It made sense to head east this morning. The battle between the Highlander and Vampir was not over. The river always provided clarity. It also helped to head east, towards the sunrise. For a watcher misses nothing. Most especially a bat circling overhead.
Mental note: Vampir's skills have improved.
End of Third Author's Story
Two men stand upon a hill at dusk amongst the grasses and reeds of Lousiana's vast plains - one, a middle-aged, moderately built black scientist and the other, a somewhat slighter man, wrapped in what looks to be from a distance, a black leather coat. The two stand posed over an indentation in the hill staring downward over a small plot of disturbed soil roughly 8 feet in length. The temperature has dipped to a slice below freezing as the last of the suns rays turn the sky into a bruised canopy above them. It is not the temperature however, that causes the scientist's voice to quiver.
"What is it?" He asks, wrapping the flaps of his dingy lab coat around his shoulders and jamming his fists into his oversized pockets.
The other man does not answer right away.
"Mr. Archon?"
The scientist does not look up into the eyes of his companion but waits impatiently for an answer. The reeds move like water around his feet. They had been standing here, almost motionless for close to an hour now - and the scientist was getting impatient and not a bit cold. He listened to the hiss of the wind through the grasses and his own accelerated heartbeat for several long moments before venturing a glance into the face of the man beside him.
He wished he hadn't.
Although still fairly bright, the other man's face was masked in shadow, his features hidden by the cloak over his head and an eerie sense that the man himself was devoid of light - the skin almost absorbing it - so that only a mere suggestion of a face could be made out IF he were to examine it more closely. A wave of sheer, instinctive terror washed over him and he snapped his head back towards the ground. In addition to the now-thudding pound of his heart, he could hear a low, guttural growl - the sort of sound his bull-terrier would make if he played at snatching away his favorite chew-toy. It was only a few moments before he realized that it was his companion's voice.
"Those, my enterprising young man, are dinosaur bones".
"I KNOW that but are they intact?". The scientist regretted his impatience almost immediately. After all, this odd man would not bring a fairly well-known paleontologist out to a remote hill to show him fakes. Would he? "They appear to be hundreds of years old - possibly pre-mesozoic. An intact complete fossil of this kind would bring thousands of dollars in revenue into the university - not to mention the notoriety of the digger....and the discoverer! If it could pre-date the earliest finds, it would be worth millions! Probably more! And this site is not owned by the university - this is PRIVATE land! If you could verify the date of these bones and get a grant from the landowner..." The scientist could barely restrain his excitement as images of fame and dollar signs marched past his eyes in a parade of sheer and utter greed - he almost forgot to breathe.
"They are complete...and they do pre-date the earlier find...and the landowner is dead. Your cousin Jamie-lee could dig here if he wanted to."
The scientist's jaw fell open. The parade was joined by beatiful naked women and every make of car he had ever pined for - nevermind the fact that this man couldn't have known he had a 16-year old cousin and even more impossible that he ventured the right name.
"But how...." He pleaded - forgetting the cold and once again looking in the other man's direction.
"Because I created them." The gravelly voice answered. The scientist could imagine a smile underneath the cowl of darkness and thought somehow, that was much worse than no answer at all.
"I created them because you scientists are doing my work for me....humanity is destroying itself. Sure, they blame Lucifer and bad luck and God's disfavor for all the unholy things that go on in this world but you scientists... you are winning the battle FOR us!"
"Whaaat?" The scientist asked incredulously, backing ever so slightly away from the hole now.
"You greedy, unthinking, blessed creatures are DOING our WORK FOR US! You are proving to the world that God does not exist! Dinosaurs ruled the planet right? Big gigantic lizards that ran around, eating each other and one day, just disappeared! Right?!!?"
"Well...it's not quite that simple..."
"It IS that simple because if dinosaurs ruled the earth ten million years ago...there is no possible WAY that Adam and Eve were here first. Man crawled out of the primordial muck, right? Prehistoric man!? You have all but refuted every single word of the Genesis Bible yourselves! Children don't grow up being taught about Cain and Babylon and Gomorrah...they grow up learning about Stegasaurus and Tyrannosaurus and DOYOUTHINK HE SAW US??!?!"
An almost gleeful cackle accompanied that last stab of humor that the scientist thought was the most awful noise he had ever heard. He backed away even further.
"With this find alone - and other, well-placed "finds", scientists around the planet will declare the Bible NULL AND VOID!!! A simple analogy for life instead of holy scripture!! It's almost childlike in its simplicity! MAN WILL REJECT GOD AND THE FALLEN WILL BE VINDICATED AT LAST!!!!"
The sound was almost too much for his ears to handle - and the sheer weight of the words, too much for his collegiate mind to embrace. The scientist could only shake his head wildly and repeat himself over and over and over again into the dying light... "No....no....no... My God..no..."
The other man spun around - whipping the cloak away from his face and letting fall what was once a black coat - two leathery, malignant wings and the horrific visage of a thousand nightmares.
"God no....please..."
A steel-like gray claw shot up through the mouth of the scientist and through the back of his skull, ending the pleas and lifting the man several inches above the ground.
"Even God himself, couldn't help you now.....".
- a small introduction to the fallen angel, Archon -
End of Fourth Author's Story
Vampir stood on a balcony, gazing out over the ink-blue ocean. Wave after wave thrust itself on the rocks below, each dying with a great shout and salty spray. It was always refreshing to come out here after a long journey and let the crashing surf soothe his mind. He would never forget the ocean--the vast, liquid soul of the earth.
After a while Vampir turned. He opened the glass doors of the balcony and walked back into his study, greeted by the blazing hearth. Vampire or no, he had the same affinity with fire that the mortals had. It could be a great friend, or one's worst enemy. He settled down into his great, velvet chair and thought about his latest encounter with the highlander. It had been too long since their last meeting, and he had been careless. The last time he had been careless he had spent a decade as a pile of ashes on a cavern floor. When he had come to his senses he looked like a half-decomposed mummy, and he was starved. He had fed on the life in the cave until he was strong enough to go out and hunt again. By that time, the highlander was gone.
He left the area and returned to his homeland, England. His first destination was a dark cave on the coast near Tintagel, a cave that many had suspected to be the cave of Merlin the wizard. Indeed the cave was home to a wizard, but not one as good or kind-hearted as Arthur's mage. So it was with not a bit of care that he entered its deepest, darkest reaches. There stood, hidden at what appeared to be the end of the cave, a stout wooden door--obviously protected from rot by various magical wards. He raised a fist and pounded loudly on the door, shouting above the surf.
"Open up, foul mage of the darkness!"
His voice was almost drowned by the waves, but he heard a stirring behind the door. The door swung open, revealing a gaping blackness, punctuated only by a shimmering light in the distance. With a slight grimace, Vampir stepped over the threshold and allowed the door to close behind him. He hesitated for a moment, wondering at how his old friend would be after all these years; he had never quite been able to sympathize with the old mage. Then again, it had always been hard for him to understand the fears of mortals.
This mage, known during his living years as El Lamach, was obsessed with a fear of death and a longing for immortality. Vampir had tried to tell him that it was not everything he might imagine, and perhaps the greatest struggle of the immortal was to find meaning in life and escape eternal boredom. El Lamach had not listened, however, and as his mortal coil grew weaker he spent almost all of his time preparing for his transformation. Vampir had been there when the mage transferred his soul to a soul jar and his mortal body died. Through a process that was unknown to Vampir, El Lamach repossessed his own corpse, transforming himself into a lich and obtaining the immortality he had longed for. Faced with the ultimate horror of what he had done, though, he flew into a despairing rage, driving Vampir from the cave.
"I see you have finally returned," whispered a voice from the darkness. "Let us have a little light."
A magical glow appeared in the small room, and Vampir faced his old friend for the first time since the day of his transformation. It had been hard on El Lamach, and only Vampir could begin to sympathize. But even he could not fully understand the hell that the mage had been through, the torture that twisted him into a shadow of his former self. Apparently the centuries had brought him at least a semblance of peace.
El Lamach gazed long at the vampire. "You look like you've seen a hard time."
Vampir cleared his throat. "I have recently been..." He paused again, then lowered his voice. "Incinerated. It didn't do much for my complexion."
At first the mage didn't say anything, but then what must have been a smile twisted his lips upward. A horrible cackling sound escaped from his throat, and it took Vampir a moment to realize that the lich was laughing.
"You," he said, coughing, "were incinerated? The mighty Vampir, brought low by a mage?"
Vampir's lips tightened. Testily, he said, "I am still here, am I not? Anyway, I have come to take you up on your offer."
El Lamach looked up. "You mean you want to learn?"
"Why not? I have plenty of time, and so do you."
The mage nodded slowly. "Very well, and I could use the company."
Thus began Vampir's initiation into the black arts, something for which he was well-suited as a vampire. It is a common misconception that vampires need blood to survive. In fact, vampires subsist on pranic energy, also known by the general term of "life force." Blood, of course, contains this energy, and is thus a quick and common way of feeding. But vampires can feed without ever tasting the blood of a victim. Through extended exposure, he can draw the life force from his victim psychically, without ever making contact. In magical terms, a vampire is a pranic energy vortex, drawing off the life force of everything around him. Until a vampire learns to control this vortex, however, he cannot realize his full potential. Vampir, however, had come to terms with his special relationship to life and energy, and had learned how to tame this vortex. He still had to have energy, but he was much more in control of the process. As a result, he had a natural aptitude for the magick arts.
There were quite a few other misconceptions that people had about vampires. The most common was that they could be killed by sunlight. While it is true that new or less powerful vampires are weakened in the sunlight, they are not killed, and a strong vampire can walk around in broad daylight without suffering any ill effects. Vampir chose to avoid this when possible, though, partly because of his sensitive eyes and partly because of his white skin. When he did go out during the day he wore a long, black coat and sunglasses.
There were also the folktales about garlic, stakes of ash wood, holy wafers, crosses, and the like. None of those things affected him. He was also not restricted by the usual inability of vampires to cross running water, but that was most probably due to his past life. He did not need to sleep in a coffin, either--he only needed to sleep in soil of his native land. The only earthly menace that could undue him was fire, and he had even developed some resistance to that. Being magically incinerated had, beside almost killing him, strengthened him in this area.
The only true menace that he faced was from Heaven itself. While he and other vampires usually had free reign on earth, he had known of vampires who had encountered angels. They had all met rather painful and most definitely final deaths. He himself had never even seen an angel, and he hoped to keep it that way.
Vampir threw another log on the fire, bringing the dying flames back to life. Although he was now proficient in magick, he had chosen not to reveal his powers to the highlander at their first encounter. Yet surely Figglesworth had noticed that the spell which had incinerated him a few centuries ago merely knocked him backward. Vampir smiled. He was glad of that ward at least. The highlander-mage would discover soon enough how powerful his ancient foe had grown.
Yet even as he smiled at the thought, other thoughts crept in to turn that smile into a frown. There had been another presence there that night. It was a presence that wished to remain hidden, but one could not hide so easily from a vampire. Vampir could not tell if the presence was hostile or not, but there were few on this earth he could count as friends. He would have to find out more about this presence, he thought, but not until after he had had some rest.
With a sigh, he stood up and walked over to a long bookcase that stretched from floor to ceiling. He carefully selected an old volume, gently brushing the dust off of the cover. Sitting back down in his chair, he opened the book and began to read--about a life long past, a soul long gone...
End of First Author's Story
Only a sliver of sun was still visible over the river as the highlander whipped his blade across his body with a whoosh. The sudden strike mirrored the final rays on the ceiling, creating a red afterimage in the highlander’s eyes. As his arm fully extended the strike, the blade froze, the tip hovering over the wooden floor of his loft. His legs were locked in a low back stance, his front foot facing forward and his back foot at a forty-five degree angle, both knees bent and unmoving, crafting a solid base for his powerful strike. The highlander held the position for a two-beat and then slowly stood up -- the tip of his blade resting soldierly on his right shoulder. He brought his feet together and bowed to the setting sun. His kata complete, he snapped his blade into its sheath and walked over to his desk.
The highlander glanced over his calendar and noticed how empty the pages were. It had been many months since he’d met with someone or scheduled an appointment. He had been spending most of his days preparing for something. Not knowing what that something is was frustrating, but as he had been taught, he did not make light of his premonitions. At first he had felt that another immortal was hunting him. It had been sometime since he’d last crossed swords with a brother immortal. But once Vampir appeared, he understood the slight uneasiness that he had with that feeling. It was not an immortal that was hunting him, but something much worse, something that dredged the pits of humanity and offered only the cruds of soot as a donation. And yet, even knowing that the vampire hunted him, he still felt uneasy; he felt as if the riddle was not yet complete.
He cleared these thoughts from his mind and glanced at his calendar. Unlike the last few months, today, the thirteenth day of April, a marking was placed in its designated box. He smiled as he read the entry: “Lecture: Omens of Magic -- A Cynic’s Labyrinth.” A local professor at the University was giving the lecture. The highlander had met this particular professor a few times and he had impressed him. What had particularly impressed him was his soul: the professor was an unknowingly immortal brother. Mr. Figglesworth chuckled at this. He will make a fitting student. It had been some time since he’d taken a student, and he considered the opportunity to teach a renowned cynic actual magic true irony.
The university was an hour’s drive from the highlander’s loft. The highlander drove smack into the busiest part of the rush hour traffic. He arrived at the university lecture hall at half past eight. He had already missed half of the good professor’s lecture. The highlander grabbed his overcoat and ran to the lecture hall. He quietly opened the door and took a chair in the back of the room. Of the fifty seats in the hall, only fifteen were occupied, and six of those seats, all in the front row, contained distinguished faculty members who were having trouble keeping their heads balanced on their necks. The professor droned on for another hour and a half. By the end of his lecture, only five people remained in the lecture hall. All six of the faculty members had escaped, one at a time, with a slot nod and an exaggerated tap of their watch.
The highlander joined in the applause after the professor’s speech. In truth, he had listened to few words that had been spoken. Instead, he had been skimming the professor’s books during the lecture. He had planned to study up on the professor’s writings before the lecture, but he had spent most of the last week meditating after his encounter with the vampire. Survival always came first for the highlander. His survival. That is why he had lasted so long.
The remaining four audience members approached the professor with questions and comments while Mr. Figglesworth went outside to prepare for his meeting with the professor. He sat on a bench that led to the parking lot, keeping an eye on the professor’s car. He could finish reading the professor’s book and then have a chance to talk to the professor alone.
For some time the highlander sat on the bench reading the professor’s book. When he finished the last page he looked up in surprise. The professor’s car was still there and it had been an hour since the lecture had ended. One of the students must have been very interesting for the professor to spend this much time with them. The highlander knew that the professor was not a patient man -- something that would have to be worked on during his training. Curiously, the highlander returned to the lecture hall. As he entered the building, he felt the unmistakable stirring in his soul. Another immortal walked these halls. The highlander unsheathed his blade and continued toward the hall.
He opened the door, holding his sword behind him, and glanced into the darkened lecture hall. Nobody was in the hall. The highlander entered the room and walked down the aisle toward the back door. The stirring in his soul continued. He heard some talking coming from behind the door. He opened the back door and entered a circular room. It was filled with outmoded audio-visual equipment and a number of free hanging light bulbs swayed from the ceiling, forming a strange shadow waltz on the walls.
“What are you talking about? Who are you? Please, for the last time, let me go! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just want to leave. Please! Let me leave,” the professor sobbed.
As the highlander closed the door, the professor and his companion looked up from their conversation. The circular room opened into six more lecture halls. The middle of the large room had been cleared and the professor sat on a chair that was directly below a dangling light bulb. The scene reminded the highlander eerily of a World War II interrogation room.
The professor’s companion turned. It was difficult to see him in the swaying light. He appeared short and wore dark clothes. There was no mistake that this was the man that had sent the highlander’s soul stirring. The companion slowly drew a rapier from inside his jacket and held it out.
“I am Onchra. I have no issue with you. Leave me about my business and there will be no bloodshed tonight.”
“I am Mr. Figglesworth, the highlander. I’m afraid I cannot leave you to your business, friend. I have been watching the professor for some time now, and I’ve decided to make a project of him. Why are you wasting your time with him? His head will bring you nothing except the feel of my steel. You know his quickening will barely brighten this place.”
As he spoke, the highlander had moved into the room, positioning himself inside the cleared area of the room and across from both the professor and Onchra. Upon closer examination, Onchra was truly a short man. The top of his head would barely come up to the highlander’s chest. He held the rapier nonchalantly in his left hand. His black overcoat was completely buttoned up and fell down only to his knees. The highlander glanced down at the professor, noting a small puddle that had formed beneath the chair. The highlander was having second thoughts about the worth of the professor.
“I am a little unsure of your intentions, highlander. When a man unclothed his blade before me, however, there is only one way to respond.”
Before Onchra finished his remark, he had leapt over the professor and slashed low at the highlander’s waist. The strike was quick, but there was little force behind it. The highlander easily parried it and brought his own blade up, falling into a swaying fighting stance.
“My intentions, Onchra? I have not heard of you before and I have no quarrel with you. At least I have no quarrel with you yet. Are you new to this game? I would hate to have to introduce you to the hard rules of our lives.”
The highlander remained low and swaying, waiting for Onchra’s next strike. His eyes were focused on Onchra’s blade, but his mind was focused on Onchra’s body movement. Onchra’s right hand, which was held against his waist, was slowly reaching down into his belt. The highlander took note of this movement and adjusted the grip on his katana, loosening his left hand’s hold on the bottom of his blade.
Onchra’s attack came quickly. His small size allowed for a quick fighting style that the Highlander had not seen in some time. The rapier flashed up with a snap and then slashed left to right and right to left. The highlander had little time to think as his sword danced to meet each stroke with a parry. After the third strike, the highlander watched as Onchra’s right hand darted out from his belt. His body shifted and his right shoulder darted toward the highlander’s unprotected left flank. A small dagger flashed toward the highlander, released from Onchra’s grip.
As the blade flew toward the highlander, he reversed the grip of his sword, bringing the point downward and knocking the dagger from its path. The highlander continued the back swing of the sword and cut deeply into Onchra’s extended right arm. The highlander followed through this swing and slid the blade through the skin and muscle of Onchra’s right arm until the tip entered his sternum. A fountain of blood erupted from Onchra’s opened chest and the rapier fell to the floor.
The highlander kicked the rapier away from Onchra’s outstretched arms. His eyes had already glazed over and although he looked up toward the highlander, the highlander knew that those eyes saw nothing. He glanced over to where the professor sat. The professor was frozen to his chair in fear. The highlander looked away and raised his katana over his head.
“Please! Mr. Figglesworth! Don’t! He’s dead already. What are you going to do to him? What are you going to do to me?”
“A lesson for you, my dear professor.”
The highlander brought the blade down on Onchra’s unprotected neck. At the last moment, however, the highlander caught a glance at the dagger that was laid out on the floor. The symbol on the hilt reminded him of something. The highlander turned the blade so that only the flat of the blade struck Onchra’s neck. The sudden change of the strike threw the highlander off balance and he fell over Onchra’s corpse. The highlander crawled over the body and picked up the dagger, his katana forgotten. On the bottom of the brass blade was a blood red crescent moon pierced by a lightning bolt. The highlander began to laugh as he stuck the blade into the floor. The professor looked at him and began to sob uncontrollably.
***
Coincidences are the lifeblood of the mage. Mr. Figglesworth had been taught early on that there was no such thing as coincidences: all that happened occurred because it was destined to happen--the question became, however, whose whirlpool of destiny were you caught in? What luck that he had run across a vampire hunter when he had a vampire to hunt. And to think: he had almost killed the hunter! Mr. Figglesworth enjoyed irony, but this time, he imagined that even the fates were laughing.
The highlander waited patiently for Onchra to awaken. His heart had started beating hours ago, but it would take some time for his body to regenerate enough to allow consciousness to seep in. The highlander’s deathblow was not something that could be healed quickly. It takes time for arteries and veins to grow back together and blood to start flowing. The highlander had cast his limited healing spells on Onchra, but in his state, such weak magic barely made a difference. Once again the highlander swore to resume his studies of the barrier arts. He had spent twenty years attempting to negotiate the barrier between life and death, to learn how to awaken the soul to heal the body, but it was difficult for him to give enough of himself to the art to become a true craftsman. He knew his attempts were feeble, but he was unable to summon the beliefs that were necessary to overcome the barriers.
The highlander had used this time to clean up the lecture hall room. He had returned to his car and collected his cleaning supplies from the trunk; one thing he had learned after all these years: keep a low profile and tidy up. He removed all signs of blood from the floor and furniture, and had cleaned up the professor’s mess. Even the bravest warriors sometimes lost control of their bladders during their first actual combat. The stain on the professor’s clothing had long since dried, but Mr. Figglesworth feared the hit to his pride would take longer. The professor was a strong man, but even strong men could break when introduced to the game. Even so, the highlander had faith that the professor would turn out to be an apt pupil.
After another hour, Onchra began to stir. The professor had long since fallen asleep in the corner. The highlander had attempted to explain what he was and what the professor would become, but the professor was not listening. Looking back at the situation he did not believe that he had handled it well. Introducing immortality to the professor after the professor watched him seemingly slay Onchra was probably not the best tactic. The highlander walked over to the professor and shook him awake.
“Wake up, professor. There’s something I have to show you.”
The professor woke with a start. He looked up at Mr. Figglesworth and was unable to decide if the nightmare he had just had was real. After looking at the blood splashed on Mr. Figglesworth’s coat, however, the professor knew that the nightmare had spilled into his waking hours.
Mr. Figglesworth lifted the professor by the arm and dragged him to Onchra. Onchra was breathing normally and the blood had long since ceased pouring from his wound. The professor was shocked. He knelt down next to Onchra and began peeling his clothes off. He searched Onchra’s body, but no outside wound or scar could be seen.
Onchra’s eyes opened suddenly and in a swift motion, Onchra grabbed the professor beneath his shoulder and pulled a dagger out. His right arm was around the professor’s chest and his left hand held a dagger close to the professor’s neck. Mr. Figglesworth refrained from moving and watched Onchra carefully.
“It’s okay, friend. Let the professor go. I did not realize who you were, but I do now. We have much to talk about,” Mr. Figglesworth said. His voice was soothing and his words were carefully chosen and pronounced. The highlander knew that Onchra had not yet regained his facilities, and his irrationality may result in further misunderstandings.
Mr. Figglesworth could see understanding begin to blossom in Onchra’s eyes, but with all his concentration focused on Onchra he failed to see the professor. While Onchra’s attention shifted to Mr. Figglesworth during his speech, the professor had slowly moved his hands up from his side.
Onchra began to loosen his grip on the professor. As soon as the muscles in Onchra’s right arm relaxed, the professor grabbed Onchra’s left hand and reached for the knife. Mr. Figglesworth leaped forward, but before he could reach the pair, he saw the knife sticking out of the professor’s side. He held the professor by his shoulder and watched the life drain slowly from his face. He lowered the professor’s body to the floor and looked up at Onchra. Onchra had jumped back after the brief struggle for the blade.
“I did not mean to do that, highlander. He reached for the knife and I acted before I thought. It is for the best, however. Old men don’t make good immortals,” Onchra said.
The highlander looked up at Onchra suspiciously and nodded. He reached behind him and lifted Onchra’s sword. He reversed the blade, grabbing the unsharpened part under the hilt and thrusting it forward to Onchra’s grasp.
“I am honored to meet you, hunter. I was unsure what your business was with the professor when I found you two here. I owe a debt to your clan and I am a bit discomfited on how I tried to repay it,” the Highlander said.
Onchra stared at Mr. Figglesworth for a moment, and then smiled.
“Apology accepted, highlander. I must be getting out of practice. My clumsy throw almost cost me my head. How do you know of my clan? We do not often reveal ourselves to other immortals.”
“That is a long story, Onchra. One I hope to share with you after I take care of the professor. Suffice to say, your clan helped revenge a dear loss to me.”
Onchra nodded slowly and the highlander walked over to the professor. The first death was always the hardest. It took the body some time to heal itself. The highlander looked at his watch and picked up the professor. He began carrying the professor to his car. Onchra grabbed the professor’s other shoulder and the two of them placed him in the highlander’s car.
The highlander made sure the professor was seated and motioned to Onchra.
“Stay with him a moment. There is something I have to do,” said the highlander.
With an exaggerated sigh, the highlander went back to his trunk and dragged out his cleaning pail and jogged back to the lecture hall.
End of Second Author's Story
Regretably, that's where the story flagged. We'll have to damn the third author for that.
What I’d like to tell is a story about the nightmare I had the day before we dropped Eileen off at Stony Brook College. The dream was rather vivid, which is rare and is why I still remember it to this day.
It was the night before we were going to drop off Eileen at College. As I remember it, I dreamed that after we got to her school, I, for whatever dream-reason there was, went into a large Harvard-esque room, where my mother left me to begin college. I was still in High School at the time. Looking back, I’m not sure why it scared me so much. I think the fear can be generalized in other nightmares I’ve had. For example, while I joke about it now, I do think at one time I had a fear of department stores. I was afraid of becoming lost in one of them, unable to find the pathways that lead back to the main part of the mall, and being lost between the clothes forever. That’s actually stranger than my sister’s college drop-off nightmare. Maybe I’ll write the story with that in mind.
Imagine having to live with the constant fear that you can never stray too far away from the familiar; that to do so will result in you getting lost and never finding your way back to where ever you previously were. Let’s follow that thought for a bit. But first let me get some food…
I’ve had a little more food and now on with the story:
sister's college drop-off
Bill sat facing the back of the station wagon as it pulled into the Kings Plaza parking garage. He took a deep breath and let the smells of freshly pumped gasoline and exhausts wafting through the lowered back window fill his lungs. The echoing of screeching cars and the dull yellow lights made this by far the best part of the trip. His mother turned the car again and again and went up ramp after ramp as Bill watched the cars behind them creep forward. He idly banged his two Star Wars figures together, but his thoughts were not on the plastic battles. Instead, he concentrated on sliding back and forth across the vinyl bench as his mother circled upward through the garage. Every so often he could see a car shrieking to a stop on the down-ramp as it saw the station wagon exiting the up-ramp. Bill listened to the low drone of the engine and felt the sewn seams passing under his jeans.
Finally, on level four, section A, his mother pulled the nose of the red station wagon into a spot vacated recently. He watched as the back window creaked upward shutting out the sounds of the cars. Bill listened to the engine die down and the jingling of his mother’s keychain as she opened the driver’s door. He climbed over the back seat and opened the back passenger’s door, letting the black clothed Luke Skywalker and the Emperor he had gotten for free at McDonalds fall on top of the mound of toys cluttering the backseat.
Bill’s mother held out her hand and Bill allowed her to grab onto his wrist. She pulled him forward as he watched a car drive across the roadway that separated the parking area from the entrance to the mall. The walls were painted red and two doors covered with metal sheets stood in front of them. His mother pushed open the one marked “Enter” and pulled Bill into the mall. Once through the door, Bill was greeted by the smell of greasy hamburgers, the low buzz of conversation, and a stiff warm breeze. As his mother led him deeper into the mall, Bill looked longingly at the video arcade that was next to the Roy Rogers. Without comment his mother kept walking, pulling Bill behind her.
As they rounded a corner, the red “Macy’s” sign came into view. Bill sighed loudly as they approached the department store. At the entrance to the store, the brown etched floor abruptly changed into the white, anti-bacterial floor of the deparmtnet store. The smell of perfume and cologne
Characters:
chancellor – imprisoned by duke
boy-wonder?? – misfit who wants to adventure; well-educated street-urchin;
- family has been working in magical artifact business for generations – power has passed down through them to him (those who are unable to work with artifacts mysteriously die – if they have too little skill, but enough to summon the magic – or leave the village – if they don't have the skill to summon the magic); boy-wonder had already begun his training to work in the workhouse; no peasant leaves village – withdrawal from magic working occurs within two days of leaving
local friends – big, intelligent, unkind bully; female urchin in love with bully; thief-guild contact: very low in the guild and guild is pretty sure he's not going to qualify to join
Setting:
city boy-wonder is born in – large city, half moon ride from capital city; noblemen do well in magical artifact business; peasants do poorly and are worked hard in workhouses to create magical artifacts (requires actual magical skill, which is placed into artifact – peasants don't realize that they have been taught how to work the magical energies of the world; working with magical energy is very addicting though, so while the peasants live poorly, they are addicted to their work and complain little)
Prologue – ex-chancellor in prison given execution message by soon-to-be appointed chancellor
Ch. 1
first scene: robbery taking place – boy wonder and guild-contact are following female urchin into mansion, with bully watching outside
place is crawling with guards, guild-contact is with them and has map of premises
boy-wonder takes time during robbery to work with stones; sets them glowing, which gets attention of guards; female urchin and guild-contact don't understand why he's doing it
trying to rob ivory quill
get away with quill, but thief-guild contact gets news that the guild is going to "duck glaze" them – turn them in as part of bribe
Ch. 2
boy-wonder finds father at his workhouse and tells him what happened
father tells boy-wonder to make a run for it; he gives him some gold and a contact with a failed cousin in a southern city – he then goes back to work (working with magical energy is very addicting, and he could give no more thought to his boy when he had work he could be doing)
boy-wonder returns to his house only to find some thief-guild members waiting inconspicuously outside; if not for female urchin, he would have been caught
boy-wonder insists on retrieving some belongings before he leaves – most notably, his training stones (he's already felt the beginnings of the magical addiction)
female urchin helps him sneak past thief-guild members and they retrieve stone
they meet up with bully at local tavern
city guards raid place and arrest bully, boy-wonder and female urchin narrowly escape; they find thief-guild contact's body in sewers while making for exit under the walls of the city
Ch. 3
boy-wonder and female urchin hit the road leading to southern city
neither has experience outside of the city, and spend money very quickly
after a day of journeying, they are set upon by bandits and narrowly escape, although magical stones are stolen
withdrawal from magical addiction begins to affect boy-wonder as he is unable to practice with the magic – energies begin to be released unintentionally; female urchin is injured by one of his releases
Ch. 4
female urchin leaves wonder-boy when the get to the next town; she's scared of him and what he can do
boy-wonder runs from town into surrounding woods, immediately losing path
boy-wonder meets with master magician who begins to train him in ways of real magic
master magician wants to use boy for evil ends – boy's powers are much stronger than master magician; most of master magician's magic is sleight of hand
World of Nep’l
Sienst – Power to manipulate laws of nature. Once a Sien
Sien – Mage of Nep’l. Siens are born able to practice sienst. The powers of Siens are not passed genetically, but instead occur randomly in families. The more powerful the sien, the less likely the power will be discovered.
Emust –
From Tylen’s seated position he looked over to the far corner of his cell and watched as shadows danced a stately waltz across the intersection of stonewall and dingy floor. The air was filled with dark aromas wafting from a slow burning torch placed just out of sight of the prison bench. The bench was crudely crafted from rotten pine planks held together with wooden wedges and frayed ropes; it bowed dangerously close to cracking under his weight.
Tylen did not have much experience with prisons. His court duties occasionally required him to tour them, but it was mostly a cursory affair, which was performed to offer assurance to the wardens and bestow fear in the hearts of the convicts. He never had much reason to pay attention to the accommodations. The convicts would kneel on the charcoal floors and silently beg him for mercy with their eyes as he passed. Tylen did not think of himself as a man without compassion, but at the time he believed convicts to be wicked people, unworthy of his sympathy or understanding. The thought never crossed his mind that he would one day be such a prisoner.
The ironic smile that had formed on his face was chased away by the sound of approaching footsteps. Two jailers flanked by a well-dressed man came into view down the hall. Tylen rose from his bench and stood before the barred entrance to the cell.
The three men walked quickly down the hall until they reached his cell. After halting before the cell, the thinner of the two jailers performed a sweeping bow in Tylen’s direction. “I greet the high and powerful Chancellor,” he mocked, “all bow before the sword of the empire.” He laughed and gave an exaggerated wink in the direction of the well-dressed man.
The man looked shocked at the jailer’s greeting. He raised his hand as if to scold him, but then thinking better of it, turned and faced Tylen. The well-dressed man was short and stout. The white tunic he wore was tucked loosely into close-fitting black trousers. Over his shoulder was draped a burgundy cape with the corners clasped together by a golden sun with a ruby eye in its center. His face was drawn and weathered, but still strong. He held a parchment roll in his right fist and his left hand caressed a dagger hanging on leather straps from his belt.
“Chancellor, I bring the Duke’s greetings,” the short man announced. His voice was deeper than his stature would suggest and had a cool, sickly-sweet cadence. Tylen did not recognize him from court, which meant either he was newly hired by the Duke or was a borrowed messenger here on other business.
“His highness is most distressed by the unfortunate turn of events. He has asked me to deliver this message to you and await your reply.” The man reached his right hand between the cell bars.
Tylen examined the parchment carefully, clearing his mind and carefully calling upon his arts to trigger the message without touching it. He remembered all to clearly what happened the last time he had physically opened a message from the Duke.
As he concentrated, the parchment began to glow an electric blue. The messenger pulled his hand back, leaving the parchment suspended in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Tylen saw the emaciated jailer back away from the cell. Not many people are trained in the art of reading, and the jailer was having second thoughts about his insolent greeting.
Tylen has always enjoyed reading. When a message is well written, as all the Duke’s messages are, the effort required to trigger it is slight. The parchment began to hum softly as he finished casting the remote trigger. After a couple of moments, the Duke’s voice echoed through the prison.
“Ser Tylen, what you have done is unforgivable.” The Duke’s voice was deep and commanding. When he spoke there was no question that his orders would be obeyed. Only part of his authority stemmed from his powerful charisma. Unknown to most of his people, part of his persuasive power was the result of training. Although he was not born incredibly gifted in the art, he was an apt student who mastered all that he was capable of learning. It had served him well in his rule and now added credence to his message.
“The laws of state were set down before my ancestors claimed the throne. They are adjudicated by the Council of Existence and therefore cannot be broken,” the Duke proclaimed. After a slight pause he added quietly, “not even for a friend.”
“In accordance with the laws set down by my predecessors I, Duke of Myr, sentence you for the crime of treason to be stripped of your title and hanged until dead. The sentence to be carried out by my new Chancellor, Ser Thomle, two weeks hence.” The parchment ceased glowing and fell to the ground in a soft clatter.
Both guards looked toward the messenger, whose face now had a dark cast. They both bowed to the messenger. “Greetings to the high and powerful Chancellor. All bow before the sword of the empire.”
Chapter 1
The sun formed an angry semicircle on the center of the oval table as its last rays glowed crimson through the heavy glass window overlooking the proceedings. Floating over the finished rosewood table was an animated depiction of the castle and its surrounding lands. The siege army could be seen lighting fires and preparing for the impending evening. The fires themselves were no larger than flickering points, and the soldiers appeared like ants laboring around them.
Baern looked around the table. Every chair was filled and at least one and sometimes two servants knelt behind each one awaiting their master’s bidding. Baern smiled as he listened to the general speak. The general was a soldier and Baern thought little of their kind.
“The attack must be made soon!” General Tielm slapped his chubby hand on the table to emphasize his statement. His tunic was stained with the remains of his evening meal and his pig-like eyes darted around the table as he attempted to gauge his support on this issue.
Although Baern disliked the general, he nodded his head in agreement. Every day that they waited the attacking army was better fortifying itself against counterattack. Baern was disturbed at the general’s insight. It was unlike the general to propose a course of action unless he benefited somehow. Such was the problem with soldiers. But then Baern remembered that the general’s real concern would be the gold required to hire the knights. The more the Duke spent on real men, the less he could spend on his soldiers.
Baern stood up to get a better look at the floating army. The image flickered slightly and Baern glanced annoyingly over to where the conjuror was seated. He was dressed in flowing green robes, as most of his kind favored, with sweat spots darkening the areas under his arms and down his chest. At the moment he was engaged in a whispered conference with his apprentice, a small boy who wore only a pair of badly cut canvas trousers.
Baern returned his gaze to the conjured scene. He studied the image for a couple of moments and then looked up. The members of the table looked expectedly at him. “The general is right, the time for attack is now. If we wait too much longer the enemy will have finished digging trenches here,” Baern caught the conjuror’s eye and he felt a wetness ooze in his head. After a moment the area Baern was thinking of was outlined in a mustard yellow. Baern continued his lecture, pointing out the enemy’s defensive strengths and their likely progress over the next couple of days.
After Baern concluded his lecture and sat down, Sem, the Duke’s son, spoke up. He was wearing a coat of well-oiled leather, studded with silver spikes. At the top of the armor was an iron collar, from which his skinny neck poked through, supporting a large and ugly head. “Yes, Sir Baern, I understand their positions, but wouldn’t it be wise to wait until after we negotiated with them?” He fidgeted with the straps of his coat. “Perhaps a ten-day from now? Or a moon, at the most?” His voice cracked a number of times as he struggled to get his point across. He nervously looked across the table at his father, who wore a disinterested expression.
Baern looked disgustedly at the Duke’s son. “No, your highness. The army camped outside is not interested in conversing. Instead, they sharpen their swords and shine their cocks, preparing to gut and rape the inhabitants of this castle as we speak. You will get no reprieve or mercy from them; they are little better than outlaws.”
“But they are men! Surely there is one noble enough among them whose desire is to parry with words instead of blades. A gentleman does not cross swords, except with thieves, murders, and beasts! Send out a convoy and we will negotiate.” Sem began to get excited and his speech quickened; his widely opened eyes looked towards the heavens and he began gesturing wildly. “I will lead this convoy! Yes! I will need twenty men-at-arms and a scribe, of course, for the treaty and to record this momentous occasion. We will be armed but not overly armed to show firmness yet compassion. We will also need. . . .”
“You live in a dream world, boy!” Baern cut the Duke’s son off. In a single movement he drew his blade, vaulted onto the table, crouched in the center of the darkening sunlight, and placed the tip of his sword under Sem’s neck. “Words do not flow sweetly from corpses.”
The room was silent except for Sem’s quiet whimpering. Shocked faces around the table glanced from Sem to Baern and back. Baern’s sword glimmered with the last of the sunlight, reflecting an angry red light into the onlooker’s eyes.
“Enough!” The Duke shouted. “Sir Baern, stand down.”
Baern glanced at the Duke and stood up, removing his sword from Sem’s neck. He held out his left arm and sliced a small, shallow wound across its top with a flick of his sword. He walked to the edge of the table near his chair and stepped off. His squire handed him a soft cloth that Baern used to wipe the blood from his sword, whispering something to it before returning it to his sheath. He gave his squire the cloth and sat down. The blood dripped slowly down his arm and onto the wooden table.
Sem glanced at Baern, his eyes filled with hatred born of embarrassment. An acidic odor permeated the room followed by the unpleasant musk of excrement. The Duke glanced contemptuously at his son. He looked over his son’s shoulder to where an elderly servant knelt. “See that he is cleaned up, Yuln. Send him to the kitchens where he will be of at least some use during the siege.” The Duke glanced away as Yuln led Sem from the room. Sem’s expensive leather pants dripped urine onto the stone floor.
After a couple of moments of silence the Duke stood and looked across the table, eyeing Baern. “We will leave the castle before first light and begin the attack when the sun clears the hills. Prepare yourself and your men, gentlemen. There will be blood tomorrow.” The Duke turned around crisply, allowing his crimson cape to flare behind him, and left the room with his servant and two men-at-arms at his side.
The room emptied slowly until only Baern and his squire remained. By that time, the sun was completely set and only starlight lit the room. Baern remained seated at the table, lost in thought. He motioned to his squire to join him at the table.
“The people you are hired to fight are not your only enemies, Greom.” As Baern spoke to his squire, he stared at Sem’s empty chair. “After this war, we will not be able to remain here. We will have to take our contract elsewhere.” Baern sighed softly. “I had hoped to stay on through the winter, but that will not happen now. We leave after the fighting tomorrow.”
Baern remained in his seat staring out the window into the night’s starred face. After a little while he got up and motioned for his squire to follow him as he walked toward the door.
Greom’s puzzled young face looked at Baern and after a couple of unsuccessful starts, he finally asked, “Master, why did you draw your blade on the Duke’s son?”
Baern turned around and faced his squire. “I had to know what sort of man Sem was.” Baern answered, his unfocused eyes staring out the window. “He will be given command of a part of the Duke’s guard for the first time tomorrow and now I know what to expect from him.”
“He did not handle himself very well, did he? He will make a poor commander. Perhaps he should have taken the robes.”
Baern chuckled. “Sem has the heart of a gentleman, he thinks everyone is as gracious and wise as himself. What he does not understand is the world outside his studies. He is unwise to mix man work with his teachings from school. His father has raised him softly, but tomorrow reality will be his new teacher.”
Before Baern left the room he glanced at the empty table. The conjuror’s map had been banished after the Duke had left the room, but a dim glow remained floating on the tabletop. In the faint starlight only the outlines of the chair and table remained. A chill went down Baern’s spine as he was overtaken by a viewing. “I will never again step foot in this room.” Baern declared with a note of sadness in his voice.
“Come, you have work to do to prepare me for battle tomorrow.” Baern looked his squire up and down. “You are almost full grown, Greom. Tomorrow will be the first battle you ride at my side.” Baern grinned. “It seems reality will have two students tomorrow. Let us hope you are the better prepared pupil.”
Baern turned and left the room with Greom following solemnly. Greom carried himself as Baern had taught him. His back was as straight as an iron rod and his hands were comfortably clasped behind him. If not for the huge grin on his face, he would have been the picture of an ideal squire.
***
Dusty Covers, Late Lunches
The burning red light sears the inside of my eyelids. Even with my brain still half asleep, I know it’s been daylight for hours. During mornings in the winter, the sun doesn’t clear building two of Parc Place until the early afternoon. I draw the comforter over my head, the darkness embracing me, the horizons of sleep just out of reach, and I breathe the warm, wet air uncomfortably, the oxygen not flowing well under the heavy sheets. I rearrange the comforter until just my eyes are covered, but this supplies little relief; the light leaks through the hilly seal. When the sun slips behind a dark cloud, I use the opportunity to flip the pillow cool-side up, curl up on my side in a fetal position facing away from the window, and jog briskly toward the horizon, slipping and eventually falling off the flat edge of the earth.
I’ve noticed that the best of dreams end abruptly, or so it seems. By the time consciousness fully returned, the last fragments of the dream slip away. I remember only the adulation people felt toward me. I don’t remember who I was—since it’s pretty obvious I wasn’t me, so far few people feel even tolerance toward me—or who was adoring me, but it was pleasant. I remain in bed, my eyes still closed, basking in the remembered feeling. By now, the sun has climbed over the top of my window and the room was bright, but not retina-burning bright.
The red numbers on the alarm clock are flashing four-thirty—I think back to when we lost power yesterday and do some quick calculations: it’s either two-thirty in the afternoon or five-thirty. Either way, I’m hungry. I kick the covers, eventually unwinding myself from the twisted sheet.
I press the answering machine and erase the first message from my mother. The date stamp reminds me that it must be Wednesday already. The second message is from Brett.
“Hey, Brian, we missed you in school. Give me a call when you get this.” The machine beeps and I press the erase button, reassuring the machine twice more that I really want to delete the messages.
I take my micowaved coffee to the computer and sit down, looking through my notes from last night to remember where I left off. The computer’s clock says four-forty in the evening, I can’t remember if that was close to my calculations or not. I lean back against the springs of the black, executive chair and stare at the flickering monitor. According to my notes, I had not found the elusive programming bug I had been searching for yesterday. I ask for a full rebuild and take a sip of coffee.
As the hard drive churns, I watch an ant crawl over a pile of scribbled notepads covering the desk. I’d seen my first ant in the apartment three days ago, while watching television and sharing a bowl of Rice Krispies with Spongebob Squarepants. I was sitting on the floor, leaning against the front of the couch, when I noticed movement on the rug by the television. When I saw the ant, I had been angling my spoon to catch the last few Krispies, swirling the milk until the Krispies’ milk-fed gravitational pull had lumped them together. A muted commercial had been flickering on the screen. After finding the first ant, I had scanned the rug and found three more. At this I stood up, losing the carefully arranged spoonful of milky- and sugary-goodness, and began looking for other ants.
In the last two days, my vacuum had sucked up hundreds more. I sometimes felt my anti-ant procedures were not effective, imaging that the ants crawled down the vacuum tube at night and continued their lives, unaffected by their brief incarceration. I even started promising myself that I would empty the vacuum bag to ensure this wouldn’t happen, but somehow the vacuum, with its overflowing body bag, sat in the living room, the furniture arranged haphazardly around it to allow for optimal vacuum-pushing room.
I reach out and catch the ant crawling on the desk between my forefinger and thumb, and squash it, bringing the ant close for inspection. The ant unrolls itself and begins crawling down my finger. I again pincer the ant and this time squash and roll the bug into an unmoving blob. My desk is covered with crumbs from the many meals I had taken while working. While it is possible that this might contribute to the ant infestation, it’s probably best if I just vacuum the floor later. A Discovery channel show had taught me that ants remembered their paths by leaving behind some sort of scent trails. My theory is that the sucking power of the vacuum should be enough to remove the trail and confuse the ants. Even if they do find the crumbs, they’ll never find their way to tell their brethren. It’s a brilliant plan.
I watch the lines of code dance across the screen, switching between the different files that make up the Program. Where expected, the Program stops execution. I step through the lines of code from the breakpoint until I find the offending line. Something is wrong. I glance at the code, jumping to a few calling functions, and find the mistake: the subtraction is backwards. I quickly correct it and continue. Baby steps: correct the mistake, recompile, rework the code, recompile, experiment, work.
It’s always been like. From when I first learned to program, when I was ***
By the time I check off three more bugs from my notes, it is dark outside and my stomach is growling.
As he hits the compile key combination, he lifts himself off the sticky chair, peeling his shorts away from the leather, and realigns himself with the back of the chair, his back not quite flat, his legs at an angle, and the chair leaning at an angle to relieve the strain on his neck from his slouched posture.
(Don't ask where this is going. It's just a fragment of something that will probably never be continued.)
The Hotel Room
Tom flared his nostrils and sucked in a deep breath. In the back of his mind he heard the creak of the faucet being twisted off as the last few drops fell from the sky after the brief storm. Thunder still throbbed in the distance, but already blue holes were poking through the dense clouds. The smell of damp earth and electrified air was strong on the porch. Tom felt water splashing his bare feet, caused by a methodical drip from the overhanging concrete ceiling to the depressed floor where a puddle was forming.
He grabbed the wet, metal fence with both hands and leaned over, peering into the swimming pool. Two brave guests were wiping down lounge chairs with a pair of fluffy, manila towels and preparing to continue the solar worship that had been interrupted by the expected storm. Their half drunk glasses of iced tea were still on the pool table from before the storm; the rainwater had overfilled the glasses and the liquid was now slightly yellowish. After the industrious guests wiped down the table, the books, lotion, magazines, water spritzers, and sunglasses were reset on the table. Tom could hear the low prayers from the earphones that both guests wore. The one wearing a bikini danced vaguely as she prepared her space.
Tom grinned. He leaned away from the railing, which had left horizontal damp spots on his t-shirt, clapping his hands together to dry them off before wiping them on his shorts. Before leaving the porch, he looked down one last time, measured the distance to the ground with his eyes, and decided broken tibia, perhaps tibia and wrist, but definitely survivable. He visualized the two guests running over to his sprawled body?it would be important to roll, he knew, and to jump far enough out to avoid the spiked fence but not too far or you?d end up near the tiles around the pool. It was a lot to think about before the jump. He saw the guests bending down, checking to see if he was alive. The one in the bikini probably would not get too close, which is a shame because he wouldn?t mind getting to know her better. He turned away as he heard the sirens in his head approaching to take him to the hospital.
The porch door led Tom into the living room, or, at the least, what passed for a living room at the resort. He stepped gingerly over a phone cord that ran, somewhat unsuccessfully, along the floor?s edge from the desk to the couch. It was an acceptable kludge except when the loose cord got caught on the closing porch door. Phones should be used either on the couch or in the bed, he knew. Desks were not an option. Tom carefully stepped on the cord and, with his foot, pulled it under the door as he closed the door. Had the resort invested in portable phones, none of this care would be necessary. Tom made a mental note to talk to the concierge. He knew, as usual, the note would be forgotten almost immediately after he finished drafting it. Remembering to do things that required doing things just was not a strong point with Tom.
The hallway had carroty red carpets, forming strangely undulating geometric patterns that forced Tom to the center of the passageway. He followed the exit signs to the elevator.
Outline for What Is It You Want to Say?
Outline
I. Programming introduction to rightness
Brian is programming. He shares his thoughts on it, explaining the rule of reason, the quest for perfection in the form of rightness. He lives alone, working from the confines of his Brooklyn apartment, blocks from where he grew up, but not remembering the neighborhood or finding anything familiar or soothing in it. Yes, we can go with that. He’s not married. He’s trapped inside, trapped in that he won’t leave until he finds it; comes to terms with the rightness. There’s more to him, but that’s where he focuses—that’s what he accepts as his “real” life. Everything else is window dressing. Exceptions to the rule, distractions from what he should be doing.
A. Internal dialogue
We need some dialogue here, a foil, if you will. Where will that come from? He is working alone. Perhaps in his mind he speaks with people; no, in his mind he speaks with himself. You never know whom he’s talking to. You assume there is somewhere in there with him, but there’s not. He’s a bit insane in this way, but no more so than any other person. His thoughts and conversation are overlapping. Sometimes he thinks it, other time he converses it. We never know for sure whether he’s talking to himself—no reason to have a Fight Club realization. That doesn’t seem to be necessary. Leave it always hanging out there, the question.
B. Interlude: the monitor – in search of approval
Where does it go from there? Good question. He discusses with the other why he’s doing this to himself. What is he getting out of it? This is the first transition. He now recollects about somewhere else. He is discussing his childhood—the need to impress others, find that rightness, that perfection in the approval of others. This time it’s the assembly monitor. This is you, you know, you’re talking about, right? So what? She’s dreadful, but she offers approval and power. No, forget the power. Let’s leave that out. She offers approval, and, at the worst, terror. It’s formless, meaningless terror, but in its true form it’s still terror. What does this tell you about Brian? What is the theme of this story? Where is it going? It’s going to introduce us to him. Show us where he’s coming from, why he acts like he does. It is the beginning of his hopes for approval, his hopes for selling the completed program.
1. I want them to feel it. I want them to know what it feels like to succeed, or dream of succeeding. I want them to know this feeling because at the end we’re going to give it to Brian (after the heroism we speak about later). We’re going to give him the success and he’s going to be empty. Terribly empty with it. That is where we’re heading, David. Brian is going to achieve his goal and he’s going to find that he’s just as empty as he was all along. The goal is not the endpoint. It is the work-toward-a-to that is important. I like it. I like the way it joins with the quest for rightness. The quest is the answer, not the rightness. That’s the theme I want to share. The quest for rightness is the goal.
III. Phone conversation with ex
Now we move on to the first phone conversation with his ex—Jeannette. This is where we introduce what he’s doing. Why he stays home so much, what he’s after. This also introduces us to Brian’s fucked up social skills (sound familiar?). He does love her, but he knows he’s not willing to make sacrifices, not willing to put everything down and focus on “getting the girl.” He leaves off with her later in the evening, returning briefly to his computer, before crashing for the night. I want lots of crashing. The desire is there. The obsession is there. There needs to be more, but I’m not sure what.
III. Family
Here’s the introduction to his family. His parents, both dead, and his sister and her family. We don’t need to disclose everything here. He deals with his family. Now you’re getting somewhere. This is where the interaction comes in. Which family member? It’s his sister, Miranda, her husband, and a pair of fucked up children—not twins, just a pair, around eight and ten. Where do they live? They’re well-to-do, living in an upscale neighborhood—upper East Side, raising their children in a wanna-be WASP household, complete with nanny, black Jamaican, of course.
Okay, now you’re getting somewhere. What happens to the family? Nothing. They’re just going through the motions and Brian feels obliged to visit them at least once every two weeks. The parents shouldn’t have gotten divorced a while ago, but for the “kids’ sake” they stay together, fucking the kids up even more (if that’s possible).
IV. Return to Programming
He’s back now. He empties his mind of all thoughts and continues to program. He’s there for days, working on it. Seeking the perfection, finding it, grasping it, losing it. This is interlude II.
A. We need to explain something else here. Something about Brian that effects why he’s doing what he’s doing. We’ve already spoken about the need for approval. This is probably where we should bring up his father. Brian’s father, a late blooming executive sold-out at the right time and left his children (Brian and Miranda—Miranda being the married one) a sizeable estate, which they divided rather unevenly at Brian’s insistence (something Miranda has never forgotten, and the reason she nags him to visit often to share with Brian what should have been partly his).
Brian wants to prove his worth to his dead father. He has never visited him, but discusses (almost therapist-like) with his imaginary friend his interactions with his father. There’s bicycling, a race between the two of them. Brian losing, often, until he’s older. Then his father halting their races, their bike rides. He begins to work more often, spend less time with his son, no time with his daughter. This will have to be expanded, but it’s a good start.
V. Heroism
I’m back after a bit of a hiatus. I’ve been thinking about the story a bit. What I’m moving toward now is that Brian ends up a hero. The heroism puts his life into perspective, changing the way he relates to his family and his plans at becoming a multimillionaire (even though he doesn’t need it, he does want to be better than his father, who made it as a successful shoe salesman—he owned a chain of shoe stores. Female shoe stores, to be exact—ala Al Bundy). The choice that’s involved here is whether he performs the heroic act. It has to be a conscious decision, it can’t be something that he’s forced into.
What I have been able to think of, as of yet, is what the heroic act is. Initial thoughts involve a robbery or a hold-up, but neither of them have what I’m looking for. He needs to risk his life (a conscious risk—he could play it safe and not get involved) and change the outcome of an awful event. I want emotions like in that meteor movie with Bruce Willis (good job, David, asking for emotions from a movie). While it’s not self-sacrifice, the choice is made as if it is. Now let’s get back to the outline.
VI. Back to his sister’s
VII. Success in programming
VIII. Phone call with ex
VIV. Programming discussion, interlude III—realization of rightness
Thoughts
Pick a topic and write on it. Who cares how it comes out? It’s just something to start on and practice with. Something you know. How about a computer programmer (you know something about those, don’t you) who is finishing his project? He finds the final bug, fixes it, and then kills himself. There’s a happy topic.
Plan it out: Brian sits in front of computer compiling program. He thinks things. The program has bugs. He starts squashing them, one by one. Flash to something else, his wife coming home. She attempts to distract him, tempt him from his work. He rebuffs her. She can’t understand it, refuses to accept it.
Still working with the programmer story, let’s figure out how it goes. Brian is working on the program and what happens to him. You have him reminiscing back—thinking of his past. I don’t want to go there. I’d prefer to relate to his past by looking at where he is and the things that are happening to him. What does he do besides work? I imagine he’s as boring as you are. Probably. But let’s make him a bit more interesting. (This, by the way, is where creativity comes out.) What type of person is he and what does he do?How about a runner? Okay, he runs around the park. Does he run with other people? Sure. He meets a group of hackers to run. What’s the purpose of those runs? Who knows, but he does it.
Okay, now Brian is running and programming. What else? He still talks to his imaginary friend. Keep going. He flies on airplanes—no, that’s what you’re currently doing. Think outside of present experiences. If that’s the case, maybe he shouldn’t be running. Maybe. Let’s stay with running. What else is he doing?
Brian also talks to his ex-girlfriend on the phone rather frequently, sharing in phone-sex and the usual banter. None of this should take away from his driven goal of making it. It’s not the money—let’s assume Brian has done rather well by his inheritance.
What else is going on in Brian’s life? It seems rather full now. What we need is something to happen to him during his programming—doesn’t have to be too exciting, just something. He’s running, visiting his sister, programming, talking programming and philosophy with his imaginary friend…what could go on in his life that would be interesting? Death? No. How about someone trying to buy him out? That could be it. What would they be offering? He could just ignore them. That shouldn’t cause any conflict. What could cause conflict is incentive to sell-out. Why does he need the money? He doesn’t. That takes away that angle. What other angles are there? An old partner is the one who wants to buy him out? Nah. Wife’s dead? Children? No. Something he owns is breaking down? Nope. Hmmm. Something to do with his girlfriend? Okay. Go with it. He has his ex-girlfriend on the phone all the time. Does he also go on dates with a girl near where he lives (Brooklyn)? Where’s the conflict there?
Getting back to the conflict. He has a girlfriend who is cheating on him? No. We have to go away from that; it would take away too much time from his programming. Okay. If not a girlfriend then what? How about something to do with his niece and nephew? What? I’ll be back later.
(Old—not necessary any more. Who cares what he’s programming? He just is—he’s riding the dot.com wave, thinking it’s something that he wants, needs. It’s not.)
III. The actual program (do we really need this?)
We return to the computer screen now. How do you want to portray these bugs? I need an actual program to work on. Something that will revolutionize something or other. Brian has to feel like he’s the first person to do it. It has to push him forward, the knowledge that there are others out there doing similar things; he has to be first! Let’s go back a bit. Instead of thinking of future programs (which, of course, would be nice), why don’t we work with what is out there and give him the idea of what will be developed. It’s easier and better, in some ways. Let’s see where it brings us. What is something that’s revolutionary? Something that changed the way we work. A protocol? I need something sexier. Something I could have done if I had the time, the ability, the foresight. What is that? A program—word processor, spreadsheet, operating system? Something more important, but simpler. A browser! The internet browser before there was an internet. That is what he’s working on. That is what he sees in front of him. He sees hyperlinks. He sees windows opening anew. Brian is a visionary. He sees the universities using it to share course information. He doesn’t foresee the entire scope; he doesn’t see the business applications. But he does know that it is the future of sharing information. Bingo. He just doesn’t know what it needs. Its part programming effort, part server design, and part ingenuity. That’s where he comes out of it. It’s the ingenuity that he needs, and that’s what he develops across this story.
You need to do some research on how the internet browser came about. Stick that in with this story. A historical fiction, if you will. Similar to that comic book story you enjoyed. That’s where you are heading. I like it. Now, go get some lunch.
After researching Mosaic, I’ve come to the conclusion that the author of the Internet Browser is not where I want to head. The problem is that they were working on mainframes and not with PCs. I just finished lunch. Now I’m sitting in a comfy chair, listening to some strange people. Strange people rule!
B. Communications – scrabble I?
Maybe his next flashback should relate to communication. A book report gone astray—no, it relates to the books that he fell in love with—fantasy novels. Nah. Maybe it relates to Scrabble. I don’t know much about it, but I can learn and use it. His mastery of a game against his mother, his father having left already. Where does this go? What does this teach? Scrabble becomes a common plot element throughout the book. It relates to the quest for rightness, similar to chess. The way to look forward and see the future, see the pieces fall into place in the right way.
New outline: The basis of the new story is the ultimate struggle of a man when he finds his fiancé is deathly ill. His ultimate decision is to leave her for another woman during the final stages of her disease. Where do we start from, then? We could go through the courtship, into the relationship, finally ending up with the decision point, and then into the conclusion. The real question I have for you is whether you actually have the experience to speak of this type of story. How are you going to describe the relationship? This could be a rather short story, if you’d prefer. I think I’d like that. About 4000 words or so.
Chapter 1
The light sits quietly on the floor, forming an elongated image of the window, complete with bars, crosses, a shadow of the partially lowered shade, and a dark splotchy area where the security sticker refracted the light incompletely. Brian leans back against the springs of his black, executive chair and stares at the flickering monitor. He’s been searching for an elusive programming bug over the last few hours without success. As he hits the compile key combination, he lifts himself off the sticky chair, peeling his shorts away from the leather, and realigns himself with the back of the chair, his back not quite flat, his legs at an angle, and the chair leaning at an angle to relieve the strain on his neck from his slouched posture.
As the hard drive churns his changes, Brian watches an ant crawl over a pile of scribbled notepads covering his desk. He’d seen his first ant in his apartment just days ago—he had been watching television sharing a bowl of Rice Krispies with Spongebob Squarepants, sitting on the floor, leaning against the front of the couch, the remote in reach, when he noticed movement on the rug by the television. When he saw the ant, he had been angling his cereal to catch the last Krispy in the remaining scoop of milk, a muted commercial flickering on the screen. After finding the first ant, he had scanned the rug and found three more. At this he had stood up, losing the carefully arranged spoonful of milky- and sugary-goodness, and began looking for more.
In the days since Brian found the first ants, his vacuum had sucked up hundreds more. He sometimes felt his anti-ant procedures were not effective, imaging that the ants crawled down the vacuum tube at night and continued their lives, unaffected by their brief incarceration. Brian kept promising himself that he would empty the vacuum bag to ensure this wouldn’t happen, but somehow the vacuum, with its overfilled body bag, sat in the living room, the furniture arranged haphazardly around it to allow for optimal vacuum-pushing room.
Brian reaches out and catches the ant crawling on the desk between his forefinger and thumb, and squashes it, leaving the ant on his thumb for inspection. The ant unrolls itself and begins crawling down his finger. Brian again catches the ant between his fingers and this time squashes and rolls the bug into an unmoving blob. His desk is covered with crumbs from the many meals he has taken while working. He thinks briefly about cleaning the desk, but decides that vacuuming the floor later would be enough. He subscribes to a theory he developed after remembering a Discovery channel show or perhaps an article from one of the science magazines he subscribes to—Brian figures once he reads, sees, or hears information, he is free to accept it and apply it to one of his comprehensive theories of life, and then claim the theory, and their factual basis, as his own creation—that explained that ants remembered their paths by leaving behind scent trails. According to Brian’s reasoning, the sucking power of the vacuum should be enough to remove the trail and confuse the ants.
“Hey, do you think ants can commit suicide?” Brian asks, continuing to smack at the keys as he experiments with changes to different class definitions on the screen.
“Ants committing suicide? You’ve got to lay off the stuff, Brian. Their brains are too small, the ants’ brain, that is. You need to be much smarter to realize how fucked up life is.”
“The vacuuming is working, you know. You were wrong. Except for this little guy,” Brian holds out his finger with the unmoving ant, “I haven’t seen an ant in a day or two.” He flicks the ant onto the rug, watching it to ensure that it is truly dead before turning back to the screen.
“How do you think they’d do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill themselves.”
“Swords,” Brian says, “they’d each use tiny swords, you know. They’d have to after realizing their scent trail back to their homes had been obliterated.” Brian smiles at the thought. “You’ve seen the movies where insects were exceptionally powerful for their size. You know, like Spiderman. They’d easily be able to lift the swords.”
“Spiders aren’t insects, Brian. Speaking of spiders, did you call Miranda?”
“The real question is what would they do with the sword. I would think the ants would be rather creative—no simple suicides for them. First they’d slice off five of their legs, leaving only the one wielding the sword attached.”
“Again, you’re thinking of spiders. Ants have fewer legs.”
“Then they’d decapitate themselves; it would be quite a sight. Their carcass would be left with only one wiggling leg, five legs scattered about the wiggling carcass, and a head somewhere close by. Too bad ants don’t bleed. It would be much more artistic if they did. Maybe after vacuuming I should start leaving tiny swords lying about.”
Brian watches the lines of code dance across the screen as he scrolls and switches between the living files. He reaches out for a can of Coca-Cola from the desk, shakes it, and tries another and another until he finds one with remaining soda. He raises his chin and tips the can over, emptying the final, warm drops into his open throat. He crushes the can slightly and puts it back on the desk, in the middle of the forest of cans, all of which were crushed in one degree or another, and continues to search the code.
“How’s it coming?”
“Just about to try some changes. Give me a sec.,” Brian says.
He changes one of the lines, hits the save button, followed by the compile key combination, and watches the computer crunch the changes.
“I’m still a bit behind schedule,” Brian points to his calendar hanging on the wall by an oversized nail. The first twenty days of the month were crossed out. Brian’s eyes wanders up to Ms. June, of the fundraising wives of firemen, who is pictured lying on a sparkling red Corvette, wearing a red one-piece bathing suit, along with her (then) husband’s helmet. Brian doesn’t think a marriage could survive a semi-nude posing for a calendar—come to think of it, Brian doesn’t think a marriage could survive a romantic stroll in the park. Brian has found rather creative uses for the marker he uses to keep track of the days. Two voluptuous ovals are drawn over Ms. June’s rather scanty breasts, complete with tiny nipple-dots.
“Very tasteful.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you think you’re going to beat them?”
“Of course. Who else is working eighteen hour days?”
“They all are.”
“No. They’re all pretending to work eighteen-hour days. Remember, I used to work in those sweatshops. While they’re in the office all day, the amount they actually do is pathetic. They sit around in meetings, discussing the rosy future, planning their next conquest, feeding the programmers, or at least the people who pretend to be programmers, veggie-burgers wrapped in lettuce and mayo and trail mix like Scooby-snacks every time they see a flashy blink or hear a pleasant-sounding beep. I’m surprised the world hasn’t realized how overrated these people are. Can you imagine the number of stock options these people are getting? Compare that to the actual skill they possess. It’s amazing anyone actually believes in them. I can’t wait for the explosion of reality to hit the college dropouts. Giving up promising careers to plaster themselves as walking billboards in the hopes of cashing-in on the options. Five years ago these people, including the so-called programmers, wouldn’t have known the difference between HTML and…. You know, something clever.”
“Yeah. Something clever. You get very worked up whenever we discuss this. I’m thinking you’re jealousy. What would Ms. June think?”
“Ms. June doesn’t think. She doesn’t need to with those the big boobies I’ve provided for her, you know.”
“I’ve never heard you complain about mine.”
“You’re sick.”
Where he expected, the program broke. He steps through the breakpoint until he finds the offending line. Something is wrong. The watch variables are off. He glances at the code, jumping to a few calling files, and finds the mistake: the subtraction is backwards. He corrects it and continues. Baby steps: correct the mistakes, recompile, rework the code until it made sense, appeals to him, recompile, experiment, work.
Brian continues to hack away, not even noticing the orderly line of ants heading to and away from the crumbs on his desk.
***
After running out to a nearby health store for a packaged avocado and bean sandwich, Brian is back in front of his computer. The wrapper and empty chip bag are still on his desk, and he sips the heavily sugared iced-tea from a waxed cup. It is the good stuff: made from powder instead of seeped. Brian has little respect for seeped tea; if he wanted real tea, he’d drink it hot. Besides being more acrid than its heated counterpart, the sugar in the seeped, cold tea is never fully dissolved. The only thing going for it is the higher caffeine content, at least according to Brian’s current theory on caffeinated drinks. After drinking the six-pack of Coke, which he adds to his growing forest of crushed cans, Brian isn’t concerned about the caffeine.
He had needed the break after becoming bogged down in a part of the code that worked, but was missing something. There was no order; it wasn’t Right. The avocado and sickly sweet tea makes him anxious, but he feels his brain heating up, imagining his neurons shooting more often, calculating, reaching out to the source where Rightness waits. His mind is cranking with the slight edge he needs. He scans the code, switching between the different files, functions, classes, and locates it. He reworks the class definition for the offending object, and starts programming the code, cutting and pasting to reuse the old class functions. He smiles. The Rightness had been missing from the code. It had worked, but it wasn’t Right. His discovery is in itself a form of happiness. Brian believes it is similar to the feeling that artists have when they apply the last stroke to their painting. It is a ridiculous question to ask them how they know when the painting is done. They just know it—usually because of the Rightness; although, sometimes, in worlds Brian does not like to think about, it’s because their handler demands it, similar to the managers Brian had when he worked as a programmer. To think that a manager, years removed from the art that is programming, that is, if they ever programmed—in his mind, most of them went after a useless MBA after working as a fast-food manager for three years. The part of the code he is analyzing is now Right. Of course, as often happens with code, while it might be Right, it certainly didn’t work. The Rightness is structure and planning, the working is grunt work and debugging. He doesn’t confuse the two and knows which he would rather concentrate on, but understood that both are important.
Brian misses being able to share his successes with others. To show someone who understands, or even pretends to understand, the resulting structure and feel their approval: That’s what he misses. It is the hardest part of working alone.
Chapter 2
“What’s your first memory of needing approval?”
“Are you studying psychology now? I don’t crave approval,” Brian says, “It just helps motivate me, like as a goal, you know.”
“I don’t believe in psychology, remember? Not everything is caused by my attraction to my mother and desire to kill my father. Okay, do you remember when you realized you needed this motivation?”
Brian is now in his unconscious debugging mode. He could debug a program with little thought. He compiles, runs, tests, and then fixes the errors, compiling again, until no noticeable bug is left. This is where most would-be programmers fail. They believe that if you are a good programmer, you don’t have any bugs in the first place. What they don’t understand is that bugs are part of the process, perhaps a less interesting part, but nonetheless a part. Accepting bugs and experimenting with solutions, or at least code to find the bugs, is the art of debugging. It is the programmers who sit in fear of this moment, the finding of the error, that fail. They refuse to conduct the experiments necessary to find the bugs, instead believing that good programmers intuitively know where the bugs are and don’t need to experiment and fail. Failure is part of the scientific process, and part of programming. Brian knew this when he typed in his first BASIC program as a kid, and spent hours comparing the code to the printed listing to find his mistakes.
“What were you saying?”
“We were almost talking about your need for approval.”
“Mrs. Corncoff,” Brian says, “besides my parents, all of my approval-memories are more of a feeling than an actual recounting, hers is the earliest, concrete memory.”
“What about her? She was a rather bitter woman, wasn’t she?”
The phone rang. Brian makes one last change to the code before reluctantly looking away from the screen. He glances at the caller-ID, seeing the private designation that signifies his sister, and picks up the phone, pressing the talk-button in a single practiced motion.
“Y’ello?” Brian reaches down and catches an ant crawling near the phone. He watches it struggle under his fingers before pressing it against his desk and flicking it on to the rug.
“Hey, Bry. How goes it?” Miranda asks.
“It goes.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And how is your pursuit of world domination?”
“Going.”
“Rebecca came down with a cold yesterday. She must have gotten it from Will. They’ve been at each other’s throats all weekend, probably because they were trapped inside thanks to the storms. Being cooped up is not good for them. Shel almost had a fit.”
“Uh huh.” Brian positions his neck and cheek to hold the phone, leaving his hands free, he continues debugging.
“I decided to send her to school anyway. You should have heard her scream this morning. That was my first clue that she was well enough to go to school. Sick people can’t scream that loudly. I might have let her stay home, but it’s Shel’s day off and I couldn’t get in touch with her. And Dan, well, you know Dan, he’s out town or the country, or something. I haven’t heard from him in a few days ago, but he knows he can’t miss Sunday’s luncheon and the tournament.”
“Humm. Dan’s been traveling a lot lately, you know. Bad for the kids.”
“Will’s piano tutor finally came back yesterday. I don’t know why I pay that woman. She’s absent more than she’s here, and then all she does is yell at Will for not practicing. Perhaps if she was around more, he would practice. I’ll talk to Dan about her when he gets back. You really should get out more.
“I spoke with my therapist about you, and she thinks your asocial behavior is not normal. If you’d like, I can set you up with an appointment. She’s really wonderful. There’s a spa next to her office and her receptionist can set up a treatment before or after you see her. It’s really quite wonderful.”
“Yeah. Just what I need, more distractions.”
“That’s sarcasm, right? You don’t want an appointment?”
“Ah, Captain Obvious strikes again.”
“Very funny. Shel is making a brisket on Friday. Any special orders?”
“No meat.”
“Seriously, Brian. You’re too skinny. You need meat. If I had your metabolism, I’d be eating meat three times a day, chicken fried in tasty animal fat. One would think we’d have similar genes. I guess I’m the fat one in the family. I can take it, I guess.”
“Yes, you’re a monster, a ninety-pound monster. Miranda, one of these days you’re going to accept my dietary restrictions. You’d understand if you had my stomach.”
“I think she’s going to make fresh bread, asparagus, as well as a truly dreadful shortcake. I swear, after all the money I spent sending her to Fredrick’s school you’d think she would be able to make a decent dessert. It’s really pathetic. Old dog, new tricks, you know the saying.”
“Sayings. Yes.”
“Well, I have to go pick up the children from school. I’ll see you on Friday. Don’t forget.”
“Tell them I said ‘hi.’”
“Will do. And make sure you eat something. You can’t live on soda.”
“Humm, soda is good for me. It helps keep me going; you know, on my way to conquer the world and everything. Bye.”
“You sure you don’t want an appointment?” Brian presses the talk button and sits the phone vertically on the desk.
Brian continues to experiment away, searching for the same bug he’s been unable to locate for last hour.
“Back to Mrs. Corncob.”
“That’s not her name. I need to concentrate on this.”
“You always tell me you can debug unconsciously? You losing your touch?”
Brian feels around for a can and takes a sip. He saves his work and stands up and walks into the living room. The ottoman, lily green and shaped like an uneven baguette, partially blocks the living room from the dining room along the wall leading from the study, leaving only a small space to enter the living room. Before his ant problem, the ottoman had been next to his couch, sufficiently spaced from the couch to allow his feet to either lay flat on the floor or up on the ottoman comfortably. The curved ottoman’s end fits perfectly with the couch to form a completed ellipse when the arms and backs are removed. Brian had moved the ottoman to allow access for the vacuum. Piled on the ottoman was yesterday’s washed and partially folded laundry. Brian never has problems finding the motivation for putting up the wash, thanks to his boxer-limitation and washer and dryer combination located in a closet of his apartment. It’s the folding that he fijnds painful. The white wash almost never made it out of the dryer except when it is time to dry the colors. At that point, Brian piles the whites on top of the previous week’s whites on his ancient, but still serviceable, leather recliner. Even if he manages to fold the whites or colors, he rarely places the inexpertly folded clothing into his bedroom drawers.
Brian sits down on the couch and reaches for the remote, activating first the ReplayTV, and then the television. As the machines warm up, Brian searches the rug, but finds only laundry balls from yesterday’s wash. Once the TV powers up, he flips through the recorded shows, knowing, even before he starts, that nothing new has been recorded because the indication was not illuminated. He searches the channel guide, selecting first sitcom reruns, before changing to WB cartoons. He sits there for fifteen minutes before turning both machines off again. Daytime TV sucks. He returns to his computer and starts pounding away again.
At 3:30 a.m. his phone rings. Brian reaches over and bangs the sleep button of his alarm clock. Confused at the continued ringing, Brian sat up; he realized the ringing was coming from the phone, and picked up the receiver on the fourth ring, just before his answering machine would have went off—the thought of which, even in his fuzzy mind state, sent pangs of laziness shooting through his weary bones. To turn off the answering machine would have required Brian to get up, which is a daunting prospect at this time of night. The thought of talking to someone while the answering machine was recording was just as painful. Not the actual recording itself, since a press of a button would delete the message. It was instead the horrendous echoing that would have forced him to leave his warm womb-like bed that was scary. “Y’ello?”
“What’s going on, Chickadee?”
“Jeannette?
“And who were you expecting?”
“At,” Brian turns his neck to his clock radio, tangling the curly wire attaching the receiver to the phone around his arm, and pulling the phone off of the nightstand with a loud crash. :30am, I would be expecting other no one.”
“There is another one?”
“You know what I meant.” Brian stifles a yawn. “What’s going on?”
“Just getting home.”
“You sound tipsy.”
“I was out with some friends. Can you believe John? He cancelled on me again. We were supposed to meet at Yammis, in the village, and he never showed. Have you ever been to Yammis? It’s near Yosemite and the Lava Bar. I know Benjamin, the owner, quite well—he used to work for my mother. Or at least that’s what he claims. I’ve never actually asked her about him. Come to think of it, I doubt he’s the type my mother would allow to hang around her. Hmph. Anyway, John now claims he left a message on my cell, but I haven’t heard it yet. It would probably help if I checked my messages, but that’s beyond the point now. He didn’t show up again, is what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Fascinating.”
“He’s going through a lot. He’s working crazy hours on his current CD, flying back and forth to L.A. almost every other day, and his family problems, like usual, keep resurfacing. They want to be involved in his life or some other silliness. It’s amazing the nerve of them. After everything they put him through.”
“I’m heading to Miranda’s on Friday.”
“I heard some of the songs from his CD. It’s even better than the last one he produced. Hold on, I have another call. Hell….” Jeanette’s voice disappeared with a double click. Brian lay back down, rearranging the cords and placing the phone near his ear on the bed. He closed his eyes and tried to place himself back in the dream world he had been awakened from. He was a secret agent—or maybe an airplane pilot—wandering behind a large barn—or perhaps an alley—searching for a large box—or, more likely, a lost, jeweled earring. He had to have the bracelet otherwise he couldn’t buy the alarm clock box, which he needed. He really needed. He remembered dispatching two rather ugly fellows with a number of martial arts screams and perhaps a punch or two. He approached a storekeeper, who was busy sweeping a wooden porch. Swaying over the porch was a wooden sign, stenciled in red was the word “Nails,” the white paint peeling off the sign’s edges. Brian began asking her questions about the earring.
“Are you even listening?” Brian barely makes out Jeanette’s distant voice and rouses himself enough to put the receiver against his head.
“Yeah. You were talking about CDs or BLTs or something like that. Who was on the other line?”
“Oh nobody. Just a friend.”
“You have strange friends, if they call you at this time of the morning.”
“It was Tammy. She was out with me tonight. I introduced her to a friend, and I think the two of them hit it off.” Brian could imagine the satisfied smirk on Jeannette’s face. “They went home together and she wanted to make sure I didn’t mind. Of course I don’t. He’s just a friend, and any friend of mine is available for Tammy.”
“Is she hot?”
“Tammy?”
“No, your friend. Of course, Tammy.”
“I’m not going to feed your lesbian fantasies tonight, Brian. Tammy and I did sleep together the other night, when John was visiting.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going to feed my fantasies?”
“I was so drunk, John and I had sex with Tammy in the bed. I’m not sure if Tammy joined in or not. It was a strange night. We didn’t videotape it, however. Sorry. Besides, she’s not your type. She’s tall, good-looking, and she comes from the same neighborhood as me.”
“So she’s rich.”
“Shut up. You know I hate it when you say that.”
“What, rich?”
“Let’s not get into it now.”
“If you insist. Why wouldn’t she like me? I’m tall, ugly, but I’ve got a good job.”
“You’re unemployed working out of your apartment twenty hours a day on a project that you won’t tell anyone about. Yeah, I’m sure my friends are just lining up to get to know you.”
“You wouldn’t say that if I wasn’t ugly.”
“You said it, not me. Anyways, I was talking about John’s new CD.”
“I don’t want to hear about it anymore.”
“He hopes to have it finished soon so he can come for an extended visit—that is, if his family will leave him alone. His family is just as fucked up as mine.”
“So you’ve told me. How about those jeweled boxes?”
“What are you talking about? Wake up and entertain me!”
Brian sat up against his bed’s headboard. He lifted the cover over his head, the dry, sock smell overwhelmed him a moment, before seductively dragging his head back to the waiting pillow. The bottom sheet already had been kicked off the bed during his sleep. “I’ve been thinking about my project lately and its value to the world.”
“And this is the project that will change the world and make you famous and accepted?”
“I’m already accepted.”
“But not famous.”
“I don’t think I want to be famous, to tell you the truth.”
“Wait. You usually lie to me? If you do, please don’t tell me. Let me live in a world where Brian speaks only truths.”
“Fuck off.”
“When and where?”
“Seriously. Work with me here. I’m having doubts about its value. I feel it’s mostly about feeding my ego, you know, more than anything else. I spend so much time pounding away that maybe I’m after something else.”
“And what’s wrong with feeding your ego? You’re a guy—supposedly. Aren’t you Neanderthals all about feeding egos and other hungers?”
“Yeah. Other hungers. I’m a gratification-junkie, you know. It all started back in elementary school.”
“Wait. Is this going to be another Brian-history lesson? I’m not sure if I want any more details about your life. There’s only so much I can take—if you’ll wait, I’ll go get a few more drinks and we can discuss it, unless this is an infatuation with a teacher. I’m not sure I can handle that right now.”
“Forget it. We can go back to talking about John’s CD.”
“Excellent. He’s really approaching a new genre of music—it takes Rock and puts it on its head. Think heavy guitar, speak-lyrics, and a melodious back-up chorus. No drums. The third song is dark; you’d like it. It’s about the suicide of a girlfriend.”
“I need to get back to bed. I have to do important things tomorrow.”
“Important?”
“Forget it. Night.”
“Sure, just leave me wondering about your elementary school obsession. I don’t mind.” Click.
At seven in the morning, Brian woke up. He grabbed a chocolate-chip cookie—the good type, bought from the supermarket’s bakery—off the top of his refrigerator. He ate two more before drinking a few gulps of orange juice straight from the ingeniously designed plastic spout struck through the cardboard carton. He thought about taking a vitamin, but decided against it. Brian believed he had to be in the mood for the vitamin, otherwise it’s all wasted. It wouldn’t be wasted if he could take the tasty, chewable sugary ones. He can’t, however, buy those in the store because of the many strange looks he imagines he would receive (he hasn’t tried). Brian knew that 90% of the time, people thought about themselves. And yet, if everyone was thinking about oneself all the time—including thinking about what others are thinking of them—then there’s little opportunity for people to judge what others are buying. That reassuring fact did not provide the necessary comfort to allow Brian to purchase cartoon character vitamins. Maybe one day.
He turns on the light in his study and bangs the mouse to wake-up the computer. He was in the middle of important work yesterday when he started to fall asleep and dragged himself to the bed. The computer comes to life, with a churn and a beep, the screen clacking and flickering before showing his work.
Brian pours life through his keyboard into the computer’s memory. It’s an experience he wishes he could share with everyone. He
Snippets
Bill stared at the screen with the lines of code called out to him. He grabbed a can of Tab from the desk, shuck it, and tried another and another until he found one with remaining soda. He tipped the can over, emptying the final, warm drops into his open mouth. He put the can back on the desk, in the middle of the forest of cans, and continued to glance at the code.
He changed one of the lines and hit the compile button, leaning back in his chair with his arms over his head, he stretched while the computer crunched the changes. He watched the warnings build up until the screen blanked and his program appeared. He clicked a few of the menu options and watched the images appear. His mind followed the function calls as his eyes watched the changing images on the screen.
Where he expected, the program broke. He stepped through the breakpoint until he came to the offending line. Something was wrong. The watch variables were off. He glanced at the code, jumping to a few calling files, and found the mistake: the subtraction was backwards. He corrected it and recompiled.
He leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. It was summer outside, but you couldn’t tell that from where Bill sat. The window looked out across a shallow alley between two buildings to a brick wall. The owners of the other building didn’t think it was necessary to put windows on this side of the building. This was a good indication that the building across the way was built after his.
An ant crawled over the pile of scribbled notes on the desk. Bill reached out and squashed the bug between his fingers. He rolled the carcass up into a small ball and flicked it onto the commercial rug. The ants were drawn to the food and drinks he left lying around the room. He wasn’t a slob but it was difficult not to leave his food leavings in the room. Besides his bed, which he spent fewer and fewer hours in every night, he spent most of his time in the computer room. Getting the program done meant everything. At least that’s what he told himself. He had been working on the program for almost a year now. He originally had a partner, but the partner was more interested in marketing the idea and organizing how it’s created, rather than actually programming it. He had told him he was going to go off on his own to finish it. He hadn’t look for another partner since then.
People think the worst part of his job is working alone. They’re wrong, however. It’s not working alone that troubles Bill. He rather likes the solitude.
As his hard drive continues to grind, he thinks back
The light sat quietly on the floor, forming an elongated image of the window, complete with bars and crosses, and a dark splotchy area where the security sticker refracted the light incompletely. Brian sits in his black, leather chair, leaning back against its springs, and staring at the flickering monitor. He lifted himself off the chair momentarily, feeling his shorts peel from the leather, before realigning himself to the back of the chair, his back not quite flat against the chair’s back, his legs at an angle, and the chair tipped to the appropriate angle where his neck wasn’t strained from its not quite erect posture.
Brian watched as the light burned across his rust-colored rug, half-expecting the area where the light past to smolder as the heat left it. He heard the slight beep from the computer that alerted to him to the completion of the compilation. Using the tiptoes of his feet, he turned his chair until he faced the computer, his hands curling naturally into the QWERTY-approved position. He glanced down at the motion of his hand, thinking how strange it must have been to be the first man—there was little doubt in his mind that it was a man—to put the alphabet on the keys of a typewriter. Did he know that in the future this orientation would be the de facto standard for not only the telegraphs and typewriters, but also the now ubiquous computers? His musings did not distract him from looking up at the screen to translate the computer’s findings.
The instructions scrolled down the computer screen as Brian manipulated the arrow and page keys. The syntax was illuminated in different categories of shades: greens, reds, blues, grays. He located the offending line with a keystroke and stared at it, his eyes wandering across the function, attempting to determine what caused the beep.
Jane heard a large crash. She glanced over to the
The bile rose in my throat as I stared, eyes scanning the scene in an attempt to memorize everything that was happening. The first images that seared in my mind was the abrupt way my mother had landed on the floor, her head cocked back and turned toward the wall, her arms held close, hugging her chest, her hands grabbing her shoulder blades with a dying woman’s grip. Blood
I heard the hard drive grind away, taking the code I inputted and turning it a collection of binary code that the computer not only understood by could execute. It’s amazing to think of it like that. There is a type of death in the successful compilation of a computer program. It doesn’t mean it will work, of course. Programming is like art. You attempt to find the perfect organization, the rightness that appeals to you. Once that is discovered—its discovery is not always easy and there are many paths of getting there and many resulting conclusions—you know it. You feel it, like finding gold at the bottom of a stream. There is no doubt. I was heading there, on my way to finding it.
The screen blinked and the computer beeped. It was done. I took a deep drink from a glass, letting the warmed soda fizzle in at the back of my mouth before swallowing. I hit the death key combination, and the computer responded like a well-heeled dog. My program began executing. I watched the screen, pictured the calculations, and grinned at the results. The test strings appeared as I had asked, prayed even. I couldn’t help but be satisfied.
I heard the jingling of keys at the door. I blocked the sound out, declaring, disbelieving that it wasn’t going to interrupt my flow. But it did
Brian watched as the light burned across his rust-colored rug, half-expecting the area where the light past to smolder as the heat left it. He heard the slight beep from the computer that alerted to him to the completion of the compilation. Using the tiptoes of his feet, he turned his chair until he faced the computer, his hands curling naturally into the QWERTY-approved position. He glanced down at the motion of his hand, thinking how strange it must have been to be the first man—there was little doubt in his mind that it was a man—to put the alphabet on the keys of a typewriter. Did he know that in the future this orientation would be the de facto standard for not only the telegraphs and typewriters, but also the now computers? His musings did not distract him from looking up at the screen to translate the computer’s findings.
The instructions scrolled down the computer screen as Brian manipulated the arrow and page keys. The syntax was illuminated in different categories of shades: greens, reds, blues, grays. He located the offending line with a keystroke and stared at it, his eyes wandering across the function, attempting to determine what caused the beep.
Jane heard a large crash. She glanced over to the
- **Brian had since discovered the amazing efficient of the ants. Brian had discovered this efficiency when he noticed a large crumb covered After dropping some crumbs on the kitchen floor, Brian had returned to findBrian thought seriously about allowing them to go about their business and clean his apartment, figuring someone should clean it. He ended up dismissing the free cleaning service idea when he thought of the ants crawling over his body. A most unpleasant thought. He had not sat on the living room floor since his initial discovery; instead he sat on the couch believing its height would protect him from the diminutive ants, despite finding four ants on it the night before.
Story about an immortality pill—or at least, a story that takes place after society has perfected this pill. Perhaps make it a political story? A threatening country decides to attack because it doesn’t have access to the pill? A third world country? Countries outside of the “civilized world” do not have access to the pill. This can create a lot of conflict, and perhaps the scientific advancement of the immortality societies has weakened its abilities to defend itself? Now this is turning into a story. The pursuit of one of younger members of the society to take on this conflict head-on instead of hiding out and appeasing its increasingly violent, uncivilized neighbor.
World
The government controls the distribution of the pill, and society has become very careful about people’s lives, e.g., cars and any fast moving transportation have been outlawed.
People jump from job to job every five or ten years, but there’s little going on in anyone’s life. The jobs all tend to be managerial, decision making jobs. Nobody wants to be a peon when they’ve lived for so long.
There are few children. The government controls the people that can have children by long lasting contraception drugs mixed in with the immortality pill. The pill must be taken daily to be effective. The children might also be community property because there are so few. I don’t want to get into the story of families that try to change that system.
Leaving the civilized countries (we’ll have to think of a better name for that) is possible, but you must forgo the I-pill. In the beginning, a lot of people left to live “normal” lives. There are fewer and fewer defectors—the longer people live, the more they become attached to their life.
The non-I countries do not have access to the pill or the technology to create the pill. They have attempted to invade the I-countries, but because of inferior technology, the robot sentries have rebuffed the non-I countries. This has not, however, stopped the technological growth of the non-I countries.
Since families became less important over time—after living for such a long time, whether they were your father or brother made little difference—people started going by their familiar names, which were changes to be unique.
Story
Synopsis: A young person realizes the meaningless of his immortal life. He has just finished a ten-year stint as a lawyer and is taking a few years off to decide on his next profession. He considers returning to school, etc. He becomes embroiled in a plot to save the I-countries from being destroyed by the more militant and technologically advanced non-I-countries. (How does he become embroiled? Spell it out!)
D meets S during a surprise birthday for a mutual friend. Ages are no longer celebrated, however. After you’ve lived a few hundred years, it doesn’t make a difference how old you are. It has little meaning in this society. During the birthday part, which takes place near a border town, the partygoers witness a failed invasion attempt by a non-I country. The robot sentries kill the attackers, but not before damage is done to the defense systems. There is a lot of carnage. The partygoers are awestruck by the deaths. After the fight, the robot sentries finally have time to put up a visual barrier that ends the partygoers view of the battlefield.
D and S return the next evening to check on the battlefield. After querying the robot sentries, they discover that the robot sentries are no longer able to repair the damage. The human overseers—which, like lawyer and doctech, is a decade-profession—are, like most immortals with too much time on their hands, rather lazy and probably won’t get around to reprogramming the sentries for a few years. After visiting a few more sites, they realize this problem is endemic to this part of the country and has been hidden by the government.
I want to include a character that is a defector. He lived in an I-society, but left to have a family outside. He has since returned to attempt to topple the consortium of I-governments that keep the pill out of the hands of the other countries. Or perhaps he has another mission? Should he be D or S? Betrayal? Not sure. But it would allow us to visit a non-I country and see what it’s like there. What’s his goal, though?
AT the end, D discovers that the I-countries are going to be overrun and leaves for a non-I country with S, seemingly accepting that his immortal life is over. Last scene shows him in his bedroom, in the morning—there will be an earlier scene describing this ritual—opening a false bottom in his closet and removing a crate of I-pills. He pops one and goes about his day. The box contains at least 100 years worth of pills.
Fragments
The problem with getting older is that eventually everyone falls in love with their own voice and stops listening to other voices.
“You’ll be home by eight o’clock, right?” Claire asked Darius over the phone.
Darius studied Claire’s face. He figured she was up to something: her jaw was slightly askew and she had not released her breath. “Will do. What’s cooking?”
“It’s a surprise.” Claire smiled and gave a mysterious wave before severing the connection.
Darius chuckled as he flipped the phone closed. Marrying Claire had been a good move for him. He has been without a wife for thirty years before he moved in with her. They had renewed the marriage contract three times over the last thirty years, and, surprising even himself, Darius had few regrets.
Darius stepped off the conveyor at the lit indication and walked into the medical center’s lobby. The doctor, a tall, buxom woman wearing a long, white lab coat, met him as he entered.
“Welcome, Darius,” Dr. Maudry said. She led Darius through the lobby to the exam room. Darius removed his clothes and entered the examination chamber. He heard Dr. Maudry close the steel door and watched the lights in the exam room dim. He sat in the chamber’s only chair and waited for the light show to begin. This was Darius’s second trip this week to the chamber. A few abnormalities had shown up on his previous examination, and he had received mail scheduling him for a follow-up examination. With the chamber’s door closed, the air quickly warmed under the heavy lights.
A low rumble began as the examination machines warmed up. Because of the sensitivity of the machines, no entertainment could be provided during these exams, which suited Darius just fine. Over the past few years, he had grown tired of the stale, homegrown episodes that the entertainment industry was now producing. Blissful silence was preferable even if it was difficult to find. The machines rumbling became louder as the scanning lights began to work across Darius’s body. Just as the sound became almost annoying, it winked out with an audible pop from the sound cancellation device.
The examination took two hours to complete. Halfway through it, the sound cancellation device failed, resulting in maintenance robots entering the examination chamber. The exam was delayed for fifteen minutes while the robots tinkered with the machinery. Darius watched this all with an air of indifference. Dr. Maudry, sitting in front of a large console with many screens and even more indicator lights, was sound asleep. The archaic symphonic sounds of Beethoven wafted through the open door of the examination chamber, drowning out the now annoying sounds of the examination machines. After the robots finished their work, they resealed the chamber’s door and, with a pop, the examination machines fell silent.
The examination ended as it began. The sound cancellation device popped, and Darius heard the examination machines rumble grow softer until the machines hissed with the release of high-pressured air. The examination spotlights flickered off as the lights outside the chamber flickered back on. Dr. Maudry was stretching as she walked over to the chamber door and turned the locking wheel. She held the door open for him. He dressed as Dr. Maudry reviewed the examination screens.
“The preliminary scans are normal just like last time. We’ll let the computers crunch the results and get back to you whether you’ll need follow-up therapy,” Dr. Maudry said. “In the meantime, don’t exert yourself too much. No exercise yard and no walks longer than fifteen minutes. I’m sure it will be nothing, but,” Dr. Maudry cleared her voice and hums an off-key C before continuing in a sing-song, “Safety is Our Only Concern.”
With a back wave of her hand Dr. Maudry herded Darius out of the examination room. He loitered in the lobby, reading the doctor’s schedules and safety reports posted on the walls before leaving the building. He had been thinking of going to medical school. He had had four jobs since his last schooling, and was hoping for an interesting challenge for the upcoming year. Darius punched his destination at the control panel to the conveyor and made himself comfortable. The people mover was empty and the machines increased the pace to a brisk walk. Darius glanced down at his watch. It was already six o’clock. Even if traffic remained light, he would not make it home by eight o’clock. He sat on the molded chair and watched the episodes that flashed across the entertainment screen.
At a few minutes before nine o’clock, Darius approached his apartment complex from the south side. Behind his apartment, the security wall was clearly visible. Roving aerial drones patrolled the barbed security walls, which were illuminated by searching spotlights. The light was a deterrent since the drones and surveillance technology protecting the wall did not use visual sensors.
Darius opened the door to his apartment. Uncharacteristically, the lights did not immediately turn on. Darius poked his head into the dark apartment. “Claire, you there?”
Story Idea: 2 men in a restaurant in Hawaii overlooking the ocean. They’re there from S.F. and L.A. on some electronics conference. The narrator, a loud and obnoxious middle manager is talking about business travel. It all culminated in the pregnant lady—no lap child lady story. Not sure how it ends, but hit by a bus would be nice. A restaurant patron that sat behind the pair may say something on his way out—perhaps something the reader will hopefully be thinking the whole time.
There is next to nothing redeemable about this story. I wrote this after reading Empire Falls, a Pulitzer-prize winning novel of average interest. I wanted to write something simple and easy, and I hit upon complicated and boring.
Themes: Creativity and Workmanship. Emotional Constipation. Power of Community and Religion. Rehabilitation.
This is a story about a Jewish carpenter. He lives in Brooklyn where he takes over his uncle’s business of custom making chairs. He’s not particularly original, but using plans from his favorite magazine, Architectural Furniture, he makes high quality chairs by hand. Seven years earlier, the local synagogue contracted the business to supply 3,000 unique chairs for use in its main chapel. His uncle raised the carpenter and trained him as his apprentice after the carpenter’s parents died in a car crash when he was thirteen. The uncle died before he completed the first 100 chairs, and the carpenter has been steadily filling the order. The contract is rather lucrative and the rest of the uncle’s business has disappeared as the carpenter focused on producing the chairs for the synagogue. The carpenter uses the income from the synagogue to support him and his wife. At the start of the story, he is approaching his 2,500th chair and his 40th birthday.
The carpenter has been married for fifteen years to a Californian woman he met on his only trip outside of New York to Los Angeles for his brother’s wedding. She was a schoolteacher before she moved to Brooklyn, but is now a housewife who volunteers her time at the synagogue as a member of the Sisterhood club. This is not a happy marriage. They never had children and the carpenter is emotionally empty, not having felt real emotions since his parents died. The wife stays in the marriage because she loves the carpenter: he is a kind man who asks for little from life and gives everything he has—with the exception of true emotion—to her. She is a beautiful woman, even as she ages, and finds sexual satisfaction and adventure outside her marriage.
The carpenter’s wife had an affair with the former rabbi at the synagogue, which the carpenter (and most of the congregation) did not know about. It was at the wife’s urging that the former rabbi contracted with the uncle to hand make the chairs for the main chapel. Five years ago, the former rabbi moved his family to Long Island, where he now resides over a larger synagogue. The rabbi’s wife writes the carpenter a letter about his wife’s adultery with the former rabbi. The former rabbi began another affair almost immediately when he arrived at his new synagogue. His wife found out about it and he confessed everything, including his affair in Brooklyn. The carpenter receives this letter later in the story, however.
The new rabbi is thirty-two and single. This is his first post as the only rabbi, always serving under other rabbis as he learned his craft. He has plans for the revitalized neighborhood of the synagogue. Many young Jewish Russian couples with small children have moved back to his neighborhood, and the rabbi hopes to reintroduce them to life in the synagogue.
When the rabbi first came to the synagogue, with the help of the carpenter’s wife, the rabbi sponsored a Jewish juvenile delinquent about to be sent to prison. The court remanded the boy to the rabbi and synagogue’s custody, giving him a job at the synagogue and placing him with an aging couple in the community. The carpenter’s wife is delighted at the opportunity to teach the boy (having not taught anyone since she moved to Brooklyn) and begins teaching the boy. As part of their exchanges, the carpenter’s wife flirts with the boy, finding it the most effective way to make him cooperate. He falls in love with his teacher.
The boy, in an attempt to get the wife to break-up with the carpenter, convinces the rabbi that the unique chairs, which by then had replaced three-quarters of the benches, are not economical and (when it comes right down to it) ugly. (Remember, the chairs are all of different designs and dimensions.) The rabbi reluctantly agrees and tells the carpenter that he is canceling the synagogue’s order at chair number 2,457. The carpenter is shocked. In his anger (which, as an emotion, is something he has not felt in 30 years), the carpenter builds a chair without the use of any templates or guides or magazines. He spends the evening building the chair, and doesn’t return home until late. He brings the completed chair home with him, proud of his creation. He is also filled with despair, realizing that he has had no business (or inventory) since his uncle’s death because of his contract with the synagogue.
After the story, I've documented my demented musings on where it's heading (or not heading):
Monsters
People and monsters surround me. I would live without either.
They sit in a descript diner, large mouthed mugs surrounding them. A blues record spins on the corner turntable, the raspy singer battering notes with an aggressiveness wasted on the patrons. Gloria mashes her cake with the tongs of a plastic fork.
Uncertainty is the breath of dragons, the fire whetting the scales indiscriminately. If only I knew the dragons’ names.
“You see,” Willow starts again, “five years and bam.”
Gloria finishes shaping the outer wall of her cake citadel, using the fork’s arc to bend the corner. She turns the plate around slowly and inspects the wall’s level. “You’re making a lot of assumptions,” Gloria says. “And I’m not even sure that your ‘bam’ would be bad.”
Willow’s thighs spread and flatten over the canvas chair. She reaches over and takes the fork from Gloria. “You’re not even paying attention,” Willow says. Gloria frowns and holds out her hand. Willow gives the fork to Gloria, who resumes sculpting the individual bricks on the wall’s outer face.
“Have you been listening?” Willow asks. “He proposed to her and it’s driving him crazy. His family and friends are against it, but even they can’t place their fingers on what the problem is. It’s delicious.” When Gloria doesn’t respond, Willow continues, “He’s going to be miserable. He believes he was meant for greater things, and he doesn’t understand that when he marries, he’s going to feel that those greater things are now impossible. Don’t you see it?”
“Why do you care what he thinks?” Gloria asks. “It’s not like it’s going to go away after he marries.” Gloria dips her fork in Willow’s coffee mug. She lacquers the top of the wall with dribbles of cold coffee. “It’s not like life ends with this choice.”
Money twists my nipple until it glows cherry. Now I’m afraid to pull free.
"***," Willow says. “He’s stuck. He’s not going to be able to stop himself from marrying her, and nobody besides her has any influence over him. ”
Gloria picks a cherry from the gelatinous frosting and dissects it with her butter knife. “It’s a silly game. Let’s just let him marry and be done with it. I have much better things I could be doing than worrying over the likes of him.”
“That’s not the point,” Willow says, her jowls flapping as she shakes her head violently. “We agreed to discuss this. Why you chose to meet here is beyond me.”
Gloria puts her knife down and looks across at Willow, noticing her appearance for the first time. Willow looks about forty. She wears a white button shirt tucked into stretchy floral-print pants. The tucked shirt forms visible creases and lines under Willow’s pants, which hug her rotund belly. Her make-up is overdone, with heavy forest green eye shadow and ghastly pink lipstick.
“First off,” Gloria says. “I chose this place because I like the cake.” She scratches at a large wart on her chin. “I agree that staying might cause problems. But he can overcome them. And I’m not talking miniscule chances of that, either. There are viable paths he can take where he’ll find accomplishment. I don’t see why you don’t want to throw the dice on this one.” Gloria plants the minced cherry pieces at the four corners on the top of the wall.
For all the darkness that reigns over night, Unhappiness is their king. I wish I lived in my neighbor’s green yard.
the musings on the story
I’m confused about the point of this story. I know it’s supposed to be confusing, but where do you want to take it? Right now, it’s hovering the line of non-existence. It’s an interesting premise: Two fates are sitting over coffee discussing the outcome of a choice a person is making. His thoughts are interspersed in the story, in italics. What is his choice? We can either not know (or, worse, not care). Why are the fates even discussing it? What’s in it for them? Why do they care? These are the problems I’m having. One of them feels one way, and the other the other way. But why are the bothering? And what is his role?
My first attempt had the man’s choice be an important (for the world) type event. But I didn’t like that. Why should they only intercede in these important choices. There needs to be something more. This choice is about you. About your desires and choices (like everything is about you!). What would be the best way to accomplish this without bring his true thoughts into this? Should the fates be actually discussing what he’s thinking? Or is it something more?
It’s something more. We’re talking about your choice: about programming, about writing, about working as a lawyer. These are the things I want to fates to focus on, but I don’t want them to come out and actually talk about them. That would be too easy, and you would end up with the same type of shit, the shit that you just can’t stand anymore, remember? I want to do it cleverly. How can I talk about it, without talking about? Present the arguments, without explaining what they pertain to? That’s what I’m after.
I can redo it in the italics, but I don’t want to cheapen them. That leads to cheapening the conversation—which is not exactly a bad thing. You weren’t going anywhere with the fates. You wanted to present them as two omnipotent creatures, but who could not affect one another. That was the fantasy aspect of the story (something you’re desperately trying to incorporate).
Where comes in your choice? That’s the important part of the story. How do I explain it? Do they just talk about it? That wouldn’t be horrible, you know.
What would make this story interesting? What something about it is clever (and why do you always focus on cleverness?)? Okay, you’ve spent enough time worrying about what it should be about. You need to actually write it. Acutally, you need to write the synopsis.
Two fates are sitting in a coffee house debating what will happen to what? I always get fucking stuck. Think about it. What if they are discussing this important person. He’s advancing a scientific theory, or perhaps a doctor advancing a cure. Or someone making a decision between pleasure and security. Is it something meaniningful? Is that what you’re after? A meaningful decision about life or a definition of happiness? If that’s it, how do you want to get there?
And what happens once you’re there?
What type of person is this? He sounds rather pathetic from the italicized part. He’s definitely “clever,” and perhaps emotional, but hides that emotion from others (wonder where that came from). What happens at the end? That should help you. He makes a decision and goes on with his life? Maybe it’s a historical figure—like Hitler—and his decision does change the world. We don’t know who he is until the end. And once we do, we wish he had not made that decision, or perhaps we wish he had. How would you build up to it then?
You don’t know many famous persons—pick someone that you know about. And what does the decision have to do? (Many more questions than answers here—this is getting old.) Okay, we have this famous person making a choice. Do the fates intervene, or are them more of the watching-type? If they just watch, why are they debating it? What’s the point of their conversation? So they should be able to infoluence the choice, otherwise there would be no reason to talk about it. So they can affect the choice. Why would they? What’s their purpose? Why are they out there.
(How about, when doing this thought experiments, you may only have one question before you have to answer it. You can ask more questions, but you need answers between the questions.)
What’s their purpose for affecting the main character’s choice? Perhaps they want to affect it because they want the world to be a better place. (Why would they want that? They care about the world—or have to answer to a “higher power.”) I still don’t like the purpose. What else? It’s not because they want the world to be a better place. That’s silly. Maybe they want their world to be better? How would their world be different by what happens to the main character? It seems they have some sort of job, maybe their job is affected by the character and other human’s actions. How does that help them? What if it turns out that the two “fates” are really just the innerworkings of his mind? They are the angel/devil figures sitting on his shoulders trying to make a decision.
So, his conscience is manifested as two older, ugly women in a coffee shop? That sounds rather ridiculous. I’m just thinking here. So, they’re real. If they’re real, where does that leave him? Back where we started. They’re real fates, with powers (or something like that), watching him make a decision. His decision is something obvious to the reader once we realize who he is, and what types of doubts he had. But with all the doubts, he went forward and changed the world, and, in some way, the world for the fates.
What is a fate? It’s a manifestation of time. It’s a dimensional being, which lives in a parallel universe and watches the happenings. Does she share the same timeline as humans? Sort of. She can travel throughout the timeline, trying to make something work. What’s that something? And what is she trying to make it “work”? Assuming she can travel throughout time and watch the entire happenings on this world at once, what is she creating? So, she knows what’s going to happen? Not exactly, she can move forward in time and see what might happen, but while the past is set, the future is not. There are lots of possibilities, and she can explore each possibility, but not necessarily know what will happen, only what’s likely to happen.
So, who’s “time” is she running through. If people are watching their lives, like a movie running a reel (with each person having an individual reel, and only the reels themselves synchronize), what is she watching? The reel that’s most forward? Actually, she’s just watching the current reel. Assuming all the reels are synchronized, just the speed of the reel is changed, at an instant, she can view anyone. The speed of light does not affect her because she is not in this dimension.
December 30, 2003
That’s a lot of physics babble, I just read through. I want to get through this story and start my next one, so it’s time to yank up my pants and write it. Enough planning. Pick the main character now. (Before I read this discussion, I was going through the story and reediting it with the idea that it would be about a character making a decision to marry, and the fates would actually be relatives trying to protect the bloodline—i.e., to ensure that he marries into the right station. After reading the past discussions, I’m of the opinion that it should be something more, something historical with deeper meaning.)
On second thought, I still think it’s cheesy. It’s an unpredictable ending, but once read, it becomes predictable—too clever? It would need to be a more abstract historical figure. Perhaps someone further back in time than any present figure. I hate not knowing what the best way to move forward is. Usually I just don’t know what’s going to happen (not that I know what’s going to happen here), this time I’m having trouble choosing the main character.
(As another aside, for your next story, I want you to create a memorable character will flaws and characteristics that make him (or her) unique and memorable. And the character cannot be based on you!)
What’s the Sixth Sense moment going to be? The only problem is that the whole story is building up to it since there’s no alternative explanation. You need to build in an alternative explanation to make it interesting. Or you can make the whole story a lot simpler, and save the complicated clever story for a later time when you’ve had more practice with the different elements that will make it up.
In that case (and it’s probably a better case for now), let’s just write the simple story about two fates who are trying to influence the decision of a man about to marry a woman who he loves for all the wrong reasons—viz., she’s gorgeous and rich. Simple. In the end, he marries her, and that was the fates plan for him all along. They wanted him to marry her for their own selfish reasons. (How come your discussions of the story are usually longer than the actually stories? Because I’m a sad, sad man.)
The beginnings of a strange story (the one with the cooky main character). Here goes:
Circus
He was mad, quite mad. He watched the walls close in around him, approaching in pulsating, jerky motions. It had been days since he left the house. He coughed. The TV droned in the background, its flickering light casting blue cloudy visions on the wall. He decided the blue flickers were more entertaining than the screen. Cavemen didn’t enjoy shadow puppets more. Kevin took a drag from the cockroach, the sharp smoke filling his lungs. He held the smoke until his lungs burned, and then expelled a large cloud with a short breath.
Chocolate. That’s what he needed. He searched the cupboard and ripped open a chocolate power bar. The cardboard texture rallied its forces against the vitamin onslaught. The chocolate came late, taking both by surprise and falling back only under heavy fire from the unknown crispy bits. He took tiny bites and chewed each piece until it liquefied and slipped down his gullet. Peace reigned only between each swallow and bite.
The phone had been ringing for a while. He reached over and kicked it. A chipmunk chattering came from the receiver. It was replaced by the piercing off-hook sound, which echoed through the air long after the phone went dead. He pushed his finger into his nostril. His snot consistency was ideal: dry, pasty, and crunchy. He excavated a few chunks, rolled them into balls, and flicked them on the rug. The floor was full of green excretions.
He activated the shower and sat on the toilet, flipping through a magazine. The bathroom filled with steam, obscuring the pictures in the magazine. Kevin flushed the toilet and lay down on the floor, lifting his head until half was over and half under the cold air wall. The shower pounded away and bounced off the back wall, ricocheting past the curtain and gathering into a puddle just outside the bathtub. It oozed toward him. He felt wetness in his sock and spent some time trying to think of something worse than wet socks. When he accepted that there was nothing worse, his sock was already soaked through. He pulled it off with the big toe nail of his other foot and kicked it into a corner.
He left the house with the shower running and without his running shoes. He returned for the shoes: he couldn’t muster the energy to think about the amount of concentration necessary to avoid glass shards while walking barefoot in his neighborhood. The steam leaked from under the bathroom door. He took a towel from the closet and clogged the opening. An educational video taught him that trick in case of a fire.
The darkness surprised him. Darkness always surprised him. The streets were busy with circus people. He walked backwards for half a block, watching a short man walk a tall dog wearing a sweater. Kevin wasn’t sure if the sweater was a dog sweater or a human sweater. Except for the extra armholes, he wasn’t sure what the difference was between a dog sweater and a human sweater. When the dog sat down to take a shit, he finally figured it out: a dog sweater has a flap for shitting. Human sweaters don’t need shitting flaps. Well, most of the time they don’t.
With that puzzle figured, he spun around and almost ran into a bearded lady. He grabbed her shoulders to stop from falling and the lady harrumphed. It wasn’t a very feminine sound and her shoulders were suspiciously muscled. He held on for a bit, squeezing her, until she jerked away. He let go reluctantly. Her feet and hands were rather large for a woman and her legs hairy. But no man could have her kick-ass cleavage. Kevin kept spinning around to watch her waddle away.
He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with four matches. He always used four matches, never trusting just one to get the job done. His jacket pockets were filled with matchbooks from all the swanky establishments he frequented. His favorite was a book with two rubber nipples on the strike strip. It made igniting difficult, but the graphics were exceptional. He practiced unusual cigarette grips, settling on the lit cigarette hanging between his pinky and ring finger. His arm hung down, raggedly, with the cigarette balanced precariously. He was too unsure of this new grip to take a drag. Give it time, he thought. Even Dolly did one boob job at a time.
The parade continued but the dancing bears never made an appearance. Kevin became consternated over this, and while searching the sea of people for the bears, lost his grip on the cigarette. A woman who looked suspiciously like Susan gestured at him. He faked left and ran right, planting his foot hard to avoid running into a happy-faced clown, her red lipstick defying conventional clown practice and stretching past her bulgy nose. He spun to his left, rubbing his buns against the clown’s satiny red summer dress. He didn’t think clowns should smell that good. He arrested his spin and lingered. The clown didn’t seem interested in entertaining him, and sauntered away, the fat pockets under her arms swinging and banging against her ribcage with audible smacks. The gesturing woman blindsided him, interrupting his reverie, and grabbed his arm.
“Kevin, where the fuck have you been?” she swore. “I’ve been calling you for hours.”
Kevin pretended to think about the question as a troop of midgets parted around them. The midgets carried knapsacks and two oversized midgets led them. He waited for them to fall and tumble, or punch each other, but nothing happened. The night was turning out to be disappointing. A glowing yellow ball dangled in the sky, making the darkness strangely bright. The woman yanked his wrist.
“Are you even listening? We waited half the morning for you to show up. But did you? No. Not even a call. You didn’t even shower today, did you?”
The question surprised him. He thought for a moment and answered, “actually, you caught me in the middle of my shower. If you will excuse me, it’s rather rude to look at me this way. At least have the decency to hand me a towel.” He extricated her hand from his wrist, tenderly lifting each finger until his arm fell free.
He raised his hand for a drag and looked accusingly at Susan. “Give it back.” She denied any knowledge of his filched cigarette and offered him a cigarette from her purse. As he searched his pockets for a matchbook, Susan grabbed his chin and turned his face. She stuck the cigarette into his mouth and held up her lighter. Kevin took a long drag and blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth. Satisfied, Susan let go of his chin.
The circus ended and the streets cleared.
This story has gone from cooky to depressing. I took an old story idea and mushed it together with the first part I wrote the other day to form the following outline. It's not exactly a happy story, but I think it will be interesting to explore the characters and their difficulties.
The story originates from an article I read (I think it was a NY Times Magazine article, but I'm not sure) about a woman with brain cancer. Her fiance abandoned her after her mental health deteriorated. It was very sad. But I also thought the man's decision was interesting. I'm not saying it was the right one, but just the dilemma itself really made me think. That's the impetus behind this story. I still need to draw up a rough outline of the chapters and get to work.
Time to synopsize the circus story:
The story will not be told chronologically. It will follow the broken Kevin as he tries to understand his unexpected success as an artist after his abandonment of Annie. The story of his engagement and her death will be told as memories/flashbacks.
When Kevin met Annie in 1998, he was an artist living meagerly in New York City and searching for his artistic voice. He grew up in an upper-middle class family in Brooklyn. His family groomed him to be a doctor like his father, but after attending Berkley, he decided to pursue art against his parents’ wishes. While they continued to support him emotionally, they did not provide financial support, thinking they’d scare him into taking a real job. Before he met Annie, he had little focus, living from job to job and sleeping in friends and girlfriends’ apartments.
Annie, a successful corporate lawyer, is the opposite of Kevin. She grew up in a small town in upstate New York and worked her way through school. When he met her, she is working extremely hard for a prestigious law firm. Her parents, especially her father, never encouraged her to succeed in life, having an antiquated understanding of a woman’s role. They thought she should have stayed home and married a local man.
Kevin met Annie at a poetry reading. Both were 30. After a tumultuous six-month relationship, Kevin and Annie become engaged because of Kevin’s (half-joking) anxiety about the apocalyptic destruction the new millennium will bring. He presents her with a handmade engagement ring. The parents…not sure what the parents think. (An underlying theme for both Kevin and Annie and their relationship with their parents is that neither of the parents accepted their child’s professional choice.)
In April after their engagement, Kevin convinces Annie, who has an intense fear of doctors, to see one after she complains of intense headaches. She is diagnosed with an inoperable form of brain cancer and given six months to live. Annie asks Kevin to stay with her. Kevin, who led a sheltered life and never had to deal with adversary or difficulty, abandons Annie without saying goodbye. He leaves New York and goes to live with a former lover. Annie, her mental condition deteriorating, dies five months later. Her family is there to support her. After her death, Annie’s mother confronts Kevin.
The main story (at least the “present” story) is about Kevin coming to terms with his artistic success. He knows (although he doesn’t admit) that part of the reason for his success is Annie. She introduced him to feelings and her sickness made him feel something he had never felt before. Those feelings are what now inspire his art. Annie never forgave Kevin for abandoning her, and her mother emphasizes this when she confronts him.
Kevin, who was always a little out of touch with reality, is unable to accept his success. He finds an escape in a fantasy world that his mind constructs, and finds himself in that world increasingly. There is a resolution at the end of the story. I’m not sure if he commits suicide (I’m leaning against that now), finds peace (unlikely), escapes completely into his fantasy world, or something else. We’ll see where the story takes me.
The stench of the street filled the train. Samantha studied the cover of her novel and traced the drawing with her fingertips. She remembered a time when she did more than just stare at the covers of books. She looked around at the thought, sure that they would know she was trying to recollect. She pulled her oversized pocketbook closer to her chest. A young couple stood up and moved down the train, expanding the envelope between her and the rush-hour traffic. Fuckers.
The gravity of her feet drew her eyes past her bulky jackets. Both ankles were bloated with pink bruises and veins like lightning bolts striking down the side of her foot. Her sneakers were ripped open to expose layers of unmatched gray socks. Samantha reached down through the layers and scratched an itch under her anklebone. Her fingers came back wet and she sniffed them, enjoying the coffee-like smell of dried sweat stored in damp cotton.
The train stopped in the tunnel with a slight tilt and the standing passengers leaned left to compensate. She closed her eyes in the sudden darkness. All too soon, the lights flashed and the train jerked forward. She woke up confused. It took her a few minutes to realize the train was in Brooklyn. She ripped the cover off the book and left the book on the bench. She picked up her shopping bags before stepping off the train.
Why is Samantha a bum? Perhaps she is mentally ill. Why else? She was writing an article on the homeless and was doing research as a bum. That was her original plan. She lost herself a while back, forgetting it was just research, or perhaps remembering it, but not being sure if it was just a delusion.
How did this happen? While sleeping on the street, she was mugged and beat up, losing her memory in the process. Since then, she has lived the life of a bag lady, knowing there was something wrong with this life, but not sure why.
How else could this have happened? She lost herself in the world of the bum or she decided to remain there, deciding that their life was preferable. It was more real. Originally, it had given her more time to think, to understand life. Living on the street allowed her to escape from a job she hated. She only did it to pay the bills. She had wanted more, deserved more. After a while, she didn’t even want to remember her last life.
How did this make her feel about people who lived in that life? She was not jealous of them. She pitied them and didn’t understand why they didn’t escape from that life, like she did.
How can she live like that? She found a way to remove herself from her bodily concerns. She didn’t even think about them.
What did she do? She traveled from shelter to shelter in the city. Judging all the people she came across, especially the social workers that tried to help her.
What was her motive for doing this—it can’t just be her desire to escape real life? She also wanted to escape something horrible in her life. Perhaps her husband beat her, or her work didn’t respect her. She was always a bit mentally unbalanced.
A young man greeted her as she disembarked. ‘Ms. Carlson, we’ve been waiting for you,’ he said. ‘If you wouldn’t mind stepping this way, we’ll get you cleaned up.’
Samantha studied the man. He wore wing-tipped shoes with gray socks.
That’s all for today. (I have to stop starting stories and never finishing them.)
Yet another early morning flight: I had a wonderful weekend with Julie. I stayed an extra day, which was worth the $100 change fee and the missed meetings. We went walking along the beach—remember, it’s the first day of February and only in California is the weather this perfect. The beach was beautiful, of course, as was Julie. We shopped at an overpriced crystal shop, climbed beach rocks to peer into the ocean, and ate oysters and shoestring fries that could have deliciously laced my shoes. It was a wonderful four-day weekend and I relish Julie’s visit to Houston next week for her vacation.
You might have noticed that I now use a single space after an end-of-sentence period. (Okay, you probably did not notice this, as only someone as anal about writing form as me would care about something so unimportant. More particularly, after doing more research, HTML removes double-spaces, so there is no way, anal or not, that you could have noticed this.) I have been told this is the new style by the Chicago manual of style, which moves away from the typewriter rule of two spaces of a period. I’m still not a convert, but I will try it for a bit. It only took two musings before the spacing became natural.
At this rate, I might decide to switch over to the Dvorak keyboard layout. For those who have not studied the history of the keyboard, the Qwerty keyboard is not the only layout available, it is only the most popular. The legend goes that the Qwerty typewriter triumphed over other keyboard layouts for two reasons: the first was that salesmen were able to show the speed of the keyboard by typing the word “typewriter,” which has all of its letters on the top row. The second reason was the very inadequacy of the layout. The keys of early typewriters would stick if struck too quickly. By designing a difficult layout to learn and type on, the designers of the Qwerty keyboard were able to slow the typing speed and avoid keyboard jams. For whatever reason the Qwerty keyboard succeeded, the computer keyboard followed in its cousin’s footsteps and the generation of computer users have accepted the Qwerty layout, as the powers of the dreaded status quo are difficult to overcome.
Dvorak, on the other hand, is a statistical approach, where the most frequently used keys are placed at the home keys, and the less frequently used keys are placed on the far pinky keys. Supposedly, once a typist switches, their speed may increase by thirty percent and their typing fatigue decrease. There is, however, a rather steep learning curve. I didn’t say I was going to do it, just that I’ve thought of doing it, and easily switching from two spaces after a period to one space after a period might be just the first step.
Now, back to the real reason for this musing (and most musings now that I’ve decided to go from aspiring writer to aspiring bestselling writer): I need to settle on a short story to draft. I’ve been writing snippets lately and I’ve gotten away from my goal of writing seven (I think it was seven) short stories trying the different styles. I no longer need to do that (try the different styles), since the right style for each story should be dependent upon the story itself, not an arbitrary decision on the style. The style is just an artifact of the story, a way of presenting it to the readers, not a clever intonation. I now have many tools at my disposal for writing the story. The only thing left is the actual writing (and storytelling).
I’m racking my brain trying to decide what story I will tell next. My choices are infinite: I was thinking that it’s time to go back to the boy lost in the mall story. While I’m again focusing on a child character, I think it’s the logical next story to write. What follow is the storytelling, the planning, thinking, and interrogation necessary before the writing can begin. It’s not a terribly interesting read, but it is important for me get these ideas down on paper to develop the story.
Let’s interrogate the characters and see where it takes us. There are two main characters so far. (As the story develops, there might be more. Once the boy is lost, we might want someone to find him or help him find his mother.)
What do we know about the boy? He’s around seven or eight years old. He lives in Brooklyn with his mother (very original, by the way). What does he want to be when he grows up? That’s an interesting question to ask a child. Their answers are always interesting and skewed by what they know or what they see on television. Sometimes they want to do what their parents do. Other times, they want to be athletes or movie stars. For this boy, we need something special, something different. He wants to be…. Something I’ll come back to. My initial thoughts are fireman, policeman, etc. This might have more relevance later.
This story takes place back in the 1980s. There will be hints throughout, but it shouldn’t make much of a difference for most of the scenes. This is the pre-9/11 era, the pre-media domination. Life is good, but not as good as the 90s because of the Russian threats, which are only slowly dissipating. Shopping malls have not reached the sizes they will twenty-years from then. The narrator knows what will happen in the future, and he’s looking back with almost a nostalgic view.
He sounds like a first-person narrator. Why would he be telling this story? What makes it special? Why should the reader care about it? It’s something that happened in his past. Perhaps it’s something that changed him. How can he be changed by his experience getting lost in a department story? Are you going to focus on courage again? No. I’ve gone down that path and failed. Does that mean you don’t want to go in that direction again? I want to try something new. I’ll return to the questions of courage on another story (this will probably be a theme throughout your stories).
Okay, so the narrator is somehow changed by his experience. Is the narrator the young boy? It has to be. The mother would not make a very good narrator, since she’s absent for a large part of the story. What about a narration from the perspective of the man or woman who rescues the boy? How would he be changed? Ah. The rescuer moves from a man who is married, but does not want children, to someone who (thinks he) understands what children can bring to his life after he meets the lost boy. There we go. Now the story is getting interesting. His wife wants children, but he thinks the monsters would slow him down, ruin his style and his independence. Helping the boy find his mother changes him. Or perhaps it doesn’t, but it does make him think. It is a pivotal time in his life.
Okay, now we’re getting somewhere more interesting than a boy lost in a mall. Should we still be in a mall? It might be limiting. The boy has to be with the man for a bit for him to be influenced by him. Or does he? It could be a short experience. But why would he help him? Why wouldn’t he walk by him, like all the people walked by the screaming girl who couldn’t find her mother at the mall this weekend? There has to be something about the boy that makes the man stop and help (after those around him ignore the wailing boy). There also has to be a reason that the boy is lost. Maybe his mother is not caring or young or just a bad mother. I’ll pursue that separately when I interrogate her.
So, the boy does not have fears about shopping malls, the narrator does. Or at least he did when he was younger. And seeing the boy screaming, lost, confused, brought back memories of his youth. (This story should not have flashbacks, it should become apparent without them.) That’s his motive for helping.
What happens when he helps? How does the boy change the narrator? We’ll get back to that once we know a little more about the narrator. We know about his marital state and his fear of monsters. Let’s try not to define him by his job. I’m trying to get away from that. What else is he going to talk to his wife about? Obviously, he’s going to talk about the monster question, but we need more. I don’t want the discussions to become too clichéd. We’ll make the wife an interesting character as well. She won’t be the nagging type; she really wants what’s best for both of them. She believes that he would be a great parent and would be happier with them.
Does she have to be his wife? She could be a girlfriend, someone who’s wondering when marriage is going to happen. This could be about more than just monsters; it could also be about commitment.
What’s the point of view? It can be first person, past. He’s using the narration as a way of explaining, perhaps to his children, why and when he decided to have children. You could use a frame story to convey this. But if you do this, you’ll lose the intimacy that he would have in disclosing his discussions with his wife. Is she going to leave him if he doesn’t come around? No. She went into the marriage knowing his believes, but hoping that he would change his mind.
So, what narration? I’m leaning toward first person, present. It’s an accepted narration style for short stories, and although it loses a bit of time immediacy (however contradictory that appears), it will allow me to use my clever (so clever), second person asides to the reader.
With that settled, what type of person is the narrator?
I still have work to do. I have to figure out motives, develop the character’s history, habits, and what makes them unique using twists and exaggerations. The name is also something that needs to be thought of. I’ll let all of that steep in my head for now. This is a good start (I hate saying that because I never know if I’ll return to make it more than a start).
This entry contains more drivel and plans for the lost monster story. I like that name: Lost Monsters, or A Lost Monster, or Finding my Monster, or just Lost Monster. It has two connotations: the lost boy (or girl) in the mall (since the narrator will refer to children as monsters, as I’ve enjoyed doing), and the narrator’s (or his girlfriend’s) decision not to have children.
This storytelling is a rather time-consuming process, as it probably should be. I’ve barely planned the first scene or understood any of the characters and I’ve already spent many hours thinking and writing about it (which is much different than writing it). You really do have to spend as much time putting the story together as actually writing it. It’s fun in a different way than writing. I like it when a twist or exaggeration changes the story for the better, or the character develops in an unexpected way. The only bad part is that the writing is crap and terribly boring to read (if it’s boring for me, I can’t imagine how torturous it is for those that actually plow through it on here—which, when I think about it, is probably only Julie and, to make myself feel better, one or two other people who look beyond the pretty pictures). When I go back and reread prose, I usually enjoy it (if I can ignore the impulse to edit it) and am strangely impressed by it. Yes, I’m an egotist, so you can stop reminding me.
After further thought, the narrator is now a teacher, a fifth grade (or somewhere around there) teacher. His girlfriend (I thought about making her his wife, but decided against it) is a successful businesswoman. She’s reluctant to marry him because he doesn’t want children. She stays with him because she thinks it’s crazy for a teacher, who likes his job, not to want children.
A possible first scene finds the narrator (and possibly his girlfriend) in a restaurant or lounge or coffee house meeting a group of Friends-esque friends in their weekday hangout. Two of the usual gang is missing: they just had their first child—or, better yet, they’ve had their child for a few months, but only now have come to the realization that they cannot or do not want to hang out with their old friends. They don’t feel they have as much in common. Should this be a confrontation? Maybe they should be there and slowly become disillusioned with their friends. They begin to realize that they have more in common with their other couple plus child friends, and not as much in common with their school chums.
Who are the school chums? My initial reaction is that they are college friends, like Steven and his Michigan friends (but without the weed). Who else could they be? Childhood friends. Work friends. Maybe a more complicated relationship would make it more interesting. Not necessarily.
Before we create the friends, we still need to understand the girlfriend. She’s a businesswoman, but that shouldn’t define her. She wants children, but what makes her interesting? Where’s the twist or exaggeration? She might be a little crazy. She comes from a broken home and her goal has been to avoid the fate of her parents. Why wouldn’t she just do that by not having children? Because if she doesn’t want children, then the story won’t go anywhere, stupid. Unless, it’s not the narrator but his girlfriend who doesn’t want children. There’s an interesting twist (actually, it’s only interesting if you knew the original idea, but I’ll let that pass). Why would he be with her? Perhaps he thinks he can change her mind. She’s focused on her work and doesn’t want to take time out to have children. In that case, there’s no reason for the narrator to be a teacher. The irony is lost, since it should be self-evident that a teacher would want children. He can be a generic businessman. Let’s come back to that.
Where did they meet? (This stretching of my brain hurts, by the way. It’s being exercised in a way I’m not used to. I’m just hoping it grows and this becomes easier or less painful.) Possibly a bar, or the internet, or from the school chums, or at work. You said she was a bit crazy, that might be another reason she doesn’t want children. She might have had an abortion earlier in her life and that affected her view toward children (not all of this information needs to come out during the storytelling. I’m just trying to get a deeper understanding of the characters and what they would do—i.e., their motives).
You have more questions than answers, it seems. I’ll be back.
Talking to Julie reminded me of two important marriage aspects in the story: my three-year marriage contract idea, which will be espoused probably by one of the school chums, and the circle of life for marriage: birth, childhood, school, work, marriage, (when they run out of things to say with to each other) kids, old age, death. So many theories to talk about.
I’m not really in the mood to write today. I’m not in the mood to do very much, actually. It’s not a delicious depression; it’s just a blah feeling. Too much video games, probably. Nothing exciting has been going on in my life. Sitting here, I can’t think of anything to say. The story and synopsis I’ve been focusing on is out of reach and I don’t care to stretch my brains to figure anything out about it. It’s late already, much later than I usually write: after 9pm.
I’ve been reading The Cave since yesterday by Jose S-something. He’s the author of Blindness, another allegorical story (I’ll pretend like I know what that means), I liked. So far, I like The Cave. He has a strange writing style: His sentences are long and winding, enclosing entire conversations in one long sentence. He doesn’t use quotations, single or double, but instead uses commas to separate the statements. His paragraphs are also long, sometimes running pages. His sentence and paragraph lengths seem more purposeful than David Foster Wallace’s. It’s dissimilar to stream-of-consciousness writing. Sentences are used to convey complete thoughts, and sometimes those thought encompass entire conversations and descriptions. His characters are simple, but their thoughts are philosophical, reflecting a deep wisdom. The worlds he creates are different, almost science fiction-like in the strange environments and big brother government.
Reading good writing rarely helps me write. If anything, it convinces me I’ll never be able to do it, the writing, that is. I feel like a hack. I sometimes believe that I write more in the hope of not having to work than in the hope of becoming a writer. (Even though I accept that writing is a million times more difficult than working.) If I were guaranteed that I could never make anything of my writing, would I still do it? Or would I give up and not write anymore? It’s a tough question. Authors sometimes say, “I need writing like I need breathing.” Writing isn’t oxygen to me. I enjoy it, but I could probably find another hobby to replace it.
That’s not completely true. The more I write, the more I become attached to it, especially as a way to understand myself and develop my theories (so many theories). Through writing, I create and argue new philosophies and theories (something I do in musing form, but not story form, yet). In college and to a lesser extend graduate school, I used to sit around and debate the world and life, in search of truth or victory (sometimes one and in the same). Writing let’s me reconnect to that. I can share my thoughts, marvel at them, and have others read and discuss them.
It sounds like you’re consternating about the value of writing now. Can’t you write a musing that has nothing to do about writing? It doesn’t seem possible. Perhaps that’s evidence enough of your desire to write. If when you sit in front of the keyboard, only musings on writings pour out, perhaps that’s telling you something. Perhaps it’s telling you that there’s something more to your writing there than you’re willing to admit.
Alligators have long tails: the better to strike out at you.
Let’s get back to synopsizing and get out of this funk. You have a fun weekend with Julie coming up. A little writing now and then some cleaning tonight (edit: that part didn’t happen), and everything will be good. All good.
The story is rather simple so far. I want it to remain simple. I will focus instead on complicated, well-drafted characters.
Synopsis: the narrator wants to marry his girlfriend, but he is hesitant because she doesn’t want monsters (children), believing they would slack her style, the me generation’s style. Hilarity ensues. An evening with his friends convinces him that’s she’s right: after he realizes that a new monster effectively alienated one of his friends from the group. He goes to the store to buy an engagement ring for his girlfriend. While there, he decides to assist a screaming, lost child that nobody will help. Something happens between the monster and the narrator during their brief time together. The narrator decides either (i) that he wants monsters and leaves the store, or (ii) that his girlfriend and friends were right about monsters destroying lives, and purchases the ring.
Simple story. A few simple scenes: (i) discussion somewhere with his girlfriend; (ii) meeting friends at the lounge; and (iii) engagement ring store where he helps lost child. Three simple scenes: what could be easier to write? Three main characters, the narrator, girlfriend, and lost child, and a collection of minor characters at the lounge. A simple choice: should he marry his girlfriend. This is much less complicated than the Grelko story (if the Grelko story had been properly written).
Complicated characters: the narrator, insightful, wry, self-deprecating humor, loves his girlfriend, and likes to be in a relationship. What are his motives: comes from a good family and wants to perpetuate his family. Ugh. This guy sounds fucking boring. What’s interesting about him? His clever asides will only get you so far. Why should the reader care about him? Does his girlfriend step on him? She sounds like the type based on where the story is going. He sounds like a wus. You forgot shy and wanting an M-3. Hilarious.
The girlfriend: a little crazy, out-going, self-involved, and very friendly. What are her motives?
One of the coffee house employees is about to become a father: he’s 23 and she’s 21 (not sure if they’re married). He’s talking with someone, busy studying, who is already a father. He had his children when he was older. The employee shares the belly photos. Some snippets: kids are a great (awesome) responsibility; you’re blessed; I love kids; I wish I had them when I was younger; being a father at a young age, let’s you have the energy for them; I know of a lot of people that say you will miss out of some of the stuff at a younger age; You will have different opportunities. Biblical names: discussion on religion and how it influences children and the decision to have kids. You’re lucky (blessed) if you have good family support. Employee’s family is supportive: all his sisters have children already.
I shared more than I thought I would, although not enough, never enough. I’ve left open questions (surprise), but I’m honing in on the important aspects. Time to return and not play video games (please, please!).
I've been rather busy lately writing my new story. I set myself a deadline of Friday to post a first section of the story. I pushed the deadline back to Sunday when I realized that I would have the entire weekend to write (no traveling, finally). The following is not the complete story. I still have sections that are half written and others than are just ideas on the paper. I wanted to post something so I could meet my self-imposed deadline. I have hopes of getting a full draft out by the end of this week. Here goes:
The Fire-Breathing Termite
To be continued...
Below is another rewrite of the first part of The Fire-Breathing Termite. I've tried to remove the patheticness from the main character. I've also discovered that this story has turned out to be about very little--almost Seinfeld-esque, without the cleverness. I'm nearing the end, but I felt like posting what I had so far.
To be finished (one of these days)....
Well, here it is. I finally completed the story. Looking back at Mr. Moleskine, the idea first occurred to me on April 26. It took me about a month to get to this second draft. For me, that's pretty good. Enjoy and please send me your critiques. I'd love to hear what you think.
Here's just a proof of concept draft for my next story that I worked on while taking a brief break from editing FBT. It's about a lost child in a mall. This is very rough--I'm not sure which (if any) of the parts will survive. Now, back to editing FBT.
The station wagon’s engine whined as Eddie’s mother braked. The whine, which descended in pitch as the car slowed, calmed Eddie. He fell asleep to that whine often when he was a child sliding on a blanket in the metal, flat part of the wagon. This was a time before car seats and seatbelt laws, where a slumber party during a long car trip found three children sleeping with pillows and sheets across the lowered back seat and wagon area. Also a time before his father left his mother. Eddie sat in the backseat with his gurgling brother, Ernie. His mother relied on his sister, Beth, to help care for Eddie and Ernie. The unfairness of being watched by a sister only two years Eddie’s senior grated on him. Beth sat unchallenged in the front seat next to his mother.
Eddie checked his watch. Eleven o’clock. Before leaving home, he synchronized his watch with his conspirators, Carl and Ari. He patted his shirt pocket, where he felt the folded up note he planned to leave his mother. Anxiety welled in Eddie. He breathed loudly through his mouth and sucked at his inhaler to clear his lungs. If everything went as planned, he would be wandering the mall with his friends in thirty minutes. Freedom would smell good, at least better than what wafted from Ernie’s diaper.
His mother turned into the King’s Plaza parking garage. A line of three cars waited at the bottom of the entrance ramp. The station wagon took its position at the end of the line. Its front tires twisted inward waiting to complete the right turn. The pallid parking structure looked like a stack of alternating wooden blocks turned at ninety degrees to form openings on every other row of the five-level garage.
The line moved as a green car pulled out of a parking spot near the entrance. The first car drove into the opening. The station wagon followed the next car around the turn, and the first-floor entrance to the mall came into view on the left. Six glass doors opened into the mall, with a large orange number one painted next to the doors.
“Drop me off here,” Eddie said. Part of his plan was to give his mother one more chance to do this the easy way. If it failed, he would be absolved of any guilt for what happened later.
Beth snickered. “Shut up, fish head. You know mom won’t let you walk alone. You’re still too little.” Beth was the bane of Eddie’s existence. At 13-years old, his mother allowed Beth to walk around the mall with her friends. Today, his mother was taking her shopping, and Beth didn’t mind being seen with her since she was not yet old enough to borrow her mother’s credit card, and her allowance was too little to afford much besides candy and food.
His mother crooked her head first toward Beth and then toward Eddie. “Shush, Beth. I’m still the mother. Eddie, we talked about this. You’re not old enough. I told you your friends could join us.”
The wagon weaved up and down the rows looking for a parking spot. His mother would circle the parking areas for hours, if need be, to find the closest spot to the entrance. Eddie did not understand this. If he drove, and besides flying with a cape, there was nothing he wanted to do more than to drive, he would pull into the first spot he saw. Circling and waiting for a spot made no sense to him. He knew it didn’t make much sense to his father either who would sensibly take the first spot he came across.
They drove through the brown darkness created by the yellow lighting that partly illuminated the garage. When his mother checked all the rows on the first floor, she turned to the up ramp leading to the next level. The wheels squealed loudly as she accelerated up the ramp, braking hard at the top to allow a car heading to the down ramp to pass.
The radio signal’s strength weakened and strengthened, providing a strange rendition of Leaving on a Jet Plane, to which his mother sang the chorus. Ernie clapped his small hands and giggled at his mother’s rendition. Beth’s eyes widened and with gritted teeth she said, “Mom.” When his mother sang louder, Beth cranked up the window so nobody outside could hear her horribly off-tune voice.
After two harrowing turns up the ramps, his mother found her parking spot, two cars from the mall’s entrance on the fourth floor. With a satisfied murmur, she pulled in. She pressed the only electric window switch in the car and the rear window squeaked up. When it closed, she turned off the engine and Beth and Eddie leaped out of the car, locking their doors behind them.
“Beth, get the stroller,” his mother said. Beth retrieved the stroller from the rear of the wagon and unfolded it. His mother lifted Ernie and strapped him in the stroller. Ernie wore striped blue pants and no shoes. His white shirt had banana stains along the edges where he had worn his bib. Ernie always smiled, showing the single tooth that grew in crooked. Even when he screamed, there was a smile on his face. Eddie found it creepy, reminding him of Chucky, who always stabbed his victims with an evil grin on his plastic face. Eddie wasn’t supposed to have watched that movie, but his father had taken him to the theater. While Ernie’s eyes were large, they were not as large as his blonde head, which was humongous compared to his body.
Beth pushed the stroller and they walked to the mall entrance. Spaced-apart cement blocks supported the ceiling. Eddie jumped to touch the bottom of one block, but missed by about four feet. The garage smelled of leaded-fuel exhaust and heated rubber. His mother held the glass door open and Beth pushed Ernie through. The coldness of the mall struck Eddie, smelling acrid and manufactured. Outsized brown squares covered the ground, giving it the look of a large, unwrapped chocolate bar.
The second set of doors led them into Macy’s women shoes department. The shoes stood on platforms like differently colored twin statues. The display was enormous. The men shoes department, by comparison, which was on the other side of the path leading through the store, was paltry with a few solid black and brown shoes standing on platforms, some with dots or tassels, most without. Eddie had heard his father yell at his mother about her shoe collection. Every time she went to the mall, she bought another pair. He glared back at his mother. When did she think she would wear all those shoes? He looked down at his own worn sneakers. A hole had formed on his left sneaker separating the sole from the leather covering his big toe. He wiggled his white-socked toe through the hole. He still didn’t think he needed another pair. They were completely serviceable.
Beth led them through Macy’s toward the women’s clothing department. She had been speaking nonstop about the new dress she wanted for her school dance. She had discussed the color and cut with her mother in the car. Eddie lagged behind them as they walked faster toward the dresses. Beth wore a collared shirt, with an ironing crease running down the side of her short sleeves. Her skirt was pink terrycloth, stitched with flowered patterns and pull strings hanging from her waist. Her legs and arms were slim, but she held bulk in her upper body and face, where her chin threatened to double. Her ears were rounded except for a sharp point on each ear’s down slope. She pulled her black hair back in a partial ponytail, held in place by a yellow rubber band, and the remaining hair failing down to her white collar.
A recurring nightmare shrieked through Eddie’s head. Throughout childhood, he dreamed of getting lost in a department store. The tall clothing racks surrounded him on all sides like trees in a forest, and the exits disappeared. Eddie ran around the department store looking for the exit, getting lost in circular racks of clothing and checkout registers. He could not even find the lanes that led through the store. He went from carpeted showroom to carpeted showroom, moving from department to department with no breaks. With the wisdom of a teenager, Eddie now interpreted the dream: the time he spent in the department store, for him, was torturous. His mother would force him to try on clothing or shoes, usually in preparation for starting school. The mall outside the department stores was safe. His father would take him shopping at Radio Shack, play video games with him at the arcade, and share great, big vanilla shakes with him at the hamburger stand. The department stores had none of these things.
Ernie cried when he lost sight of his mother. Ernie was not a well-adjusted baby. He wailed every time his mother went out of sight. Neither Eddie nor Beth could quiet him. Only when his mother picked him up did he stop crying, the tears turned off like twisting the faucets of a sink. Eddie yelled at his mother that she babied Ernie and he would grow up to be a wus. But she ignored him. This never happened before the divorce.
To be continued...
More ideas on writing from reading DFW’s (that’s David Foster Wallace, for those not in the know) stories:
1. Write, keep writing (not just editing!) every day. Write with feeling about anything for long periods.
2. Write without thought for the audience and don’t worry about boring them. Write and keep writing for yourself. Write to entertain yourself. Turn off that internal voice that reminds you to watch out or you’ll bore the audience. Don’t worry about boring them—that can be fixed later. For right now, there is no audience.
3. Take your thoughts and expand on them. Think: what would be funny/interesting/clever in this situation? How would the characters react? Place yourself there and think of the all the clever things you would say if you were with someone you wanted to amuse or impress. And write about it. Again, don’t worry about word vomit. That can be fixed and the gems saved.
4. If you come to a stuck point, skip it.
This list inspired some thoughts. Here’s the resulting vomit. It’s been edited only for spelling. It’s for me, so you probably won’t like it. As I indicated in two above, I don’t give a shit. With that said:
pen
He sat there staring at the pen. He felt it betrayed him. It had given up halfway through his thought and he attempted to finish it, the thought, by pressing hard enough to make a ballpoint indentation on the paper. Even after everything it had done to him, which included, among many other things, failing him during a very inspirational moment when butterflies, no, brilliance oozed from his fingers, recording words scratched in golden glitter, it still hurt him to put the pen into the train’s seat pocket and leave it there.
A passenger, assuming it wasn’t found first by the train’s custodial service, found the pen, and, probably because the passenger was at the start of an intense NY Times crossword puzzle, and when I say that, I’m thinking of the Sunday one, not the easy weekday edition, found the pen and remarked what a lucky day it had become because even though he bought the paper and had planned, after finishing the politics, circuits, and local section, in that order since that is the order he had read the paper for as long as he could remember—and we’re disregarding the fact that the circuits section is a Thursday section and the Sunday crossword is a Sunday section since he sometimes gets confused by the days of the week, and, more frequently, the sections that correlate to the days of the week—he forgot to bring a pen. The passenger gave an excited growl as he used the pen’s point to skim the clues for an easy one, and, after finding the clue: former NYC airplane building, excitedly counted the spaces in eight down and saw immediately that the answer is five spaces, which matched the exact number of letters of the answer running, somewhat spastically, through his head. The passenger began to write a P in eight down and realized that the ink was not running through the ballpoint like it was supposed to. The passenger manhandled the pen, and tried again, sure that this time the combination of clicking, shaking, and squeezing like trying to get juice from an orange or water from a rock in the biblical sense, will start the flow. He, the original owner, not the passenger, knew that wouldn’t happen. The passenger then scribbled circles at the top of the paper, pushing harder with an occasionally shake, until he ripped the newspapers and satisfied himself that the pen really is truly dry and his thoughts of finishing the Sunday crossword had been thwarted, even though he accepted, down in the dark, deep parts of his psyche, which his ego buried after waking most mornings, that there are things stopping him from completing the puzzle that are more powerful than pens that don’t write.
Before sacrificing it to the passenger, he again stared at his discarded pen with the medical markings: Premarin Vaginal Cream in a nonliquifying base, which, in the medical speak that appeals only to the Latin or medical student (but, surprisingly, not the spelling national champion since medical words, particularly the names of chemicals and drugs, are not tested in the competition even though medical conditions, which are found in most dictionaries, are), and, it said, in parenthetical, on the off-chance that you might confuse these scientifically spelled jargon for informative words: “(conjugated estrogens)”, the two words were in most people’s vocabulary but their meanings when put together were as foreign as a Japanese train station to a Westerner, that is, completely indecipherable. He picked up the pen, which was smooth with a black, clickable top with two holes on both sides to show the white part of the pen, the white clip, and brown lettering for the name of the drug (the trademarked one), and its function, with the parenthetical scientific name and dosage, 0.625 mg/g, and the registered trademark symbol in black ink, and, after removing it from the seat pocket, tried again, and found it still didn’t work. With painful regret, he again left it for the passenger. The train landed and stopped in his city and he made a mental note: need new pen for ideas, the brilliant type, which he forgot, the note, almost immediately as he wrestled with his luggage and notebooks.
***
This one is even worse. Remember: it’s for me. (Why do I feel the need to keep reminding the three people who read this site not to read this? It’s that damn, internal critic, if you must know. I need a name for him. We already have a Carl and Lenny—that leaves Moe. Damn Moe! Shut up already.)
someone’s got to win: girl carrying trophy
I’m in the bus station, minding my own business, which consists of watching other people and scribbling notes about them, but if you’re reading this, you already know this. 8 buses arrived: NYC, Boston, cross-country from Tuscon, Arizona, Chicago, Cleveland (it arrived three hours and ten minutes late), Tampa, Buffalo, and Rochester. Most of my notes are moderately gratifying, saying such things as: ‘boy, that girl in the pink sweatpants, her legs are too short and her tits, they’re like watermelons might look right after picking’ or ‘is that man, you see him, the one with ripped sneakers—look away, he’s looking over here! Yeah, that man. The one now watching the terminal door—he might be homeless and looking for a handout. I’ll try to get downwind and find out for sure. As usual, 4,322 tiles on the ceiling; 12 are water-damaged, changed from 8 last Saturday. No. Not homeless. Just cheap. He’s clean-showered’ or, you get the picture.
I watch people and try to draw their pictures in my little book. I also count a lot. You know, I keep track of things. I’m writing about this because I might have a problem. Howard Stern does the same thing. Bathroom: 6 yanks of toilet paper, 8 wipes, and 3 pulls of soap; bowel movement was solid and passed easily after 5:32 minutes of preparatory pissing and concentrating. Or, at least, Howard claimed to do the same thing on his radio show. I’ve begun to question whether what he says is really what he does. I was shocked when I saw his movie. Who would have thought that he could be so damn loving? Of course, he left his bitch of a wife—but that was only after he made that cheesy movie. It’s those Hollywood types. I think they got to him. Anyway, I listen to him in the mornings when my boss isn’t around. He, for safety reasons, demands no radios or other listening devices. I guess he’s taking about cellular phones or those new computerized music devices. But I don’t understand either and I really don’t have many people to talk to—with the obvious exception of this book, of course. But the book won’t call me, or, at least, hasn’t called me yet. I’m always on the look out, however. As long as the book doesn’t get too uppity: the one thing I can’t stand is an uppity book.
There she is: I knew it. Every Saturday, when I wait in the bus station, there is always one really interesting person that walks by. I don’t have enough time to jot down everything worth jotting, but there’s always one thing that positively and absolutely must be jotted down And there she is. She’s holding two trophies. They’re big trophies, the kind you win in tournaments, and not the second place types, either. The trophies are too large for her. I can now tell she doesn’t deserve them. What I can’t tell is what she won them for. The man on top—it might be a woman, at least it should be a woman, since this is a girl we’re talking about, but even if it was a woman, it’s not like it would be worth anything, she was competing against other girls, which is very different from competing against real men—anyway, the golden man on top is just standing there with his hands held way up. I don’t think he’s holding anything and there’s no soccer ball or karate kick or anything that tells what she won.
She’s a skinny one, this trophy winner. 4 woman I, and most normal men, that is men who aren’t bent, if you know what I mean, would consider hot passed through the station; 1 of them, wearing an orange blazer, gave me a rather favorable look; I was too busy recording my lunch, which is on page 24 and 25 of this journal, to respond her obvious advances. Her duffel bag and trophies seem too heavy and she’s given up and is now dragging her bag behind her. She came out of the gate looking for someone. Maybe her mother was supposed to pick her up or maybe her teammates. They probably want to take her out to celebrate. There they are now: two people. I’m guessing they’re her parents from their relative age and the way they’re standing next to one another: there’s a comfort there that I’ve seen with other married couples. The security announcement was repeated 7 times per hour, always starting afresh on the hour; today it was recorded by a man with a thick, Long Island accent; he’s different from the ticket attendant/announcer who, while from the Island, has a smoker’s voice. Ah! They’re taking her trophies but making her carry her gray duffel. Again, they’re probably her parents. It, the bag, matches her gray folded skirt. Folded isn’t really the right word: it’s probably pleated or something, but I was ever one for fashion.
That’s who I was waiting for. I can go home now and implement my Saturday night plans. 2 police officers, and 221 people passed through the station. As I was saying before, my books are mundane but terribly interesting, I’m leaving the whole collection, 5,962 books including this one, which is already 3/4 quarters full, to the Library of Congress. My lawyer knows about this and I’ve recorded it its in the codicil to my will. In case you’re interested, #----- has the record from my lawyer’s office (I’ll fill in the number when I get home and can cross reference it). He was a strange one, that lawyer. I’m not sure why they let people like him walk the streets.
Okay. Here goes (again). This is the final draft for this story. I want to move on to my next story and I hate having this one hanging over my head. (This doesn't mean that I won't change it, just that I (probably) won't change anything major.)
Julie, Chuck, and my mother gave me many great suggestions to improve this story. Thanks all! (This doesn't change my dedication for my first book: "I would have dedicated this book to Julie, but she never believed in me. I would have dedicated this book to my mother, but she never believed in me either. Therefore, I dedicate this book to me. Me, me, me.")
On an important note: It's Julie's birthday today. Happy birthday Julie! I'm sorry I'm not there to celebrate it with you. Your shower cap--the peach one with yellow and orange flowers, and a white strap--will be waiting for you when you visit in two weeks.
I found this fragment after forgetting about it for over a year. It was an interesting Jewish verse rational, confused man verse vampire story that I gave up on. I might return to it. It has some interesting themes that I think are worth exploring.
“The world cries around us, the tears reeking of the blood of babies commingled with the toxic substances that escape our metropolises. What we—that is, the man there, the woman here, me, you—what we do effects everything around us. We splash water on our faces and join the masses with our hypocrisy scribbled on signs that we strain to hold high enough to be seen as we parade through the streets. Oh, yes, I’m talking about us. We are the bringer of this emptiness, this strip mall society that desires everything and once it gets something, doesn’t want it anymore.
“Our lives are lived in a uniform, unknowable world. It is a world of isolation where your conduct affects you and how people feel about themselves. You are not ruled by rational thought. Evolution has not raised you from the animals but cast you to the devils.
Charles sat alone at the table with five people after finishing his reading. He had spent the last thirty minutes spitting into the microphone words of disdainful dejection to an audience that he had saturated with more spittle than truth. They hadn’t understood the difference. His neighbors were all acquaintances he had not invited and whose presence provided him with no comfort. They had seen the flyers the bar had plastered around town advertising his harangues.
At various times during his association with each of them, they had confided in him how they commiserated and approved of his words, feeling close to him and seeing in him a mirror for their own conception of themselves. Each time he had this conversation, he listened and validated their feelings, telling each how they alone reminded me of his best friend from childhood who he had confided all of his secret desires and wishes in, and whose untimely death in a hunting incident, which a jury had found accidental by a single vote, had left him cold and emotionally unresponsive until they had come along. He had lied, of course. The jury had convicted the hunter of manslaughter and he had spent ten years in prison.
A man pulled up a chair next to Charles. A red-faced butch, who took her place behind the microphone, removed bundles of loose-leaf paper from her oversized bag and swiped at the cigarette smoke that still filled the stage. Charles had used the smoke to emphasize particularly pungent statements and enjoyed the morphing eddies that floated below the black ceiling lit by the brilliant spotlights.
“It curdles my throat,” the man said. “Your emptiness does. I feel it tingling through my curled-up toes, screaming to me, vibrating the very air that surrounds you.”
Charles laughed a deep, hollow laugh. “You almost sound like you believe that. I know rubbish. Rubbish is what I trade in. Did you catch me up there? Do not try to sell manure to a cow farmer.” The people at the table turned and listened expectantly, ignoring the sweating woman on stage.
“If you could only see what I see,” the man said. “The truth as I know the truth, not the shadows but the actual forms dancing by the light, then you would understand. It is in you already, this truth, saturating your pores, but you hang by your white knuckled fingertips to false realities that can’t support your weight,”
His tone was hypnotic and Charles lost himself in the realization of each word. They resonated sweetly off the man’s red, red lips before solidifying and gliding delicately toward Charles’s face. Charles mouth opened of its own volition and he tasted the words. They dissolved on his tongue, their texture and flavor saturating his mouth and piercing the terrible loneliness and darkness that defined him.
Charles shook him off. “I like the twist of your words, friend. You sound almost as desperate as I feel, and your voice, your voice is almost electrifying. I am Charles.” Charles reached out his hand and the man grasped him, it was a cold, clammy grasp.
“When there’s nothing that you believe in, that nothingness swallows you whole. Your insides die in an outward spiral
We’re not what you think.
He left. I shivered in the terrible heat of the day wearing a shirt drenched from the humidity that had sucked the water from my body and had left me shriveled and bent. His offer blazed through my mind ricocheting through the hollow spaces. Immortality!
that leaves you a dead specimen wandering the streets. We work in the night, but not the night most people think. It is the night of the soul, the place you look for answers and listen as only darkness responds. That’s what you don’t understand about us. We are hunters and killers, but there’s nothing supernatural about us. If there was, I wish every day that there were something, anything, supernatural because that would prove that there is something beyond us.
Faith feels like this: emptiness. When there’s nothing you believe in, there are times when that nothingness swallows you whole. your insides die and you feel the organs surrounding your hollow stomach dying in a sick, outward spiral until you’re nothing but a dead specimen wandering the streets looking for victims. You suck the marrow out of the victim’s bones and show them the emptiness. It is a disease that I pass on, but it’s different from what you imagine.
It started years ago, this disease. It’s spread by looking for a cure—the cure, or the treatment, is found by passing it on to others. You suck, their vitality and beliefs, questioning each one until there is nothing in them left. That’s the cure and the curse. Healthy people need not worry, but there are no healthy people. We work in the night, but no the night most people think of. We work in the night of the sould, the place where you look for answers and only darkness responds. That’s what you don’t understand about us. We are hunters and killers, but there’s nothing supernatural about us. If there was, I wish every day that there were something, anything, supernatural because that would prove that there is something beyond us.
It curdles my throat, your loneliness. I have felt it in my curled-up toes. Darkness cannot be kept away because it is all that exists. If there existed more we could not prowl. Who would let us? Who would let our dark clad.
I fought the self-loathing that welled up inside, and lost.
The end finds Charles, cald in black, talking privately to the Rabbi, using the same first line that the vampire used on him.
Sex is better than chocolate. Not the good, European chocolate, just the American type. There are chocolates that are better than cocaine, not that I would know what those drugs taste like, but you get the idea. I’m only talking about the American type. You know, Hershey’s, Nestlé’s, etcetera.
The Rabbi’s scraggly beard captivated Charles. It defined his entire face, a face that otherwise lacked structure and weight. His beard moved with his triangular jaw, none of the hairs moving individually. His eyes were tiny through the thick glass lenses.
“Today’s lesson,” the Rabbi said, “relates to the interconnection of the Jewish people and
Do you think she’s looking at me?
It all started with a scraggly beard.
Scraggly beards. That’s what he would always remember from his classes. Whoever thought that a singles, religious class would be a good place to meet women was insane.
The Rabbi’s scraggly beard stuck out in all directions. It fascinated Charles. He tried to imagine what it would like when the Rabbi woke up in the morning.
Charles had seen scraggly beards like his before on homeless people.
“You piss-ant!” Sunglasses said. “You dare question my faith. It is not something you can understand or argue. Your logic, while perhaps persuasive and corner painting, in the end, does not get you anywhere. Who created you? Where did you come from? God himself did, and then he came down and gave us the answers and you, you, you tyrant of small minds, you hide behind your logic games and dare question his words.”
The room quieted after Sunglasses finished. Charles glanced around and grinned. It had had its desired effect. Everyone was silent and looking away. Triumphant. He had hoped to open a tiny gash in Sunglasses’s belief, but this went beyond anything he could have imagined.
“How dare you,” Sunglasses said. He attempted to stand up quickly, a difficult feat since the arms of the chair and wooden table connected to the chair prevented such fast motion, and the chair came up with him. He pushed the chair and table down to the ground and twisted his weight trying to throw it against the wall. The table turned and squeaked on the floor a few feet away from him. He glared at it and took a step toward the table before turning on Charles.
Charles taught himself to smile at girls. The smile is the first line of communication. Charles practiced his smile in front of the mirrors for hours in an attempt to develop an acceptable smile. He decided that his teeth looked best in good light, and, if the light was not good, it was best to keep his lips closed. A good smile is what first catches the attention of a girl. If he smiles at her, she might smile back, and the exchange of smiles gives him the green light to talk to her. Smiling was more difficult than he thought. He spent thirty minutes exercising his face muscles, which, surprisingly, must be developed before they effectively get across the intended emotion.
New people scared Charles.
Emotions were another thing that concerned him. He thought that life was defined by rational thought. The realization that there was more to life than his logic could explain concerned him. He had thought that emotions were just barriers to rational thought. It took him a while to accept that they changed him and affected his move more strongly than any rational thought did. If a girl happened to smile at him, the change in his mood was intense.
He spoke to groups with firebrand intensity, sharing his dark feelings
He attended the study for the third time in
Speaking to girls has never been my strong point.
What is it about circles and sitting around them?
“Two things made the Jewish religion successful: the one god principle, and the Chosen People. It didn’t capture the convert everyone philosophy that the Catholics perfected, but it did grow based on those principles.
characters: sexual inuendos, trying to be brilliant, rabbi trying to be fair and give everyone time even though he’s dying to dominate the combination, an anti-Jew (that’s you, fool!)
Okay. It's still crap. I basically know where it's going, but the first two pages are rather trite and boring. Things will happen, I promise, but I wanted to prove that I'm moving forward (slowly). I had some great ideas for what's going to happen later in the story. I'm still hoping to get this draft finished by Friday. We'll see how that goes--I might have to push it back until Sunday.
Plot: 8th grade English teacher evaluates student’s short fantasy story
Theme: the atrophy of creativity
Voice: Claire, the mother; excerpt from the teacher Dr. Tanenbaum's book based on the daughter Kendrick's short story titled, "The Pink Sweater."
Speaking of crap...
When it was their turn, Claire walked into the room with her daughter and wrinkled her nose. It smelled of generations of sweaty boys and pounded chalk. There was something depressing about classrooms. Claire had spent the first quarter of her life haunting their small desks and dreaming of escaping the narrow-nosed gaze of their teachers. She shook her head to clear it of smelly rooms and neglected opportunities.
Dr. Tanenbaum sat behind a large, wooden desk, her back not touching the chair. “We’ll get started in a moment, Mrs. Lee,” she said as she rifled through papers.
Claire examined Dr. Tanenbaum. She was just as the other teachers had described her: tall, lanky, pathetic. Claire knew plenty of women like her. She had almost not bothered researching her, but Claire knew better than to take chances on Kendrick’s future. Dr. Tanenbaum did not have any friends in school. She was awkward outside the comfort of her classroom. Claire’s strategy was simple: befriend Dr. Tanenbaum by showing interest in her. “Call me Claire, Dr. Tanenbaum.”
“Of course, Claire. That’s very nice of you.” Dr. Tanenbaum’s eyeballs were unfocused and drifting. She stared in the direction of Claire with a half smile. Her expression reminded Claire of carefully suppressed emotions, the kind that steamed for so long that they reached an emotional steady state with the outward pressure and the inward emotional gravity canceling out perfectly. Claire was sure that Dr. Tanenbaum was the type of teacher that tried to quiet her students at the start of class with calm words and remonstrations, only to end up yelling and stamping her foot to achieve some semblance of order.
“First, let me begin with an explanation of this class. Many parents are concerned about what their children are learning here. I don’t blame them, mind you. It’s nontraditional, based on an idea I had while in school. While finishing my teaching degree, we did an exercise where the professor asked what was the first thing that interested us in our study area. It was a great question. I had never thought about it before, but I quickly came up with the legends and fantasy stories I read as a child. The professor then asked us to develop a lesson plan based on the answer to that question. That’s when I came up with ‘Fairies, Dragons, and Wizards.’
“After I graduated, the principal I proposed it too liked the idea, but wanted to limit it to fantasy in contemporary fiction, reasoning that that would fulfill the eighth grade reading requirement. We teach the class in their last year. We offer the students a choice of English electives, and this is one of them. Kendrick, why did you choose this class?”
Kendrick looked surprised that she was asked to speak. “I’ve been reading fantasy novels for a long time now. Their my favorite type of books.”
Claire didn’t have to hear Kendrick’s answer. She indulged Kendrick in her fantasy novel obsession. She knew any reading she did would help her in college and law school. She just wished she took an interest in the classics. They provided a much better foundation for her studies and helped improve her vocabulary. Claire expected Kendrick to outgrow these books during high school. She knew better than to force Kendrick to change. Delicacy was her first rule.
Dr. Tanenbaum smiled and then looked back to Claire. “I’ve been teaching this class now for five years. A few parents call the first week of school to ask about the subject matter. A few are worried about pagan or witch stories. This class is not anti-religious, Claire. It has great educational value, introducing some students that never enjoyed reading to stories that might interest them, and allowing others to pursue their favorite genre in a controlled environment where we can study them as literature. Let me assure you, this class has a good basis in educational research. Kendrick is learning the same lessons she would have learned in a more traditional class. But I understand and sympathize with parents’ concerns. That’s why I always start the first parent-teacher conference with this discussion. Do you have any particular concerns?”
Claire tried to pay attention to what Dr. Tanenbaum said, but her monotonous tone made it next to impossible. She knew the class fulfilled Kendrick’s eight-grade English requirement. What more did she need to know? “I’m interested in how you choose which fantasy literature the students will read. Ever since Kendrick showed an interest in the fantasy genre, I’ve tried to learn about these wonderful books.”
“That’s a great question. I look for the more classically accepted fantasy novels. Tolkien is a great example. Few people question the value of his writing. I choose many Hugo award-winning books as well. It’s good that you’re encouraging Kendrick. She shows a keen interest and is an excellent student of these books. For the most part, Kendrick is a wonderful student, a pleasure to have in my class.”
“For the most part?” Claire said and looked over to Kendrick. Claire had expected this meeting to go rather well and quickly. She was more concerned with Mr. Bander, Kendrick’s math teacher, who they were meeting next.
“As I said, Kendrick is a good student,” Dr. T. said and used her thumb to read a line in her grid grade book. “But she is missing a lot of homework assignments. I can tell she reads the books by her excellent discussions—she has three checks—but she hasn’t handed in six of the twenty assignments. These are chapter reports evaluating the novel’s developing theme and character growth. I use it both to ensure that the student reads and to force them to delve deeper during their reading than just the surface story.”
“Kendrick has a history of not doing her homework. We’ve been working on this for a few years now. She sometimes gets distracted, but I assure you she’ll make up the assignments and write some extra credit reports, with your permission, of course.”
“That won’t be necessary, Claire. If she made up the assignments, then she’ll be fine. This is Kendrick’s first non-honors English class. Because of the elective system during the student’s last year of English, no honors classes are offered.”
“I’ll be sure she gets those assignments to you. If you don’t mind me asking, what do you have your Ph.D. in? I’m always very impressed by the dedication necessary to obtain a doctorate.” Especially a useless doctorate like Claire was sure Dr. Tanenbaum had received.
To be continued...
“I am the Clockman and I present you with a very most wholesome welcome to my shop. I carry clocks and timepieces from every known corner of the world, and even some from parts unknown but soon to be discovered—I have thought of revealing those parts and claiming the discovery for the Clockman, but in doing so, I would risk losing my exclusive supply of never before seen clocks. And that my dear sir never would I risk, for I deal in clocks, not in fame or discovery.
“I am here to fulfill any and all of your temporal needs. There are some visitors, perhaps visitors like you, who never realized their forlorn desire for the clock. The truth, if I may be so humble as to pretend to know about truth in this topsy-turvy world where every huckster claims to be an expert in that most inscrutable of currency, is that everyone, and I mean every last person, from the tallest, oldest gentleman, to the chubbiest, most eye-curling baby, what they all have in common is that they all must have a clock. And, as chance, the most welcome of all beasts, has arranged it, there is a clock, one clock, a solitary clock, the, if I may be so bold, the clock for every person, including you, my kind sir, my gentleman, my very most welcome patron.
“Please, follow me through these doors and prepare to see the world as you have never seen it. For behind this very entryway you will find my most wholesome of domains, and in there, in my most secret of secret places, awaits your clock. For I am the Clockman and it is my honor, it is my duty, it is my most virtuous of pleasures to welcome you, most gentle of sirs, to the Clockman’s realm.”
Carl stared at the strange, small man in the red business suit. He didn’t know what to make of him. He wore yellow stage make-up over his eyes and his huge smile, not augmented by any makeup, had not left his mouth during his speech. Two large triangular puffs of hair shot out from the sides of his head, as if orange flames were sprouting from his ears. His face, reddened from not seemingly breathing through his entire presentation, held a final, joyous expression, and lingered unmoving and expecting.
Before the Clockman appeared at the storefront, Carl had been about to leave. Hanging over the closed doors was a simple, cardboard sign with the words “Clock Store” painted in broad white strokes. No address was displayed on the blackened door, but Carl knew that this was the right place. It was just not what he had expected. But now that the Clockman was here and he had come this far, he wasn’t about to give up without at least looking at the clocks. And the Clockman, if nothing else, was a cheery, if outlandish, character—almost unreal in his dress and speech.
“How could I resist such a welcome?” Carl said as he walked past the outstretched arm of the Clockman, which led toward the darkened double doors that opened into the shop. Carl felt a deep ticking vibration as he touched the door handle. When the door opened, the hushed vibration exploded as thousands of synchronized clocks ticked.
Carl had moved into his house nine-weeks ago, which was a day short of exactly eight months since his wife had walked out on him to move in with her podiatrist. After unpacking his moving boxes in his new house, Carl embarked on decorating. In the settlement, he had received all of the furniture from their previous house because, she later admitted to him, the podiatrist, a Dr. Phut, a name Carl still couldn’t believe was real, had decorated his lavish house with furniture imported from Tahiti and Maui. Furniture that cost much more than the stuff that Carl was able to afford. But Carl loved his furniture because his wife had purchased it. He had given her everything he could afford during their twenty-year marriage.
When the furniture arrived, Carl positioned it in the same location as it had been in their previous home, which he had sold as a condition of the divorce. During their marriage, she had reupholstered all of the cheaply purchased furniture with a beautiful flower print made up of pinkish and yellowish pastel colors. He lovingly repositioned each couch, chair, ottoman, and table in the same position as it had been in their former home. He spent hours pushing and tugging the pieces until their placement was as exact as his memory could recollect.
During the unpacking, he had found that the clock that had hung above the fireplace was broken. It still ticked and kept time, but its face, a cloudy glass face covered in dark, embossed numbers, had cracked. He searched through all the stores and malls for a replica with no success. He saw traditional, wooden clocks, modern clocks that he still wasn’t sure actually told time, grandfather clocks, and clocks shaped as cats and dogs with tails wagging. While he admired some of the clocks and wished furtively that he could buy them, he knew that none could replace the broken clock. Not one of the clocks touched that part of him that understood what it wanted, knew what was right for him. He gave up, until yesterday, when he found the Clockman’s advertisement in the weekly newspaper. It read: “A clock for every need; a clock for every breed; a clock for every disgruntled, disassociated, disbelieving, dismembered, distended someone. 415 Grandfather Road.”
Carl entered the store and was surprised to find himself in a bare room. The walls were whitewashed and illuminated by spotlights hanging from the ceiling, but except for the door, there was no decoration, no table, and no clocks in the room. The loud synchronized ticking of clocks seemed to originate from deep behind the walls. The sound grew louder as Carl approached the middle of the room.
“Not what one would expect of the Clockman’s store. Eh, Mr. Peterson? As I said outside, there is a clock, one clock, for every person. Even for you, Mr. Peterson. However hard it is for you to accept. You, who spent an entire life serving another only to be stepped on, grinded into the floor—if you would forgive me my pun, I share and respect your private pain, but I am and always will be a salesman who seeks the pretty tongue to entice the deal—and now to find yourself here, at this moment, this particular second, when freedom has found you, freed you from all of your past. Not what one would expect, Mr. Peterson? No. This is exactly what one would expect, exactly what you should expect.”
The white door shut behind the Clockman, and the door’s edges disappeared, leaving only a smooth wall visible behind the short man. The Clockman curled his fingers around his chin and studied Carl with a slight tilt to his head.
“My name, how did you—“
“Would you suppose the Clockman, master of all timepieces, traveler and proprietor extraordinaire, would not to know his client base? The hows and whys and whatfors are not important, Mr. Peterson. What I offer you—and it is an offer that I give neither lightly nor unkindly—is another chance, an opportunity to free yourself of your demons, of your poor decisions, and your white knuckles that grasp the past as if its escape would be the death of you.
“There are clocks and then there are clocks, Mr. Peterson. Did I not tell you that when you first entered my store? I offer you a clock, the very clock that would release you from your pains and unanswered expectations. I do not ask much of you. I only ask that you choose, Mr. Peterson. I know what my customers want, better than they do. But I cannot choose for them. I am only the salesman, the messenger, the enlightened showman—if you would once again forgive my flippant descriptions—that present my clients with what they most wish. I only ask that you take what you want, and I hope, for your sake, that you understand and appreciate your truest desire before you take what is not yet yours. After I have given you all that I have to give, you may ask nothing more of me.”
“I do not understand. What are you talking about? Do you have my clock? Do you know the one that I need, the one that is broken and now needs replacing? I will not ask how you know and I do not care. Show me my clock, Clockman.”
The small man took a deep breath and his smile left his face. His red suit appeared brighter against the white and he pointed to the wall behind Carl. Two clocks hung on the wall, both ticking in unison. An unbroken replica of the cloudy faced clock hung next to a beautifully carved cuckoo clock, the same clock that he and his father had carved when he was a child. His ex-wife had been spooked by the small, yellow bird that flew out of the wooden door every hour, and had thrown the clock away the first week of their marriage. And there it hung, next to the clock that had been his wife’s first purchase during their marriage. Now that Carl looked closely at it, the cloudy faced clock was shoddy, probably purchased at a discount store. The cuckoo clock had taken him and his father over a year to craft, and had been their final woodworking project together.
“Time ticks, for me more than most people, Mr. Peterson. As I said, each person only has one clock. I never said that that clock was the same clock throughout that person’s life. Take your clock off the wall. I have no more charming words or pitches to prod you this day. Choose and go about, Mr. Peterson.”
Carl walked to the hanging clocks. He turned and watched as the Clockman opened the door and held it open. The ticking of the clocks behind the walls quieted until Carl could hear only the ticking of the cuckoo clock and the cloudy-faced clock. He reached toward the cuckoo clock and touched its finally crafted finish. He caressed the cool, metal finish of the cloudy-faced clock, leaving behind moist fingerprints. He opened the little door on the cuckoo clock and petted the small, yellow bird hiding behind the door. He traced over the large numbers of the cloudy-faced clock’s face.
Carl took a step back from both clocks and smiled.
“So, you have decided?” the Clockman said.
“Yes,” Carl said. He looked at the clocks one last time and turned toward the door. The Clockman stood aside as Carl passed through the doors into the unknown evening.
***
Short, short story idea: a conversation with a person who uses large words incorrectly through an entire conversation. The other person doesn’t realize the incorrect usage and is overwhelmed and impressed by the conversation.
That was a hard story to write. I think it would have been more interesting if I had discussed his relationship with his father at the beginning, but I had no idea where the story was heading in the beginning. Thanks to a short day at work, I spent many, many hours on this story. I spent a lot of that time editing (I know, I know, I’m not supposed to edit, but I was procrastinating actually taking the story somewhere).
I have two more days of training for the Marathon. The past six or seven days (maybe it’s less—I’ve completely lost count), have been the most productive writing I’ve ever done. Even if I don’t make it through the Nanowrimo story—and there’s a low probability of that; especially with all the smack talk that Chuck has been laying down—this has really inspired me to write more. The last three days in particular have shown me the difference between real writing and metawriting, as Chuck so aptly named. I definitely like real writing better. Can you believe my low consternation output for today?
I’m a little over my 2,000-word count for the day, so I’ll call this finished.
Word count: 2,065; writing time: lots, 3+ hours; caffeination: tall mocha (Tully’s)+Vanilla Coke; editing time: lots; after edit word count: 2,082.
“Did you finish your homework, Tommy?”
“Yeah, I’ll get it done later—just one more level.”
“Make sure you finish before going to sleep tonight, young man.”
“Mom, it’s the weekend. I have all day tomorrow to do it. It’ll get done. It always gets done eventually.”
“But if you do it now, you won’t have to worry about it all weekend. You’ll be free to do whatever you want today and tomorrow—and I hope some of that involves you turning off the game and going outside.”
“Just gotta finish this level. I’m almost at the tortoise—he breathes fire from his two heads. He’s the greatest boss in this game.”
“There are only a few more days of autumn and then winter will be here and you’ll be cooped up in the house. Did you see the pile of leaves that your dad raked up? I’m sure he’d be awfully disappointed if you didn’t jump in it. Remember how many times he had to rake the lawn last year. And you blamed it on poor Paws! Poor Paws. Let’s see you say that three times fast!”
“Boris told me the trick to beating the tortoise. You have to draw one head off to the side of the screen and then charge the other one when you trap the head in the corner with the holographic transmitter. I finally found the transmitter—you wouldn’t believe where they hid it. It was in the room with the four zombies that I thought you had to survive by running through it, but it turned out you had to kill all the zombies or the transmitter wouldn’t appear. It’s just a matter of time before I find the entrance to the tortoise’s cave.”
“Speaking of Paws, have you seen that retched dog? I guess it would be too much to ask for you to walk him today. I remember a time when you played all day with him. You’d go to the backyard and throw the Frisbee back and forth for hours, and Paws would get bored before you did.”
“Mom, it’s hard to concentrate with you standing there. Ah. There it is! I knew it. They hid the entrance behind the green slime. The trick to the slime is to use fire to move it. You can’t kill it with fire, and if you attack it with weapons it divides in half and the halves grow to full size in no time. But if you place the fire just right, the slime moves out of the path and a door appears.”
“Just don’t forget your homework. I’m going to find Paws and take him for a walk.”
“Is your homework finished?”
…
“I’m talking to you, young man. Do I have to turn off the television to get your attention?’
“Mom! It’s almost the end of the show. You know, where they fight the final battle and the story ends—they tell you what happens. I don’t bother you when you’re watching your TV shows. Why do you bother me? It’s hard to concentrate on what’s going on with you talking all the time. My teacher said that understanding the plot and characters of TV shows were important exercises in learning to do good writing. I’m doing that right now.”
“It’s a commercial now.”
“See. This is why I need a TV in my room. You have a TV in your room and you can close the door and watch it when you don’t want us to bother you. If I had a TV, I could lock the door when I’m doing important things, like watching the end of the show. I’ll even pay for the TV. You know I have the money now.”
“And since when do you have extra money, Tommy?”
“Since Grandma visited two days ago. Shush. It’s back on.”
“She spoils you. And don’t shush me! I told her to stop giving you money. You’ll never learn the value of money if she keeps throwing it at you every time she sees you. I’m going to have your dad talk to her when he gets home. How much did she give you?”
“It’s back on.”
“So? I asked you a question.”
“I’ll finish my homework later.”
“What’s for breakfast?”
“Oh, it’s breakfast time now? It’s past eleven. Where have you been all morning? Sleeping?”
“You’ve always told me that sleep is important. Just last night you were yelling at me for not going to sleep, and now you’re yelling at me for sleeping too much. Which one is it, mom? You’re confusing me—you’re confusing my simple, simple mind.”
“You’re a comedian now? Sit down and I’ll make you some pancakes. Did you finish your homework last night before going to bed?”
“Blueberry pancakes, please.”
“The homework, Tommy, did you finish it?”
“I told you yesterday. I have all day today to do it. I only have three assignments. It’ll be done in an hour, two at max. Can you drive me to the mall when we’re done? I’m supposed to meet Boris at noonish. We have to buy Blood, Guts, and/or Zombies, part II. Boris finished the first part last night. After the tortoise, there’s only two more levels, and if we buy it today, we won’t get stuck with nothing to play.”
“Don’t you have hundreds of other video games to play?”
“We’ve beaten them all. It’s no fun to play the game once we finish it. Even you should know that.”
“Getting back to your homework, is it done?”
“What did I just say?”
“Did Boris finish his homework?”
“I’ll ask him when I see him at the mall. Do you have syrup?”
“We’re going to watch the movies your father rented in fifteen minutes.”
“Great. I just have to finish my homework first.”
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah. I was thinking about what you said before I went to the mall, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of the night worrying about whether I was going to finish my homework. See. Here’s my finished math homework. I just have to finish summarizing this stupid short story, and my English homework is finished. That just leaves social studies.”
“I don’t understand. What did you do at the mall? Were you drugged? Abducted and cloned by space aliens? Where’s my son?”
“Mom, stop being so dramatic. Sometimes, what you say really gets into me, you know? So what movies did dad rent?”
“Do I have to search your room for drugs? Is that it? Drugs? Should I expect a phone call from the police with an arrest warrant for you?”
“Sheesh. Can’t a kid do his homework without his mother accusing him of illegal activities? Maybe I’m just growing up. You know, becoming a better person. I mean, really, mom, I’m going into high school next year. Don’t you think I’ve matured at all?”
“Did you accidentally kill Paws? Just tell it to me straight. I won’t hold it against you. Is Paws dead? Oh, no. Is Boris dead? Was he a victim of your drug smuggling?”
“Get out and let me finish my homework!”
“I love you, Tommy.”
“I’ll remember you said that.”
“We’re going to start soon. Your dad went to make some popcorn. Are all your assignments finished?”
“Of course they are. Remember when you were interrupting me before, claiming that I was abducted or something. I finished it just like I said I would. Do you want to see it? I can go get it if you want.”
“No, no. I trust you. I wanted to see if you needed any help or if you needed me or dad to review any of your work.”
“It’s all good. Most of the assignments were pretty easy. I now have the rest of the evening free to do nothing but spend quality time with my parents. This is a great night.”
“Okay. Now I know something is wrong. Spill the beans.”
“What could be wrong? It’s a beautiful fall day. The moon is out. My father is cooking popcorn. The movie is humming in the DVD player. My homework is all finished—but the social studies was harder than I thought. It took me three loose-leaf sheets to finish.”
“You’re setting me up for something. I’m sure of it. What do you want? Do you want that video game that Boris bought today? Do you need money for that?”
“No, mother. I’m going to borrow Boris’s once he finishes it. He plays the games way more than I do, and way faster. He’ll just bring it to class when he’s done with it. Can’t I just be happy with no other reason than I’m happy?”
“I’m sorry, Tommy. I guess you just can never understand kids.”
“I’m not a kid anymore, mom. I’m growing up now and you’re going to have to start treating me more like an adult.”
“If you keep acting this way I’ll have no choice but to do that. I’m really proud of you.”
“Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yes, mom. I even flossed and washed my face.”
“You want me to leave this light on for you?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“And the closet door, you want me to shut it?”
“I don’t care.”
“Then I’ll shut it; leaving the closet door open freaks me out ever since I was young. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong today?”
“Will you stop that? I’m not an alien and I don’t want anything. Can’t you just accept that I learned something? What, do you want me to tell you that ‘you told me so,’ is that what you’re waiting for?”
“I’m sorry, Tommy. No, of course not. Go to sleep now. I love you.”
“I love you too, mom. Close the door. I like it dark.”
“Sleep tight, and don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“Boris? Phase one is complete. It worked like a charm.
“No, she doesn’t have a clue what I’m doing. So gullible. It was just like the book said. And with you?
“That’s great to hear. I know this is going to be too funny. We’ll compare notes tomorrow.
“Yup.
“Got it.
“Cool. Bye.”
I’ll have to apologize for that story. I had no idea what it was about, and after finishing it, I still don’t. It was more just an exercise in dialogue. As you’ll see with some notes I jotted down when I was struggling to get started, I didn’t have many good ideas. I just wanted to write filler, and I think I accomplished that. It’s filler with lots of clichés and bad dialogue. Okay. That’s enough of making fun of my writing. I’m going to have to read crap like this for the next month, so I should get used to it. Here are some other random thoughts from before writing this story:
When I have nothing to write I write nothing. This is one of those days. I’m sure you were expecting another story. I was as well but so far I have nothing and I was getting sick of staring at the blank screen. I figured once I typed a few words, others might follow and I might be struck by an idea for a story or at least an outline or something.
I have concerns about the story I’m going to start writing on Monday. I’m not sure I like it enough to write it for an entire month. I’m not sure if there are any stories that I like enough to write for an entire month. I hate these types of days. I had almost nothing planned for the day except some errands and writing, and here I find myself, with all the time in the world, a hot cup of Mocha and an empty screen.
After writing the above two paragraphs, it took me much driving around aimlessly looking for a good coffee house, returning home and watching movies, and eventually just giving up and writing whatever popped into my head (after taking a nap, of course) to write the story.
I sprayed most of my windows today to kill off the spiders. Scott told me that if I waited any longer, come spring, the spiderlings (I didn’t realize that wasn’t a real word) would hatch and I’d have thousands of little spiders running around my garden and sneaking into my house. That freaked the shit out of me, and I started killing off all my window guests. I’m not happy about it, but I know it has to be done.
That’s a wrap. Word count: 2,089; writing time: less than an hour of real writing, many hours of driving, consternating, napping…err preparing; editing time: fifteen minutes; edited word count: 2,125.
Today’s the last day of writing freedom. For the next twenty-five to thirty days, I will be pounding out 2,000 words a day in what will hopefully be a coherent, continuous, consistent story. If it’s not that, then I’m hoping it’ll at least be 50,000 words, which is what it takes to call yourself a Nanowrimo winner (there are no real winners, in the capitalist sense, just people who finish the 50,000 word goal, with no weight given to quality of words or how many repetitive words or pages there are—and even less weight given to the number of useless asides that have more to do with consternating than moving the plot forward, but, as I have a tendency to do, I digress).
But before I get there, there’s time enough for one more story. One more thought experiment, where I’ll throw out an idea and start building on it until I get close to the 2,000 word goal for the day. Let’s see where that thought takes me today.
“Stop writing about chairs,” Claire said. She looked intently at Tomas, his hands poised above the keyboard, his face scrunched up with a constipated look. She used to love that look. She used to love how he could be in the middle of a train station with thousands of people passing around him, and as long as he typed, he was oblivious to everything, even her. “No more chairs. No more red chairs, no more rocking chairs, no more chairs with personality, and certainly no more chairs with memories of the people who sat in them. Please! For the love of everything that you hold holy and dear and for my own sanity—something you used to think about and care for much more—please, please, please stop writing about chairs.”
Tomas didn’t look at Claire as she spoke. He couldn’t understand her anymore. She used to support him in everything he did. She was why he was able to write for as long as he wrote and as freely as he wrote. She never worried about what he wrote or complained about how it came out. He just knew that she was there for him no matter what happened. He stared at the computer screen unmoving after she finished. His head then turned slowly toward her, his neck craning and twisting in an exaggerated almost unnatural movement. When his eyes finally met hers, he stared patiently. Flakes of yellow hovered in his bronzed eyes, which burrowed into Claire, searching for something deep in her, something he used to know and understand. She was never able to last under that stare, and today was no different. She turned away. “What is wrong with chairs?” Tomas asked finally.
“What is wrong with chairs? How many times must we go through this? Everything you’ve written for the past three years has been about chairs. And every single story, and there must have been a hundred of them, from short shorts to novellas to poetry to books to short stories to, I don’t even know the names of all your writing experiments, what they all involved was chairs, lots and lots of chairs. They all started nowhere, went nowhere, and ended nowhere, but they all had a chair as the central character. You’ve described every type of chair that has ever been made. You’ve describe how the chair was made, who has sat in it, when it was destroyed, how long the legs lasted under the weight of garbage when it finally arrived at the dump. You’ve developed histories for generations of chairs, dating back to the middle ages, and followed the course of the chair, its family, its technical development, its, I don’t know, its everything through to modern times and sometimes into mythical futures. Not one of your writings has been historically accurate or valuable. You’ve spent pages and pages of precious words and time—god knows how I know how much time you’ve spent hunched over that computer screen—describing every scratch, dent, and broken leg in your imaginary chairs. I think you’ve exhausted every plot possibility, twist likelihood, character relation to and with and concerning a chair. You are addicted to writing about chairs—that must be it—and it’s not healthy. There is so much more that you must want to say. There is so much more that you used to say.
“When we first married, do you remember that? Do you remember the beautiful poetry you wrote? The wonderful stories that magazines actually wanted to publish? Do you remember the checks, the money you used to receive for your writing? Do you remember any of it?”
Tomas pushed his glasses higher up his nose and snorted. “It’s not about the money, Claire. I told you before we married that it wasn’t about the money. It was about the art—the creation.”
“I used to believe you, Tomas. I used to believe in your artistry. I used to laugh at the thought of the starving artist. I was willing to support you in your art. I was the one who convinced you that you should pursue it. Don’t you remember any of it? Don’t you remember almost giving up on your dream? How you used to struggle for hours to write one word and just sit there, swearing to all the gods in the heavens that you would never lift a pen in a creative way again. How you would accept a job, any job, and give up on your dream. How, even when your work was published, you were never satisfied with the product. That it felt like you had more to say and a better way to say it. Does any of this ring a bell in that warped mind of yours?”
Tomas rose from his plastic chair and snatched the papers that Claire held. “I didn’t ask you to read my story. I know you don’t like my writing anymore. Please don’t read it again. I know you think I should have more important things to say. That I should tell better stories that will find a larger audience, perhaps win a few literary awards. That’s not what I’m about, Claire. I’m about the writing, the words, the, the, you know, the art. You used to understand that. I thought you loved me for that.”
Claire couldn’t talk to Tomas. Everything he said was true and yet she could not understand what had happened to him. She did believe in him and always had. She would probably continue believing in him, in his potential. But she saw him wasting his talents. She didn’t care about the money—well, she did care, but not because she needed him to make any. She just wanted him to feel accepted. She remembered how happy he was when he felt accepted. But it had been so long since anything he wrote was published, and worse, since she enjoyed anything he wrote.
“Claire, maybe I should stop writing for today. I can finish this later. I know it’s been years since anyone has published my writing, but I am trying. I send out my manuscripts every week. They just don’t understand what I’m trying to do. I thought you did. I thought you were finally coming around to it. Do you remember last week when I showed you the yellow chair story? You laughed! I haven’t seen you laugh at one of my stories in such a time. It was such a relief to see you take enjoyment from a story of mine. That’s what I need from you, Claire. That’s what I love about you.”
Claire’s heart pumped blood directly into her stomach. She couldn’t tell him that her laugh was not at his jokes or his clever asides, but more of an insane cackle when she realized that a perfectly good story, one that started with a family dominated by a scheming mother and a weak father, degenerated into a treatise about the evils that a family could impart on a wooden rocking chair. She just didn’t understand him anymore. She didn’t understand his art or why he bothered with it.
“Talk to me, Claire. Tell me what you’re thinking. I want to understand you. I want us to go back to the way we used to be. Do you want me to give this up, stop writing? I can’t do what you ask. I can’t stop writing the way I write. I can only stop writing completely. Never put another word on the paper. I’ll do it for you.” Tomas willed Claire to understand him. He willed her to understand that he was not trying to manipulate her or guilt her or change her. He would stop writing if she asked. He almost wanted her to ask. He sometimes didn’t understand his writing anymore. He knew it was valuable, that he was pursuing something, searching for something, but he wasn’t sure he would ever arrive. He’d rather just hang up his hat and give up his art. Yes, that’s what he would do. Never write again. Accept that no matter how hard he tried, how hard he strove for the perfection that he knew existed, he was never intended to reach it.
Claire chewed her cheek. “I don’t want you to give it up. I fell in love with you because you wrote and reached that part of yourself that I knew I could never reach. I want you to continue it, continue it because you want to. I never want to drag you down, but I want you to write something else, anything else. I don’t understand your writing anymore. I don’t know why you write about chairs. Maybe if you could explain it—”
“I can’t, Claire. I don’t understand it myself.” There. Now she would finally realize. His writing, his methodology, his chairs, he didn’t understand any of it. He just knew that he had to write it, that there was something there, something that if he could find the right way to say it, the right way to write it, he could share something beautiful.
“Oh, Tomas, I know! I see you struggling with it. I see you strangling each word, each story. Just put it aside. Don’t ever mention a chair again in your writing. Find something else to focus on. Tell your stories. Go back to your fantasy shorts. Do you remember Ernie, the editor over at Dragon Magazine? He loved your work. He wanted you to supply him with as many stories as you could generate. Why don’t you go back to writing those stories? Just, please, no more chairs.”
Tomas felt crestfallen. He was sure that she would see it. But she didn’t. Like him, she didn’t see what he had to offer anymore. “I don’t know what to do, Claire. I can’t write those stories for Ernie anymore. I can only write what I’ve been writing. Please, tell me not to write again. You know I’ll listen. It’s so frustrating to be so close and not get to what I know is out there. Free me, Claire. Please, free me.”
Claire knew that all she had to tell him was to stop writing and he would do it. When it came to his writing he never joked around and never used it as a bargaining chip in their relationship. She wasn’t sure if she could do this to him. He was a great writer and who was she to doubt him? How could she live with herself if she was wrong, and if years later people discovered his writing and understood it? She knew what she had signed up for when she married him and now she had to live with the consequences.
“I can’t, Tomas,” Claire said. “I can’t free you. I can only support you and feign understanding. That’s the most I can offer.” Claire cried. Tomas watched her for a moment and started to rise. Before he reached her, his face brightened and he sat down and started typing furiously. Claire cried. Tomas, bent over his computer, wrote the outline for a story about a beautifully carved smoking chair that watched the lives of three generations of librarians struggle to keep a underused library open in a small town in Colorado. Claire cried.
There you have it, my final exercise on this hallowed Halloween. I’m curious to see what I write over the next month. I promise it won’t have a chair as the main character (it might be a minor character with a supporting role), but, as I said before I started writing tonight, it will have lots and lots of useless words. I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.
Word count: 2,089; writing time: 2 hours; editing time: variable (I think I might stop tracking this since I’ve returned to editing in parts while writing); caffeination: tall mocha; word count after editing: 2,163.
Early, early, early. It is 3am Seattle time, and I’m sitting in Newark airport, waiting to board my airplane after a whirlwind two-day tour of NYC. My creative juices haven’t started flowing yet—they haven’t really been flowing for a few days now. My crazy jet setting and lack of scheduled sleep has thrown my head into a crazy land where, as I mentioned yesterday, ice picks are the chosen weapons of torture.
I thought about editing one of my older stories, but for $6.95 for internet access, I resisted looking one up, which was all for the best. I fell into this fun vignette:
So, this kid Charlie, I don’t think I told you about him, he’s a medium-sized kid, the one that sits next to me in the back of my Spanish class and pretends to shoot spitballs with an oversized straw. He got into this fight with Roger, the guy with the nose—a big kid, medium tall with lots of pimples. I didn’t see the fight, but Charlie was walking home with Eddie, and Eddie told me all about it. I trust Eddie. He’s strange but good at telling stories. Eddie is short and his nose always looks like it should be running, there’s always flaking red skin and other yucky stuff around it—now that I really think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen him blow it or any snot dripping from it. Maybe it’s a skin disease or some other thing.
Charlie and Eddie were walking home together after school. We’re in New York, I should tell you, Brooklyn if you want to get particular, and the day’s a good one. The sky is three-dimensional. Do you know those skies? It’s like looking into s holographic picture where you see depth even though the picture is on a flat piece of paper. Three dimensions are easy to see when there are clouds floating every which way, but that day there weren’t. It was just blueness, and the blueness was three-dimensional. As I said, I wasn’t there that day, but when Eddie told me about the weather, I knew just the day. How did anyone forget such a sky?
Now this Charlie kid, he thought he was pretty smart. He always had that attitude, like when you spoke with him, you’d think he was looking down his crooked nose at you. He was a cool guy once you got to know him, but the first time I saw him, and you should know I’m a nice guy, not judgmental or anything like that, the first time I saw him, I wanted to punch him in the nose. I’m not surprised that his nose was like that, all bent like. Some other guy must have had the same thought and popped him one. I wouldn’t blame that guy, but he probably should have given Charlie a chance like I did. You never know who the good people are until you give them a chance. I stopped acting on those initial itches because they got me into too much trouble. Charlie was a loyal guy, the type who would walk an extra blocks because you had an inkling, or layout some of his cash because you came up a few cents short for the weeks’ comics.
The weather that day was cold. I’ve now lived almost fourteen years next December, and, you probably know this already, but those three-dimensional skies, they only come out on cold days. Those blistering cold days, the ones where any exposed skin turns bright red and your breath looks like exhaust smoke from a car. The weather was cold, but Eddie and Charlie didn’t mind. They were walking home, talking about the kind of stuff that ten-year olds talk about, like movies and junk. I can tell you they weren’t talking about sports because Charlie didn’t know the first thing about sports. He was strange that way. Eddie knew a little about it, having played in little league and everything. But Charlie, I don’t think he ever played on a team. He’s the kid we always picked last in anything we played in the schoolyard. It wasn’t because we didn’t like the guy—I mean, some of us didn’t like him, but most of us thought he was cool. It was just that he was real skinny. Now he’s probably one of the tallest kids in class, but back then, he was ordinary-sized and skinny with wrists so small I could wrap my thumb and pinky around it. If I was drawing him for my comic book, it would take just a few hard lines here and there and you’d know right who I was talking about. That’s if you knew him.
I don’t even think he realized how skinny he was. I’m not sure he thought much about what he looked like. Just to give you an example, so you can have a better idea of what I’m talking about, Charlie wore these plastic braces. Eddie, Charlie, and I were once talking, and Eddie made this real funny comment. Eddie was like, ‘Charlie, you eat cream cheese for lunch?’ We were standing around and talking in the afternoon between classes. Charlie said ‘nah, he had pizza,’ which was a good choice because there were some real good pizza joints around the school. I’m talking high quality. They say it’s the water that makes the pizza good, you know Brooklyn water. I don’t believe they put water in pizza, so I think they’re full of shit, but I’m just telling you what they say. Anyway, then Eddie says, and this was funny, I almost peed my pants funny, Eddie says, ‘Then what’s that gunk between your braces?’ You see, Charlie’s braces always had this white goo around them. I never thought of it before Eddie said something, but it did look like cream cheese stuck there. Eddie said things like that. He was quick, that Eddie. But Charlie didn’t care much about how he looked so it flew right passed him. I was dying, though. That Eddie’s a funny one.
Charlie lived on Gravesend Road, right off the Avenue P. I don’t think he liked living much at Gravesend. Don’t get me wrong, there wasn’t a cemetery or anything there, although I guess that would have been pretty cool. Charlie always said that name it Gravesend because someone famous died there or something. It would have been cool if there was a dangerous curve with one of those 100-foot drops, but there wasn’t. Charlie always thought it might have been a shootout between the police and gangsters over prohibition. Charlie was into gangsters and knew the names of all the famous ones, including how they died or where they went to jail, and who caught them. But for everything Charlie knew, he couldn’t find a reference to what happened on Gravesend. I guess we just lived in a boring part of Brooklyn. Charlie’s block was cool because he lived right near a park. It wasn’t a good park like Bedford park or the schoolyard, but it was somewhere to hang out when we got bored hanging out in Charlie’s basement.
Now Roger’s house was a few blocks away from Charlie. He lived on Avenue R with his parents. Roger didn’t have any brothers or sisters and his parents were all over him. When I’d go to visit, and I only visited him once or twice when we were much smaller, his parents treated me great. Most other parents, my parents included, think friends are something you have to put up with, but only put up with for so long. They’re nice to us for a bit, but once you overstay your welcome or eat one too many times at their dinner table, they begin to drop hints like don’t you have your own home, what, your food is not good enough, get the hell out of here, stuff like that. But Roger’s parents, they couldn’t wait to feed me. Roger’s father was a husky guy. He shaved his head completely shaved and had these ingrown eyeballs, the type that you were sure would disappear completely, eye socket and everything, when he shut his eyes. His mother was a tall lady with a very long face, which she had unfortunately passed on to Roger. I remember her because she was quiet during dinner and wore a large amount of make-up. I’m not sure why, but most other moms didn’t wear make-up.
Roger yelled at his parents during dinner that night. I yell at my parents, plenty. I do, and I find I have to do it more and more as they grow older. It’s as if they can’t even hear me anymore. I hear old people start going deaf and senile, I just didn’t think it would happen to my parents so soon. But Roger, he yelled at his parents, not because they were nagging or bothering him or telling him to do something unnatural, which is why I yell at my parents. No, he was yelling at them because they didn’t get stuff just the way he wanted it. And his parents took it. They sat there all quiet like and didn’t say a word. His mother event tried apologizing but then he yelled at her for interrupting him. It was weird.
That night we ordered food from this place called Brennan & Carr, an old-style roast beef joint. Before joining Roger for dinner, I never ate from there. My parents didn’t believe in taking us out to dinner. Back then, we had to suffer with my mother’s terrible cooking except when we went on long drives usually somewhere far away. Now I get to go there frequently. My mother doesn’t cook as much anymore, probably because of that impending senility. Brennan & Carr has this great roast beef sandwich, but at the time, because I didn’t know better, I ordered a cheeseburger. The cheeseburger is not bad, but it’s not as good as the roast beef. For the roast beef, they dip the bun in this big vat of gravy, and then dip the roast beef in the same vat with a slice of cheese slapped on it. It’s delicious. So the one time I went to Roger’s house, his parents called ahead our order on the telephone, and went to pick it up. Roger ordered two roast beef sandwiches, fries, and an order of mozzarella sticks.
The food came in brown paper bags, with the sandwiches, fries, and sticks wrapped in the restaurant-grade tinfoil. Speaking of food, that tinfoil always reminds me of the grilled cheeses I now order from the various diners. While the roast beef from Brennan & Carr is good, the cheeseburger in those fancy tin wrappings, those are amazing. Roger’s mother brought the food to the table and his father took out the drinks and silverware. As his mother distributed the food there was a problem. Brennan & Carr only gave us three roast beef sandwiches, and both his parents had ordered one. You should have heard him screaming. It was like his parents had stabbed him or something. I thought his father was going to run away from the table and cry or something, he was that upset. My father would have backhanded me if I had said the things that Roger said. He didn’t curse, probably because we were still too young to know the good ones, but he called his mother a whore and his father a balding has-been. I sat there astonished. I would have taken notes and tried it on my own parents, but I knew better. Besides the back-handing, I’d probably spent the rest of the month locked in my room with my computer broken into tiny bits. I guess it had something to do with being an only child. Charlie and I both come from bigger families, I have a brother and a sister and Charlie has two sisters, and our parents wouldn’t put up with what Roger dished out.
Roger and Charlie live close to each other, and from what I knew, they were on and off friends. Some years in school, they talked, and I think I even saw them at the movies together. Eddie tells me this great story about Roger and Charlie—this other great story, not the one about the fight, which I will get to eventually. All three of them grew up together and when they were young, they were all good friends. When Eddie and Charlie visited Roger in his house, Roger wanted to play ninjas. Roger was always talking about ninjas and from what I saw when I went to dinner at his house, he owned a large collection of ninja weapons, like shurikens (the whirly ninja throwing stars), tzis (the three-pointed unsharpened knives made famous by Michaelangelo, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle), grappling hook and rope, and a few katana (ninja short swords). Roger also owned a crossbow. Now, I’m pretty sure that crossbows were not ninja weapons, but I think he made an exception because of its black color. So, Charlie and Eddie were playing ninja with Roger in his bedroom when Roger whipped out his crossbow. It was fully loaded and he swung it around, pretending to shoot Charlie and Eddie. Eddie saw right away that he did not want to play this game with a loaded crossbow, and he ducked behind Roger’s bed. But Charlie wasn’t that smart or maybe he didn’t realize that the crossbow was loaded, and he continued to throw his fake kicks and punches. When he got close, Roger shot him. The bolt hit Charlie’s leg. He was lucky that Roger hadn’t put on one of the sharp arrowheads that came with the crossbow. Even without the head, the bolt left a red, circular mark on his leg, a large welt that turned all shades of black and blue a day later. From what Eddie told me, they ran and ran from his house. His parents didn’t know what happened and they wanted Eddie and Charlie to stay, but Charlie and Eddie were running too fast to answer them. After that, Eddie and Charlie stopped visiting Roger’s house. I can’t blame them after Eddie told me the story. Roger has always been a little screwy, if you know what I mean.
After that incident, Roger and Charlie’s relationship took a turn for the worse. From what I’ve been able to make out, at first the relationship wasn’t bad. They weren’t friendly at school, but they didn’t seem to hate each other. Now, I have to tell you something about Charlie. He’s one of those guys who when they find something funny about somebody, something they can latch on to, like, you know, someone wears jogging pants all the time or has a large head, Charlie keeps the joke going. And going. And going. He just doesn’t quit. Someone like me would maybe say it once or twice and we’d get our laugh, but then we’d think of better or funnier things to say. I’m not saying Charlie was worse or meaner than other kids were. It’s just that Charlie really dug in on you. He found the weakness and then stuck his knife into you and started twisting it, all slow and painful, if you know what I mean. It wasn’t good enough to wound, Charlie was all about the torture. I can respect torture, just not repetitive boring torture.
Charlie started in on Roger’s nose. Roger’s nose was one of those rare characteristics that we didn’t talk about at school. It was so freakishly large that it was just too easy. Its width was normal and its proportions from the tip to the top would have been normal if Roger’s head was larger, but it wasn’t. The nose didn’t fit his face. It was huge, starting almost above his eyebrows and ending with a hook downward that covered the top part of his upper lip. When we were real young, we of course took our jabs at it, but that died off quickly because it showed a lack of imagination. To make fun of Roger’s nose was like making fun of the sun because it shined too bright. His nose was who Roger was and we accepted it. Sure, we’d say things like, the guy with the nose when we were describing him, but it was more like a characteristic, just as we’d call Peter the Chinese guy just so you’d know who we were talking about. But a few weeks after the night with the crossbow, Charlie started talking about Roger’s nose. Anytime Roger came up, Charlie would make a fist and put the thumb side of his fist over his own nose. It wasn’t an accurate betrayal, because, to be honest, Roger’s nose was larger than Charlie’s skinny fist, but we laughed. Charlie was careful to make the Roger nose only behind Roger’s back, but because everyone started doing it, Roger eventually saw it, and I’m sure it didn’t take him long to track down who had started it.
Charlie and I are both going to be comic book artists. We’ve known it for as long as we’ve known each other. Charlie is a whiz at coming up with new superheroes and writing stories and bubbles. Me, I’m more of the artist. I draw the frames with my trusty [special comic pencil] and ink it with my [special comic inker]. We try to get a comic book done every few month. This year, we hope to start publishing photocopies of the books to our friends and family. I don’t think we’ll make much money, but if it can help pay for our huge comic book collection and the ink and paper and all the rest of the junk you need to draw them, then it’ll be worth it. While Charlie mostly writes the story, he is particularly good at drawing caricatures. And this is what got him in trouble with Roger. He started drawing one of Roger, and I’ll admit it, it was pretty damn funny. He would start with a small semicircle, almost like a nose, and you’d think, sure he’s going to draw a pretty big sized nose for Roger, and the semicircle was big, but not huge. Then he’d draw a humongous second semicircle connected to the first one, and the nose would look tiny. The first time I saw it, I didn’t get it. But then he’d look at you, and Charlie’s face was thin, real thin, but he could make these strange, exaggerated faces, like pulling his lips really wide apart or separating his eyebrows and then crossing his eyes. He was always pulling stuff like that. So after he drew the two semicircles, he would look at you and his face would be calm, no looks or gestures or anything, and that would surprise you because you’d be expecting something. With his face expressionless, he’d bring up his fist to his nose to give the sign of the Roger nose. And then he’d start laughing. Once he started laughing, it sometimes took him a bit to stop his shaking enough to start drawing, but when he did, boy was he right to laugh. He put a dot in the small semicircle for the eye, a half-circle for the mouth, and a few sticks for the body coming out of the smaller semicircle. The huge circle is Roger’s nose! Damn, it’s funny even thinking about it now. But as I told you before, Roger couldn’t leave funny enough alone. He performed that drawing for just about everyone in the class, sometimes multiple times, and began putting it on all the wooden desks. Roger was bound to see it, and he did.
Roger isn’t much of a get in your face type of guy. He’s intense but he broods. He’ll start talking about someone for a while, and he might give that person nasty looks, but he’d be unlikely to approach him and start an argument. Part of the reason might be because he usually lost those arguments. He was not quick on his feet and except for the dingers he hit his parents with, which, when I look back are probably ones he’d been practicing for a long time, his insults always end up rather flat. Charlie, on the other hand, is great at insults. While he is repetitive, when he gets started and you get him off his stock material, he can really take someone’s eye out. Roger probably did the smart thing by not approaching Charlie in the schoolyard about the drawing and the Roger nose. Hell, even I, and not to be immodest but I’m quick on my feet, try not to get into words with Charlie where others can see us. It just always ends badly for his Charlie’s opponent. So Roger bided his time.
The rumor around school was that Roger had started taking karate lessons. It made sense with Roger’s love of ninjas.
***
If you made it this far, then I’m impressed. Thanks to the long flight and the early rising, I spent many hours trapped in airports and airplanes, and what better to do when trapped then dreg up some memories, manipulate them to make them more interesting, and turn them into a story. I’m still going strong, and only landing or hitting the end of my battery will stop me from continuing. Where was this creativity and inspiration when I was trying to write a measly 2,000 words?
After reading through it, I might drop Eddie and just put the narrator in Eddie’s place. I don’t think Eddie is adding much to the story, but I’ll let this first draft stew for a bit before I make a major change like that.
After yesterday, I’m having trouble getting back into my story. I know where it’s going since it’s based loosely on something that happened to me when I was much younger. I just need to suck it up and start writing. I’m waiting for my mocha to kick in, and I figured I’d jot down some words before I jump in. Julie made some sounds (I love that phrase) about me not drinking caffeine, particularly since I’ve been complaining about headaches lately. She referenced my prolific writing day yesterday as evidence that caffeine is not necessary to write—a theory that I ascribe to after comparing my caffeine-influence writing days with my caffeine-free days. I’m still a proponent of caffeine for my writing, but if my headaches start coming back without explanation (this weekend the explanations were easy: too much redeye traveling and not enough sleeping), then maybe, and that’s a big maybe, I’ll look into cutting down on the caffeine. As it is now, I’m limiting myself to one tall caffeinated drink a day.
I only have a paragraph written so far for today. I found a nice bucks of stars to ply my trade. It’s about a ten-minute drive from my house (with weekend traffic), and it might be my new weekend hangout. I tried writing at the Castle but that didn’t work. I searched on the internet for a nearby bucks and came upon this one, which is on my way to work. After talking to Julie, I jumped in the Batmobile and punched in the address and away I went. I hoped there was something to eat around the bucks, and when I finally arrived (after taking a few wrong turns—don’t ask, but it wasn’t my little lady in the car’s fault), I discovered much to happiness a Subway restaurant (which in my mind is not fast food in the bad sense, i.e., the let’s kill tens of thousands of cows and mush them into a million hamburgers so each burger has at least the remains of 1,200 cows in it) right next to the bucks. And, this is even better, they built a second bucks across the street from this one, with a fireplace blazing inside. You can imagine my excitement. Once I left the Batmobile and patted my pockets, however, I made a terrible discovery. I left my money in the Castle: no money, no food, no coffee, no writing. I was starving, but I drove the Batmobile all the way back to the Castle and returned here. I’ve now eaten, drank my mocha, and found a comfortable chair. All I need to do is start writing and stop musing.
Here goes nothing:
Part I
The rumor around school was that Roger had started taking karate lessons, which made sense with his love of ninjas. Now, I liked the Saturday afternoon ninja movies as much as the next kid, but Roger’s fascination went beyond that. One Halloween, I think it was back in third grade or somewhere around that time, Roger dressed up as a ninja in a black costume with lots of sashes and hidden pockets. The principal would have none of that. The school officials always said that our school was a nonviolent place, a place where, now get this, I’ll quote them because it always cracks me up, “a place where you check your violence at the school door.” Me, I never believed them. I had two broken nose and was in three fights before I turned ten, and I’m not a violent guy. But when they come at you, you have to put up or bad things will happen. When the principal finished searching Roger, he found thirty different weapons, and from what I heard from Oscar, who was in the principal’s office when Roger’s mother came in for the discussion, Roger would have gotten suspended for sure if his mother didn’t start crying. From what I heard, they gave him counseling during his study hall for the rest of the year. Much good that did.
Over the last few years, many karate schools began opening in our neighborhood—after the first one popped up, they came in swarms. I think it had something to do with those Saturday afternoon martial arts flick. That’s some good shit, and I know I would have signed up in my parents could have paid for it. But that’s cool. From what I saw with the kids who went there, they did a lot of kicking, but all those fancy kicks weren’t much good in the schoolyard. With so many karate schools, it’s more than possible that Roger attended one. He didn’t talk about, but you had the feeling that something changed in him. He used to walk around all hunched over, like if he didn’t keep moving forward he’d fall over. Around the time that people started talking about him and karate school, his posture improved and his chest puffed out. That’s around the time that he started glaring at Charlie.
Now Charlie I knew went to a karate dojo. There was a Russian kid in our class, Mihail, who Charlie hung around. Mihail was the first kid to take karate and I think he got his black belt when he was nine. Mihail convinced Charlie to go to the karate class. Charlie’s parents encouraged him to do things.
There’s an attack stance in which you stand with one leg in front of the other and one fist in front of your face and the other one a bit lower. I’ve seen this stance in many movies and those specials where they show karate competitions. Charlie is a serious guy and a bit of a wimp when he’s not hiding behind his clever words. He’s also terribly afraid of dogs. I’m not talking about the scary dogs. I’m talking about all dogs, even the tiny ones with barks that sound more like little girls whining. We were walking to his house a year ago and passed a fenced garden. A small dog jumped out from behind a wall in the garden and charged at us. Charlie fell back into his karate stance and gave a loud, “Kiya!” It’s a cry that they teach you at karate school. I bent down and let the dog lick my fingers through the gray fence. I could see Charlie’s heart beating through his thin t-shirt. I told you he was skinny, and I’ve seen him with his shirt off when we went swimming, and you could make out each rib in his cheat and just about see his heart beat underneath his skin. It’s freaky to look at his almost pinkish blue skin and see bones sticking out and organs doing their thing. I never saw someone jump so high or yell so loud when such a small dog charged forward. But that’s Charlie for you.
Roger started looking at Charlie funnily at school. We all saw it. He started talking behind Charlie’s back. At first, he told people what a jerk Charlie was, and attempted to badmouth him to anyone who would listen. After a few weeks, he went further. He said he was going to kick Charlie’s ass. Each time he saw Charlie, he would make that sudden jerking motion toward Charlie, the I-made-you-flinch motion, and each time Charlie would jerk back. He usually resisted falling into his fighting position but not always. Once, during gym, Roger jerked at him and Charlie fell over as he tried to get into his fighting position. Charlie stood up, brushing himself off, he started in on Roger. He began with the Roger nose, which everyone had seen already and we all felt was a weak comeback. But that was just his warm-up act. Looking back, we should have jumped in and stopped him, but there was something fascinating about watching Charlie work. His insults were a real art, if you know what I mean.
Things left to write:
Charlie pisses Roger off enough for Roger to tell him he’s going to get him.
The fight and flying toe stomp.
The aftermath.
Inconsistencies: Where did Eddie go? I’m confused about Charlie and the narrator’s relationship. At first, they seem to barely know each other, and then they’re writing comics together.
I wish I could write more now, but this is not going well. I seem to have lost the narrator’s voice, and I’m going to call it an afternoon. I’m hoping to find inspiration later tonight and continue. No promises, though.
I edited and changed some of the early paragraphs, but I again ran out of steam. I will rewrite this section before I finish the draft. There are a few ideas I want to get out before I move on to the fight.
Story idea upon awakening this morning: A high school boy drives his car off a cliff during a race. A high school girl becomes obsessed with the dead boy. She slowly comes to believe that he was her boyfriend and he drove off the cliff because of his love for her. Hilarity ensues.
Story idea from my memories: (1) detention for throwing snow; (2) Russian friend and prejudice
Voyeur:
A young workman is eating. He wears jeans and brown workman boots. Kneepads cover his knees. The pads have black straps and a two-part white plastic covering, made up of two circles in a figure eight. There are rubberized lines in the middle of both circles, with the top one larger and going over his knee, and the lower one smaller and going under his knee where the other part of his leg would hit the ground. He wears sunglasses over his blond, curly hair, and has a wooden stick over his left ear. He’s wearing a gray, striped button down shirt and a pink t-shirt underneath it.
Two police officers are sitting at a table talking. The workman keeps trying to strike up a conversation with them. He starts with, “Be careful I’m armed,” pulling out his tape measure and extending it out a few feed. “It goes out to ten feet. You better be careful.”
The police officers do their best to ignore him.
“You guys get to walk around with these cool toys on your belt. I only get to wear a few tools and stuff.”
I’m not sure if he’s slow or just conversational. He’s eating a cake and taking large bites, chewing with lots of jaw motion under his pinkish skin. His boots look too large for him, they’re steel-toed, which might present this illusion. He has tiny ears and greenish eyes. He has a dimple on his chin and on both sides of his face when he smiles at his own jokes.
I’m embarrassed for him. It’s painful to watch him try to strike up conversation with the officers only for them to answer noncommittal and ignore him. He’s comfortable with it and tries a few more times to start a conversation. I can’t stop watching him, hoping that he does or says something. It’s painful like sitcoms are painful—I’m thinking of Three’s Company—where at the end the situation and misunderstanding is set up and the falls begin. I hated that part of the show. Why is that funny? Other people’s pain should not be funny.
The workman leans forward trying to listen to the conversation and waiting for an opening. He drinks from a Subway cup and eats a brownie, cookie, and cake. I’m not sure why this fascinates me, but I felt the need to put it down before it was lost to the world. I’m sick that way.
He’s definitely slow. When the police leave, he tries to say something to them, but I can’t make it out. He scrambles his words together and makes funny faces at the young children that sit around him. The first time they look, and laugh. Then he continues to try to make the faces, but they ignore him, and he tries harder, which just makes the four-year olds ignore him more.
“I can get away with making faces to kids. I can’t get away with it for other people,” he says to the children’s mother. He wants people to hear him and think he’s clever or funny.
Here’s a gem I wrote after lunch today when all of the blood in my body pooled in my stomach. It’s an appallingly bad paragraph, but I couldn’t resist starting this musing with it:
Fatigue soaked dreariness encompasses my drying bones as I fight through a post-lunch food coma that’s decided that for now my brain and all of its messaging will stop moving and start sighing pitifully. Oh to complain most eloquently, that most virtuous of beasts, why do you avoid me?
I’m hoping the quality of my writing is directly proportionate (I guess which is different from indirectly proportionate, whatever that is) to the quality of the fire burning in my fireplace. Today I lit the perfect fire. Yesterday, the fire was weak, pathetic almost. I wasted tons of paper as kindling, but I didn’t place the wood properly and the fire burnt sporadically at best giving little light or warmth. The only good that came out of the fire yesterday was two partially burnt pieces of wood. I used those as the base of today’s fire along with a new log (wood side down, of course), added only a few pieces of newspaper as kindling, and I was rewarded with my best burning fire ever, the type of fire you only see in TV shows and commercials for Christmas carols. I tried to take a few pictures of the fire, but I think the excitement and the flash weakened the fire a bit, and it doesn’t look half as good as it did before I started clicking away.
Just as I was starting to get into writing my story, I receive an e-mail from Chuck, and in that e-mail he off-handedly mentions rereading some of the letters (see my archive section between 1995 and 1996) I wrote him when he first moved to Korea to get a feeling for what he was doing (by the way, Chuck, I have those letters under my bed in Brooklyn if you want copies of them). Suffice to say, I spent thirty minutes reading those older and horribly written—I’m not sure English was my first language—letters to search for inklings of my future writing voice. There are moments when I can almost see it, but then it runs away. Damn, I was a confused and sad individual back then. Now look at me: I have a purpose in my life, a love in my life, and a good job to support said purpose and love. Okay, enough of that, I have to get back to pursuing that purpose.
We return now to the streets of Brooklyn for the continuing saga of The Flying Toe Stomp.
Part I
Part II
Our school gym has a heavy, lingering polyurethane smell that overpowers you when you walk in, but fades into the background once you’re there for a few minutes, like the buzzing on walkie-talkies. The odor destroys your sense of smell for hours, ruining lunch if you are unlucky enough to have gym in the morning. Even opening the gym’s back doors didn’t help. If anything, when those doors are open—and they only open the doors when they fear that we’ll drop dead from the heat—the air outside the gym starts smelling badly but the gym air doesn’t change.
Charlie crossed the line with Roger during a morning gym period. The gym doors were open on an abnormally hot spring day where all you can think about was the heat and the impossibly slow moving clock. When you bothered to look around, and on days like that your body repays every bit of effort you expended in buckets of sweat, things looked wavy. Everyone acted out in class eager for the teacher to send them to the principal’s office since his office, like every administrator’s offices in the school, had air conditioning, a luxury they wouldn’t think of wasting on students. The teachers caught on quick, though. Only the most resourceful students could find an act that created enough anger in the teacher to send you to the office, but not enough to risk a long detention. Students overcrowded the nurse’s office and she ended up treating them in the hallways, painfully close but still outside her air-conditioned office.
Roger was playing his made-you-flinch game with Charlie during that gym period. We were standing around hoping the gym teacher would forget to come to class. The thought of playing anything on such a hot day was next to unbearable. Charlie and I were standing around and Roger joined us along with a few other kids. We were arguing about whether Mr. Gerling, our outsized gym teacher, was capable of speaking in full sentences or just grunts and explosions of words as he did during class. Roger jerked toward Charlie, his fists raised, and pulled back before he got close. Charlie took a quick step back and fell over. I’m not sure if Charlie was trying to get into his fighting stance, or just make sure that he was out of reach of Roger’s fists, but whatever went through his head at that moment, the result was he ended up flat on his butt in the gym.
The rest of the class gathered around Charlie and Roger and there were some catcalls and yells of “fight, fight.” Charlie remained seated for a while and we didn’t know what he was going to do. His eyes were watery and I was hoping for his sake that he wouldn’t cry. He surprised everyone, though, and instead of standing up, he slowly lifted his fist toward his face, his thumb inward, and formed the Roger nose. Someone chuckled and there were more cries for a fight, but to tell you the truth, I was disappointed. I expected more from Charlie. Charlie wasn’t done yet, however. He was far from done. Charlie removed his fist from his nose and lowered his arm slowly until both hands were behind him. He stared at Roger the entire time and used the palms of his hands to push himself up. He wiped off the back of his shorts and put his hands on his hips. Looking back, I should have jumped in and stopped him, but there was something fascinating about watching him work. His insults were a real art, if you know what I mean.
Charlie spoke quietly, and the circle of students closed in tighter. I think at that moment, Roger was having second thoughts. He didn’t want to fight Charlie even though we all thought that he would break Charlie in half like a fallen twig. It looked more as if Roger wanted to get out of there before Charlie started, but it was too late for that. There was no way that the circle of kids was going to let him get away that easily. That’s when Charlie said it. He said, and to this day I remember the words he used, he said, “Roger, your flinching didn’t knock me over. What you don’t realize—and I’m not sure if it’s because your acne sucks the essential oils from your brain or your greasy hair—is that when you jerk forward, your nose is at least five feet from your face. Even when you pull back, it’s too late.” There gym was dead silent. Even the cars driving on the avenue outside the school made no noise. We waited to see what Roger would do, what he would say. If I had the time to take odds, and I would have made a killing if I had, it would have been one to three that Roger would swing, three to one that Roger would say something lame, and ten to one that Roger would turn and run away. Roger started to say something, his face turning splotchy red and his mouth and jaw moving, but no words came out. Charlie stood in front of him and he made a fist and placed the pinky side of his fist on his cheek creating a reverse Roger nose to show us where Roger’s nose had hit him. We couldn’t stand it anymore and the entire class broke into laughter. Roger stood there and said nothing, his face turning redder until even the splotchy white parts stained red. The fight might have happened there if Mr. Gerling didn’t walk in. He barked, “laps,” or his indecipherable rendition of it, and we all groaned in unison and began running around the edge of the gym.
***
Argh! I spent too much time today editing instead of writing. I forgot all the lessons of the Marathon and instead of moving the story forward and getting lots of words on the paper for me to later manipulate, I spent the time forming and sculpting (I love that word) the first three paragraphs into beautiful but stale prose. I did catch a second wind toward the end, but I still don’t feel like I’ve found the voice I had during the first day’s writing.
Part I, Part II, Part III
When something happens in my school, news travels real fast. One time Baylor, yeah, that’s his first name, it’s kind of messed up but he’s the smartest and fastest kid in our grade. When we play punch-football—and, no, it ain’t what you’re thinking, it’s two-hand touch football played with a punchball—his team almost always wins. Baylor runs straight out and we just chuck him the ball usually like ten or twenty feet in front of him. No matter how far in front we throw it, he runs to it and catches it. The only thing you have to watch out for is throwing too far past the end zone, a rule we put in because otherwise it just got ridiculous. We usually made Baylor play quarterback because the quarterback can’t run unless the defense rushes, which we’d kick their asses if they tried to rush Baylor. Anyway, Baylor puked in the cafeteria, and the puke was purple. I don’t know what he ate for lunch, but I don’t know any purple foods. Before the custodian could cover it up with sawdust and sweep it away, almost the whole school came rushing down to see it: the purple puke. We had a substitute teacher that day, so when we heard about it, which was like less than a minute after it happened, we all ran to check it out. I don’t know what the sub was thinking, but for all her ranting and threatening, there wasn’t a student left in her classroom.
By the period after gym, the younger kids started coming up to me to ask what happened. One of them even wanted to tell me about it. He was a little guy, and the little guys always try to get on us bigger guy’s good side, you know what I mean? He tells me that Charlie kicked the kid with nose’s ass so bad that his nose spurted tons of blood all over the gym floor. No kidding, that’s what the kid told me. When I tried to tell him that’s not what happened, he wouldn’t listen. He told me he heard from a good source and he had gone up to the gym and saw the puddle of blood. It’s no use arguing with those little guys. They’re brains are all mushy and everything.
I didn’t see much of Roger that week after the beautiful, humiliating incident in the gym. I can’t really blame him. Roger wasn’t all that popular to begin with, and the humiliation in the gym really wasn’t what he needed. There were lots of rumors flying around about what he was going to do to Charlie, but Charlie didn’t do or say much about it. Charlie came to school and studied and studied. Besides drawing comics, I don’t think he did much but study. I knew in a fight, Charlie would lose badly. I doubted he even knew hot to throw a punch. It just didn’t seem his style. I think he’s trying to make something of himself, and he’s probably scared to death of being sent to the principal’s office and risking his permanent record.
Charlie and I sometimes walk home together, and it was on that three-dimensional day when Roger finally met up with Charlie. We had just turned onto Avenue P, just two blocks from Charlie’s house. We planned to sketch out the next issue for our comic. Our first one sold pretty well, although I was hoping for a few more dollars. I don’t think Charlie cared much about the money, but he loved hearing what people had to say about it. We were talking about the story for the next comic. I remember I was pushing for a giant robot villain, but Charlie had his heart set on flying lizard men. Charlie almost always won those conversations. I’m not sure how he did it, but as we turned, I was taking credit for thinking up the flying lizard men and already describing to Charlie what they would look like.
Roger was standing there and he wasn’t dressed for the cold. Me, I was wearing a very large coat with everything all puffed out.
***
I know, I know, small bites. I’ll get there eventually and put this story to rest. Even the great mountain blah blah blah.
Story idea: (not sure if I wrote this down already): shoveling snow for peanuts
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV
Word file for the Flying Toe Stomp
Roger menaced the corner when we turned. He must have misjudged when we’d make the turn because he looked real cold, as if he’d been waiting for a while. His splotchy face glowed red, and snot, the really gooey kind—which I always found strange, because snot, unlike water, is all gooey when cold and hard when warm—dripped down around his lips. Roger wore a blue ratty sweater and his bare skin poked out of the huge holes left by the wide knitting. It wasn’t a good look, and the cold must have bothered him because his hands were the same shade of red as his face and chest, and he kept rubbing his hands together. He looked bigger than I remembered, not huge, just puffed up like a marshmallow man.
“You think you’re a funny guy,” Roger said. He took a step toward us, well, really toward Charlie but I was still standing next to Charlie, and Roger jerked forward with his fists. This time, Charlie didn’t move. I moved a bit, I’m ashamed to say, but Charlie stood his ground and looked at Roger with his head tilted to the side as if he were studying a strange animal in the zoo.
A group of third graders played across the street from the corner. I didn’t notice them when we first turned, but when Roger spoke, they stopped playing whatever their game was, and watched us. Now, I know you’ve been out of school for a long time, so you probably won’t understand this, but this was a difficult decision for me. Charlie’s my bud, and I’m a good guy who always looks out of my buddies. If I wanted to, I could have pummeled Roger into hamburger meat, but I had to consider the rules, you know. In school, those rules are different, but once you get past the playground, you have to be careful. It wouldn’t take long for everyone to know what happened here at the corner of Avenue P and East 23rd street, and I was giving my next move a lot of thought.
“What, no jokes this time?” Roger said. Roger was moving from foot to foot either in anticipation or because the cold was getting to him.
Charlie still considered Roger and remained silent. He wore a very large, puffy coat, and his thin neck and head poked out of its zippered neck, like a straw in a glass of milk. I half expected him to bring up the Roger nose, and I was tempted to beat him to it, but I still wasn’t sure if I could step in. I could have fought instead of Charlie and no one would have looked down on me. The only problem with that was that the other kids might question Charlie’s manhood, and I wanted to avoid that. A guy’s manhood was all he really had in school. And anyway, Charlie didn’t appear scared or anything, it just looked like he was chewing over his next move.
As I was saying, there are rules in a street fight. You can’t just jump in anytime you want. I mean, you can if the circumstances are right. Let me put it this way, if Roger brought a friend and the friend jumped in, there’d be no problem. I’d be there for Charlie. But he didn’t, and Roger ignored me, he was concentrated and talking only to Charlie. If we both jumped Roger, then that would be wrong, unless we were trying to mug Roger—but that’s a whole different situation, and, besides, we weren’t after Roger’s money.
“You don’t want to make fun of my nose now, huh, Charlie? What, you’re not such a big man without Mr. Gerling saving you?” Roger said. He fell back into a karate stance, his front leg bent and his back leg at a wide angle with his foot facing forward. He placed both of his hands on the sides of his waist and I was real close to just socking him one. There was no way he’d be able to stop me if I jumped on him. I’d pummel him down and it would be fair, in a way. But I looked over to Charlie, who was still standing there and I could have sworn he gave a small shake of his head.
“You sure, Charlie,” I said. This time I definitely saw the shake of his head. I remember shrugging my shoulders and taking a step back. He baked his cake, and it was time for him to eat it.
Roger gave out a loud yell, took a strange, almost diagonal step toward Charlie, moving his back foot toward his front foot, and then forward at the same angle. Charlie rubbed his chin like he was in deep thought and watched Roger get closer. Roger looked close enough to strike at Charlie and Charlie finally raised his hands to his face and formed fists. He still hadn’t said a word.
Roger again brought his back foot forward and stepped diagonally forward and his left arm struck moving and twisting at the last moment. His fist fell into Charlie’s padded jacket and Charlie stepped backward. The punch didn’t penetrate the huge padding of Charlie’s jacket, but he still looked confused—outside of wrestling when he stayed over friends, I don’t think he’d ever been in a fight before and it showed. He moved around Roger, and forced Roger to get out of the ridiculous stance he was in to keep Charlie in front of him.
Charlie’s hands were near his head and he tucked his elbows tightly under his neck. I wasn’t sure if he could even see past his arms. Roger moved in again and tried to punch him, but his punch fell into Charlie’s arms. Roger backed off again.
“This is going to be fun,” Roger said.
Charlie remained silent and kept his arms up around his face. He focused his eyes, brown beady eyes that he used so effectively to make hilarious faces, on Roger’s every move. Roger stepped back and jumped toward Charlie, his front leg extended trying to perform a jump sidekick. One of my favorite games in the arcade is the game called Karate Champ. It’s in the pizza store and I can play it for hours. There are two joysticks and the fighters perform their special moves by moving the joysticks in different directions. Like, if you wanted to do a forward flip you would push the first joystick up and the second joystick down. Likewise, if you wanted to do a kneeling punch, you would push the first joystick down and the second joystick up. You could do a flying sidekick, which is what I think Roger was doing, but all in real life, not in the arcade, by pressing the first joystick up and the second joystick to the right.
Roger jumped toward Charlie and he extended his foot. Charlie scrambled backward and when Roger landed, Roger’s foot had landed on Charlie’s front foot. Roger was still yelling when he landed and he stepped back. Charlie lifted his foot up to his hand and he rubbed it.
“That hurt,” Charlie said completely deadpan. Without even noticing, the kids had crossed the street and were watching the fight from close in. They started laughing, their high-pitched laughter echoing off the line of attached houses that lined the sidewalk. Roger looked at them, rubbed his hands together, turned, and walked away.
As he walked away, Charlie said, “Did you see that? He hit me with the super-honney flying toe stomp. That was amazing.”
***
Yeah, yeah, yeah—the voice—I’m not sure where it went again. But I’m hoping to put all the pieces together, write an ending, and finally finish this first draft. There’s a lot of thinking I’ll put in to the second draft—the characters need to be better developed, and don’t get me started on the voice, but I’m generally happy with the basics of the story and some of the descriptions I came up with.
After finishing the first draft, I will put it aside for a few months. I’ll ask for suggestions before I start in on the rewrite. Looking back, I should have sucked it up and finished it the first day. I didn’t think writing the last parts would be so difficult.
I’ve discovered that most days I have nothing interesting to talk about musing-wise. I think this is one reason I spaced my musings usually a few days or weeks apart. My life is very uninteresting, and when nothing exciting or funny happens, I don’t have much to write.
Caffeinated writings are so much better. I don’t know if it’s the writing or the drinking that’s better, but something definitely is. I’ve decided to use caffeine as god intended: when I haven’t written anything of value for a while, I pop a dose, and see what flies. I can’t promise you anything. I haven’t said anything in about a week now, but I’m trying. I’m struggling to find something to write. I’m excited about today. I finished a presentation to a big group, and Julie is coming. I can’t wait to see her.
The thing about…what? I want to say something, but there’s nothing coming out. I will continue to type and try to find something. How can something keep away from me? What is this something that I’m talking about? Shouldn’t I be looking for something instead of writing about something, or is that nothing? This is all very confusing.
The non-angry driver: why do you have to get angry when you drive? We have the calm man, he watches everything around him and comments on it. I want the anger. Where is the emotions How are you going to share emotions? If this person is stone, why do we want to care about it? Even better:
Two and Eleven
My hands are at two and eleven. I have pretty fingernails. I painted them orange this past weekend. The pinky nail broke, though. I used the stick-on replacement. Do you know the one? It comes with a small bag of glue, two applicants, and two fake nails. It glues on to the end of the real nail and you don’t have to worry about it falling off. You file the stick-on as your regular nail grows out. I sometimes forget which of my nails are real. It’s that good. We’re not moving very fast tonight, are we? There’s lots of traffic. Zoom, zoom, zoom, I say. I like that commercial. It’s the one with the small boy. I think he’s advertising for a car commercial. The little boy is a cutey. The car is cute too, a Mazda or Honda or Mercedes, or something like that. I get confused with all the different car brands out there. It takes enough of my mind to remember what I drive. It’s a blue Buick. It has four doors.
I try to leave plenty of space on all sides of my car. It’s better to be safe than sorry. That’s what my mother always used to say. She’s not saying much anymore. I try to visit her, but she barely recognizes me. She scares me. Don’t you think that’s funny? She’s completely helpless lying in bed. They tell me they have to turn her over every other day to avoid sores on her ass. Even now, I have trouble even saying hi to her. I swear on some days she looks at me and I know she sees me. The doctors told me that she doesn’t. But I know my mother. She’s a fighter. She’s trying to tell me something. I sit next to her bed and watch her from the corner of my eye. She talks in gibberish but she’s still there. She’s watching me. She scares me.
Oh my, listen to the language on that one. You think he’s in a speed derby. “Move along, Mr. Foul Mouth!” We’re all going to get to where we’re going eventually. What’s the rush? I try to get to the left lane as soon as possible. I want to avoid any trouble. All that changing lanes and merging, it’s not for me. I drive straight. My hands on two and eleven, that’s how you keep control of the car. My mother told me that when she taught me to drive. Look around, she said. But don’t do anything sudden. The other people will be better drivers, let them respond to you. I’m constantly looking in my mirrors. Left, right, rearview, left, right, rearview, you have to keep moving your head. When my neck gets sore, I roll my eyes. It’s funny how far you can roll your eyes. My eyes feel like they’re on a rubber band, and if I roll them too far, they snap back.
Hold on a second. My phone is ringing. I tried those headset thingies, but they were too complicated. I barely know how to turn on and off the phone. How am I supposed to know where to plug in the plug thingy? Oh, it’s my sister. “Yes, dear, I’m driving now. No. It’s a fine time to talk. Lots of traffic today, but I’ve left plenty of room in front of me. No, I’m not in a rush. It’s just me in the car. Rain. I can’t believe she would say that! Yes. That’s the radio in the back. It’s a commercial. Yes, I still listen to 93.5. Great. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Uh huh. Yours? Okay, dear. Bye.”
I don’t know what I did before they invented the phone in the car. It gets boring driving around with nobody to talk with. I spend probably half my time on the phone while driving. It’s much more entertaining. I used to talk to my psychic when I drove, but I went away from that. I couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. It’s important to listen to all of her words. They don’t tell you that, but I figured it out the hard way. The psychic is like those oracles from Ancient Rome. Do you know about them? They’re very cryptic. They might say something but mean something completely different. You have to read the fine print. When I talk to her at home, I write down what she says. That way I can really think about it. It’s like a bible study. We spend hours deciphering a single sentence from the bible. When we figure out the meaning, it’s a revelation. Like god is talking to us through his ancient book. We thank god for it. There’s so much truth in that book. I’m not comparing my psychic to Jesus’ teaching. It’s just that you have to evaluate it the same way. There are always cryptic messages inside it.
I’m a friendly driver. There aren’t enough friendly drivers on the road. I don’t usually say things like that. I’ll let anyone in. Sure. I’ll slow down for them if they’re merging on the road. Don’t even get me started on four-way stop signs! I sit there for fifteen minutes sometimes. It’s not as if I’m not in a hurry. I always have places to go. My mother always said better safe than sorry. She said many things. She was a smart lady. I’m sorry. She is a smart lady. She used to tell us to let him do it. Don’t worry about it, she’d say. It’s the way he is. She never left him. Even after he started beating her up. He died three years ago. I cried. My mother slapped me for being so loud during the service. But he was my dad. I guess I was okay with what he did.
At least he never hit me. I wonder why. I always expected him to and sometimes I wish he had. But he bought me gifts when he was around. I guess he deserved some sort of payment for everything he bought me. Now that I think about it, it is strange. My mother never cared what he did to us. It was mostly me. My younger sister was a fat girl. I don’t think my father liked fat girls. He was always on her to lose weight, but she just ate and ate. I thought about being fat like her, but when I started getting a little chunky, my father put a stop to that. He never hit me. He would never do that. I didn’t mind it as much when I got older. It was his way of showing his love. Some things you just have to accept, my mother taught me that too. Acceptance and forgiveness is the way of Jesus.
Did you see that guy? He was tailgating me forever, and then he gives me the finger when he passes. Some people have no manners. Does he really think he’s going to get where he’s going faster? I wonder what could be so important. I guess he probably was in a hurry. It’s hard for me to change lanes. I guess I could have tried for him, but I probably would have made it worse. It’s better if I just stay in this lane. I’m getting off in a few exits anyway. The road really opens up here. I get up to almost fifty miles per hour. When my car runs that fast, I need to pay close attention to the road. It’s hard to see what’s going on all around me when I drive too fast.
That’s my favorite song. I sing it every time it comes on the radio. They used to play it more often. Now I have to call and request it before they’ll play it. “Every man a king, every man a king. For you can be a millionaire. But there's something belonging to others.” My father liked that song. He wasn’t no millionaire. Mother and me and my sister didn’t care. I love hearing myself on the radio. I never know what to say! It usually takes a lot of waiting before they’ll put you on. My commute is long and I don’t mind waiting. My mother taught me patience. She told me patience is a virtue. I remember that well. Whenever I became too anxious, she would slap me and repeat patience is a virtue. It took me many years, but I learned. Patience is a virtue. That’s why I’m such a good driver. I’m not in a rush. Everyone around me wants to get passed, and I say let them. I learned my lessons good. Patience is a virtue, and I’ll get where I’m going when I get there.
Depression strikes at strange times. I’m sitting here—I’ve noticed I do a lot of sitting since I moved to Seattle. I sit in my car for too many hours, at home, at the office, on the bed. Ninety percent of what I do involves sitting, and that sucks—thinking about how horrible I feel, how nobody in the world can feel as bad as I do, especially since the world doesn’t exist outside of my depressed self. I have little explanation for my state. Rarely do emotional states have explanations. It could have been something as simple as reading an e-mail this morning, or the drive, a bad breakfast, anything can set it off, and when it does, like now, it’s downhill from here. Nothing to see, please get your butt out of the aisle, and move along.
Distractions are difficult to find at work, particularly after I’ve surfed as much surf as there is out there to surf. I have rung and dripped dry the internet, and found nothing of value. Isn’t that how the world works? Nothing new, the same words repeated endlessly, mindlessly. These are happy thoughts for you. My day is rather empty. I planned to get a haircut, but the thoughts involved in making that plan a reality is too much for me to think about. Instead, I’ll sit here and wear out my tired fingers saying nothing in so many words.
For the record, since this is what this is, I felt much better at the end of the day. I had a long, interesting discussion on office politics with a colleague, and that lightened my mood. The caffeine helped, and by the time I left the office at around 7pm, with my disposition much improved, I felt better and less depressed. The following story and notes was pieced together throughout the day as my mood varied, and finished off after dinner, where I am now, sitting on my couch, in the childless position, typing away.
Notes: The story goes nowhere and gets nowhere. It’s a vignette about a writer, a passenger, and a pen. Here’s the original.
Traveling Pen
The writer glowers at the pen knowing it betrayed him. He attempts to finish the thought by pressing hard enough to make a ballpoint indentation on the paper, but no good. It couldn’t have failed at a worse time. “Inspiration oozed like black gold from my cramping hand as I busily scratched words in golden glitter across the small lines of my journal until this,” the writer writes aloud. His hand shakes uncontrollably as he holds the pen, desperate to write down his thoughts, which to his mind’s ear are clever and original and, a word he uses often but this time believes, publishable. The words escape and he never finds them. Don’t tell him, but the world doesn’t miss his words.
The writer picks up the pen, admiring its smooth texture and its black, clickable top with two holes on one side through which the white part peeks. Brown lettering marks the name of the drug, “Premarin Vaginal Cream in a nonliquifying base” in the medical speak that appeals to the Latin or medical student (but, surprisingly, not the spelling national champion since medical words, particularly the names of chemicals and drugs, are not tested in the competition even though medical conditions, which are found in most dictionaries, are). Next to the name in parenthetical, on the off chance that you might confuse the scientific jargon for informative words, is printed “(conjugated estrogens),” the two words in most people’s vocabulary but their meanings when placed together as foreign as a Japanese train station to a Westerner. The writer glances over the dosage, "0.625 mg/g," subscripted in black ink next to the parenthetical, never caring enough about mathematics or chemistry to understand its significance. He clicks the pen one last time and leaves it in the train’s seat pocket, believing, perhaps rightly or wrongly, that the pen deserves this transgression for the disservice it had done to him.
The writer imagines the passenger who finds the pen in the pocket. The passenger—the writer assumes it wasn’t found first by the train’s custodian, a younger man, he imagines, who collects the knickknacks he finds emptying out the train’s pockets and crannies, and displays them prominently in his apartment, like trophies from a safari hunt—finds the pen, and because he wants to start an intense NY Times crossword puzzle—and the passenger describes it as intense to himself, thinking of the Sunday edition, not the easy weekday one—and thinks what a lucky day because even though he bought the paper and planned, after finishing the politics, circuits, and local section, in that order—and he disregards the fact that the circuits section is a Thursday section and the Sunday crossword is a Sunday section since he sometimes gets confused by the days of the week, and, more frequently, the sections that correlate to the days of the week—he forgets to bring a pen.
The passenger gives an excited growl as he uses the pen’s point to skim the clues for an easy one. After finding the clue, “former NYC airplane building,” he excitedly counts the spaces in eight down and sees immediately that the answer has five, which matches the number of letters of the answer running, somewhat repetitively, through his head. The passenger tries to write a P in eight down and realizes much to his great chagrin that the ink does not run through the ballpoint. He manhandles the pen, and tries again, sure that the combination of clicking, shaking, and squeezing like trying to get juice from an orange or water from a rock in the biblical sense, will start the flow. The writer shakes his head at the thought, knowing, even without trying, that this wouldn’t happen, and it doesn’t.
The passenger scribbles circles at the top of the paper, pushing harder with an occasionally shake, until he rips the newspapers, now satisfied that the pen is dry and his thoughts of finishing the Sunday crossword thwarted, even though he accepts, down in the dank hemispheres of his psyche, which his ego buries after waking most mornings, that there are things stopping him from completing the puzzle that are more powerful than pens that don’t write. The passenger abandons the pen and puzzle to better people.
The writer sees this in his mind’s eye, scrutinizing the effects it has on the passenger and the pen, and leaves it for the passenger, knowing that if nothing else, the passenger’s story of the pen will be something he may share with others to brighten their days. The train lands and stops in the writer’s town, and he makes a mental note: need new pen for ideas, the brilliant type, which he forgets, the note, almost immediately as he wrestles with his luggage and notebooks.
***
Even after the editing, I don’t think I’ve changed much or made it into a story, but at least I can say I tried. And trying is half the battle (G.I. Joe), or is it, do or do not, there is no try (Yoda). Who knows, and, more importantly (I don’t know why I keep putting this asides, like “more importantly,” or “at least,” I don’t think they add much value, and they break the flow. Grammatically they seem correct, but stylistically there must be something wrong with the), who cares?
Throw me any comments about the vignette. I know it’s not much, but I want to polish it before I put it up in the stories section.
Update: I finished centering and describing all our photos from Taiwan. Take a looksy.
Okay. It’s not much of a story, but I did try. The original idea was good, but where it went…I’m not sure I like where it went, but wherever it ended up (and I’m not even sure it ended anywhere near where it began), it’s a long and painful journey, sort of like a warped sewcrates.com entry (not that any of it is real in the sense that these are my thoughts—well some of them are, but they’re mostly bent or misshapen versions of my thoughts, which when I think about it, is what most of my fiction is). Without further ado or throat clearing or excuses, here it is.
wringinghair.com
***
A quick note as I started writing the story: Please, don’t start another story, paragraph, or sentence with a character sitting or staring. Please!
The original idea, which struck me last night, was to write a story about a writer (and then blogger when I gave it a bit more though) who stopped talking to people because he didn’t want to waste his clever ideas or thoughts; he wanted to save them all for his blog. Everything else in it is filler (DFW-influenced filler, to be more particular). But as I hinted at yesterday, I’m going to get back into writing vignettes or story pieces every day. What I’ve discovered is I don’t do well writing about writing. The only way I can tell a story is to write the story, and then rewrite it until I’m happy. To discuss it in writing (or meta-write, as Chuck penned) is pointless. Hearing the critiques of others is useful for the rewrite, but writing about writing or even detailed outlining is pointless. I’m still up in the air about character sketches, since they did help my FBT story, but we’ll see. What I want to do is move more of my entries into the Story category and less in the Writing category. You can think of the Writing category as the Meta-Writing category, and the Story category as the Real writing category, just for future reference.
When I read my old vignettes yesterday, I also discovered that the more I wrote stories, the better the stories became. The first few stories were decent, but it wasn’t until the end, the Chairs and The Clockman that I found my stride. I expect the same to happen this week, as I write try to find an interesting voice and a few nuggets that make up interesting stories. The real trick, I think, will be when I tackle stories that require more than one sitting to write. I seem to start strong, get lost the in the middle, and then finish strong. If I can find that comfortable middle then…this is all filler or meta-writing. It’s hard to stop once I get going on it.
What I said about DFW’s Oblivion yesterday, I take it back. I take it all back. He is a genius, a misunderstood genius, but a genius nonetheless. Some of his early stories in the collection were hard to get into (I found myself thumbing through the pages trying to figure out how many pages were left in the story—one critic said his first 60-page story read like a 100-page story, and I couldn’t agree more), but once I understood where he was going or what he was trying to say, they were great, some better than others, but all great writing and great stories, even if some of them didn’t finish by tying up all the loose ends. The DFW story I finished reading last night that produced this epiphany was written by a man who committed suicide—DFW embraced the dilemma of writing a first-person story by a dead person after his death—and what he does at the ending is meta-fiction at its best (which is much better and more interesting than meta-writing, which I do way too much of). So, to recap, DFW is still a god, not the god, but definitely a god, perhaps one of the lesser ones (yes, I quote that line from the movie “Groundhog’s Day” way often; I know). The Oblivion reviews say that his last story is the best one, so I’ll let you know how it is after I finish it.
I was optimistic about doing more writing today. I even left work early because, well, it’s the week between New Years and Christmas and nobody is there. I drove home, bought groceries, and was even humming as I pulled through my driveway (I’m exaggerating about the humming, I almost never hum—I’m exaggerating about the almost never part of humming, I do sometimes hum, but I don’t like to admit it). Then I took the turn behind my house too wide and my car is now stuck in three inches of soft soil and gravel, spinning its wheels foolishly—or at least it was as I dug myself deeper and deeper into the aforementioned soil and gravel. I’m now sitting on my couch so I assume my wheels are no longer spinning and digging the car deeper into the ground, if that, at this point, is possible. After calling my technical experts (thanks Eran!), I poured myself a glass of wine, only to find out that the wine bottle I opened a week ago was now vinegary. This has not turned out to be my night. I had thoughts of a roaring fire and a vegetable-laden dinner followed by hours of pounding on the keyboard. Now, I’ll be lucky if I can pound a few minutes before succumbing to my evil mood. Maybe I’ll use that to finish the story: evil mood. Now I’m humming. (Edit: I obviously found a little, okay, a lot, more energy to write after finishing this paragraph.)
Oh, if you can’t tell, I drank my first mocha in over a week, which is where all this is coming from. Tea is good and everything, but when it comes to real caffeination powers, there’s nothing like the bucks of stars. If only I could bottle that energy—oh, wait.
The Next Great Idea
You woke up late that morning. You wake up late often, but before you say anything, I know I need to stop constantly reminding you of this. Nagging is the word you started using with me, and believe you me, I’m not trying to be a nag, but I come from a family of naggers, and it’s hard to break with tradition. Plus, I can’t figure out how else to get you to do things. I swear there are times where you sit and do nothing when you know perfectly well that I’m watching and desperate for you to run some errand or complete a house project. I’d understand if you had something better to do, but you just sit there, and I’m left pulling my hair out, believing that your aim is to drive me crazy. Well, it’s working.
I’m sure you’ll somehow find it in that big watermelon that you call a heart to forgive me for reminding you of all of this again. You know how I sometimes get going, but since you seem to forgive my other failings after enough prodding, I figure it was worth the risk. Not to put too fine a point on the matter, but you might have had the Next Great Idea earlier that day and probably saved yourself a lot of hassle, but because you woke up late, it wasn’t until the early afternoon that you had it.
Our bedroom was freezing that morning after you turned off the heat before going to bed. You were on a conservation kick thanks to an over-inflated gas bill. You told the children that you were sick and tired of paying enough to heat a small town. What you probably don’t remember is that all three of our children came down with colds a few days later. While I can’t prove your energy-saving exploits caused the colds, I’m sure we both know, if only one of us will admit, it was a “contributing factor.” I skipped showering that morning because of the cold, snuck from the bedroom, and brought the children to my mother’s to thaw.
You breakfasted on warm toast and salmon cream-cheese spread and pretended as if the cold didn’t bother you. You wore your terry bathrobe and bear slippers, but you couldn’t fool yourself for long. With the children and me out of the house and before your toast was even toasted, you moved the dial on the thermostat from sixty degrees up to seventy degrees, and even cracked a smile when you heard the heating fan turn on. That smile sparked the Next Great Idea. It struck as ideas have a wont to do, when you were thinking about nothing, your mind drifting. You relived your play in yesterday’s pickup game, focusing on recounting all the great plays while conveniently forgetting the fouls and defensive breakdowns that led to your team losing and you sitting out the next three games. And then your mind shifted to the stack of work on your desk, but you fought that it down. I don’t know how you do it, and I wish you would teach me one day, but you have an uncanny ability to put responsibility out of your mind. The responsibility might explode a few days later in a frenzied anxiety-driven work, but for the moment, your mind blanks and you run around without a care in the world.
The Next Great Idea hit you so hard you sat down. Sitting down only made the idea sound better. You were desperate to work out the details, but you knew there would be plenty of time for that later. You contemplated writing it down, but you didn’t think there was anyway you would forget such an idea. It was that good.
***
Yeah, it is half a story that went nowhere fast. I don’t know who has sapped all my creative energy, but I’m hoping to turn the spigot back on one of these days. I know, I know, baby steps, all baby steps. (That and finish my website rewrite. I can’t sit for more than ten minutes without wanting to get up there and finish coding it.)
I don’t usually start writing with a title, but this time I did. I had what I thought was a brilliant idea this morning for a new story, and, as happens to me often, I forgot what it was. At the time, I remembered thinking to myself, this is such a good idea, there is no way I could ever forget it. And then I forgot it. I thought the forgetting itself, since it’s been happening to me often lately, was a great idea in itself to write into a story.
I almost started the story with “you are sitting there,” but remembered that I abhorred stories, paragraphs, and sentences that began with sitting or staring—call it the Marathon-influenced nightmare.
My fingernails grow too quickly. After two weeks of nail growth, my typing rate, especially on my laptop, slows. My nails don’t feel the keys as well as my fingertips. I’m sure it’ll take me another few days to remember to bring my nail clipper into the shower. I’m terrible with the clippings, and unless I let the shower drain take them away, I’ll end up with clippings all over my rug, which causes problems since I seldom vacuum it.
Write a vignette about one thing, spending the entire time on it—e.g., Tabasco bottle. Stylistic point: stop using e.g., i.e., and viz. until I learn Latin. I read a review of a biography in the New Yorker about a famous painter—after reading the review, I feel I learned enough about the painter not to read the biography—who gave an art class at university, and in the first session, after setting up a still life, told his students that they would spend the entire semester painting this one still life until it was perfect. They would then kill the painting, only to recreate it after it was dead. I’m not sure what he was talking about—most of his American students ran out in fear—but I felt if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. See how easily influence I am by reading stuff?
Immortality Pill: Guys are naturally shorter than girls are—how does that change the world.
Snow fell across the window. Steven tucked his covers into his neck and watched the snow. The large, impregnated snowflakes followed an unhurried path across his window, drifting from right to left. Some flakes stuck to the window and melted, the drops of water retaining the snowflake’s shape for a moment before coalescing into a larger drop and streaming down the window. Most passed soundlessly from his view. The snow formed triangular mounds on the naked oak tree’s branches outside his window.
From his bed, Steven could not tell whether the snow stuck to the ground. Sticking snow was important. On warmer days, the snow melted when it hit the ground, and schools did not close for wet roads. Steven heard his mother outside his room and closed his eyes. She opened the door and he felt her peak in. He remained motionless under the covers and waited. When the door closed, he opened his eyes and chewed his lower lip, biting tiny pieces off his skin. The thought of playing sick flashed through his mind, but he dismissed it. If it turned out to be a snow day, he would have wasted the act, and, even worse, his mother might believe him and keep him inside.
Steven stepped out of bed and wrapped the comforter around his shoulders and head. He dragged his feet across the rug until he could peak out the window. Leading away from the oak tree were two tracks in the snow across the garden. Mr. Henderson had already walked Kato. Steven tried to eyeball the print’s depth, but new snow had filled the prints.
He dropped the comforter on the floor and left his room. The house felt chilly and strangely silent. His brothers must still be sleeping. He walked by the kitchen, ignoring his mother’s questions, and went into the living room. He sat cross-legged on the red rug a few feet from the television, and leaned over and switched it on. It was tuned to channel 4 and he watched a reporter dressed in a heavy winter coat talk into a large black microphone. Steven hadn’t bothered to turn up the volume. Instead, he leaned on his elbows and read the blue ticker scrolling across the bottom of the television screen looking for his school, and found it: closed for the day.
Steven pushed the power button on the television and stood up by straightening his cross legs, pushing him upright and turning him around in one motion. He passed his mother in the kitchen, again ignoring her questions, and went back to his room. He pulled the window shade down covering the snow, and grabbed the comforter from the floor. He crawled into bed pulling the comforter behind him, and before his head plowed the cooling pillow, sleep found him.
***
The day tired me. It did snow a bit this morning, although it turned mostly to rain and ice. As I expected, my rear-wheel car did not handle the snow well, and when I arrived in my company’s parking lot, every time I turned my rear fell out from under me. Very fun. I’m heading to Newport Beach tomorrow night, and I’m excited. I haven’t been there in a while, and the warmer weather (and Julie) should warm my spirits. As I type this, the words keep shifting around. I watch as they fall from paragraphs, and the letters swing between the words, trading places as children trade baseball cards.
I finished watching “Laurence of Arabia” this evening. Thanks to the wonder that is Netflix, I’ve been catching up on classic movies that I never had a chance (or, to be honest, a desire) to see. I’ve found many of them overrated, but there are a few gems, and Laurence was one of them. Here’s a war movie that’s secretly a character story. Lawrence’s character (or oar-rence, as the Arabs call him) was beautiful. He was larger than life, flawed, and brilliant. The story was not a typical Hollywood movie, probably because it was based (I’m assuming here) on a real person, and I imagine they tried to keep it close to the story. (Why can’t they write movies like this anymore?) Unlike “Braveheart,” which I enjoyed when I first saw but later cooled on, there was meat and growth in Laurence’s character and story. Braveheart was a simple man’s Laurence. While Braveheart’s ending was sad, Laurence’s ending was tragic and beautiful. There was no, “you can take my life, but you’ll never take my freedom,” lines in Laurence. It didn’t need it. There were not tricks or twist endings, and yet the story felt new and original.
I’m babbling now. I’ll leave it at that. I thought after yesterday’s prolific (almost nonexistent) writing session, I would jump right back into this writing thing and find deep and insightful things to talk about. Obviously, I was wrong…again.
My mantra for today was, ‘I refuse to write anything that’s not story (except for the mantra).’ While I did manage to write something of a story, I’m still not in full story mode. I finally got back to the Castle after a long and miserable flight. I hoped to write more and do some editing of the story, but my headache during the flight killed those thoughts. When I arrived home, the Castle was freezing. I thought I’d save money by turning off the heat for the weekend. It’s now less than 50 degrees in here, and I’m freezing my money-grubbing butt off. I lit a fire in the bedroom, and I’m hoping it stays lit long enough to heat the bedroom so I can fall asleep.
Unnamed Story
Sandra exploded and then feinted. Thirteen hours later, she awoke with a terrible headache behind her right eye and nausea, which started in her groin and ended in bile in the back of her throat. It was always like this after an episode, and knowing the warning signs, she had prepared her room with the essentials. She upended the ibuprofen bottle on the bed sheets and separated four pills. She sucked the sugar coating from each pill and swallowed. As she sucked, her headache receded briefly. The sugar and drug floated in her stomach, churning the gastric juices.
Sandra placed a cooled towel over her eyes and rested on her back. “Lights,” she said and the lights dimmed and switched off. Her voice echoed in her brain, bouncing off her eyes and settling in her stomach. She managed to position her head over the pail before puking. She used the towel to wipe her lips and closed her eyes, silently begging for sleep to find her again. She swore silently to her gods that if they relieved her pain, she would never farsee again. She had repeated this prayer at the end of every episode, but for all her promises, she knew that she lied to herself and her gods.
She awoke ten hours later with a shadow of her headache. She ate a calorie bar from the nightstand and she reveled in the chewing motion. Her thoughts, which she had suppressed for what felt like days, formed in her head. She resolved to get started. “Kyle, are you there,” she thought.
“I follow the Prophet, our savior and guide,” Kyle responded.
“And through his everlasting truth, he brings us closer to what will be,” Sandra finished.
“Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for your call forever.”
“I warned you how long it would take before I went in.”
“Why didn’t you let me stay with you? I could have helped.”
“I told you before, Kyle. You could have done nothing. If you had been there when I awoke, your breathing would have driven me crazy.” Sandra reached for another calorie bar and unsealed a water bottle. “I’m starving. Buy me lunch and I’ll fill you in on what happened.”
The spaceport was busy that morning and Sandra waited an hour for transportation to the office.
***
Random notes I scribbled down: Tell the story of the prophet’s rise to power and minions. Insane and voices and powers. Told by a disciple. Teaches others his power. Gov’t is a monarchy – more of an empire. Desert? Arabs? Dune? Get away from that, but I like the desert angle. Prophet doesn’t hear voices, but thinks he knows what’s best for his people—a small sect. Downfall of the empire because of this rebellion. Empire held up by a religious force that is splintered when the prophet shows herself. Female prophet—Sandra. Downfall of gov’t, monarchy—king’s point of view and Sandra’s. King-Emperor is looking for the truth (he’s a religious empire) – Spaceports and different worlds; character story—unexpected twists. Why future? Present—altered present—altered past.
Story idea: (I’ve had this one before) the power of parents—when they’re with their kids, their kings and queens. But when they’re with the rest of society, they’re normal people who must give up their kingdom.
Random scribbles on the airplane:
Rain drenched Herbert as he buckled Lee and Tom into the backseat of the station wagon. They were finishing a fight they started in the house and held their fists in front of their faces as Herbert had taught them.
“Put those away,” Herbert said. “Fists are only to be used as a last resort. Haven’t we—what did I just say Tom? Put that away, and don’t think I don’t see you, Lee. We talked about this before. Now, what happened?”
“He started it,” Lee said and balled his hand into a fist. Herbert grabbed Lee’s fist and Lee yelped. Lee pulled his hand free and stuck his tongue out at Tom. “He started it!”
“Did not. Lee did. Dad, look, he has a fist again!”
“Stop it,” Herbert said as his voice rose and cracked. Herbert grabbed Tom’s hand and snapped the seatbelt into the clasp. “If we don’t get going, I’m going to be late. I don’t want to hear a peep out of either of you until we get home.” Herbert held out his pointer finger first toward Tom and then Lee. When they each looked away, Herbert closed the back door and entered through the driver’s door. Herbert started the car and pulled out of the driveway into the cul de sac.
“He’s doing it again,” Tom said.
“I’m not touching him,” Lee said.
“Look, dad. His fist is like an inch off my nose. Tell him to stop,” Tom said.
“It’s not a fist. It’s a talking hand. ‘Lee’s not touching Tom,’” Lee said without moving his lips, his thumb and fingers opening and closing. “‘It’s just me, Mr. Fingers, and I can be anywhere I want.’”
“Dad, make him stop,” Tom said.
Herbert turned on the radio. K-Rock was in the middle of a Metallica afternoon, and Herbert turned up the volume. The bass shook the car and the talking in the backseat stopped. Herbert drove out of the gated community and waved at the guard. He pulled onto Leaf Avenue, which led to South Apple Road. When he stopped for the stop sign at the corner of South Apple Road and Westheimer Avenue, he glanced over his shoulder. Tom was playing on his Gameboy, and Lee was picking his nose. He must have found a big one, because most of Lee’s finger was gone. Herbert turned onto Westheimer Avenue.
“Ew. Lee’s picking his nose again,” Tom said.
“Am not,” Lee said.
“Are too,” Tom said.
“That’s enough of that,” Herbert said. He turned off the radio. “No more picking your nose, Lee, and no more tattling, Tom. We’re almost at the bank, and when we get there, I’m not to hear a peep out of either of you.” Herbert stopped at the red light and twisted around until he saw the boys. Tom played with his Gameboy and Lee kicked the passenger’s seat in front of him. “That’s better. Remember: practice now, because when we get there, not a peep.”
Herbert made a U-turn at the corner of Westheimer Avenue and Gessner and pulled into the bank’s strip mall. He parked the car two spots away from the door and turned off the car. Lee and Tom unbuckled their seatbelts and scrambled out of the car’s doors. “Hold your brother’s hand,” Herbert said. Herbert walked into the bank.
Only a few people were in the bank, and Herbert walked over the center information desk. A stubby man sat at the desk scribbling numbers on a ledger. He finished the numbers, ran his pen down the columns of numbers, and looked up at Herbert. “May I help you,” the stubby man asked.
“I’m here to see Mr. Calvin, the loan officer,” Herbert said. “I have an appointment. My name is Herbert Turny. That’s T-U-R-N-Y.”
The stubby man looked Herbert up and down. “Please wait here,” the stubby man said.
Herbert smiled dumbly and nodded. He glanced back and saw Tom and Lee, still holding hands, in a squeezing contest. Lee’s face was red and he bent backwards under the pressure. Tom leaned over Lee, a triumphant smile on his face. “Stop it,” Herbert whispered. “What did I say about the bank? Tom, let go of Lee’s hand right now.” They released the shake. “Go sit over there in the waiting room. If I have to come out for any reason, you’re both going to get it when we get home.”
Tom and Lee skipped over to the leather chairs near the entrance. They sat down and grabbed each other’s hands, resuming their battle. Herbert looked away. The stubby man returned to the information desk and sat down. He picked up the ledger and wrote down more numbers. After he added two more columns, Herbert cleared his throat. When the stubby man didn’t respond, Herbert cleared his throat louder. “Um, excuse me, sir. Will Mr. Calvin see me now?” Herbert asked.
The stubby man marked a carry on the column and pushed his pen into the carry mark before looking up. He looked Herbert up and down. “Mr. Calvin is busy,” the stubby man said.
Herbert nodded, but the stubby man had already returned to his ledger. Herbert’s hand rested on the information desk and he waited. He heard laughing from the chairs but didn’t turn around. Herbert’s fingers patted the desk in a wave, starting with his pinky through his forefinger, and then back to his pinky. After a few times, the stubby man looked up.
“He might be a while,” the stubby man said.
“But I had an appointment at two, and it’s now,” Herbert lifted his watch and pointed to it, “it’s now two fifteen.”
The stubby man nodded and returned to his ledger.
Herbert’s nostrils flared and he leaned toward the stubby man. When the stubby man didn’t look up, Herbert walked over to the leather chairs. Tom and Lee’s fingers curled together, their thumbs jousting and reaching.
“What are you doing?” Herbert demanded.
“Thumb wrestling,” Lee said. Tom took advantage of the distraction and pinned the nail of Lee’s thumb against his knuckle. Lee managed to slips his thumb out from under Tom’s thumb.
“What did I tell you about sitting here quietly,” Herbert asked. “I’m waiting for an important appointment with the loan officer, and all you guys are doing is creating trouble.”
Lee lifted his arm to create an angle at Tom’s thumb and struck. Tom pulled his thumb out to the side and avoided the pin.
Herbert grabbed their hands and pulled them apart. “Are you even listening to me,” Herbert asked. “I’m talking to you.”
“We’re listening, dad,” Lee said. “We were in the middle of the third game of a best of three and I was about to win.”
“Were not,” Tom said. “I had you right where I wanted you.”
“Not in a million years,” Lee said.
“What did I just say,” Herbert asked. “Now we’re going to sit here quietly and wait for the loan officer.” Herbert grabbed Lee’s right hand and Tom’s left hand. He sat in the chair and when either tried to make a sound, he squeezed their hands.
A thin lady walked over to the stubby man and said something to him. From the leather char, Herbert was unable to hear the conversation. The stubby man pointed over to Herbert and the thin lady nodded. Herbert waved, but neither the stubby man nor the thin lady responded. She walked away and the stubby man returned to his ledger.
Ten minutes later, the stubby man walked toward Herbert. Herbert started to rise, but the stubby man stopped at one of the teller’s window, which was on the way to the chairs. Herbert sat back down and watched the stubby man chat with the teller. Their conversation didn’t last long, but the stubby man remained at the teller’s window. He seemed to be talking, but the teller wasn’t responding. The stubby man said something, waved his hand at the teller as if to say ‘stop it,’ and turned and walked toward Herbert.
Herbert released the boys’ hands, both of which were red, and stood up.
“Mr. Calvin will see you now,” the stubby man said. “Please follow me.”
“Now, stay here,” Herbert said to the boys. “I don’t want you causing any trouble. I’ll be right back, and if you cause any ruckus, any ruckus, I’ll be back here in a second, and you’ll have to deal with me when I get home. Do you understand me?” Both boys nodded, and Herbert jogged a bit to catch up to the stubby man.
***
Sure, the writing was infantile but at least I wrote something that wasn’t a complaint. Isn’t that worth something? Anything?
From where I’m sitting, I see rock bottom approaching at high speeds. I’ve spent the last week complaining about everything that I could think of. The thing about complaining (and, as I’ve said many times, there are always things about everything) is that one can complain for only so long before running out of material. Sure, I could and have repeated myself until I’m blue in the face, but the discussion grows incessant and dreary, and I can’t stand dreariness.
It’s not as if I don’t know what I have to do. I repeat it often enough and by now, if I haven’t drilled the instructions deep into my nickel-imprinted brain, I don’t think I’ll ever figure it out. I write these missives because I want to write something, and if I have nothing to write about, I consternate to produce words. Why do I want to write? There’s the million-dollar question. I wrote previously about a need. Is it an imagined need? A if you will wishful need? Perhaps. I’ve returned to my earlier days of staring at a blank page, only this time, I’m not so much as staring as running away from.
I was about to write how much easier it would be to start creating, to pluck an idea from somewhere and run with it. I would have referred to the week before the Marathon (again), where anything I thought, I turned into writing. Maybe it was the 2k goal each day, the knowledge that I was going to sit there and write and write until I achieved it, so I might as well write a story since that’s probably the easiest way to get there. (Even with all my consternating skills, writing 2k words of consternations are a feat in and of themselves.)
What’s the solution? Perhaps I have to return to shooting for 2k words a day again. I’m running out of ideas. My prodding isn’t working. My planning is certainly not working. I have too many distractions waiting for me at home: sewcrates redesign, video games, cleaning the Castle, sitting on my hands, Netflix, reading.
There it is again. I decide to write another story, and the flash of pain hits. It’s a discouraging pain. It convinces me not to do it, to pack it up. My wrists are hurting and there are too many words to write. And the demon Carl wants me home for supper. Did I mention I was tired, fatigued, I worked hard today and I need a break from the computer and typing words. Do you see how easily the excused roll off my fingers? Do you see how little effort is involved in giving them, how little OT?
When I sat down to write today, I had an idea and I even had a character’s name: Herbert. I wanted to write a few short paragraphs about Herbert and his kids, and Herbert’s interaction with a banker, showing how Herbert went from king of his kingdom, to serf of the bank. And just writing that synopsis opened, while not the flood banks, at least a small trickle through which the “story” above escaped. I guess I should be thankful for small miracles. And for the record, this is word number 2,001 (yeah, many of those words are dreadful consternations, but it’s better than nothing, right?).
There are mornings I wake up and know that the day will be swimming. My socks pulled at random from the drawer will match my pants; my tie’s knot will be good enough to appear at the President’s neck; and my wife, knowing how hard I work and early I rise to work that hard, will be ready with coffee and breakfast to see me off to work. As it turns out, the day I had my Great Idea, was not one of those days.
I woke up late that day to my wife knocking with a broomstick on the ceiling of the kitchen, the knocks echoing up and through the bedroom’s hardwood floor. You wouldn’t know it by looking at her, but my wife has incredible speed. There are times she could give Flash a run for his money. With the echoes of her knocks still bouncing through the room, she appeared at the bedroom door, demanding to know what I was doing, and why I wasn’t heading to work so she could start her day. For the record, her day involved a hair salon appointment at nine thirty, lunch with “the girls” at eleven forty-five, shoe shopping from one to four thirty, and a nap from five to seven. I’m not judging or asking you to judge her. Hell, anyone lucky enough to find herself in such a situation is genius in my book. I’m just setting the facts straight so you’ll understand.
I slept late that morning because the bedroom was freezing. My wife turned off the heat the previous night; it was partly my fault. We ate at a local Italian restaurant, where my wife is on a first-name basis with the waiters. During the dinner conversation, I gingerly brought up the gas bill. I paid over three-hundred dollars to heat our two-bedroom house. It wasn’t as if my wife was using the gas range to cook meals. The furnace ran all day, every day, and the fuel costs were becoming outrageous. My wife was sucking up a string of spaghetti when I started the conversation. The marinara sauce was collecting on both sides of her lips, and she made a terrible slurping sound, which to this day still haunts me.
“I thought we agreed that you’d turn off the furnace when you went out for the day,” I said. The spaghetti she slurped was one, long piece, and she didn’t stop sucking it to answer. I waited as the spaghetti slithered into her mouth, the sauce building a relief around her lips. When her lips looked twice as big and half the spaghettis in the plate were gone, she leaned toward me.
“I tried that before, honey,” my wife said. She has a way of saying ‘honey’ that clues me in when she starts to get mad. She emphasizes the ‘-EY’ by ascending her voice through several registers before letting go of the word. That night, her voice rose into the dolphin range. “But when I returned home to the house, I came down with a terrible cold, of which,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, “the cold house was certainly a ‘contributing factor.’”
I should have known to stop there, but I’m pig-headed at times, and I felt I was in the right. I foolishly continued, gesturing with my fork. “I’m not asking you to turn it off, dear. If you could lower it to a balmy seventy degrees, you can be comfortable and save money. You can pump it right back up when you get home.”
My wife has beautiful eyes. When poets compare blue eyes to Caribbean oceans, they’re writing about my wife’s eyes. Her eyes twinkled at me as I finished. “If my health is not a concern for you, then, yes, I will lower the temperature and take whatever fate has in store for me. It is the least I can do to save us money.”
And with that, she effectively ended the conversation. Sure, I tried to continue it, to explain that I did not intend for her to get sick, that I didn’t want her to feel that way or feel that I was trying to do anything to hurt her, and, eventually, that I wanted her never to lower the heat; that I would pay whatever the gas bill was as long as she was happy. But she wanted none of it. She didn’t say a word until I changed the subject.
After my wife left the room, I managed to drag myself out of bed. I skipped showering because of the cold, and washed up and dressed quickly. My wife wore a jacket over her sweater when I found her in the kitchen. I tried to kiss her, but she blocked my kiss by placing the back of her hand over her lips. She pushed me away.
“I’m meeting my mother at the hair salon to thaw out,” my wife said. “I hope the thirty-five cents we’ll save this month is worth it to you.” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and walked out of the room. As I watched her slam the front door behind her, I began wondering why she was drying her hands. I looked into the sink, but all the dirty dishes were still there. I shrugged it off and breakfasted on warm toast and salmon cream cheese spread and tried to pretend that the cold didn’t bother me. When my hands shook as I tried to bite into the bread, I got up and moved the dial on the thermostat to seventy degrees. The fan kicked on immediately.
…
***
I rewrote the The Next Great Idea to create the above vignette. Thanks to prodding by Chuck, I’m going to try to continue the story this week. My stories have become short, one-sitting affairs. To tell real stories, they have to be much longer.
With so much to say and nothing said, I raised the roof and lowered the asphalt.
I spent much of this evening when I should have been writing working on the website. I made a list of things that needed doing, and I got through most of them (except the biggest one, regrettably). I’m not sure when I’m going to finish it, but I’m hopeful it’ll be soon.
I only made 1k words today. I’m not proud of it, but as I said before, I’m not going to start setting goals. It’s too depressing to break them.
Hail fell from the sky. John turned the corner and spotted the old lady. He had followed her for the last few blocks, and he knew she had seen him. Her pace had quickened, but for an old lady that didn’t mean much. John scanned the street. It was dark and nobody was out. There were a few lights on in the windows, but all the shades were down. The old lady turned her head around and glanced at him. John smiled and waved. The old lady looked forward, rubbed her neck, and quickened her pace.
John ran until he was behind the old lady. She heard his footsteps and turned to face him before he reached her. The old lady held the umbrella in front of her and blocked John’s view of her. He grabbed the umbrella’s wooden point and yanked it. The umbrella flew out of the old lady’s hands and John threw it to the side.
“Why you playing, lady,” John asked. “I wanted to talk and you up and tried to ran away.” John shook his head and clicked his tongue on the top of his mouth. The old lady looked scared now. She was backing up and clutching her pocketbook to her chest. She wore an unbuttoned burgundy raincoat. Plaid lined the inside of the coat, like the ones John saw in the mall. He tried to think of the name of the store, Berries, Bradley’s, Burgundies, it was something like that.
“Where’s that coat from?” John asked. The old lady stared at him and started making a noise. The hail fell down harder and John pulled up his jacket’s collar around his neck. “The coat, lady. Where’d you buy it?”
“Bur…Burberry,” the old lady said. John reached with his hand to feel the fabric of her coat, and the old lady screamed. Larger balls of hail fell from the sky, drumming the cars lining the street.
John pulled out his gun and held it inside his open jacket. “Enough of that, lady,” John said. “We’re talking and that screaming ain’t cool. Get it?” The old lady stopped screaming, but her lips quivered violently. John reached out and flicked the top of her lower lip as he would a guitar string. She made a small noise like ‘ba-ba-ba-ba.” John laughed. “That’s better, lady. This can go easy or not.”
The old lady looked away and held out her pocketbook. “Take it. Just take it and leave me alone. Please.”
“Nah,” John said. “You’re not understanding, lady. You ain’t going to choose what happens. That’s what I’m for. Get it?” The hail slowed and a cold wind picked up.
The old lady let out the breath she had been holding. She looked directly into John’s eyes for a minute, and then shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes were a cloudy blue, and John would swear he saw cobwebs in them. “I’m Mildred,” the old lady said. “I figured if you were going to rob me, you might as well know my name.”
“Don’t think any of that psycho-shit is going to work with me, lady,” John said. He turned his head until only his left eye could see the old lady. He learned this trick when he was small. His right eye had always been weaker than his left eye, and when he looked at something with two eyes, the image was blurry. He could have covered his right eye, but he learned that it was more intimidating to roll his left eye as far left as possible. He practiced the look in the mirror until he had it just right.
“No. That wasn’t my intention, young man,” Mildred said. “I know at your age, you don’t like to be called ‘young man.’ If you give me your name, I’ll use that instead.”
“What’s crawled up your head, lady?” John asked and looked at Mildred with both eyes. “This ain’t sit down with Oprah time. This’s a gun,” John said, waving his gun. “And this’s a robbery.” A drizzling rain fell in place of the hail.
Mildred smiled. “Yeah, I noticed that. I thought we could be cordial about this is all.”
“You ain’t scared, lady?” John asked. This was the strangest reaction to a robbery he’d ever seen. John thought he’d seen it all: most people were very cooperative, and the robbery went down quick, like buying a pair of sneakers. Others turned into quivering masses, and the robbery was more difficult because of the crying and begging. John couldn’t stand those people. And then there were the heroes. John had run into only one hero, and John had pistol-whipped him to unconsciousness. He was proud of that one, and sold the guy’s gold watch for two-hundred bucks.
“Scared?” Mildred asked. “At first, sure, but when I thought about it, at my age, what’s there to be scared of? I’m not going to live much longer, and to tell you the truth, I sometimes think it would be kindler to go out with a gunshot wound than whatever old woman sickness eventually gets me. This would be easier if you told me your name.”
“You’re definitely tripping, lady,” John said.
“Mildred, if you please. I haven’t been a lady in quite some time,” Mildred said. The rain slowed to a trickle and the wind grew colder.
“Mildred, lady, whatever. I’ve named this,” John again gestured with his gun, “Bob after the first guy I killed.” John smiled.
“Why’d you kill Bob?” Mildred asked.
“For asking stupid questions,” John said and grinned. Mildred chuckled and slapped her knee with her veined hand. Her bones looked brittle to John, and he thought if she slapped too hard her wrist would snap off.
“What happened to Bob?” Mildred asked.
John scrunched his forehead, which he knew made his nose seem shorter. “That ain’t your business, old lady,” John said.
“I thought that’s what you meant when you kept calling me lady,” Mildred said. “Mildred if you please. I know I’m old and I’m sick of constantly being reminded of it. My husband killed many people in World War II. He was a different man when he got back.”
“He ain’t going to save tonight,” John said. His hand was getting cold and he put the gun back into the inside pocket of his jacket. He rubbed his hands together.
“Oh goodness no,” Mildred said. “Unless his spirit visits, he won’t do any saving tonight. He passed some twenty years ago.”
“Then I’m not scared of no dead guy,” John said.
“No reason to be,” Mildred said. “What happened with Bob?”
“Bob’s here, lady,” John said and patted his coat.
“No, not that Bob. The Bob you killed.”
“Why you so interested in killing? You should be worried about surviving.”
“You’re not a drug addict, are you?”
“Nah, I don’t do that shit.”
“I’ve become a bit of a drug addict myself,” Mildred said and waved her hand at John. “Really. You should see the drugs they prescribe to people my age. It’s criminal! I don’t have to buy them on the street, but I know I couldn’t get up in the morning or fall asleep at night without my pills. They change you, the pills.”
“I said I ain’t an addict, lady,” John said. “Your husband, he done in many men?”
Mildred looked confused and then nodded. “Oh, Rubin, sure, he was a bomber pilot in the war. He never talked about it after the war, but he killed many people. He was the kindest, gentlest man before he went off to war. Don’t get me wrong, he was just as kind and gentle when he returned, but he was different then. He wasn’t the man I married.”
“But he never seen the men he killed,” John said. “He just pushed the big red button and bam.”
“I guess so,” Mildred said. Mildred and John stood there staring at each other. Neither said anything as the wind howled around them. Mildred tied the belt of her overcoat, but never took her eyes off John.
“Why ain’t you scared?” John said. He felt confused. Why was he talking to this old lady? He should have taken her pocketbook and ran off ten minutes ago. She’s just a crazy old lady.
“I already told you that,” Mildred said and scratched her face. John watched to see if any skin peeled off, but none did. “What’s your name?” Mildred asked again.
“John.”
“It’s nice to meet you, John,” Mildred said. “You know why I’m not scared, John? It’s because you and me are the same. We might not look the same—I’m an old craggily lady, and you are, if you don’t mind me saying so, John, you are a bit of a hoodlum. But we’re the same inside here,” Mildred reached out and touched John’s chest.
“I ain’t no hoodlum, lady.”
“Mildred, please.”
“I ain’t no hoodlum, Mildred. And I certainly ain’t old like you.”
“No, you ain’t, John,” Mildred said. “And I know you never killed anyone either, regardless of what you call that gun of yours. And don’t even try it, John. I know you now. You’re too smart to be doing this, you know.” The rain had completely stopped and the wind died down.
There was a loud noise behind them and a man appeared on the lit porch one house down from where they stood. John whirled around to face the man. He couldn’t see what he looked like because he stood in front of the light, but he evidently was a large man and he held a baseball bat. “What’s going on down there,” the man said. “You leave that woman alone.” John felt in his jacket for the gun. He recognized the man. He didn’t know him, but he knew of him. He was the guy with the gold watch.
“Everything is alright,” Mildred said. “We were just chatting.” Rain fell from the sky.
“It is okay, Miss. I’ve dealt with guys like him before. Scram before I knock you one in the head.” The man walked down the stairs and approached Mildred and John. He held the baseball bat casually to his side. “The last time I saw one of you guys around here, I broke both his arms with this,” the man held up the bat. “You should have seen him trying to get up without using his arms. I helped him with the side of my foot. Now, I was going to let you run from the neighbor without introducing you to my wood, but seeing how you’re robbing an elderly woman, that’s not going to happen. Kids like you need to be taught lessons, and I’m batting a thousand with this baby.”
“Please,” Mildred said. “We were talking. Everything is okay. John was about to leave.”
“Calm down, Miss. Just step aside. I don’t want this garbage on my streets anymore, and there’s only one way to remove it.” The man started swinging the bat in front of him.
The man approached John and John’s hand grasped the gun under his jacket. “If you’re packing heat,” the man said. “I wouldn’t pull it, kid. It’s only going to make it that much worse for you.”
“Roger,” a woman screamed from the porch. “What are you doing out there with that bat? Oh my god, is that woman all right? I’m going to call the police.”
John pulled his gun and pointed it at the lady on the porch. “Don’t move, bitch,” John said. He swung the gun to Roger and then back to the woman on the porch. “If you like your woman, you’d stop swinging that bat. I ain’t no baseball.” The rain turned into small balls of hail, which bounced off the sidewalk and stairs.
Roger continued to approach. John swung his gun and pointed it at Roger. “What the fuck did I just say? Back off now.”
“Please, Roger,” Mildred said. “Do what he says. John, Roger’s going to back off and you’re going to leave. Nobody’s going to call the police.”
“Fuck that,” Roger said. “This asshole isn’t going to walk away after he points a gun at my wife.” Roger continued to approach John.
Mildred stepped in front of Roger and faced John. Roger stopped swinging the bat and John pointed the gun back to the woman. “John, please put the gun down and get out of here. Bob’s a good name for a gun. Roger isn’t.”
John lowered the gun. “Get inside and call the police,” Roger said to his wife. She ran back to the door.
“Don’t fucking open that door, bitch” John screamed and raised the gun to the woman. The woman stopped moving.
“John,” Mildred said. “Don’t do anything. Just get out of here. Please!”
“Shut the fuck up, lady,” John said. Hailstones pelted their heads. A large hailstone crashed into a windshield and the windshield exploded into millions of pieces. The sound was deafening. Roger grabbed Mildred’s shoulder and pushed her to the side. He lunged at John with the baseball bat. John fired a shot.
The shot went wide of Roger and struck Mildred in her side. Roger slammed the bat into John’s arm and John dropped the gun. John tried to turn to run, but he slipped on the ice and fell onto the sidewalk. Mildred screamed.
“I warned you, asshole,” Roger said. Roger raised the bat in both hands and brought it down on John’s head. There was a large cracking sound as the bat struck John’s head.
The lights in the houses lining the block were all on, and a siren screamed in the distance. Mildred held her side and walked over to Roger and John. She reached out her arm and put it over Roger’s shoulder. “It’s over, Roger,” she said. Roger nodded. He stared down at his hands splattered with blood. The woman on the porch was on her knees crying.
“I told John I’d like to die of a gunshot wound,” Mildred said. “After some thought, I’ve reconsidered.” Hail continued to fall from the sky.
***
Mocha, meet plot. Plot, meet mocha.
I’m nervous. When I’m nervous, everything happens in broken fragments of time. I look at something, it freezes, I blink, and that something changes. It happens over two moments, with nothing in between, no motion, no blurring, no nothing. Imagine living in a music video—back when there was such a thing as music videos. That’s how I feel now.
I finish my third cup of coffee and realize night arrived. I wonder when it snuck in. I study the door for the third time in the last minute. It remains closed. I stand up, pushing the wooden chair behind me, and walk around the desk, taking a long drag from my cigarette. I face the door and will it to open to get this over with. The door stays shut.
I’ve been waiting since early afternoon. Covering the table are empty coffee cups and piles of paper. On a normal day, I would have cleared my desk by this time, finishing the work for the day. This is not a normal day. I rearrange the piles, trying to make it look like I’m busy but organized. I scatter a few paperclips around the desk. I decide against the paperclips and start picking them up.
I hear the handle turn and the door opens. I drop the paperclips. Mr. Jenkins stands there. He is a tall man and he makes the doorframe seem too small, like my office is undersized. He walks as he talks, with measured steps, mechanically placing his heel then foot then toe on the ground, one foot at a time in a perfect cadence. His three-piece suit is creaseless as if sitting all day had no effect on him. The knot in his canary blue tie would make department store manikins jealous. He wears glasses and hunches forward, like he’s about to tell you a secret.
“Did I catch you at a bad time, Fred?” Mr. Jenkins says.
“No, not at all, Mr. Jenkins. I’ve been expecting you, Please, do come in.”
Mr. Jenkins walks into the office, closes the door, and takes the chair behind the desk. He gestures toward my visitor’s chair, and I sit.
“I hope I didn’t keep you too long,” Mr. Jenkins says. “I’ve been conducting these reviews all afternoon.”
“I understand, Mr. Jenkins. I imagine it can be quite draining.” I take a nervous drag from my cigarette and when I realize what I did, I hold the smoke in my chest. When my lungs start to burn, I turn my head and breathe the smoke toward the closed door. I mush the cigarette into the ashtray. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jenkins. I smoke when I get nervous.” Smoke leaks from my mouth.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about, Fred. I perform these reviews as a courtesy to the employees of Jenkins Inc. I’m not here to judge you, Fred. I want to communicate exactly where you stand with Jenkins Inc. While these reviews take up a lot of my time, Fred, I feel they are worth it for the morale and productivity here at Jenkins Inc.
“Take Esther, for instance. I met with her this afternoon and let her know that Jenkins Inc. has no more need of her services. She did an adequate job, Fred, but she wasn’t the right fit for Jenkins Inc. I run a family business and I like to think that I treat my employees as family. A family always has that rebellious teenage who tries to muck up the workings, Fred. Esther turned out to be Jenkins Inc.’s rebellious teenager. Do you get what I’m saying, Fred?”
I try not to let shock show on my face. Esther is—had been an account manager with Jenkins Inc. for the past twenty-five years. She is a small, sad woman who let her life get away from her. Three weeks ago, she finalized her messy divorce. Throughout the entire process, she never missed a day of work or fell behind with any of her accounts. I didn’t think Mr. Jenkins even knew about Esther’s divorce.
“Yes, Mr. Jenkins. I know you run a tight ship.”
“You look like you don’t approve of my decision, Fred. This meeting is for you. Please, Fred, if you don’t agree with my decision, I do want to hear of it. I know you have your ear to the grindstone here at the office. I respect your opinion, Fred, and would like to know your thoughts on the matter.”
I swallow hard and try to look away, but Mr. Jenkins is leaning toward me, holding my gaze. His head nods faintly. “You of course did the right thing, Mr. Jenkins. You did what you always do: what’s best for Jenkins Inc. It’s just that Esther’s been going through a rough spot lately, with her family pr….” I stop when Mr. Jenkins leans back in my chair.
“Do go on, Fred. As I said, I respect your opinion on matters dealing with Jenkins Inc. You’ve been a good worker for the past five years, Fred. I hate seeing you hung out with the wrong crowd.”
I clear my throat and begin to breathe shallowly. I squeeze the cigarette pack in my pants pocket, desperate to light one. “Her family problems shouldn’t have interfered with her work, Mr. Jenkins. I see that. You were of course right in what you did, as I said before.” I use my fingers to count the cigarettes remaining in the pack. Nine left.
“You were talking about a rough spot, Fred. I believe it had something to do with her family. Please, do continue.”
I look frantically at the door, hoping for an interruption, but as before, the door doesn’t move. Thoughts fly through my head, but I can’t get a handle on them. Even though I know the gravity of the situation, my mind refuses to focus on ways of saving the conversation. If I could get a few minutes alone and take a drag of a cigarette, I’m sure I could figure this out.
“It’s like you said,” I say. “Esther was like the rebellious teenager. It was the only thing to do, what you did, that is, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Firing her, Fred?” Mr. Jenkins smiles and forms a teepee with his fingers, his touching thumbs rotate in small circles. “Do you know Esther’s numbers for the last quarter, Fred?”
“No, Mr. Jenkins. I could look them up for you.”
“That won’t be necessary, Fred. As president of Jenkins Inc., I make it my business to know everyone’s numbers, including yours, Fred. Esther’s numbers were up three point two percent this quarter, making her the highest grossing account manager at Jenkins Inc. Now, I’m sure you know your own numbers, Fred. What were they again?”
“I’m down two point four percent for the quarter, Mr. Jenkins. But my numbers are up for the year.”
Mr. Jenkins’s eyebrows raise and his head leans toward me. “And what percentage are you up for the year, Fred?”
I blink. “Point four percent.”
“Point four percent. Do you really think Jenkins Inc. considers point four percent as being up, Fred? But let’s leave that alone for a moment. I want to return to Esther. You do know I don’t approve of adultery?”
“No, I mean yes, Mr. Jenkins. I know you don’t approve of adultery.” I wonder where he’s going with this. Esther didn’t get a divorce because of adultery. If anything, her husband cheated on her.
“And do you approve of adultery, Fred?”
“No, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Come now, Fred. Clearly you must have a stronger opinion on this.”
“Yes, Mr. Jenkins. Adultery is a sin, and it’s bad for the family.”
Mr. Jenkins leans forward and slaps his knee. “That’s right, my boy. And what’s bad for the family is bad for the business. That’s why I always liked you, Fred. You have a keen eye for business, and I’ve always respected that about you.” I try to smile but I can’t lift my lips. While my heart still pounds in my ear, relief floods me.
“That’s why I’m going to hate to see you go, Fred.”
Life as I know it stops. I blink and shake my head, trying to figure out if I heard Mr. Jenkins right. “Excuse me, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Fred, I consider Jenkins Inc. and its employees to be my second family. I treat them well and all I expect is for them to treat Jenkins Inc. well in return. What you did with Esther is inexcusable, Fred.”
“But Mr. Jenkins, I didn’t do anything with Esther. Sure, we spoke a few times about her divorce, but I was trying to empathize. I tried to help her through a rough spot, but we didn’t talk that much and only during breaks or after work. I didn’t approve of what she did, but I tried to help her out of my respect for her as a colleague.”
“Fred, Fred, Fred. Over the five years you’ve been here, I felt you were becoming part of the Jenkins Inc. family. But that stopped with this incident. I’m surprised you didn’t think I’d hear of it.”
Confusion roars through my mind. “Hear of what, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Your affair with Esther, Fred.”
“She’s old enough to be my mother, Mr. Jenkins. I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot….” I stop before I finish the statement. Esther is not what anyone in the office would consider good looking. Twenty years ago, she might have been, but now she was an old lady. I couldn’t blame her husband for leaving her; I’m not sure I could live with something like that when I get older. To think that I slept with Esther: it was a ridiculous thought.
“Come now, Fred. Esther told me all about it. The evening rendezvous. The late hours. The shoulder you offered her and the warm bed. She did what was right for Jenkins Inc. when I confronted her, Fred. She came clean and told me the truth. She cares about this business more than you will ever under. . . .”
“She lied,” I say, interrupting Mr. Jenkins. “Whatever she told you was a lie. I swear to you, as I stand here today, I have never slept with or been intimate with Esther Rochester. She was a colleague, Mr. Jenkins, nothing more.”
“It’s too late, Fred. What is done is done and you must now accept the consequences. Don’t make it worse by falsely swearing. Clean up your stuff. I want you gone today, Fred. I’ll pay you up through the end of the month.”
“I don’t understand.”
“As a condition of her continued employment, Esther promised me she’d have no more contact with you, Fred. To think, you took advantage of a married woman. Jenkins Inc. does not condone that type of behavior. Good day to you, Fred.”
***
That story got a bit away from me. (I’m trying to keep my commentary short—just an experiment.)
Story idea: continue with Herbert and the Bank; include a showing of power arrangements between Tom -> Lee -> Herbert -> loan officer -> bank officer -> mother of bank officer; tie all the relationships together at the end (good luck with that).
I need to voyeur more. I reread a pair of character sketches I finished a few months ago, and I realized that while I tried to throw down some notes on Esther and Fred, I didn’t draw enough detail to make the story interesting. Of course, I’m talking about this now because my story writing has stalled yet again. I have many hours and many cups of caffeine to keep me going today, so I have little excuse for what is happening.
While I’m wasting words with this commentary, I figured a bit of a break would be nice. I’m sitting in a bucks of stars around E. 44th and third avenue, typing away. The snow hit New York as predicted, and while it’s falling steadily, it’s not a blizzard yet. This might change as night falls. A few inches cover the ground, and it’s not supposed to stop until tomorrow. The weather has ruined my planned family outings. I’m still hoping the weather stops early enough tomorrow to head to my sister’s, but it’s mostly empty hoping. My hopes also revolve around a clearing tomorrow long enough for Julie and me to fly back to our respective homes. If not Sunday, there’s always Monday (or Tuesday).
I’d like to pretend that my energy level is high enough to write more, but I know the truth. There’s nothing left in the tank: nothing that a tall mocha and a shot of espresso can salvage. I was very excited before about writing, and I did manage to edit and pound out a few paragraphs of additional material for the Lamb story. But all of that has since died away. I think it’s the time. It’s around 2pm Seattle time, and my body has decided that it’s time to shut down. I’ve talked about IT before (that’s inspiration time for those not keeping up with David’s acronyms), and I’m squarely outside it. My stuck-ness at the point in the story is also not helping. I don’t know what it is about this story, but I keep coming up against walls that take forever for me to break through. Perhaps it’s the subject matter: I mean, really, how can I make work, insurance work no less, exciting? I’ve set myself a difficult task. I won’t give up. Partly because I know there’s a story there, and I can’t keep from turning SL from what was an awful attempt to a more decent story. It’s character building (that’s my character that’s being built. As you will see, Esther, Fred, Jerry, and Leonard are not building in any (cliché alert!) way, shape, or form).
To show progress, here’s the (slowly, very slowly) continuing saga of:
Sacrificial Lamb
Fred Sanders, an account manager on the third floor of Jenkins Inc., finishes his third cup of coffee. He studies the door for the fifth time in the last minute. It remains closed. He stands up, pushing the wooden chair behind him, and walks around the desk, taking a long drag from his cigarette. He faces the door, unsure whether to will it open to get it over with, or will it to remain shut. What he is sure is that his meeting with Mr. Jenkins will not go well.
Fred has been waiting for Mr. Jenkins’s meeting since early afternoon. Covering the table are empty coffee cups and paper piles. On a normal day, Fred would have cleared his desk by this time, his work finished for the day. This is not a normal day. He pushes one of the piles closer to the edge, trying to find the right balance between busy and organized. Fred walks around his desk, scattering paperclips around the piles, but has second thoughts and begins picking them up.
Two hours earlier in a different office on the third floor of Jenkins Inc., Esther Lamb, an account manager and one-time lover of Fred Sanders, waits in her office for Mr. Jenkins. Her desk is devoid of all papers. She hasn’t been able to work since Mr. Jenkins called her thirty minutes before. She was afraid he knew. This has been a regular fear since starting her affair with Fred. The affair ended three weeks before, but her fear reignites each time she sees Mr. Jenkins.
Mr. Jenkins sounds strange on the phone. Esther has known Mr. Jenkins since she married Leonard twelve years before. Mr. Jenkins was Leonard’s godfather, and after the death of Leonard’s father when Leonard was eight, Mr. Jenkins became a surrogate father in everything but name to Leonard. Ten years ago, after the great 1992 downsizing of the insurance industry, Mr. Jenkins gave Esther a job at Jenkins Inc. He had been good to her over the years, and she genuinely enjoys her job.
Fred drops the paperclips as the handle turns and the door opens. Mr. Jenkins stands there. He is a tall man and he makes the doorframe seem undersized. He walks as he talks, with measured steps, mechanically placing his heel then foot then toe on the floor. His three-piece suit is creaseless as if the day fears to ruffle him as much as the employees of Jenkins Inc. He wears glasses and hunches forward like he’s about to tell you a secret.
“Did I catch you at a bad time, Fred?” Mr. Jenkins asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer and closes the door. He walks past Fred and takes the chair behind the desk. He gestures toward the visitor chair. Fred feels an empty canyon forming in his stomach.
Fred sits in the visitor’s chair. “Please sit down,” Fred tells Mr. Jenkins, losing his voice toward the end. Fred has always had a good-natured relationship with Mr. Jenkins. He is the best account manager at Jenkins Inc. and Mr. Jenkins gives Fred leeway in how he conducts business. Mr. Jenkins leans back in Fred’s chair and leers.
“I’m here about Mrs. Lamb, Fred. I know all about it.” Jerry Jenkins is a direct man. He is sixty-eight years old and inherited Jenkins Inc. from his father, who inherited from his father, also a Jerry Jenkins, and a pioneer behind the reinsurance business. Fred had expected this, but he’s still surprised when he hears Mr. Jenkins say it.
Fred and Esther never expected to develop a relationship. Fred joined Jenkins Inc. sometime, somewhere, and for some reason. Make it stop, please!
The PSS Lucille whined as its engines powered down after hitting its cruising velocity. Captain Jake Lee placed his hands behind his neck and tilted his head back. He had grown accustomed to the constant acceleration over the last three days, and when it stopped, he found himself leaning forward to counteract forces that were no longer there.
“Slingshot complete, Captain,” Pilot Cini Macanama said. “I’m recalculating our trajectory.”
Jake twisted his neck to the right until it cracked. He twisted his neck to the left and lingered to look at Cini. She was a beautiful girl. No, he corrected himself, a beautiful officer. He knew he could be court marshaled for such thoughts, but that was what made her titillating. Cini was lanky with more bones than limbs. She pulled her legs up on the chair until her knees dug into her flat chest. Her neck leaned forward and her arms looked like they sprouted from her knees as she pushed controls. For safety reasons, Jake could not see her projected controls, and her fingers looked like they were massaging ghostly shoulders.
“No need to recalculate,” Jake said. “In the old days, we’d eyeball the starfield and check for inconsistencies. I’ve flown this route for the past ten years, and I don’t even have to consult the charts to know where we are. We didn’t deviate. Now, put down those controls and relax. We have another couple of hours before our next maneuver.”
“Captain, section 35.2(a) subsection one clearly states that after completing a slingshot, all trajectories must be re-fed and rerun by the computer.” Cini’s army green eyes didn’t move from her controls as she spoke. Jake admired Cini’s skinny, apish face, the skin stretched so tight that her features appeared sunken.
“Have it your way, Ms. Macanama.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“You’re not piloting a military planetship anymore, Cini. This is a governmental pleasure vessel.”
“Run by the military, captain. I’m still an officer as are you, and we have regulations to follow.”
“Do you think the thousand passengers drinking three hundred gallons of alcohol and eating two hundred pounds of raw fish every day care about military procedures? They only care about getting from Earth to Europa safely and enjoyably. There’s a place for procedures, Cini, and I’m going to clue you in to something my twenty-five years in the navy taught me: the people who write the regulations, they were never pilots, and the people who write the programs that run our computers that fly these ships, they were never pilots either. You have to learn to trust in yourself and your skill over what the computer or the manual tells you. It’s your gut that’s going to save your life in an emergency, not chapter so-and-so from regulation so-and-so.”
“As you say, Captain. I have three more programs to run to finish the recalculation.”
Jake laughed and waved his hand for Cini to continue. Jake knew he shouldn’t judge Cini. He was like her when he was young: ambitious, rule abiding, he can’t figure out what changed in him over the years; cynicism is a sneaky beast.
***
I had hoped to write more. Below, you’ll see a sort of outline of where I was heading. Today was a very good day. My headache vanished, I accomplished much around the house, I had a wonderfully heated debate during work (which I won, sort of) about a future direction of the company with people who influence decisions, and I came up—at Julie’s suggestion—with a fantastical story to break me away from the accountant stories. Thanks to a busy evening at work, I managed to write the notes and the above introduction before driving home. After cooking and cleaning, all my caffeine-induced energy waned, and I struggled to write much else.
I’m hoping that since I have a plan and at least one interesting character (Cini), you will see a part two of this story.
Notes (includes spoilers—not that anyone cares):
Outline: Jake wants Cini. Pirates intercept vessel. Handling of situation. Endgame.
Paul = Jake (pilot) – very good pilot; talks way too much for too long; believes he knows what’s best at all times; disappointed with the new technology that takes decisions away from him.
Laura = Cini (co-pilot) – artsy but believes in technology; is a pilot b/c it gives her free time to explore her creative interest; very hard worker.
Planetship = Intercontinental 1501 – two-week “cruise” to different planets; high security; 1000 people onboard.
Pirate = terrorist? Computerized voice – all computer-controlled pirate ship with a set program that the pilot knows what will happen; the scenarios are all publicized so there’s never a misunderstanding; pilots (and the 1501’s computer) have been instructed to obey the instructions, pay the outstanding amount, and be on their way; the amount is taken from the captain’s salary (as per Intercontinental’s attempt to keep costs down), and Jake wants to make a run for it. The smaller asteroid-jumper planetships are driving the profits of the planetship industry down, as is the higher antimatter costs because of a crisis around the mining station of Jupait, a mining colony that circles and creates antimatter within the great gravity of the gas giant. (All parallels, all cheesy—this is about the decision and the politics.)
Original Outline:
Old school pilot – beginning to appreciate what the new technology of the starships provided him. Jake: runs afoul of privateers on his trip to a planet. His co-pilot, a young whippersnapper, trusts the ship to make all the decisions. Jake decides to take control at a crucial moment, trusting his own instincts over the computers, and the ship is destroyed. Choice: should I take control or let the computer fly; result: ship is destroyed, all two-hundred passengers killed. Foil, the co-pilot, who believes in the ship’s technology over Jake’s cowboy flying.
Original idea:
Today’s story: simple, sci-fi story of a guy in a spaceship fighting aliens in a spaceship.
Snappy Greenstalk picked green beans. Snappy’s grandpoppy, the oldest Greenstalk that he knew, told Snappy that as far back as he remembered, Snappy’s family always picked green beans. Snappy never liked green beans. He found them bland and gritty. Snappy was afraid to tell his family this because, as anyone who knows anything about green bean families would tell you, green bean families like green beans and dislike anyone who doesn’t like green beans. Snappy liked his family and wanted them to like him, so Snappy pretended to enjoy green beans.
On the Thursday after the harvest, Snappy celebrated his eighth birthday. His parents threw a big party and served green bean casseroles, sautéed green beans, green bean salad, green bean burgers, green beans and broccoli, and green bean ice cream. All of Snappy’s friends came to his party. Snappy was having a great time, but he wasn’t eating any of the green beans.
“Such a big birthday boy,” mom said. “Have more green beans.”
“Mom. I’m eight years old now, and it’s my birthday.”
“Yes you are, Snappy. You’re eight big years. If you have some of this casserole, you’ll grow big and strong like your dad.”
Snappy grinded his teeth and stuffed the casserole into his mouth. He chewed and smiled, and Snappy and his friends played pin the green bean on the donkey. But Snappy did not have a wonderful time. He did not feel like smiling, and he did not want to pin anything on the donkey. When it came time to open his presents, he could not get excited at all his new toys and clothing.
After the party, Snappy’s father picked Snappy up and carried him to the porch.
“You’re growing like a log,” dad said. “It’ll be time to pick you from the vine soon enough enough.”
“I’m not that big yet, dad.”
“Why weren’t you happy at your party, Snappy? You had a sour puss the whole afternoon. We thought you would like a birthday party. You talked about it for weeks”
Snappy did not want to tell dad what he was thinking. He was afraid that if dad knew, he would not like Snappy. Snappy also did not want to lie to dad. Dad had told him that lying was very bad, and Snappy did not want to be a bad boy. Snappy took a deep breath and said, “It’s because I don’t like green beans, and mom wanted me to eat green beans.”
Dad looked at Snappy. Dad opened his eyes large, and it looked like he didn’t believe Snappy. “Snappy, you know we’re the Greenstalk family.”
“Yes, dad.”
“And you know the Greenstalk family picks green beans. That’s what we do and that’s what we always did.”
“Yes, dad.”
“What you probably don’t know is that when I was a child, about your age, I told Grandpoppy that I didn’t like green beans.”
“Really?”
“Really, Snappy. Do you know what Grandpoppy told me? He said, ‘Son, we’re the Greenstalk family and we pick green beans.’”
“And what did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything, but I went out the next day and picked green beans and I’ve been picking green beans every since. The thing about green beans is that there are always green beans to pick. You can’t say that about everything.”
“Oh.”
Dad picked up Snappy and carried him to bed. He tucked him under the covers and kissed Snappy on his forehead. “Happy birthday, son.”
“Thanks, dad.”
The PSS Lucille hit its cruising velocity and whined as its engines powered down. Captain Jake Thomson III watched the display for anomalies and found none. He placed his hands behind his neck and stretched his head back. He had grown accustomed to the constant acceleration over the last three days, and now that it stopped, he found himself leaning forward to counteract forces that were no longer there. Jake returned to the display and read the route’s report: the solar winds were calm and there were no reports of pirate activity in the sector.
“Slingshot complete, Captain,” First Officer Cini Manama said. “Lucille is free of Jupiter’s orbit. She will commence trajectory correction in one point four parsecs.”
Jake twisted his neck to the right until it cracked. He twisted his neck to the left and lingered on Cini. She was a beautiful girl. No, he corrected himself, a beautiful naval officer. Cini was lanky with more bones than limbs. She pulled her legs up on the chair until her knees dug into the flat of her chest. Her neck leaned forward and her arms looked like they sprouted from her knees as she pushed controls. Jake could not see the projected controls, and Cini’s fingers appeared to massage ghostly shoulders.
“Cini, I have to ask, why are you in this business?”
“Are you asking me this because I’m a girl, Captain?” Cini’s army green eyes did not leave the controls, and there was no scorn in her voice. Her words sounded empty as if she had been asked it so often that her answer lost meaning.
“I’ve been with the navy for a long time.” Jake pointed his finger at Cini. “And I’m an old man. I ask more because I wanted to give you my unsolicited advice than because I wanted to judge you.” Jake noticed his hand shook and jerked it away. Jake didn’t remember when his hands first started shaking, just as he didn’t remember growing old. Jake corrected himself, as he usually did, it wasn’t that he forgot growing old; it was that he forgot ever being young.
Cini looked away from the controls to Jake with an amused expression. When she smiled, the skin on her skinny, apish face stretched so tight that her features appeared sunken. Jake regretted for not the first time that he wasn’t thirty years younger. “Please, Captain. I’m always interested in advice from my elders.”
“The navy used to be an honorable profession, Cini. Men,” Jake corrected himself, “and women could make a good living. I don’t know what happened or when it happened, but it’s not that way now. I would never recommend this career to any young person. After thirty years in, I’m barely scratching by.”
“How very cynical of you, Captain. And here I thought you were concerned because I was a defenseless woman.”
***
That’s not it. I promise (as if you haven’t heard that before). I’m taking a more relaxed but continuous approach. I’ve noticed my output dropping appreciatively, and the quality with it. I’ve decided to take a slower approach. I’m going to continue working on this story, writing a page or so every day and seeing where it takes me. I spent a couple of hours on the above. Much of it was planning, as I discovered where the characters are going to take me. It’s heading in an interesting direction, although it’s probably hard to see it where you’re sitting.
Today was a good quiet day, part of a good quiet weekend. I love spending time with Julie, but I like days like this as well. I wandered around a bit this morning and took a drive to my local bucks of stars. There I sat with a tall mocha and planned and wrote the above fragment. I’ve been trying to write a story in one day, and (thanks to some pushing in the right direction) I’ve realized that most stories don’t want to be told in a day. Hopefully, this slow and steady approach to writing will bear some results.
Random notes that will make little sense: Slow writing—time to think, plan; but don’t leave out the writing; angst-choice-why is it about choice? Everything is about growth and change. I don’t want to read something w/o growth. Who chooses? Poor guy—he’s getting taken advantage of. Jake? I want to love the characters. It can’t be b/c the money comes out. Yes it is. But who then? Reckless, rebellious? He’s had enough. They beat him down, threatened his pension; the pirates attack; he decides to take matters into his own hands. What else? It’s not a cruise ship but a low-end cargo ship—he’s a trucker and Cini is in training—college grad, making her way up the co.’s ladder. No—she’s a pilot, working her way up to larger vessels.
Jake & Cini: Jake’s beliefs: worked for the navy for many years; old now and approaching mandatory retirement where they’ll take his stick away. Bitter about retirement and how little money and pension he has coming. He likes Cini, but he is too old—he feels he is too old to woo her. Cini does like him—he’s a powerful man who knows how to make decisions. Jake—angst about his age, loneliness; he gave his life to flying PSS—financial situation and Cini, which more of a regret than anything else. Connection: Dr. Dolin—not a worthwhile profession anymore. Dime a dozen. He is Dr. Dolin—hands shake and he has a deep smoker’s cough.
Cini? She wants to be a pilot (Eran’s love of flying). This isn’t worthwhile anymore. Older men vs. older women. Voyeur of older man at bucks: Jake’s tall, his head well-formed; his hair graying but thick, except for the front of his forehead, which is thinning gracefully (professionally, eloquently?). He’s fit and his uniform fits well. His nose is rounded in front and his ears prominent but not large, especially for a man whose ears have been growing for 60 years. He has a mole on the side of his nose. His eyebrows are two shades of gray: dark gray and bushy, with a shock of white in the middle. They draw attention to his reflective brown eyes. He speaks with a slight accent, perhaps Russian.
Advice not to join the navy; Jake’s hands are shaky; there used to be something for us; retiring next month. Changes in the navy more conservative; cutting costs and pay; more danger and less protection from pirates. Foreshadow the attack; don’t worry about the choice; the characters are the interesting part until the attack.
Okay, in my evolution to find a style that will let me write stories that span more than one day, I’m experimenting with my crap draft. Instead of writing paragraphs that make sense, I’ve decided to write thoughts and snippets of conversation and text. They’re not fully formed or in a readable format, but they’re the first step in my writing process. I usually aggravate over these paragraphs and with a sharp knife and extra words, I change them into readable and almost story-worthy words. I’m going to save myself the aggravation today, and post what I have.
I’ve warned you of bad writing before, but what you’re going to see, if you don’t press the back button now, which I highly recommend, is crap. Had I any ego, I wouldn’t post it. But, as should be apparent if you’ve read some of my other entries, I enjoy bad writing.
Story Idea: With technology replacing people in jobs, only one job will remain for people: creation—the sharing of their creative self. That is until technology gobbles that as well.
Story Idea: There are three garbage cans, one after the other. The closest one is full. Watch as three people walk over to the cans and decide whether to put their garbage in the full can, or one of the further cans. Talk about fascinating and interesting!
Quotation by Laurie Anderson, as spoken to NY Times Magazine, 30 January 2005: “A schlump is someone who doesn’t care about anything and who is just protecting their own turf, which is getting smaller and more meaningless, and then they disappear.” “I’m more worried about turning into a schlump than into a prune.”
And now onto my useless notes and dialogue.
Notes: Philosophical discussion of decline. Apathy is the first symptom. Conflict disappears, weakness. Jake is the one who sees this. Cini is of the new generation, the one that grew up without conflict in their life. She’s apathetic, she does her job, but doesn’t love doing it. She’s robotic and disinterested. So, why does she do it?
Following this through, Jake proves the point. He’s not going to retire without a pension—there are no pensions. He’s retiring according to the regulations, but they’re not enforcing them. There is no disagreement. If he wanted to stay on, he could. No one would argue. People do their jobs, but they use minimal efforts. It’s a depressed time.
When the ghost ship arrives, Jake decides to break with routine; he goes against the regulations and engages the PSS Lucille in a conflict with the pirate ship.
***
“The navy wasn’t always like this,” Jake said. “There was a time when we were the envy of the world. Where kings would come to us and kneel, saying, ‘you bow to no man.’ Those were the days, my friend. Those were the days.”
Silence. Cini returned to reviewing the trajectory response, and Jake checked his messages. “The world is changing. You wouldn’t know what it was like before, but it was different.
“Do you think the people inside a civilization—do you think they know when it’s in decline?”
“What are you talking about, Captain?”
“Our civilization, Cini. Our people. We’ve changed over the years. We used to fight, we used to worry about things, important things to some, frivolous things to others, but at least people thought about the things. We even argued—we argued in the congresses, the governments, even the navy had arguments. Today, we accept things and it’s considered bad manners to discuss things that might descend into an argument. When did that happen, Cini?”
“It’s for the good. We used to spend such a large part of our life arguing amongst ourselves. I’ve seen those holovisions. There was conflict and hatred and disagreement. People weren’t civilized. What we have today, Captain, is civilization. I would never want to return to those dark ages.”
Jake sighed quietly. He remembered when the younger generation had been rebellious. He grew up rebellious, and if he hadn’t joined the navy, the rebellion would have spilled over to his adult life. Conflict was on the way out even when Jake was as a child. There had been too many wars, too much death. People lost their taste for violence in any form. They called it a golden age, an enlightened age. They had many names for it. Who were they? Jake had to think about that. He wasn’t sure who they were. It was everyone, he supposed. The commentators, the media, the government, everyone had the same epiphany seemingly at the same time. Conflict was out of fashion. There were no more disagreements. You did things and they were judged, but you didn’t worry about what people thought about them.
The alert sounded. Cini’s posture straightened and her fingers danced along her control. “An unidentified ship has matched our trajectory and is approaching us from behind. Attempting to hail it.”
Jake pulled up the visual display and the ship appeared. It was a large, gray battle cruiser, much smaller than Lucille, but traveling toward them at a high rate. The ship was dark, except for the blue plasma from the engines, no lights could be seen in the ports. Jake feared it was a ghost ship.
“No response. The unidentified ship is firing its maneuvering rockets and pulling into our trajectory.”
“Pirates?”
“It’s too early to speculate, but there’s a good chance, Captain.”
“Radio our situation to Earth.”
“The ship is jamming our transmissions. We’re receiving a response.”
An empty control room appeared on the holovision. “This is Ghost Ship Program version 15.43. We have initiated sub-program 4.78a. Please comply with the published specifications. The counter has begun and you have nineteen point twenty nine minutes to respond. This transmission will repeat every nine minutes until compliance or detonation.”
“Transmission ended, Captain. I’ve pulled up the specification and the accepted response criteria. Shall I begin compliance?”
“Hold a second, Cini. Have you scanned the ghost ship for signs of life or explosives?”
“That’s not part of the procedures. They want the cargo—we give them our cargo, and we go on our way. This is a solid response to the conflict, Captain. We’ve done it this way for the past five years. It’s an accepted risk.”
“How do we even know that this is a ghost ship? If people were onboard, they wouldn’t risk blowing up. If not, we can still comply with the procedures.”
“It’s a deviation, Captain. If we deviate from the established procedures, the program is set to execute. This is the way things are. I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
They weren’t pirates in the ancient sense of the word. The ghost ships began appearing five years before. The ships were maintained by the asteroid colonies on the outskirts of the solar system. After leaving the Solar Empire (have to think of something better than that), the colonies were able to subsist on their mining industries, but the Empire stopped buying from them, and the colonies became desperate. They hit upon the ghost ship idea after a few failed attempts at real piracy. Here was a completely automated, computer-controlled ship that didn’t mind blowing itself up when disobeyed. The colonies even published the procedures and source code for the ghost ship. The community contributed code to the ghost ship to make it more robust, and after its second year, it became a problem for the Empire. The Empire, but that time, didn’t want to worry about problems—conflict was already out of fashion. It set up procedures to pay off the colonies during ghost ship raids, and as long as its losses were acceptable, which they seemed to be, the Empire didn’t worry about it.
“We’re flying in a warship. For god’s sake, Cini, why do you think we have warships? You can’t think they built these Planetships for the cargo runs they now send us on. Look at the weaponry display.” Jake pushed the alert button and the weapons status display appeared. They built the PSS Lucille for one purpose: war. She had undergone many changes in the last three-hundred years, but her weaponry never changed. It was built too deeply into the Planetship’s systems.
Cini laughed at Jake. “You don’t understand, Captain. We’re beyond that now. We’ve ‘evolved.’ You should understand that better than most. You were there for the Plowshares War. We fought that war to end all wars, and we won. Davis Hesas, the last great thinker, he said it beautifully, “the way to change the universe is to remove all conflicts.” And that’s what we did. I grew up in a utopian society. Our civilization has reached that point, Captain, because we believed it was reachable. The era of the warship is gone.”
“Be careful, Cini. You’re treading close to a conflict.”
“That’s not a disagreement, Captain. That is the correct answer. Davis Hasis taught us that to avoid conflict, we must identify conflict and always have the right answer. That’s how you avoid it: you present the universally accepted correct answer. Just as if you asked me how fast this can flies, I will give you the right answer; if you ask me why don’t we fight anymore, I give you the correct answer.”
“You would have been a brilliant debater, Cini.”
Here's a sample of the mascot I've been working on for the new sewcrates.com. I don't think he'll fit, but it was fun to draw him.
The original sketches: 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5
It’s a wonderful day in Seattle. It started cool and foggy (I know you’re not interested in this weather report, but I’m going to give it anyway), and by three, the sun was out and people were playing soccer in the grass. Seattle is spoiling me for winters. The weather here is seasonal, with brilliant moments of seasonal relief. Evenings are another story, with the frost on the grass most mornings with heavy fog caused by the drastic change in temperature. We’ll see if this continues through the weekend.
Julie was thinking of visiting this weekend. I wanted to see her, but she’s on call on Sunday night, and I thought it ridiculous for her to fly here tonight and return Sunday afternoon to work that night. She agreed (only this morning) that it is ridiculous. I would fly to her, but I have this no flying two weekends in a row rule; mainly because of my weak constitution. I didn’t recover from last weekend’s flight until Wednesday, and I can’t bear ruining another week. Julie will move closer one day. I wish it was sooner, but “distance makes the heart grow fonder,” or something silly like that.
The exhaustion of flying reminds me of something I once read. I think it was in one of Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker books, where he wrote that the further you fly away from home, the more stretched you feel, as if there was a spiritual umbilical cord connecting you to your birthplace. I know I’m getting this wrong, but flying does something to me. Even short trips, such as the two hours and change from here to Julie, exhausts me more than jogging for two hours (okay, maybe it’s not that bad, but close). I think I use “but” too much. Maybe it’s not possible to use “but” too often, like you can’t use “is” too often. I’ll have to give this some thought. Talk about useless asides.
Even as I write this, I think of people I can call to distract me from finishing. Luckily, after calling, none of them was not home, so I’m stuck typing away, sipping yummy caffeine with my feet on the desk examining my fancy new hiking shoes (there are plenty of pictures of them in the last photo shoot). I had hoped to tell a quick story. I’d love to finish the Lucille story one of these days, but I don’t think I’ve developed it enough, and every time I start, it fizzles. I want to give it more time to bake and then decide whether to go for it, or throw it aside. With much further ado, here goes nothing.
Walter finished his hotdog in his second bite. He wiped the mustard from his lips with the heel of his hand and without thinking wiped his hand on his pants. He held two bags: one holding electronic goodies he didn’t know he needed before he bought them, and the other filled with chocolate chip cookies for the drive home. He examined both bags and realized that he was missing something. His wife never sent him to the mall unless she wanted him to buy something, and that something was never goodies.
He stared down at the brown tiled floor and tried to remember. Walter wasn’t a good shopper, and if given the choice, he would have preferred to spend Sunday lounging in the living room with his feet on the ottoman and his finger on the clicker. Walter knew he was easily distracted but this was ridiculous. He sat down on a wooden bench and watched the legs of people pass by him, looking longingly at the shapely ones and following them upward to judge other parts. As a group of men in blue and gray business suits passed by, with a sickening feeling he remembered what his wife wanted: dress shoes.
On Friday, his wife was going to drag him to the wedding of one of her friends, and his wife was sick of his holey shoes. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with them, especially after he super-glued the broken leather straps encircling the shoes. Sure, there was a hole in the sole, but the hole wasn’t visible unless he put his feet up, and he promised his wife that his feet would remain flat on the floor at all times during the wedding.
Walter was a sneaker man. He wore basketball sneakers to work, and before marrying Margaret, couldn’t remember owning a pair of shoes. Walter was conscientious, and kept a pair of black sneakers in his closet for times when the dress code disallowed the white type. He wore shiny shoes for his own wedding, but he rented them, and felt it was a small sacrifice to marry a woman like Margaret. After Margaret moved into his house, his black sneakers disappeared under mysterious conditions. Walter’s only clue was a neat note he found where he stored his sneakers. It read, “Donated to a needy busboy.”
Walter found a mall directory and began skimming through the possible shoe outlets. There were a bunch of shoe stores, but he knew they were overpriced. If you only sold shoes, his thinking went, you had to mark them up to make a profit. Department stores didn’t have that problem, since they sold other things, such as socks and belts, which could offset the cost of the shoes.
***
Okay. That was the best I could do for today. There was a plan for this fun little story. I’ll ruin it for you by sharing that plan:
Synopsis: Man goes into a shoe store to buy loafers for a retirement party. The salesperson is a beautiful woman, who goes out of her way to help him. She pushes him toward two pairs: the first is a relatively inexpensive shoe, but she can’t find a size that fits him. The other is an expensive pair, and she finds the perfect shoe. He doesn’t want to spend that much on shoes, but she convinces him, and he buys it. He builds up the courage to ask her out, returns to the shoe department. He tries to ask her out, but she interrupts him, asks him if he wants to buy another pair, and when he says no, she blows him off, walking away before he can even ask. He returns the shoes, citing “irrevocable differences” (the term for divorce—I forget it) with the shoes, and walks out.
Looking back at the synopsis and story, I have either to remove Margaret, or change the plot. I like Walter, and he doesn’t seem the type to cheat on Margaret. That’s for tomorrow, I guess.
In my quest to write something, I’m going to give up on the commentary (well, except for these introductions and explanations of my inadequacy) and write a story-ish piece. That and post my monsters. Enjoy.
***
Must finish work. Rachel stared down at the keyboard. The keys, glowing blue in the monitor’s light, seemed to twist and grow. She shook her head to clear her vision. Her concentration was failing but she had to finish. She closed her eyes and her fingers found the home keys. One more hour and I’m done. She began typing. And then I go home. Her empty apartment with a bed and expensive TV resting on a cardboard box waited for her at home. That and her cat Mittens. I don’t even like cats.
Rachel heard a crash and looked up startled. The noise made her conscious of the silence in the office, the sounds died hours before with the setting sun. It’s probably the cleaning people. She held her arms above her head and pulled her wrists away from her shoulder sockets. Her bones cracked. She thought of her colleagues who stopped by her office before heading home. They were glad they weren’t staying late. I don’t envy any of them. They could not have done this job. It was for the best that I work tonight, alone.
She pounded on the keys and finished the third page. As she reread it, she heard another crash. Clumsy cleaning people. How’s a girl supposed to concentrate with all that noise. Rachel stood up and finished the cold coffee in her mug. Time for another cup, and to give whoever is making that racket a large piece of my mind. She opened the door into the hallway. The Corporation turned off every third light in the evenings to save electricity costs. Even darkened, the lights blazed in Rachel’s eyes, and it took a moment for her eyes to readjust.
She walked passed shut office doors decorated with family pictures, inspirational sayings, and photocopied comics. All worthless. They have the decorating instincts of a nesting bird. Clean and tasteful. That was Rachel’s motto, and she repeated it silently to herself. She walked as if on a boat in rough waters, swaying to the wind buffeting the skyscraper. When she arrived at the coffee room, she turned on the lights. The coffee pot was cleaned and empty. Janice should have had this ready for me. She knew I planned to stay late. I’ll have to have a talk with that girl, put her in her place. She opened the cupboard and removed the filter and coffee grounds. She turned the dripper on and waited.
Of course my valentine's monster:
And an underwater bonus monster.
Today was a long day. I traveled to Boise, Idaho for work. It was cold but nicer than I expected. I attended a meeting that lasted a couple of hours, and then the person we were visiting gave us a tour of Boise. Before you ask, I didn’t get to see any potato farms, but I did ask about them. They have farms that run up a river with a snake-like name. The one-hour flight each way was less tiring than I expected.
I hoped to write more. This is the best I can do for today. And, yes, I realize that these entries are becoming shorter and shorter. But I give you monsters to make up for the length, which is caused mostly by my refusal to share my consternations, beyond these introductory consternations. That and I’m not spending the time (or the caffeine) on writing as much as I have in the past. I’ll get back to my old ways one of these days.
***
Rachel waited until the coffee pot filled, and poured the coffee into her mug. She sipped her mug and almost choked as the scolding liquid drained into her stomach. She didn’t stop drinking, though, and finished half the mug before putting it down. Her tongue and throat felt raw. It was worth it. She shook her head a few minutes later to stop herself from staring into space. Work to do and I have no time to dilly dally in the break room. She left the room and walked down the hallway back to her office. She heard another crash, this time closer. She spun around to see if she could catch its source. There was nobody in the darkened hallway.
She listened but heard nothing after the echoes of the crash. That’s it. I’m going to give that cleaning lady a good talking to. Rachel approached the lobby where she usually found the cleaning people speaking Spanish loudly to one another. The lobby was empty and after finding the front office door lock, she knew the cleaning agency had left. One must have stayed late. Maybe they’re trying to steal something. The thought of calling the front security desk flitted through her mind, but she squashed it. I’m no coward. The thoughts of her work vanished; she began to examine the hallways and offices, searching for the source of the noise.
Rachel was a tall woman with dark hair and colorless skin. She wore little makeup because she had nothing to hide. She had never had a blemish on her face. Her eyes were dark brown and surrounded by spotless brilliant white. She painted her lips a dark red to add color to her face, and wore severe and tightly cut suits. She prided herself on her posture, and because of it, her clothing never became wrinkled. She had worked at the office for three years, and been promoted twice. She was one-step away from vice president, which she expected to happen after her Christmas bonus. She carried an air of command with her like other woman wear scarves. She had no question of her worth, and she shared it with anyone who asked.
Today's Monster:
I climb the fence and drop to the pavement. On summer mornings, nobody arrives at the schoolyard before noon, and the schoolyard is empty. Long weeds grow between the cement blocks and brush my sneakers as I walk. I wander through the schoolyard careful not to step on a crack. I sing, “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.” A large crack zigzags through the center of the schoolyard. I jump, land on the crack with both feet, and twist as if putting out a cigarette.
Over the schoolyard looms the red school building, its gated windows and painted doors shut against summer. The school building shades the field from the early sunlight. By the afternoon, the sun will be a factor, and kids will shade their eyes with hats and hands to catch falling balls. The school fenced off a small area near the building. Even with the alternating white and red diagonal plastic strips weaved through the fence, I see the green dumpsters. They didn’t need to fence in the garbage; it already overflowed the schoolyard.
I squeeze a pink Spalding, throw it against the school wall, and catch it on a bounce. The morning is calm and warm. I throw the ball again. I have to leave before the other kids arrive; I last here only on mornings. The ball recoils off the grass and I miss the catch. I chase it into a corner, where the yard sinks to the sidewalk. The ball wedges between the metal pipe under the fence and the concrete. I pluck the ball and toss it up in the air, catching and releasing repeatedly as I return to the wall.
I’m in a diner and I’m a nosy person. George waves me over. He either owns the Stars diner or works here enough to own it. He takes me to a booth adjacent to two men in an animated conversation.
The man I face snorts and Coke runs into his nose. He coughs, not bothering to cover his mouth, and bangs his fist against his chest. “I’m what in this role?”
I smile at George. I never explained to him what I looked for in a table, but he figured it out. When there are no worthwhile tables, I’ll chat with George by the bar. He talks about sports mostly, and I nod and agree with what he says. I don’t know the difference between a baseball and a base, but George doesn’t mind. He can talk for hours without me saying a word. I prefer that and George knows it.
I settle into the booth and spread the Wall Street Journal on the table. I found the paper in the garbage bin in the subway but I would never read it. It has too many words and only bad sketches. You’d think a paper as popular as this one would invest in photographs. I turn the pages by touching only the bottom corner. I know how runny the ink is and I don’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon scrubbing my hands raw.
I’ve been in New York long enough to know that the man who spoke is an actor. I like actors because they’re not quiet people. Even during a loud lunch hour, I can hear them clearly. He is a large man for an actor, and wears a goatee with large expressive eyes. His talk is animated and he slouches. I always trust men who slouch.
“A cockroach,” the other man says. “It’s only a four-day shoot and you’ll be home before you know it. And they’re paying for the trip to Baltimore. I think you should take it, the experience will be good for you.”
“What about the money?” the actor asks.
“Think of it as an experience.”
The actor snorts again, but this time more carefully. “Is this why you agreed to meet today, to tell me about this bug business?”
I like the actor already. His speech is exact. He wears a button down shirt with his stomach resting on the table. As he talks, his thumbs run along his stomach in an alternating, massaging motion. I turn the page in the paper. George drops off coffee and I let it sit knowing it’s too hot for sipping.
“No, Will. I wanted to tell you in person that the casting agents are talking about you. They’re very impressed. All of them would hire you in a moment for the right part because they see great potential. You’re one of the best character actors they’ve seen in years.”
“I’m not a character actor. I want to lead.”
I slump lower into the green canvas bench and forget all pretences of reading the paper. I take out a pad and scribble notes. Here is an actor with principles, or at least a principle. The other man must be his agent. Either that or I’m a watermelon. I laugh at the thought of me as a watermelon. The actor looks at me strangely. I try to gauge if he sees me as a watermelon. He doesn’t take a double take, so I assume he doesn’t.
“I know, Will. But a person of your…special characteristics, you know what casting agents think when they see you.” Will is a large man especially for an actor. I tilt my head and measure him. There are no extra folds of skin under his chin, and his fingers are plump but not large. He scrunches his face in what I assume is mock anger because his face doesn’t turn red and his speech isn’t heated.
“I thought we were going to change the world. Isn’t that what you told me?”
He agent begins hawing. I’ve never seen an agent do anything but haw. They remind me of cows in that respect. They know the slaughterhouse is where they’ll end, and they never seem to bother trying to put off that ending.
Will starts speaking in a perfect mimicry of his agent’s New Jersey accent, even finding the same pitch, timber and cadence. I can’t see the agent, but if I did, I imagine his face would have the same expressions as Will is now depicting. “We’ll revolutionize the way directors and casting agents think about the leading man. We’re going to demolish the mold, Will. Me and you, just stick with me and forget the weight issue. It’s a non-issue with me.”
It’s hard to resist clapping. This guy’s amazing. I scribble furiously, afraid to look down for long because I might miss something.
Will drops the accent and sighs dramatically, “Tell me more about the bug spot.”
“It’s for a good company, Will. They’re the leading exterminator for the east coast—the leading one. You can’t work for better people, Will. These are good people.”
“They’re bug people.”
Bug people! I love Will. I chuckle and Will catches my eyes. I plead with him to say the right things. I hope he won’t disappoint me. George walks over but sees the intensity in my eyes and walks away.
“Everyone needs to make a buck, Will, even you. I know your feelings, but you can’t let all opportunities pass you by because of principles. They’ll stop knocking, and neither of us wants to see that.”
“I’m willing to undergo for my art. Isn’t that what we agreed?”
“You wear a rubber mask, Will. Nobody will know it’s you. Where’s the risk?”
I imagine Will wearing a rubber mask and parading around like a bug. It’s unnatural. Even without talking to him, I know he’s destined for better. I think about making a call but I’m afraid to miss something. I imagine Will on a precipice. He can go either way. His clothes don’t look too worn. He probably has a night job. All actors have night jobs.
“It’s not about other people knowing. I thought you understood: it’s about me knowing. I’m better than that. Speaking of better, what ever happened to my Broadway audition. I thought that went well.”
His agent pauses for a bit. Will doesn’t say anything. I peek over the top of his table and see that his coffee cup is empty. There’s a plate in front of his agent, but Will seems to be fasting. I respect that. When dealing with rats, you want to keep all your facilities about you, and food can drag even the most disciplined person into compliance. I sip my coffee. More time had passed than I thought, and the coffee was cooler than I expected.
“I told you on the phone, Will. They loved you—they always love you—but you didn’t fit the part. They offered you a spot in the chorus. It would have been work.”
“I would have worn a costume,” Will says wearing an affected affronted expression. He’s enjoying this conversation. I see that now. He knows it’s going to go nowhere, but he wants to make his agent see something. My heart jumps out to Will. Such a tough time he’s having, and he looks to the enjoyment of it.
“I thought you were an actor. Isn’t that what actors do, wear costumes?”
“The costume they wanted to provide hides my girth. I’ve been in choruses and I’ve paid my dues. The kids in the chorus are half my age. I deserve better.”
“Will, I’m beginning to think it’s more than your size you’re afraid of. You’re afraid to get out there.”
I want to stand and defend Will. How can his agent not understand what he’s talking about? I look down at my notes and see the lines of words go off in all directions. I turn the page and continue writing.
His agent excuses himself and heads to the bathroom. When he passes Will, Will reaches across and steals his French fries. Will looks at me, and I don’t return his gaze this time. I finish my sentence and signal George. I order a cheeseburger deluxe and ask him in a whisper if the actor ordered anything. George looks at Will and shakes his head. I nod and go back to my writing.
After five minutes, his agent returns to the table. His hands are not wet, and I have a good feeling that he didn’t need to use the bathroom. He was trying to sweat Will out. I smile because I know it didn’t work. Will is as cool as a pickle.
“Will, can I put you down for a yes for this job? It’ll be good for you to get out of town for a few days at the least. I need to have something on the books for you this year, Will. Otherwise. Well, you know what type of pressure I’m under in the agency.”
Oh, that’s an evil angle, a last gasp for the wicked. Will finishes munching on the fry and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry. I can’t do it. Do you have anything planned for me for the next week? I was thinking of heading home for a bit. I haven’t visited my parents in a long time.”
I’m crestfallen. Will’s giving up. I shake my head no and will Will to take it back. He is so close. He can’t give up now. His agent opens a large, black appointment book and looks through it. George delivers my cheeseburger. I push it to the side of the table, having lost my hunger.
“You’re clear for the rest of the week, Will. Take a week, take a month, and think about what I said. There are a lot of parts I can get you: you’d be a whiz at voice-over work. If you’d play to your strengths, you’d be so busy you’d never get a chance to go home. Think it over Will.”
His agent closes the book, takes out a twenty-dollar bill and throws it on the table. He holds out his hand, but Will doesn’t take it. He shrugs and walks out the door. I don’t watch him leave. My eyeballs are riveted to Will. He pulls the agent’s half-eaten plate to him and starts eating the fries. He looks at me. I look at him.
“What are you looking at?” Will asks.
“Were you going to get a new agent, or are you really going home?”
Will doesn’t look surprised. “My parents don’t want to see me. I’ll hang around and go to open casting calls. My agent doesn’t even tell me about most interesting ones anyhow.”
I grin. “That’s good news, Will. You’re going to be something.” I pull my plate over and take a bite out of the cheeseburger. I don’t look away from Will.
“I don’t know who you are, man, but thanks.” Will eats the last fry, picks up the twenty, and walks over to the cash register. I close my book and munch away at the burger.
Will walks back to the table and puts two dollars on the table. He stops at my table. “You’re not one of those eccentric playwrights, by chance, looking for your next lead actor. You have the look.”
I finish chewing. “Not exactly, but it’s funny that you should ask.” I hand him my business card and he laughs. “Have a seat, Will. We should talk.”
Fatigue soaked Ernie’s bones and his leg muscles smoldered. He half-ran, half-walked through the terminal, dragging his bags behind him. He hated to admit it, but he was anxious to see his family. Keeping pace, he pulled off a brown baseball cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead onto his forearm. A white bulldog wearing a red muscle shirt sat on the front of the cap. He arrived at the exit and looked through the crowd held back by an orange rope. He found his father waiting in the back and standing on his tiptoes. He waved and his father waved back before pushing his way to the front of the crowd.
“Sorry,” Ernie said, “Customs was a bitch.” While Ernie was pleased to see his father, he wanted to set the rules early. He was a changed and he wanted his father to respect that.
His father raised an eyebrow. “I was getting worried. I was about to have them page you.” His father held out his hand and Ernie grasped it. “It’s good to see you, son. Your mother has missed you terribly.” His father’s grip was strong. Ernie thought it was a stronger grip than when he left. He couldn’t decide what it meant and he decided to push his advantage.
“I was only gone for two months, dad.”
“Yeah, but when you go to college we’ll be able to telephone you. You were in a foreign country, Ernie. You have no idea how anxious that made your mother.”
“You know I’m practically an adult now. You’ll have to start thinking of me like that one of these days.”
“We can argue about this in the car. Your mother would kill me if we spent too much time blabbing while I’m sure she’s fretting at home. She’s been cooking all day.”
“Uh oh, that doesn’t sound good.”
“It isn’t, but we’ll pretend like usual. You know how much she loves cooking,” His father stuck out his tongue and made a gagging face. Ernie smiled. His father placed one of Ernie’s bags under his arm and lifted the other one off the ground. He led Ernie to the car in the daily parking garage.
Ernie slid into the passenger seat of the large blue Buick while his father loaded the trunk.
The baby wailed. I rolled and looked left but didn’t see the clock. I stared at the nightstand before probing for my wife. She wasn’t there. I squinted, rubbed my eyes, and looked at the walls. There were stripes on them and my bedroom walls didn’t have stripes. Or did they? The baby switched to screeching. I thought for a moment, definitely no stripes in my bedroom. Through three large windows on the far side of the bed, I saw the glitzy lights of Times Square, which I was almost sure had no business in Kansas. It wasn’t until I remembered that I didn’t own a baby that I knew I wasn’t home.
I found the clock on the opposite nightstand and read the red, digital numbers: 3:24 AM. I had a meeting at eight and I needed sleep. The baby alternated between screeching and wailing. It lost its voice for a moment before locating it. It screamed. This was my first meeting with a New York client. None of my partners believed it when I said I nailed a big city client. I spent the last two months preparing the presentation for the three vice presidents who agreed to attend. The client sold bagel-making machines, but I wasn’t fussy, at least not yet. And, besides, bagels were an important currency in New York, as my wife said when I told her, a definite step to moving big time.
I was sure by now that the parents should have wakened, rushed to the baby, and hit the off switch. I listened but didn’t hear a sound in the next room except for the screaming, which had transformed into an intense wave of crying, screaming, softening, breathing, crying, screaming, softening, breathing. I cleared my throat loudly, hoping whoever was on the other side of the wall would take the hint, but there was no sound from behind the wall. I thought about knocking on the wall or door, but decided against it. Surely, the parents were doing everything in their power to quiet this monster.
Then I began to think that maybe they didn’t feel guilty about the screams. Perhaps their baby always screamed, and they grew so used to it that it didn’t wake them anymore. I dismissed that thought. Not even the headphones that the airline wavers wear when directing airplanes to gates could mask this baby’s wails. Perhaps they weren’t thinking about the poor businessman on the other side of their hotel room wall; they mustn’t know that I had an early meeting with a must-impress client. Then the thought struck me: perhaps they didn’t care.
I put a pillow over my head and covered my ears, which was like drying oneself with a towel while swimming across a river. After fifteen minutes of constant screaming, I stood up and dressed. I checked that my computer—with its precious presentation—was charging and safe on the desk. I combed my hair with my fingers and grabbed my key. I would show my face next door and let them know that while I feel their pain, I hoped they would feel mine and take the baby out of the room or something.
I listened at the door of room 3911 until I was sure that the wails emanated from inside. I knocked gently on the door and waited. I knocked three more times before I heard movement. .The baby’s wails cutoff suddenly.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, when the peephole’s color darkened slightly. “But I wanted to make sure everything was okay with your baby.”
There was no response.
“I know how hard babies can be,” I continued. “I have four nieces and they can be quite a handful at times.”
Silence.
“Anyway, I’m glad your baby quieted down. I didn’t mean to bother you, but I have a meeting tomorrow morning that took me months to plan, and I hoped to get a good night’s sleep before it started. Well, sorry about this. Have a good night”
I went back into my room. I imagined her other neighbor and probably the entire hallway silently applauding my efforts. I stripped and jumped into the cooled bed. I rolled to the warmer side, pulled the covers to my chin, and closed my eyes. Sleep stuck her talons into my chest and I slept.
I woke to the baby wailing, again. I couldn’t have slept long, since I felt no grogginess. I checked the digital clock, and, sure enough, it was only 4:06 AM. The baby’s wails turned into screeches. Using my fingers, I counted the hours I had slept: asleep at 1 AM after final touches on the presentation; awake at 3:20 AM to baby’s screams, leaving me two hours plus the ten-minute nap I just managed. I yawned fully with my jaw locked wide open, and became anxious about my sleepiness.
My bagel clients agreed to a three-hour presentation this morning. I had fifty slides, at, on average, three minutes per slide, leaving me with thirty-minutes to take questions and sign the documents. The baby’s cry began alternating between screeching and screaming. It sounded vaguely familiar, as if the baby had a routine cry. I would make the sales pitch twice, once after introduction, and once before I took questions. I practiced the presentation many times, on my wife Elaine, my partners, and my bathroom mirror. All three approved. The baby lost its voice and for a moment, there was silence. Then it started screaming again. Two hours might not be too bad. I thought back to my days in college, where I’d pull all-nighters and take tests without sleep. I was ten years out of school, and when I looked back, I sometimes thought I would have done better had I slept instead of studied, or, as I would tell my kids if Elaine ever convinced me to have any, had I prepared weeks before the exams.
I decided that the walls were thick, which was why I hadn’t heard the parents’ frantic efforts to quiet the baby. Only its screeches could penetrate the deadening walls. The baby fell into its now familiar cadence of cry, scream, soften, breathe. I looked to the clock. It was 4:10 AM, and if I could get them to quiet the baby, I could manage at least two and half more hours of sleep.
I dressed and knocked on room 3911 again. There was no answer and I knocked louder.
“I’ve tried to deal,” I said somewhat breathlessly, my annoyance at the confrontation beginning to rise into my throat. “I really have, but this is getting ridiculous. Please, take your baby to the lobby until it falls asleep. I’m sure I’m not the only one with important meetings on this floor.”
There was no sound from the room except the screams.
“At least acknowledge me,” I said, my voice rising as bells rang in my ears. I heard shuffling in some of the other rooms around me, and through another closed door down the hall, I barely made out, “Shut that baby up!”
I heard only the baby’s cry, scream, soften, breathe. When red obscured my vision and my anxiety threatened to boil over, I heard the rattling of chains and the unlocking of the door. I smiled and changed to my salesman face, thinking only of the two hours of sleep I might manage.
A woman appeared in the door. She wore a revealing nightgown and her body had the look of a burnt turkey; thin shoulder bones poking through stretched and sunken skin as if she had been overcooked. Large black circles surrounded her eyes, giving her a raccoon appearance, and a mound of large frizzy hair made her face look tiny. Her hands shook slightly and the baby wailed behind her.
“I again apologize for bothering you,” I said with a smile, showing my teeth and dimples, “but the baby.”
“She cries,” the woman said. Her voice was as shaky as her hands and I wondered if she ever slept.
“Is there anything I could do to help?” I asked.
“Afraid not. She’ll fall asleep eventually. I’m sorry she’s bothering you, but that’s what babies do. I should get back to her.”
The baby continued to cry and I looked over the woman into her room. Her lights were off but an oversized television screen in Times Square flickered outside her window. It showed an advertisement for woman’s shoes and illuminated the room. I saw her opened travel bag on the floor, its contents spilled out along the floor. Her bed, which still had hospital corners, a clean fold over, and neatly stacked pillows, didn’t look slept in. What I couldn’t find, however, was the wailing baby.
The baby’s cries with the door open sounded different. An almost imperceptible high-pitched sound accompanied the screams. When I saw the woman’s eyes darting back to the room, I knew something was wrong. She pushed the door closed on me. I knocked again, but there was no answer. The baby continued to cry but I now knew there was no baby. It was a recording. What type of sick woman would play a recording of a baby crying in the middle of the night? I knocked louder.
“Listen, lady,” I said. “I don’t know what your malfunction is, but turn off that recording!”
The door across from the woman opened and a large man appeared in a white bathrobe, which fell only to his knee, and didn’t fully cover his belly. “What is going on out here? Has she shut up that monster?”
“There is no monster,” I said. “There’s nobody in there except her. It’s a recording of some sort. Can you believe this?”
The man studied me, squinting as if to determine my level of sanity. “There’s no baby in there?”
“Nope,” I answered.
The man rubbed his hairy stomach and stood looking at me. “Should we call the front desk?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I said.
Before I finished speaking, the woman’s door opened, and the cries became louder. “I can’t sleep without the cries,” she said. Her voice was broken as if she was crying, but her eyes showed no evidence of tears. “I need the cries. They’re my baby’s cries. You have to understand. My baby’s cries!”
The woman looked sicker when she spoke. Her belly was large, but not in the way of a fat or pregnant woman. It was round like a person who didn’t have enough food to eat. Her hand went into her mess of hair and she squeezed and pulled at the curls. The cries stopped suddenly and I heard the sound of a click.
“That proves it,” I said. “The tape just finished. It is a tape!”
The man nodded. “Don’t you have earphones or something?” the man asked.
“I’ll sleep and you won’t even hear the cries,” the woman said. “I promise. Just don’t take away my baby.”
This was getting weird. This woman obviously had issues that the man and I wouldn’t be able to handle alone. I thought of rushing into her room and removing her tape recorder, but while I wanted this drama over quickly, I didn’t want to do anything that would worsen the situation.
Annie was one of three children in her family. Her father rented an apartment in Boston for his family. He was a renowned psychologist and anthropologist, studying the familial bonds of tribes in rural parts of Africa and Asia. He traveled for much of Annie’s childhood, leaving Annie and her two siblings alone with her mother. Her mother, a part-time therapist and full-time good-doer, doted over her children when they were babies. But as they grew older, she became less capable of handling them. She chose to ignore their problems, determined that her husband, who was rarely home, would handle them.
(Don’t describe it, show it!)
Annie was six-years old when her mother first showed signs of the illness that would torment Annie until she left home at sixteen. Like her parents, Annie never forgot a moment. She described her memory in this way: “My brain classifies all my moments in rows of buckets. When I want a memory, I look for the right bucket, and once I find it, I can tip it over and spill out its memories.” She never shared her ability’s downside. Her brain stored her memories as more sinister than when she experienced them, and the memories did not stay in her brain’s buckets; they flowed over at night and during stressful moments. As she grew older, she lived more and more in her dark memories, filling new buckets with exceedingly darker versions of her original memories.
Annie and her younger brother David walked on the arm of their burgundy flower-print couch, practicing the balance-beam routines they had seen on television. David was doing a particularly complicated one-foot spin at the end of the arm when he lost his balance and fell. His head bounced off a gray-painted metal steam ridged with pipes. Annie screamed and ran to her mother. When her mother saw David, she froze and said, “Don’t you worry, Annie, your father will handle this. Blood is his department.” Her mother stood staring at David’s bloody head, shaking her head.
Her father hadn’t been home in months, and Annie pulled at her mother’s shirt until it ripped, but her mother didn’t budge; instead, staring at the blood and shaking her head “no.” For years, Annie relived this memory, attempting to understand what her mother was thinking. Annie decided to follow her parents and study psychology to understand what her mother was thinking when she witnessed and ignored bad moments. While her mother watched, Annie ran to Mrs. Tinderly, an elderly neighbor, who drove David and Annie to the hospital to have his head stitched together.
Annie was never relieved when her father returned home.
Jones (our sleepy narrator) wore thick brown glasses, with no frame along the bottom. He spiked his black hair and no matter how much he shaved, the beginnings of a mustache always appeared on his upper lip. His chin was short, and under his chin went up at a sharp angle to hic neck. His ears looked oversized, but when you looked closer, the ear was of a normal size, except for the earlobe, which flapped at his slightest movement.
Annie’s father was a short, chubby man. A pudgy nose dominated a red face dominated by tiny ears, which drew attention almost by not being there. He pulled his rusty-colored hair back tightly, holding it in a long thin, braided tail, which dropped down to the middle of his back. He wore expensive, dark suits with buttoned vests. His eyesight never weakened. Even now, a week after his eightieth birthday—Annie didn’t bother to call him on his birthday, although she always remembered it—he did not need reading glasses to edit the research papers that his colleagues still sent him for review.
His return was never a relief for Annie and her siblings. His first day home was always good. He brought gifts for all the kids, and they went out to a restaurant to celebrate. But their happiness never lasted long.
I cough and don’t bother to cover my mouth. A cone of virus-infected spittle fans out from my mouth to the noses, mouths, ears, and skins of the other subway riders. Thanks to a late-March cold spell, the train is packed. They stare at me and I stare right back, daring any one of them to say something. They don’t. My cough is deep and guttural and sounds like the cranking of an old car. I wouldn’t be sick if it wasn’t for them. I glare at as many riders as I can in the space of a minute. Glaring, similar to singing or playing piano, becomes better the more you practice. I’m more of a speed technician than a virtuoso: my glares aren’t especially fierce but I fit many into a small period. You see, it was the riders’ hacking and spitting and sneezing and coughing that made me sick in the first place. Maybe it wasn’t these particular riders but it doesn’t make a difference. If I had the Avian flu, 72% of us wouldn’t stand a chance. Stupid chickens. I use my index finger to count ten people, and draw X’s over seven of them, letting the hot blonde woman and her two friends live. I cough again.
The subway rocks from side to side as it passes through a tunnel. It squeals and the lights blink on and off; sparks fly off the tracks. I don’t bother holding onto the metal pole. Instead, I rest against my neighbors. Every time the train stops or starts suddenly, I choose a direction and lean. When the going is steady, I arch my lower back and stretch it. I must have pulled something when coughing.
The subway stops in a tunnel with the floor tilting to the left. Everyone except me leans to the right. I find a comfortable person behind me and relax. A broken voice sounds over the loud speaker: “The…train…delay…outage…you know…we know.” I watch the riders stare at the speaker boxes. I can’t imagine it helps them much.
Disclaimer: While I said this when I first posted this story, it bears repeating. This story is not about Julie. It is fiction. Julie is a beautiful and wonderful girlfriend. The narrator says what he says because it fit his character and moves the story forward. I won’t parse which statements are true (since, obviously, some of what he says I say often), but the girlfriend is made up, pretend, not Julie. There. I’m glad I got that off my chest before the aforementioned gorgeous person beats me black and blue when she returns from China.
To be continued with a new, more interesting and indepth middle and ending....
My dad rested on the peach picnic sheet, a queen-sized sheet taken from a set used to cover his bed, his old bed, the one he used to sleep in with mom before they made room for the hospital bed. It was early spring and the first warm day of the season, and it was a good day for him. Few days were good for him now.
I was seven. I skipped around the sheet mom had lain over the grass in the backyard. Dad watched me but lacked the strength to turn his head. When I passed in front, he strained his eyes to follow me. I skipped faster when out of view but slowed when I saw his eyes watching me through his brown-rimmed glasses. The glasses looked comically oversized on his vanishing face.
When I tired I sat cross legged before him. He reached over and held my hand. His hand was still huge but his wedding band slipped loosely on his finger. Thin blue veins crisscrossed his hand.
“I can explain everything,” he said. His voice was always deep and strong. No matter how sick he became, his voice never weakened.
“What?” I said, measuring his hand against mine and wondering when mine would grow.
“Life, sweetheart, life is coming for you and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. I want you to welcome it because life is wonderful, every moment precious. Some more than others . . . don’t bother grading moments because you can’t until much later, and by the time you can the grades become irrelevant.”
I didn’t understand him. He talked like this to me sometimes. For as long as I remember he never talked as if I was a child. He spoke to me as he spoke to mom or Uncle Ben. I didn’t say anything because I was too busy memorizing everything he said.
“Ask me things. I have so much to tell you and I don’t even know where to begin.” He coughed weakly and I looked back at mom who sat on the stoop leading to the house. She waved and dad continued to cough. He squeezed my hand and didn’t let go as he turned his head away from me and spit onto the sheet.
I didn’t know what to do, so I asked, “Why is the grass green?”
He turned his head toward me and smiled showing his discolored teeth. “You might as well ask why the sky is blue.”
“Then why is the sky blue?”
“The sky is blue to look beautiful before the grass.”
“And the grass?”
“To look beautiful before the sky.”
“Now you’re being silly.”
He laughed and his laughter turned into another bout of coughing. He held my hand tight when all I wanted to do was to run away. I forced myself to study his shirt, pinstriped and button-downed. The shirt was huge on him, and the buttons were all wrong. He missed one of the top buttons. I felt his body convulse slightly as he coughed and I swallowed and silently prayed, promising my comic book collection and never to miss a day of school and to give up my computer, I promised everything and anything to make my dad’s sickness go away.
He stopped coughing and looked away from me toward the sky.
“The sky, the grass, they’re both beautiful before the other. All things have beauty. The trick is to really look for it. Just like you’re beautiful.”
I knew I wasn’t beautiful. My mom was beautiful, and my sisters were beautiful, but I was a skinny kid with skinned knees and dirty braces. But I didn’t argue. “And you?” I asked.
“Yeah, I guess that makes me beautiful, too, in my own way.”
I looked at his face for what I think was the first time. I really looked. I didn’t realize at the time that I was trying to engrave his face onto my mind. I saw how his eyes didn’t rotate together, and how his stubble was grayer than I remembered. His chin looked pointed, and his jowl was all but gone, replaced by a deep indentation under his chin. But I looked more and I saw that he had my younger sister’s beautiful eyes, and my older sister’s beautiful cheeks.
My dad coughed again and my mom cam over and helped him sit up. I retreated to the corner of the yard and watched them. She walked with him up the stairs and I sat and watched. I stared at the closed door until she returned, sticking her head out the screen door.
“You coming in?”
“In a bit.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I started to cry and she came to me. She bent down and wrapped her arms around me and held me. I didn’t make much noise because my dad’s window was open and I didn’t want him to hear me. Instead I cried softly and shook.
“It’s very hard for him,” mom said. “You have no idea how hard this is for him.”
I couldn’t talk. Tears stole my voice and I sat there holding my mother and crying silently. I couldn’t say anything. All I could think was how beautiful my dad was.
“How do ugly people do it? How do they accept other ugly people?”
“This is your important question of the century?”
”I think people are sitting home at night and worrying about this as we speak. I want to help them. Did you know there are more than a million ugly people in Seattle alone? Just think about that, one million ugly people. It boggles the mind!”
“Are you including me in your survey?”
“No. I don’t associate with ugly people. You’re safe.”
“And how do you define ugly people?”
“Well, fat people are automatically ugly. Some of them would probably not be so ugly if they lost weight, but since they haven’t, they’re ugly. Once we remove fatness, ugliness is rather easy to determine. There is a fantastic agreement about ugliness. People tend to agree on ugliness.”
“Are there many ugly people?”
“If you once again remove fat people, then the answer is no. As you might suspect, ugliness exists on a bell curve, like most things in life. There will always be plenty of average-looking people, and a relatively equal number of good-looking people and ugly-looking people.”
***
So many ugly people and so much time not to write about them. This was supposed to transform into a story about how two ugly people find each other and fall in love. Obviously, I didn’t get there. I’m doing that a lot lately: not getting places. Oh well. Why can’t I write about something nice and friendly, like stuffed teddy bears?
I arrive at the bar with friends. They’re talking now, away from me. Smoke fills the bar and the music plays too loud. I try to listen to my own thoughts, but they’re dark and I decide to stay away from them. I’m nursing a drink on a barstool, trying to avoid touching other people. They’re close, the other people, and I don’t like people too close. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m the dark-clad stranger, sitting wistfully in the corner, knowing that my mystery will attract someone.
The fantasy runs through my head. How can a woman resist me? Who is that strange character over there? He’s been sitting by himself for the past hour. He must be thinking strange thoughts, to sit in the corner for so long by himself. I should go over to him and introduce myself. He may turn me away, but I must know what he’s thinking, what dark, important thoughts are running through his head.
I would welcome an interruption like that in my fantasy, but I drink the water-downed alcohol and look around for friends that I don’t want to talk to. I drank too much too quickly. I was engaging for a while, but now I’m depressed. I want to go home but I don’t want to fight through the crowd to find out where home would take me. There are too many people between my friends and me. I would push through them and end up swinging. I can’t think with the music going on. Who plays music this loud? My voice is gone because of the smoke and the music and the screaming. I’m not a good talker. I talk from my throat, which rips it roar before the evening starts. The smoke did not make it much better.
A girl walks over and smiles. I stare, mysterious-like, and she walks by. I replay the encounter in my head, and I say something to her, but I can’t make out her response. She’s gone now. If I had to do it again, I’d say something, perhaps something clever. She probably wondered who I was and what I was thinking, being such a mysterious stranger sitting on the bar and thinking deep thoughts. That’s what I do, think deep dark thoughts as if I had something to say in the middle of the night on an evening like that.
The dance floor is filling up and people are moving, balancing drinks in their right hands and cigarettes in their left. The lights are flashing, sparkling, and blinding me as I begin nodding my head. Girls like that. They can see that I have a beat, that I can move, which they know would translate into bed moves; Not that I know much of those. I do know it’s a matter of time before another girl smiles, and this time I’m ready. I practice my smiles, pushing past my half smile to show teeth. The same girl comes back to the bar. Her friends must drink a lot. I then realize she works here. In her black outfit, I didn’t see where the black apron holding her pad. She smiles again and approaches.
“You want something?”
“I’m good,” I say and look away. She’s looking for money. Even had I smiled earlier, she wouldn’t have been impressed. She’s pretty, though, small with dark hair. Twenty earrings pierce one of her ears, and I’m impressed that she endured that much pain to accessorize her ear. I begin to watch her as she walks back and forth. Her clothing is tight and I enjoy it. She smiles but doesn’t come back. She’s probably scared of the mysterious guy.
I begin to have fantasies about her, about how she asks me to stay after her shift to talk. One of my friends, Brian, comes up to me and strikes up a conversation, breaking my fantasy. He says things and I smile and sip my drink. The ice is gone and the water does not mix well with the liquor. I respond in short answers, which I assume will show off my dark nature to the girls around me. None of them seems to pay attention and Brian loses interest. He asks if I want a drink and I wave him off, as if to say, I still have this drink, and that’ll do me for a while.
The waitress doesn’t come back, and I don’t blame her. She has money to make, and she doesn’t want to waste her time with my dark, mysterious look. I’ve held the same drink since I arrived here. A fight breaks out across the dance floor. It entertains me for a bit, but after the bouncers drag out the smaller guy who had his face punched in, I loose interest. I should have brought a book or something. That would make me appear even more mysterious. Who brings a book to a bar, they would say, the beautiful woman, that is. He must be one of those intellectuals who can impress me with his readings and deep thoughts. That’s me, deep and thoughtful.
I’m not the only mysterious man in the bar. An older man, grizzled with a white beard and mustache, sits across the bar. He wears thick, rounded eyeglasses and sits before a line of empty shot glasses. He’s sipping his latest and gesturing outrageously to those around him. He’s created a little space, and I’m jealous because I lack space. The wall I’m holding up is wood and a bit sticky. I lean an elbow against the wooden drink table and study those around me.
A woman in a red shirt looks over to me. She’s chubby but has a cute face. I try out my smile on her and she looks away. I study her for a bit, but there are no more interactions. My friends are dancing now. They wave for me to join them and I point to my drink as if to say after I finish. I ignore their strange looks and keep an eye out for the waitress. She’s wears blue converse sneakers and has a pencil through her hair bun. I think she dyed her hair red, but it’s hard to see in the light. She comes over and asks if I want anything, a drink. I croak out “water,” and she smiles, and goes away. I don’t expect her to return. There’s not much in the way of tips for a water delivery.
The music has changed from hard dancing to slow dancing with a methodical bass beat. The dancers have coupled off, and many drunks are holding onto their conquests, whispering into each other’s ears or kissing on the dance floor. Two girls stand up on the stage in front of the DJ and dance, their drinks held over their head, and their bellies visible as their arms pull up their short blouses. I watch them dance, but the lights annoy me and I look away.
Why can’t I be like these people, I ask myself not for the first time. They seem happy, they enjoy what they’re doing, dancing around the room, drinking and talking and flirting. I could do that, the talking and flirting, and even the dancing. But I don’t want to. If I were drunk enough, I’d be there. But my drunkenness doesn’t last long enough. After drinking for a bit, my throat refuses to swallow more alcohol. It knows better than I do when I’m in danger of puking. Once I stop drinking for a bit, I don’t want to drink again. I’m not a bar person. I go because my friends drag me and I keep thinking this time will be different. This time I’d get into a philosophical discussion with a hot blonde with an amazing body, who will look at me and know in that way you look at a good book and know you’re going to enjoy it. But it has never happened. They’re not looking for that. They’re looking for a fun fling that might turn into something else. They’re looking for a fraternity guy who can introduce her to his friends. They’re looking for someone important, someone who will give them a good time. I can’t give them a good time. I only know how to complain and brood.
The waitress comes back with my water and I pull out two-dollar bills from my black leather wallet. I think how much cooler I would be if a silver chain attached my wallet to my belt, but then I remember I don’t even wear a belt. She smiles when I give her the money and walks away. She’s cute from behind. I should have told her that. Too late now. I put what remains of my alcoholic drink on the small table and hold the water, taking sips to soothe my burning throat. The cigarette smoke is thick, and I smell the unmistakable odor of pot. I should have smoked pot before coming, but I don’t do drugs. I’m too prim and mysterious for pot. What would that teach me anyway?
The bar gets crowded, and many groups eye the small table I lean over. They want my standing room, but I glare back at them, daring them to cross into my space and try to take it. I should have peed along its borders. I don’t want them to violate my space because I found this good space with a wall that needed holding and a view of the dance floor. I haven’t been bothered but that seems to be changing as others place their drinks down on my table, elbowing into my space.
My friends get me at 11pm and say they’ve had enough. I look longingly at the waitress, who delivers drinks to the table near mine, and agree with them, following them out the door and trying to avoid touching anyone with cutting moves and quick footwork.
What did I learn at the end of the night? What was the purpose of my attending to such a dark and smoky bar? I have no answers. I talk little on the drive back to campus. My friends relate their adventures, and I realize one of them didn’t make the trip. I ask, and they tell me he was busy and told us to not wait for him. He had a prospect that lived near the bar, and he would take a cab if things didn’t work out. They say they’re going to finish the night at a party in the dorm, but I decline and walk through the cold night back to my room, a little zig-zaggy as the drinks affected me more than I supposed. I’m alone when I enter the dormitory. The halls are quiet and empty, and I hear music playing in some rooms, sometimes jazz, but mostly soulful music and the squeaking beds, which find a rhythm of their own. I regret my loneliness, but know that it’s making me a darker, more mysterious person.
D: So this is where you’ve been hiding.
S: I haven’t been hiding. I’ve been here the whole time.
D: You can’t go off and hide like that. We were worried.
S: Sorry. I wasn’t thinking about it.
D: What were you thinking about?
S: Stuff.
D: Do you mind taking your thoughts and sharing them with your grandparents. They’ve been looking forward to spending time with you all week.
S: They’ve been watching television all day.
D: You like television.
S: Not what they’re watching. It’s boring.
D: Would you spend time with them as a favor to me?
S: Why?
D: Because I asked you.
S: That’s not that good of a reason.
D: Well, what would be a good reason?
S: Why do you work?
D: If you think I’m going to I’m not paying you to spend time with your grandparents, you have another thing coming, kiddo.
S: …
D: They’re only here for another four days, and after today, you’ll be in school all day. I didn’t want to tell you this, but they might just possibly have your present in the living room now.
S: What is it?
D: You’ll have to go in there to find out.
S: I thought you said you weren’t going to pay me to spend time with them.
D: I’m not the one who bought the gifts.
S: You’re not lying?
D: About what?
S: The presents.
D: I never said they had presents, I said they might possibly have presents.
S: So you’re saying they don’t have presents.
D: I didn’t say that either. Why don’t you go spend time with them and find out? Use some of those detective skills you keep talking about. Sniff out the presents.
S: I don’t want to be a policeman anymore.
D: When did this happen?
S: I’m growing up, dad. I wanted to be a policeman when I was a kid.
D: Why don’t you talk to you grandparents about your more future plans? I’m sure they’re interested.
S: They’re never interested in anything I say. They pinch my cheeks and tell me to keep my voice down. Can’t I give them a picture of me sitting quietly and leave it at that?
D: That’s an idea. Why don’t you show them your drawings? Your grandpa was quiet the cartoonist when he was young.
S: He never wants to talk about his cartoons. They never want to talk about nothing. I don’t know why they bother to come.
D: They’re my parents, and the come because I invite them and because we love them very much. That’s what family does: we love each other unconditionally. Just because they’re not as entertaining as your friends, doesn’t mean you can ignore them. Now, get your butt into the living room and spend some time with your grandparents.
S: Sure. But you owe me one.
D: We’ll call it even for me feeding and clothing you for the last thirteen years of your life.
S: One evening with grandparents for thirteen years of feeding and clothing. Seems fair.
D: I’m glad you approve. Now, get moving before they go to sleep.
S: It’s only four thirty, and we haven’t even had dinner yet.
D: We’re going out for dinner tonight, your grandparents’ treat.
S: They have a coupon or something?
D: Get.
S: I was just asking. You coming?
D: I’ll be there in a moment. And, yeah, buy one get one free.
S: Sounds delicious.
D: Be nice.
Abu slept tucked under the bedcovers. Even in that position, Tara could see how very tall and very thin he was. His head, shaved thirty years before at the first signs of baldness, was too large for his body. His small rounded eyeglasses had left indentations on his nose and face. He had aged gracefully. The loose skin on his face wrinkled only slightly at the edges of his face muscles. The few liver spots on his head looked like artfully placed, as if planned to give Abu a more regal and wise appearance. Abu was thirty years Tara’s senior, and she did not care. She studied Abu as he slept and counted his breaths, which seemed shallower than she remembered.
Tara had watched the thin lines of morning appear framing the three windows. It had been a long night for Tara. Today, she would accompany Abu to his doctor’s appointment. Her stomach groaned at the thought of the appointment, and Abu’s eyes opened.
“How long have you been up, dear?” Abu said with no sleep in his voice.
“Just a bit. It looks to be a beautiful day.”
“God damn, I love Kurt Vonnegut,” the writer said.
“What’s that,” his wife said.
“Kurt Vonnegut, I love him,” the writer said.
“That is nice,” his wife said and went back to entering numbers in her spreadsheet.
“You don’t understand,” the writer said, standing up and taking his wife by the shoulders. “You don’t understand. I love Kurt Vonnegut. He’s changing my life.”
“I said that was nice,” his wife said, twisting her shoulders to release them from the writer’s hold. She leaned over and continued plugging numbers into the spreadsheet.
The writer looked at his wife in bewilderment. “Don’t you want to know how he changed my life?” the writer said. “I’ve sat here for the last four hours reading through this book, and I yell out that it changed my life, and you don’t even so much as bat an eyelash. If you yelled out that you calculated the numbers right and they changed your life or even just made your day better, I’d be interested in knowing what, how, and why. You know I would.”
His wife wrote in a few more numbers and turned her shoulders to face the writer. “Okay, dear,” his wife said. “You have my undivided attention. What did this Kurt guy do, how has it changed your life, and why—why did it have to happen now?”
“It’s too late to ask those questions,” the writer said. “I know you’re not really interested. If I were a number in your spreadsheet, maybe then you’d care about changes in me, major changes, life-changing changes. But I’m not, and it’s time I accepted that.” The writer sighed deeply, going as far as saying “sigh” when he exhaled.
“How about I go back and finish the final column I was calculating,” his wife said. “I know this doesn’t mean much to you, but before you interrupted me about Kurt what’s-his-name, I was juggling fifteen numbers in my head trying to complete this calculation. I have to turn this in by tomorrow morning, and it’s going to take me another thirty minutes to find my place and get those numbers back in my head.”
“This is what I’m talking about,” the writer said. “I’m different from you. I know what you do is important, and I try to support you in it. I never said what I’m trying to do is more important. It’s just different—my motivations are different, my inspirations are different. It might take you thirty minutes to get those numbers back into your head to finish your calculations, but my work doesn’t happen that way. I can’t force myself to start writing. I have to find the inspiration where I can find it, and hope it hits me long enough to put it down. That’s why I want to share it with you—it’s because you understand, or, at least, I thought you understood.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” his wife said. “I’m under a lot of pressure. Tell me how this author changed you.” His wife turned her entire body to face the writer. “What is it today?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the writer said.
“Well,” his wife said. “Two weeks ago, you finished a book by that guy who wrote the movie “Fight Club,” which you claimed altered your existence—the book, not the movie, since you never bothered to watch the movie, even though I loved it. And then last Wednesday after you finished reading a book by Rand something-or-other, you turned to me and told me that he changed your life too—something about architecture and great men. You even wondered if you had wasted your life writing when your real calling might have been architectural design.”
“He’s a she, and she did change my life,” the writer said.
“See, dear, I do listen to you,” his wife said. “The thing is, you didn’t write anything afterwards,” his wife said. “Neither time. You didn’t write notes, you didn’t write stories, you didn’t write anything. You talked about the books for days, and by the weekend, you had forgotten about them and started reading your next book, unchanged. I wouldn’t have minded if you at least signed up for an architecture class. That at least would have shown that that book changed something in you.”
“I was changed,” the writer said. ”She changed the way I look out on the world and she changed my writing forever. Writing isn’t like number crunching. Your experiences and knowledge have to ferment deep inside of you. You have no control over the inspiration until it bursts out, sometimes the next day, sometimes years later.”
“How can anything ferment if you never write?” his wife said. “When was the last time you wrote a word? And don’t give me this crock about research. You’ve been researching for three years now, and nothing has come of it. How does this Kurt author fit into your research?”
“He’s taught me about beliefs and values in my writing,” the writer said. “He’s taught me to simplify my voice and tell shorter stories. He’s taught me not to use semicolons in my work. All of these lessons are very important, very life-changing ideas. They will improve my writing tenfold.”
“That’s all well and good,” his wife said. “Why don’t you grab your loose-leaf paper and one of those hand-sharpened pencils, and apply Kurt’s lessons to a story? That way, I can get back to the numbers on my spreadsheet and I’ll make sure we have food for this week. You do like eating, don’t you dear?”
“But he’s a genius,” the writer said. “Kurt Vonnegut is a genius. If I could capture his voice, I too would be a genius. Don’t you see? I am searching for genius, for greatness, and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. is showing me the way.” The writer held up Welcome to the Monkey House, his forefinger stuck into the closed book to hold his place. “It’s like he’s showing me the first steps on the path of greatness.”
“Genius, huh,” his wife said. “Why don’t you take it one step at a time? First write something worth reading, and then we’ll banter with the term ‘genius.’”
“You still don’t understand,” the writer said. “Greatness is not about creating something worth reading. It’s about exposing yourself and sharing your nakedness, no matter how embarrassing or misunderstood by others. I’m not looking for your approval. I’m looking for a larger truth.”
“Before you can find truth, you have to put yourself out there, dear,” his wife said. “You have to write something. I’m not saying to stop reading. All I’m saying is that if you want to write, you have to write. Stop looking for perfection or inspiration and put your nose to the grindstone. Writing is hard work, like my work on spreadsheets. It takes me hours to fill in each spreadsheet and double check the calculations. But when I’m done and reasonably sure it’s correct, it’s a great feeling of accomplishment. I don’t see why your writing can’t be the same thing.”
The writer saw his wife in a different light at that moment. He felt that she understood writing more deeply than he did. The feeling passed, however, and he blamed his misunderstanding on the setting sun and the shaded windows. His wife was always beautiful when the evening light hit her just so. But she was a number pusher. And he was a true artist. A number pusher can never understand what a true artist was feeling. The best a true artist could hope for was for the support and understanding of the number pusher.
“It’s different, my love,” the writer said. “I love you very much, but you’ll never understand how I feel when I read Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. It’s almost a spiritual transformation.”
“Be that as it may, honey,” his wife said and turned back to her spreadsheet. “Now, go finish reading Mr. Vonnegut, and afterwards I’m sure you’ll find inspiration to write a story or two, maybe even finish a bit more research for your masterpiece.” There was no bitterness in his wife’s voice. Even had she shared some of her bitterness, the writer would not have heard it. He leaned back in his chair, opened the monkey book, and read the next story.
***
Story Ideas: Relaxation, Yogurts.
Albert pointed and clicked. He had been surfing through the television stations for the last hour. Johnny made feint sounds when an interesting show appeared, but he knew better than to expect his dad to stop clicking.
“Can’t you pick one show, Al?” Janice said.
“You told me to get off the couch and do something, and, here, I’m doing something,” Albert said.
“When I said something, I wasn’t thinking about television,” Janice said. “And you’re still on the couch!”
Johnny wormed closer to the television, holding his head up with his palms and elbows. Dad had never been good at doing two things at once, and while he argued with mom, Johnny focused his attention on the television, which had stopped changing channels.
“I had to get off the couch to get the remote,” Albert said.
“I meant maybe gardening,” Janice said. “Or you’ve been promising me that you’d fix the closet door for the last two weeks.”
“I never promised anything,” Albert said. “I told you to call someone.”
“Why can’t you do it?” Janice said.
“I am doing it,” Albert said. “I’m paying for you to call someone to fix the closet door.”
Johnny couldn’t have been more pleased where the television stopped. He watched a nature show about wild tigers. The camera followed three tiger kittens as they made their way during their first year of life.
“Dad,” Johnny said, interrupting his parents. “Can I have a tiger kitten?”
“Whatever you want son,” Albert said.
“Al, what are you saying to Johnny?” Janice said. “Are you even listening to what your son asked?” Janice turned and sweetened her voice. “Johnny, what have I told you about interrupting mommy and daddy when we’re having a discussion? Just watch your show and we’ll talk about kittens later.”
“Where were we?” Janice said
“You were about to call a repairman for the closet,” Albert said.
“I can’t believe how lazy you are,” Janice said. “You won’t replace the screws for a single shelf? It would take you, what, five minutes?”
Albert sat up on the couch to look at his wife. “Do you ever have need of anything?” Albert said.
“No,” Janice said.
“And why is that,” Albert said.
Johnny watched as a hyena stalked a tiger kitten. While the tiger kitten was cute, part of him wanted the hyena to kill the kitten. The suspense was almost unbearable for Johnny.
“Because you are a great provider,” Janice said.
Albert harrumphed. “If the clicking is bothering you that much,” Albert said. “Get me a beer.” Albert switched the channel and Janice went to the kitchen. Johnny watched the changing channels hoping to catch a glimpse of what happened when dad surfed passed.
“So, what did you think?” the director asked the executive producer.
“It’s changed a lot from the original script,” the EP said.
“Yeah, after talking it over with John, we went back to his original concept,” the D said. John was the writer for the film. He pitched his idea to the EP, who gave the thumbs up and after choosing the D, gave the D a few million dollars. That’s how it works in Hollywood: thumbs, money, passing the idea from one person to the next, regrets.
“It’s rather pathetic,” the EP said.
“What’s that?” the D said.
“The protagonist, he’s pathetic,” the EP said. “In the script I read, he was a positive and a happy influence on his family. When the aliens. . . .”
“Did you like the aliens?” the D interrupted.
“Oh, yes,” the EP said. “I liked them very much. Your effects guy did a wonderful job. I was afraid they would take away from the realism, but I stopped thinking it strange that the town didn’t realize that half its population was alien. The purple antennas took me a really long time to get over. As I said, though, I forgot about it three-quarters of my way through the movie.”
“We had a great editor,” the D said. “On the first cut, I was a little nervous about how the aliens were portrayed, but I think we moved in the right direction.”
“Yes,” the EP said. “That was the right direction for the aliens. But let’s get back to the protagonist. Maybe the editor should take a whack at this. Let me draw for you what I’ve been thinking. Do you remember when John first pitched the movie?”
“I wasn’t involved yet,” the D said.
“Oh, yes, of course,” the EP said with a dismissive wave. “John came to my office three years ago to pitch his idea. After he pitched, I knew it would be an important day, and I had my assistant take notes on my feelings. I don’t normally do that, take notes on what I feel, but I knew I had to document it. I’ll read you what I wrote.”
The EP picked up a printed page from his desk and held it at arms length. “Notes on meeting with John Bappins, writer. November 16, 1997, 11:37am, blah, blah, blah. Here’s where it starts: Gulf,” the EP said, emphasizing the word and pausing to look at the D before continuing. “The family weeps, heartache. Child dying in the protagonist’s arms, strength comes from within. The withered mother. Sadness. Prostituted daughter. Creeps. Emptiness in pursuit of a new angle on relationships. Aliens explain everything and nothing. Death. I wept. Joust. Buy.”
The EP’s eyes were moist, and the D handed him a tissue. The EP waved him away. “The first thirty minutes that John spent describing the movie, he didn’t even mention the aliens,” the EP said. “He focused solely on the family: the protagonist, his wife, their sick child, the town’s support, the family’s downfall. These tears,” the EP pointed dramatically at his glassy eyes, “were real. If he had left it at that, the family story, I would have thrown money at him. When he pushed the aliens’ angle, I took a step back. I was worried he was messing with the integrity and beauty of the family relationship. What the aliens added, though, was hope in a twisted form. Then he got into it. He described what he was after, what the aliens meant to the family, how they helped it transcend death. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“Very much,” the D said. “And that’s exactly what I was after.”
“You still don’t understand,” the EP said. He stood and started pacing around his office. “When I watched your cut, I didn’t feel for the family. I didn’t like the father because he was weak. I wanted him to be more. I wanted him to be the rock that supported that family. At the end, when he picked up the M-60 and started shooting the aliens, I wanted that to mean something. I wanted that to take away the audience’s pain at his child’s death, and I understand that death must be in quotation marks. The film didn’t do that. It didn’t do any of that because I didn’t like the protagonist, which means I barely liked his family. I would go as far as saying that I was almost glad when his child died. Listen to me: I’m happy when a five-year old dies a terrible death. I don’t know what we’re going to do now.”
“The preliminary test audience responses have been good,” the D said.
“Yes, they’ve been decent,” the EP said. “But with a script like this, they should have been phenomenal. They should have blown them away. Have you seen the notes the test audiences gave? They wanted to like the story. They wanted to have a connection with the father, but they saw right through any possible connection. Don’t you see that as a problem?”
“It’s still an early cut,” the D said. “I’m sure once we get in there, maybe reshoot a few scenes, you’ll see a marked improvement in the audience’s responses.”
“You’re still not understanding me,” the EP said. I wanted you to make the movie that John wrote. You took that movie and turned it into one of your pathetic outlooks on society, on the weakness of man. Why did you do that? You promised that this time you would not do that. That this time you would tell the story like it was written.”
“That’s how I tell my stories,” the D said. “I never promised you that I would change my film sensibilities. I only promised I would be true to the script. You knew my voice when you picked me for the film. Why did you choose me if you didn’t like what you saw in my other films? I brought the characters to life in this movie. I told an impossible story and I made the aliens real. People felt for the family at the end, even when they understood the payout.”
“An end to spirituality?” the EP said. “A disliked family? I didn’t even understand the ending in your film. The twist was there, but what was the point? What happened at the end? You left it hanging. It’s like you lost the energy necessary to finish telling a real story. What happened?”
“It’s all there,” the DP said. “And people seem to understand it, even, if you let me go so far and say, they appreciate it. It’s art, my art. John has had nothing but good things to say about this cut. If you’d give me real notes, I’d try to change things. But you’re just throwing out broad strokes as if I could read your mind.”
The EP breathed audibly and sat down behind his desk. “Okay,” the EP said. “I got a little carried away. It’s just rereading my notes from the day I first heard the pitch, I remember what I felt, and I didn’t get that feeling when I watched your cut. I’m a believer in this story, a real believer. And I’m a believer in you and John. I think what you both do is phenomenal and important work. I just want you to make happen in the film what I felt when I heard the pitch and read the first draft. I want you to reach deep into yourself and tell the story in a way that brings hope and life to the characters.”
“I’ve done that,” the D said.
“I’m not done,” the EP said. “When the protagonist realizes that life is a training ground for service to the aliens, that the entire push of the family story, that the death of their child, that the protagonist’s fall into alcoholism, his wife’s abuse, his daughter’s prostitution, all of it, all of it relates to the aliens’ creation of the human condition. When you drop the hammer, when you hit the audience in the head with the big twist, that death is a figment of the alien’s creation, I want it to be so powerful, so real, so life changing and affirming that when the audience looks through the family’s eyes, they’re not sure if it’s real for a moment. I want them to have that same thought, that, is it real, that they forget that it’s a movie, that if they took a step back, they would realize that the realness is irrelevant because it’s just a movie. That’s the moment I want you to recapture, the moment where the movie transcends the family’s difficulties, transcends the aliens’ existence, transcends the very question of life. Now do you see what I see? When at the end the protagonist decides to end the human condition with the machine gun, I want them to understand why he did it. I want them to appreciate it at a subconscious level. The cast of horribles has to stop somewhere for the audience to understand the story like John pitched it.”
“Cast of horribles?” the D said.
“The pathetic protagonist has to go away,” the EP said.
“Don’t you see?” the D said. “The protag ends the human condition because it’s horrible. His life was horrible. His family was horrible. It’s not pathetic, it’s horrible. It’s not a cast of horribles, it’s a story of horribles, it’s a world of horribles. You hit it right on the head: horribles. That’s what the protag solves. This is the beauty of the story. I’ll go back and see if I can tweak the family a bit, recut some of the other footage, but the aim is going to be the same. I can’t change my vision on this. I can try to reimagine parts of it to fit into your vision, but I won’t sacrifice John and my views.”
The EP studied the D through his teepee fingers. “I’ve had my say. You continue working and get the film ready for release. We’ll talk after your next cut. We should do lunch with John. I want to get his views on this as well.”
The D nodded. The EP never scheduled the lunch. He cut the advertising funding, and when his studio released the film, it flopped. Because it was a great film, over the years, it developed a cult following. The D continued directing movies, and the EP continued producing movies, but they never worked together again. When the movie failed at the box office, John fell into a depression. He killed himself five years before the video sales would make his movie one of the best-loved feature films of the twentieth century.
Nine balloons swayed in the wind outside the apartment complex, colored as follows: bottom three yellow, top three orange, middle three green. Sam was apartment hunting, and he knew what those balloons meant. Vacancy. He opened the front door and followed the signs to the leasing office. The doorman nodded but didn’t question or stop him. He opened the leasing door.
“Your eyes sure are bright,” a girl said before he stepped into the office.
“Excuse me?”
“Your eyes, they sure are bright. You must be looking for an apartment.” The girl was short and freckled, not a day over twenty, if Sam knew girls, and he did, or at least claimed to at every opportunity. Her pigtailed hair whipped back and forth across her neck as she spoke.
“Yup, bushy eyed and bright tailed,” Sam said and swallowed, unspoken, his sarcastic comment about psychics foretelling the today’s weather.
“I never said anything about tails, but, anyways, welcome to Twilight Apartments, future resident. My name is Denise, and I’ll be your brainwasher . . . I mean saleswoman for the day.”
Sam groaned silently. She’s one of those types. He reached out and grabbed the apartment literature, pulled out his sawed-off shotgun, and shot Denise.
(Yeah, I know. Pathetic—what else was I to do when I ran out of ideas?)
The day was beautiful, the first summer day of spring, and I wandered the streets and enjoyed the warm-weather crowds. This year’s transformation was well underway as ordinary women, who in the colder months hid in thick winter coats and heavy sweaters, shed and filled the streets with unspeakable loveliness. My head twisted this way and that.
Someone jumped on my back, and cold hands smelling of sweet melons clamped over my eyes. “Guess who,” a familiar voice said.
“Donald? Is that you Donald?”
“Donald?” Andrea said, climbing off my back. “Do I sound like a Donald to you?”
I took a step back and whistled. Andrea looked good. She wore a red tank top with a red sports bra showing underneath, short black rubbery shorts, red Puma running shoes, white ankle-length socks fastened with red fuzzy balls behind her ankles.
Andrea spun around, holding her arms up and her wrists down. “You like?”
“That I do.”
“Well, you had your chance. But then you dumped me. Now you may only look but not touch.”
“You dumped me, remember?”
“Same difference,” Andrea said, grabbed my hand, and led me down the street.
“How do you know I’m not busy?” I asked.
“You’re never busy. You wander the streets looking busy, but I know better. And, besides, even if you were busy, you’d have time for a quick coffee with me. I have something I have to show you. It’s going to make your world go all twisty-curvy.”
“I always have time for coffee.”
“But do you have time for me to blow your mind?”
“I always have time for blowing.”
“You’re sick.”
“And this is something new? Did you notice that hibernation season is over, and my favorite time of year has begun?”
“I’m one of those hibernating bears, remember?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure, since you’re a bear and everything, that you would see the hibernation.”
“You’ve told me that theory, and the rest of your theories, millions of times. And here we are,” Andrea said and opened the door to Lottie Motts.
“You remember that we met here,” I said as I walked through the door.
“I remember. And to think, now it’s your least favorite coffee house.”
“Go figure.”
Lottie Motts was a hard-chair, art-supply-smelling remnant of the hippy movement’s excuse for a coffee house. The coffee tasted of dirt mixed with sweet milk, and smelled of cleaning supplies. Andrea chose a wooden table with unmatched chairs while I ordered the drinks.
“I told you I’ve been going to a yoga class for the past few months,” Andrea said when I returned.
“Yup, you’ve been talking nonstop about your yogurt class.”
“Yogurt?”
I smiled sheepishly. “Yoga—yogurt. It was funnier when I thought it up on the way over.”
“You spend way too much time thinking about these things. Funny comes naturally.”
“So, you feeling more stretchy, Gumby-like?”
“From the yogurt?”
“Yup.”
“Umm . . . sure. I’m really finding deeper meaning there. I think I’m moving to a higher plane of existence.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m working through the different stages, and I’m approaching something, something I think is special.”
“You’re almost at the point where you can shoot fireballs from your ass or something?”
“Something like that. How have you been?”
“I’m doing well. You know, taking in the locals, avoiding dogs, drinking too much coffee. The usual.”
“Have you met anyone?”
“Now that’s funny. Let’s get back to the yogurt class. You were telling me about the curtain coming up on something or other.”
“So good at changing subjects. Yeah, I was talking about overcoming a huge hurdle.”
“You’re so easy to steer, especially when I move the conversation in your direction. And here, I didn’t even realize they had hurdles in yogurt. I thought you sat around and just breathed a lot.”
“It’s a spiritual experience. And your remark about fireballs isn’t too far off.”
“You’re feeling more energetic or something? Last time you were telling me about your vibrating hands. Didn’t I show you how that works? If you hold your arms above your head for a minute and think about Donald Duck, your hands start tingling. And I can promise you that Mr. Duck is energy-free. It’s your nerves that tingle, there’s no energy in the sense that they use it in the yogurt class.”
“So quick to judge. Why don’t you let me tell you what happened before you go off to disprove everything as irrational?”
“My mind is wide open. I’ll reserve judgment and ridicule until after you finish.”
“I appreciate that. What would you say if I told you I can levitate?”
“Like lift yourself to a new spiritual height?”
“No, like lift my butt off the chair.”
“If you lift your butt off that chair—and I’m not talking about standing up or pushing yourself up with your hands—I’d sign up to your yogurt class in a moment.”
“I’d like to see you in stretchy pants.”
“Well? Let’s see the levitation. I’m always looking for a good laugh.”
The day was beautiful, the first summer day of spring, and I wandered the streets and enjoyed the warm-weather crowds. This year’s transformation was well underway as ordinary women, who in the colder months hid in thick winter coats and heavy sweaters, shed and filled the streets with unspeakable loveliness. My head twisted this way and that.
Someone jumped on my back, and cold hands smelling of sweet melons clamped over my eyes. “Guess who,” a familiar voice said.
“Donald? Is that you Donald?”
“Donald?” Andrea said, climbing off my back. “Do I sound like a Donald to you?”
I took a step back and whistled. As always, Andrea looked good. She was wearing a red tank top with a red sports bra showing underneath, short black rubbery shorts, red Puma running shoes, white ankle-length socks fastened with red fuzzy balls behind her ankles.
Andrea spun around, holding her arms up and her wrists down. “You like?”
“That I do.”
“Well, you had your chance. But then you dumped me. Now you may look but not touch.”
“You dumped me, remember?”
“Same difference,” Andrea said, grabbed my hand, and skipped as she led me down the street.
“How do you know I’m not busy?” I asked.
“You’re never busy. You wander the streets looking busy, but I know better. And, besides, even if you were busy, you always have time for me, especially when I dangle yummy caffeine in front of you. I have something I have to tell you. It’s going to make your world go all twisty-curvy.”
“You’re lucky I’m a coffee addict.”
“I thought the blowing of your mind would be the greater incentive.”
“Well, I always have time for blowing.”
“You’re sick.”
“And this is something new? Did you notice that hibernation season is over, and my favorite time of year has begun?”
“I’m one of those hibernating bears, remember?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure, since you’re a bear and everything, that you could really see the end of hibernation. You know how when you’re in a bad relationship, everyone and the world knows it, but you’re oblivious. I thought it might be the same thing with bears and hibernation.”
“Are you trying to insinuate something about me and Josh?”
“I wasn’t even thinking about He-With-A-Head-Larger-Than-The-Earth. But if you want to talk about him, I’m all over it.”
“His head is not big, and, anyways, let’s stick to bears. I can’t believe you didn’t think I’d notice the end of hibernation. I have it marked in my calendar because of you, and because I get to pull out all my swanky, warm-weather outfits. And here we are.” Andrea waits in front of Lottie Motts’s door. I reach around her and open the door.
“I thought I only had to be chivalrous with girls I’m dating,” I said.
“You remember that we met here,” she said.
“I remember. And to think, now it’s my least favorite coffee house.”
Lottie Motts was a hard-chair, art-supply-smelling remnant of the hippy movement’s excuse for a coffee house. The coffee tasted of dirt mixed with sweet milk, and smelled of cleaning supplies. Andrea chose a wooden table with unmatched chairs while I ordered the drinks.
“I told you I’ve been going to a yoga class for the past few months,” Andrea said when I returned.
“Yup, you’ve been talking nonstop about your yogurt class.”
“Yogurt?”
I smiled sheepishly. “Yoga—yogurt. It was funnier when I thought it up on the way over.”
“You spend way too much time thinking about these things. Funny comes naturally.”
“So, you feeling more stretchy, Gumby-like?”
“From the yogurt?”
“Yup.”
“Umm . . . sure, Gumby-like. But I’m not going to bend over, if that’s where you were going.”
“Once again, the innocent are blamed for the thoughts of the wicked.”
“I’m finding deeper meaning in yoga. I think I’m hitting upon something, something empowering.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, when I worked through the different stages, I arrived at something I think is special.”
“You’ve found self-realization, and have finally realized that other human beings outside of you exist in the world?”
“No, no, no,” Andrea said, dropping her voice into my voice range and a rather pathetic imitation of me. “No other human beings exist outside of my world. You’re all just figments of my imagination. When I walk out that door, you cease to exist until I step back into your life. Of course, you may remember what happened since the last time I saw you, but those thoughts, those memories are all fabrications.”
“I can’t believe how often you try to steal my theory and twist it around and pretend it’s your own. It would hurt, but I know imitation is the greatest form of flattery.”
“Whatever. How have you been?” Andrea asked.
“Oh, so now you do care about me. I’m doing well, thanks for asking. You know, taking in the locals, avoiding dogs, drinking too much coffee. The usual.”
“Have you met anyone?”
“Stop it. You’re killing me. Now, let’s get back to this life-altering yogurt class. You were telling me about the curtain coming up on something or other.”
“So good at changing subjects. Yeah, I was talking about overcoming a huge hurdle.”
“You’re so easy to steer, especially when I move the conversation in your direction. And here, I didn’t even realize they had hurdles in yogurt. I thought you sat around and just breathed a lot.”
“It’s a spiritual experience. And what I achieved, it’s amazing.”
“You’re feeling more energetic or something? Last time you were telling me about your vibrating hands. Didn’t I show you how that works? If you hold your arms above your head for a minute and think about Donald Duck, your hands start tingling. And I can promise you that the duck is energy-free. It’s your nerves that tingle, there’s no energy in the sense that they use it in the yogurt class.”
“So quick to judge. Why don’t you let me tell you what happened before you go off to disprove everything as irrational?”
“My mind is an open book filled with lots of rational writing. But for you, I’ll reserve ridicule until after you finish.”
“I appreciate that. What would you say if I told you I can levitate?”
“Like lift yourself to a new spiritual height?”
“No, like lift my butt off the chair.”
“I’d ask you to share whatever it was you’ve been smoking.”
“I did it in class yesterday. It was amazing.”
“Did you feel yourself levitate, or did you see yourself levitate?”
“At first, I felt it and thought it was my spirit lifting away from my body. But then, I opened my eyes and I came crashing down. I must have been two or three inches above the ground. It was amazing. The instructor pulled me aside and congratulated me. He saw it too.”
“Did he try to sell you something? A special class for only five hundred additional dollars?”
“It wasn’t like that. It was real. I lifted off the floor during the thirty-minute meditation session.”
“You can’t expect me to believe that without seeing it.”
“If you told me that you levitated, I’d believe you.”
“Okay, I levitated while taking a dump yesterday. It was amazing.”
“Bullshit.”
“See?”
“You know what I’m talking about. If you were seriously telling me about something you’d done, I’d give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Okay, prove it. Start breathing and lift yourself from that chair.”
“It doesn’t work like that. I can’t just lift off like Superman at a moment’s notice. It takes time and preparation and a certain belief for it to happen. I’m not even sure I could do it with you here—your energy is too negative.”
“See? You’re already putting limits on this supposed ability of yours. It’s like saying I can prove something, but that proof only works for those who already believe in it. It’s ridiculous.”
“And you ask me why we’re no longer going out. It’s shit like this that keeps me away from you, you know.”
“So this was a test?”
“What? No, this wasn’t a test. This was something that happened to me that you don’t want to hear about or believe in. It’s like love, dodo, it’s something you have to believe in without seeing because it’s there, and you know it’s there. This is something you’ll never get.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” Billy said. A few kids nearby snickered but I didn’t say anything. I had learned that in these situations silence was better than words. Billy was a small kid with a large, pear-shaped head. Pimples covered his face, especially on his forehead, where they appeared to overlap, leaving no healthy skin.
I held out my hand palm up. “Give it to me,” I said.
“It’s my money,” he said and pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. Billy was new and didn’t understand how this played out. I’d given him a little slack, but he had to know that he could push me only so far.
“You have three seconds,” I said. Billy’s eyes looked past me pleading for help. I didn’t need to look to know that nobody would help him. He would have to get used to this if he was going to fit in. We all have people we have to pay. Our job was to figure out where we fit in the pyramid and who to pay. When I first saw Billy, I knew where he fit in.
“Three,” I said. Billy tried to run past me and I pushed him back against the corner. He fell back and sat down with his knees in front of him. His hands were still in his pockets and I saw tears.
“Two,” I said. Billy bowed his head and sniffled. His knees blocked his face. He pulled his hand out of his pocket. He closed his fist over something, and for his sake, I hoped it was his money.
“One,” I said. Billy stood up and held out the money.
“Take it,” he said. His face was wet and he wouldn’t look at me.
I continued to hold out my palm. “Put it in there,” I said.
He looked up at me and I saw the anger and humiliation in his face. I used to take much more pleasure from this moment. These contests were a battle of wills. Fists came into it sometimes, but then the winner was easier to determine.
He placed the money in my palm and I stepped aside to let him pass.
George dropped to the floor and pounded it with his fist. The tiles cracked under his knee. He moved his knee to the next tile and resumed pounding. Things were happening that he didn’t understand. He screamed. The tiles under his right fist broke. The ceramic cut his fist and he bled on the tiles.
The lights came on and George found himself tucked under the covers in bed. His mother stood over him and cooed. He wagged his arms up at her and she made sounds he didn’t understand and faces he didn’t want to understand. A second face joined his mother’s face. The face had a mustache and yellowed teeth. It made deeper noises, and didn’t make any faces. He understood this face and burped.
George woke up when the nurse prodded his arm. “The doctor will be here in a moment, George. Relax.” How was he supposed to relax with all the prodding? And what time was it anyways? Through the window, he thought he saw the sun sitting on the horizon. It was hard to see, though. Buildings, one piled on the next, blocked the horizon and most of the window. But if there was a horizon, he felt confident that the sun would sit on it.
“How are you doing this morning, George?” the doctor asked. George reached toward the doctor but became distracted when he saw his wrinkled arm. A cord ran out from his arm into a monitor. He tried to say something but nothing came out. George reached for the cord in his arm but the doctor held his arm gently and he relaxed it back into the bed.
George held the baseball bat choked up high on the handle. One foot outside the batter’s box, he reached across the plate and pounded the bat. The umpire kept asking George if he was ready, and George held up his hand toward the pitcher. He stepped into the batter’s box and dug in his cleats. He felt the umpire crouch down behind him. The pitcher wound up and threw the ball at George. George ducked when he saw the ball approaching his head but he was too late. He heard that the ball cracked his helmet, and even saw what it looked like afterwards, but he didn’t remember any of it.
The car’s engine idled and Nancy sat in the passenger seat. They had pulled to the curb over an hour ago, and George still talked about religion. Nancy was a good target. She was a devout Catholic and had no doubts about her beliefs. When he finished, Nancy laughed, and George took this as a good sign. When she started talking, George reached his hand past the shifter and placed it on Nancy’s knee. She wore blue slacks and didn’t seem to notice the hand. She continued, and George, feeling her soft skin, didn’t understand what she said. His rebuttal to her point was senseless and she patted his hand on her knee as if she understood.
George put down his pencil and raised his hand. The teacher sat at her desk marking papers. The kids around George looked over at him, and he sat straight, the line of his arm following his arched spine to the chair. When the teacher came over to his desk to collect the test, she told him to put his head down and rest. He did so, confident in knowing that he was the first done, and therefore the smartest.
The green dining hall tray was still warm from the dishwashing machine. George and his friends had stolen the trays from the hall to ride down the snow-covered hills. Two of his friends had flung themselves down already, and George prepared himself. He sat on top of the hill on the tray and held onto the ground with his gloved hands. With a slight push, he started down the hill. He felt the tray gliding over the snow, picking up speed. He saw a white pipe sticking out from the ground and tried to maneuver away from it. He threw himself from the tray, but it was too late. His tailbone smacked into the pipe and he fell sprawled on the snow, his butt numb. He sat up and tried to wave his three remaining friends away from the hill, but they barreled down after him.
The principal’s office seemed brighter than the rest of the school. George sat on the wooden chair outside it crying. The secretaries, sitting at their typewriters and talking on their telephones, paid him no attention. His chair was next to two empty wooden chairs, which moments before held Thomas and Stan. The microphone used for the morning announcements was across the door near the window. George wiped away the tears and studied the microphone. A large red switch dominated the wall with the letters “A/V” typed on blue tape above it. None of the secretaries watched George as he stood up, walked over to the microphone, and clicked the switch. A loud click sounded in the gray speaker at the other end of the office. George screamed, “class dismissed” into the microphone.
George placed his hand on his wife’s stomach. Her breathing was shallow and her stomach moved his hand up and down quickly. The moon’s light shone through the shaded windows and illuminated her face. He traced her nose with his finger. She was still beautiful. He rested his head on her stomach, keeping the weight of his head on his neck. He was afraid she was too weak to support his head. Even after forty years, this was where he belonged.
They swam toward the wooden platform floating in the lake. George wasn’t a good swimmer and he was having trouble keeping up. She kept circling back for him, encouraging him to continue. He struggled on, taking turns crawl stroking through the water, and paddling on his back. The platform didn’t seem to be getting closer, and he grew worried, until she swam back for him. The way he told the story, the dolphins saved him. The way she heard it, he never called her anything better than a dolphin.
There were three kids left, two on the far side of the dodgeball line, and George. George didn’t have the ball. He waited with his back to the wall for the next throw. The last three had banged harmlessly against the wall near him. The kids watching were calling for his blood, even his teammates. They wouldn’t be his teammates next game, as the gym teacher switched up the teams each time. The ball banged the wall next to him and George flinched. The ball bounced back across the line. George decided to try to catch the next ball. It was only a matter of time before they threw him out. When they next threw the ball, George stepped up and held out his arms as his father taught him. He wrapped the ball in his arms when it hit his chest and bent over it so it wouldn’t escape. The teacher called the thrower out. George ran up to the line and threw the ball hitting the last kid in the knees. It wasn’t until the whistle blew that he looked down and saw that his foot was over a foot over the line.
George blew bubbles and watched the ballgame. He was riding the bench this year. He could have stayed in J.V. for one more year, but his coach wanted him to practice with the big boys. George thought that meant he had high expectations for him. It took George only a few weeks to find out that those expectations involved him as a practice dummy for the real athletes of the team. He clapped at the right times and even stood up and offered his hand for high fives, but he wasn’t into it anymore. During the games, he went to a far off place where they didn’t have baseballs or coaches.
His parents watched every game. He told them not to come. It was embarrassing because they sat with the real player’s parents, the ones who actually played. But George’s parents were proud of him, and they wanted to show him their support. They dragged George’s younger sister Kimberly to every game. She read during the game, hunched over a book to shadow the pages from the midday sun. His parents both had big foam fingers, which they waved wildly during the game. His high school team’s name was the Hamilton Bald Eagles. His parents used black markers to change the finger from the Boston Celtics to the Bald Eagles. They did a shoddy job, and by halfway through the season the ink began to run until the orange fingers took on a brownish hue.
The Eagles had twenty-five players on their roster including George. George dressed for every game. He sat on the bench, chewed his gum, and punched his glove. He sat next to Tony, another hopeful from the J.V. team. Tony was a decent ballplayer. George thought Tony was a better player compared to some of the regulars on the team. He had an unfortunate face, however, with one eye noticeably higher than his other eye. The coach told Tony he would start next year. The coach hadn’t told George anything, and George had stopped waiting for the nod.
I’m eight years old and my sister Kimberly is twelve. We were the only daughters of what, at that time, were Mr. and Mrs. Halley. We’re sitting on the ratty red couch in the living room. I’m drinking a soda from a blue plastic cup, and she’s sitting cross-legged and staring at me.
“Do you want to know a secret?”
She was always asking me questions like this. She never told me her secret. “Yes,” I said, trying to keep the desperation from my voice.
“I can’t tell you,” she said. “You’re too young, you wouldn’t understand.”
She made me so angry. I knew no matter how hard I begged her, she wouldn’t tell me her secret. “Please tell me,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
“Do you promise?” she said. “Double cherry promise with whipped cream and nuts?”
“No nuts,” I said. Kimberly knew I was allergic to nuts. “But I double cherry promise with whipped cream and marshmallows.”
“Mom and Dad are getting a divorce,” she said.
“What?” I said. “You’re making it up.”
“Am not,” she said. “I overheard them in the other room. They’re deciding what to do with you when they divorce. Mom didn’t want you to live with her, and Dad swore that you would never live with him. It’s was pretty bad.”
I started to cry. “Why would they say things like that?”
Big sister has a secret she won’t share with her little sister. She gives hints. It sounds like their parents are getting a divorce. She lets her play 20-questions. Once she runs out of questions, she won’t say anything else. Big sister watches little sister squirm, unsure of what is happening with their parents. Father comes in and tells his daughters that he’s leaving. Little sister assumes that he’s leaving b/c of the divorce. It turns out at the end that he’s leaving on a trip. It’s a misunderstanding that big sister created. She eggs her father on during the discussion, feeding little sister’s belief that she was to be abandoned to the orphanage. Twist? The mother leaves? The father is actually leaving them. Little sister swears to get back at big sister, but no resolution (or twist). Reader is kept in the dark, seeing the story from little sister’s pov, but not participating in anyone’s thoughts.
Look at her. She’s just lying there. There are only two televisions in the house, and only one of them is next to the bed. My parents have a television in their room. My sister and I do not. The television in the living room is okay, but it’s hard to get comfortable on the couch. The angle is all wrong for watching television. The best place for television watching, especially on a Sunday morning, is on my parent’s bed. And there she is, laying there, watching television, munching on cereal. She doesn’t have a care in the world.
She doesn’t know what it’s like to be in the fourth grade. The responsibilities I have. The homework I need to finish. The tests I have to study for. I remember when I was in the second grade like her. Things were much easier back then. I was carefree. I could play all weekend, and I never had to worry about schoolwork or advancement. Did you know that how well you do in your fourth and fifth grade has a lasting impact on the class you get into during junior high school? And that, in turn, decides what type of class you get into in high school. I’ve heard stories about kids who got into the wrong class in high school, and ended up in gangs and begging on the streets within three years. Some of them went to jail or homeless shelters. Some of them died. That’s not going to happen to me. No sir-ee.
She has to know that it’s Sunday morning, and Sunday mornings are my time to relax in front of the television. I brought my bowl of Fruit Loops (without the milk) to my parent’s bedroom, and I’m ready to watch. Of course, there’s a slight problem. She’s on the good side of the bed. The side of the bed that’s closer to the television. This is unacceptable. Saturday was my day of work. Today is my day of rest, and my day of rest always begins with Sunday morning cartoons. Saturday morning is a better time for cartoons. They run until after noon. But on Sundays, the cartoons end early. I probably only have another hour or so of quality television watching before they replace the cartoons with learning shows.
“Roll over, pipsqueak, you’re in my spot.”
“I was here first.” Younger kids always believe in a fair solution. It’s in their brain that the world works in a fair way. They haven’t learned yet that there is no justice in our world. Big makes right, and there’s no crying over the inevitable laws of bigness. I have two years on my sister, and because of those two years, I have the right to do what I want when I want. It’s a shame I have to keep reminding her of this. It’d be easier if she learned quicker, but that’s the problem with little kids: they’re slow learners.
“Mom said you can’t eat in here.”
“So what’s with your cereal?”
“I wasn’t going to eat in here. I wanted to see what you were doing is all. See. I’m putting the cereal on the nightstand. No eating. Now, go bring your cereal downstairs or I’m going to tell mom.”
I know what she’s thinking. She’s weighing her options, trying to figure out if I’m bluffing. I stare blankly back at her, looking like I don’t have a care in the world. Dad’s been teaching me how to play poker. This is what he calls a bluff. She knows if I get the parental units involved in this discussion, the results become less certain. They might even take her side—although her breakfast in bed angle makes it more complicated. When was the last time she blinked? She’s chewing and watching me. What is she waiting for and why doesn’t she blink? I try to remain calm. She’s making this difficult.
“So, whatcha watching?” I try to break the stalemate. I decide it’s not worth getting the parents involved yet.
“A show.” She’s not being very cooperative. She’s still staring at me. It’s creeping me out. How can she eat without looking down at the cereal? Milk runs down her chin and she doesn’t wipe it off. Why doesn’t she wipe it off? I take a deep breath.
“I can see that, stupid. What show?”
She looks away, still not blinking. “You can sit next to me and eat your cereal. I won’t tell mom.”
I felt my face turn red. I could feel the blood running into my face, as if someone was squeezing the blood out of my brain like from a sponge. She didn’t even look at me. It was time to take action. The television was tuned to channel 2. I walked around the bed and turned to channel 7 where a Sunday news show was playing. I sat down at the edge of the bed and watched my sister. She groaned. She knew how this would play out.
She stood up to turn the channel back. When she did, I slid into the bed in her position, and grabbed my bowl. She turned and screamed. It was a low scream not intended to be heard outside the room.
“I was sitting there.”
“Yup.”
“Move!”
“You got up.”
“You changed the channel on me.” I think it was the unfairness that drove her crazy.
She changed the channel, but I munched away. Content in waiting her out. That’s one of the things I learned as I grew older. My sister was too young to have figured this out. She eventually stormed out of the room. I stood up and changed the channel to cartoons and munched away on my cereal.
“That is a super nice shirt you have on today. I don’t think I’ve seen that one before, but you’re showing style. I like what I see. I wish I had a drop of style. I guess we all have our strengths and weaknesses. Keep up the great work!”
He’s at it again. I used to think his compliments were an attempt at sucking up to the bosses, Bill’s version of planting his lips squarely on the ass of his superior, if you will. But the more I studied him, the more I realized he wasn’t reserving his compliments for the higher ups. He spread the compliments around amongst the people he worked with, those he managed, and those he reported to. It was nauseating.
I sit next to Bill and I hear every conversation he has during the day. He’s a loud talker and a question asker. He sees every opportunity as a time to learn something new, and he loves to scour the brains of those he runs into for knowledge. He calls it his “knowledge quest.” He moved into the cubicle next to mine three years ago. I’m at my wits end. How could anyone want to learn as much as he does? Where does he keep all the information? Why does he care, or, more probably, why does he pretend to care?
The people around here don’t see it like I do. I sometimes bring it up in conversations. I ask them what they think of Bill, his constant questioning and compliments. The people around here don’t even acknowledge that he’s doing it. Not one of them notices his compliments for anything more than what he’s thinking. They think he’s making conversation, and each swears that Bill at one time or another said something that wasn’t positive. But every comment Bill ever makes is positive. Nothing is ever bad—everything is either super great or the most amazing thing ever. It’s starting to drive me mad, and I’m talking mad in the crazy sense, not the angry sense. I’ve been angry with Bill ever since he first introduced himself to me. He complimented me on my choice of tie. It was my first day of work, and my tie looked awful. I didn’t know that at the time, however. I’m color blind, and it wasn’t until my picture was photographed for my ID badge that someone mentioned that the tie I bought was an almost neon blue. The person described the tie as good signage for the Las Vegas strip. That signage is now immortalized on my badge, which I’m forced to wear around my neck every day. Every time I see someone look down at my badge and attempt to suppress a giggle I think of Bill.
People always tell me that Bill means well, that there’s not a malicious bone in his body. The pretend that he is truly trying to learn and improve those around him. I’ve been watching him. Closely monitoring his conversations, his choice of compliments, who he talks to and when. I have been keeping a written record of everything he does. There’s a pattern in his actions that I will find. And when I find it, I’m going to use it to prove Bill’s underhandedness to even the most ardent Bill lover.
Bill is the most plain looking man I’ve ever seen. If you saw him on the street, you wouldn’t even notice him. He has bland brown hair parted on the side. It looks oiled and doesn’t move much, but he claims it’s natural. His eyes are sunken into his head and when he’s tired and his eyes droop, it almost looks like he doesn’t have any eyeballs. He sits and walks with a slight slump to his shoulders, but when he shakes someone’s hand—and he always shakes hands when greeting someone, even if he sees that someone every day!—or delivers a compliments, his shoulders shoot back ramrod straight and he smiles. His teeth are perfect. I’ve only seen such teeth in magazine advertisements. The whiteness is so extreme that when he smiles in good light the rest of his face seems to disappear, leaving his teeth floating in whatever space he was standing. He must pay his dentist a fortune for those teeth.
Bill is up for his annual review today. When preparing the reviews, the company asks the employee’s managers and subordinates to write a report. They also ask one of the employee’s peers to write a report on the employee’s activities. This year I was very lucky. Bill chose me to write a review for him. I don’t think he knows what he got himself into. The year’s bonus, raise, and promotion are based on the reports that the employee receives. I spent the last two weeks putting Bill’s review together. If I do say so myself, I have not done any work at this company, none of my projects, the work for my customers, the end of year company assessments, nothing I’ve done since I’ve been here has been as high quality as the report I wrote on Bill’s activities.
It wasn’t strictly critical. I know how HR thinks, and I knew if I blasted Bill from the start of the report, they might think I had it in for him. Now, I do, of course, but I wanted to keep that close to my chest. I started by putting the reader at ease, providing helpful anecdotes about Bill’s performance that wasn’t necessarily negative. The light I was shining on him, however, was not bright. It was more acknowledging his existence without destroying him. It contained helpful information on how Bill could improve his technical work. As a technical writer, Bill is not bad. He’s average, perhaps a drop beneath average, but he does he get his work done. I’ve read enough of his manuals to know that. If I knew Bill only through his work product, I don’t think there would be much of a problem.
Once I finished the first section, I began adding to the report Bill’s undoing. I provided the information as an innocent babe, someone who doesn’t even realize that the information is in any way bad. None of it was made up, of course. I wouldn’t risk writing false information in a report that would be traced back to me. What I did, however, is highlight some of the less well-known aspects of our business, and how Bill regularly participates in them. How he bilks the clients, how he takes advantage of their generosity in the form accepting gifts and dinner. Sure, we all do that. It’s a dirty secret in our department. Even management participates here and there. We all keep our mouths shut about it. But outside our department, this doesn’t happen. None of us want to lose these benefits, but for me, Bill is worse than not having these benefits. For him, I’d sacrifice all the perks that nobody speaks about.
I threw small tidbits out in the report’s narrative. I didn’t make it sound like I was telling on him, I just used the illicit actions as examples in complimenting his work or explaining how he fell short of a goal. All of it was proper material for the report and without the unethical actions, almost thrown in as asides or used as examples, this would be a good report. Bill would have received a bump if it was based solely on all the good things I said in the report.
Bill has been in his boss’s office for the past hour. I haven’t been able to do work this entire week. I’ve been waiting for this moment. I know people around the office will figure this out once they fire Bill. They will look at the report—in a company this small, none of HR’s documents are truly secret—and they will put two and two together and come knocking at my door with their fancy four. Bill is well liked. I don’t know if it’s his compliments or his smile, but he has won over everyone in the office. I feel like I’m back in high school and I’ve been pushed into the wrong clique: the Bill haters. There’s me and there’s Sandra, the receptionist assistant. She sees through Bill’s faēade. Sure, she doesn’t like anyone in the office including me, but that’s not the point. She knows a fake when she sees one, and Bill’s fake.
I’ve never witnessed a firing, but I assumed it’d be quick. I expected to be home celebrating by now, burning Bill in effigy, if you will. I have the company’s yearly photograph at home, with a sharpened pair of scissors next to it. Once Bill is fired, I’ll remove his head from the photograph and all will be well with the world. I won’t have to listen to his sugary compliments or his inane questioning. It’s a given that I haven’t been able to do work for the past week. Ever since I gave in the report I’ve been waiting for this moment. I’ve already made up my excuse to leave early today: a vet appointment for my imaginary dog. I’ve been building him up for the past year so I’d have another ready excuse for days like this. I even have a picture of him on my desk, and I keep his bi-yearly vet appointments on my calendar. I dropped a hint this morning that my dog wasn’t sounding good, and I was trying to get an emergency appointment. I have a feeling that appointment will go through today.
The door to Bill’s boss’s office opens and Bill walks out. He’s wearing his dark suit today with a striped tie. He shakes hands with his boss and walks to his desk. It’s coming, and I’m going to be here for it.
“How’d it go, Billy?” I ask.
“Fine, fine. Thanks for helping out with the report. You gave some excellent critiques and places for improvement. I’m going to be working on those areas for the rest of the year. It’s a great challenge because it’s an area I thought I had already licked. I guess you never know your progress looking in the mirror.”
What was he talking about? He should be crying now. He should be packing up his stuff into boxes and preparing to leave the office. He should be bloody. “So, everything went well in there?”
“We’re not supposed to talk about it, but I know I can trust you on this. It was my best review ever. I don’t know what they’re drinking in the boardroom upstairs, but they are very impressed with my work and the reports. I can’t thank you enough for your report. I saw you working on it last week, and I appreciate all the hard work you put into it. It really means a lot to me that you spent so much effort trying to help me improve.”
Bill sat down and started typing on his computer. I stood there between our cubicles. I couldn’t believe it. He was staying, and they liked his review.
The door to my boss’s door opened and he stepped out.
“Would you mind stepping in here for a moment?”
I did and he closed the door.
“That was excellent work you did on Bill’s report. The board was very pleased with the effort you put forth. It’s clear from the report that Bill and you are good friends. I mean, really, who but a friend would care that much about his advancement? We’ve decided to put you two together to head up a special project. This is going to be a big responsibility, but we think the two of you working together will really hit this one out of the ballpark.”
“Of course, sir.” Work together with Bill. This was crazy!
“There’s a promotion in it for you, of course. I know this is a bit early for your review, but we wanted to tell you that you’re going to get an office, right here in this hallway. You’ll have to share that with Bill, but I don’t think that will be much of an issue.”
***
Not a clue where any of this came from or where any of it is going. It’s late and I need sleep. Julie is in bed next to me. Word count: 2073. Caffeine: espresso.
I traced Sandra’s ear with my finger. It was a perfect ear, rounded in the right places with little bones sticking up at the corners. Tiny hairs almost too small to see outlined her ear. Her earlobe felt delicate and tender, like an uncooked marshmallow, and I plucked it softly as if a guitar string. I could lay here for hours doing nothing but running my finger along her ear. She slept next to me on the couch, filling my nooks and crannies.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a sleepy voice, her almond eyes opening to reveal perfect brown globes.
“Tracing your ears,” I said as I moved my finger over the spiral of her ear.
“Why?” she asked. I mumbled an incoherent answer and her eyes closed. I wasn’t ready to tell her the reason. Not yet. And perhaps in her own way she was not ready to hear it. At least that was what I told myself. I leaned over and kissed her forehead.
The radio played a big band jazz tune, and the room darkened as the sky realized the sun had set an hour before. I could make out the dull gray horizon with a loud blinking light on top of Teepee’s peak. I met Sandra a month ago on a hike of that hill. A path led through the surrounding woods and ascended to the peak. A city bus carried hikers, runners, and bicyclists at the foot of the peak back to the parking area at the trailhead. The trails around Teepee’s peak are the roads around my home, and I know them well.
Sandra had looked exhausted when I found her sitting on a large rock a few miles before the fifteen-mile marker. She waved off my attempts at help. Sandra did not look the hiking type. She wore a black cotton skirt with black biking shorts underneath, a black silk blouse, and black flip-flops. Her hair was cut dangerously short but still looked feminine. She carried a large thermos with a white plastic handle, and took short and determined steps. She kept a slow pace both uphill and down, and never stopped for more than five minutes. I think her look of determination was what intrigued me.
I slowed my hike and doubled back three of four times to check her progress. I didn’t let her see me, and by the time she had made it to the bus, I was waiting at the stop. The next bus was an hour away, and I used the time to strike up a conversation with her.
“You have a good hike?” I asked but she didn’t answer.
“You made better time than I expected,” I said a few minutes later.
“You a stalker or something?” she asked.
“You seem almost eager for me to say that I am.”
“Ah, a clever stalker, a rather common breed.” She looked away disinterested.
We passed the remainder of the hour in silence. I studied her from a distance, but didn’t try to broach a conversation again. As we left the bus she handed me her business card.
“Call me sometime,” she said. She later told me my silence intrigued her. She claimed that most guys would have written her off as a lesbian. She thought I took the classy approach, and she became intrigued when she caught me watching her from the corner. At that point she thought that I might really be a stalker. It was either stalker or someone interesting enough to hang out with. She decided to take a chance. That’s something she does a lot: take chances on her whims.
We met at a popular happy hour restaurant a few weeks later. I had been out of town on a business trip, and she didn’t seem surprised when I called her two weeks later. She remembered who I was before I even started in on my story, and she agreed to meet. When I arrived at the Mexican restaurant, I found her sitting across the table from an older gentleman. She introduced him as Tony, and ordered a table for the three of us. It was the strangest first date I’d ever gone on.
Tony, it turns out, was Sandra’s drama teacher at the local community college. It was obvious that he liked her, but I wasn’t sure what she thought of him. He wore a tweed jacket and immediately took a disliking to me. He rarely acknowledged my presence, and when he did, it was with a condescending glance or noise in response to a question or comment I made. Throughout the evening, I thought up many excuses I would use to get out of the dinner, but something always kept me back. For all the strangeness of the evening, it was the most excitement I had had in months. When you’re around Sandra, there’s an unexplainable energy that she shares with you. I wasn’t ready to give up that energy during that dinner.
“What are you doing up so late?” the wife said. She turned on her light and rolled over. The husband was on his back with his hands crossed on his chest. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused and still. A ceiling fan revolved above the bed, the pull chain rattling with each revolution.
“Thinking,” the husband said.
“I thought you told me that guys don’t think; that you just react based on instinct, like animals in the wild or children.”
“Yeah. That probably sounds right.”
“Wait a minute. Where did my husband go? I don’t recognize this person at all. You almost sound pensive. What’s going on in that little head of yours?” The wife reached over playfully, but the husband didn’t want any of that and rolled over to face away from her. “This must be really serious,” the wife said.
“Do you ever wonder what it’s all about?”
“What’s what all about?”
“Life.”
“I wonder about that question all the time.”
“What is it that you wonder?”
“You never really took an interest in philosophy before. I would have loved to talk about this with you because I think about it so often. I convinced myself that such worries never occurred to you. I always thought we’d be having this conversation when we were old and death had crept up on us. It’s rather reassuring to know that you have these concerns. It makes you seem less robotic—not that you’re robotic, but you know what I mean.”
“Robotic? It’s funny you should say that. I feel that way sometimes.” The husband rolled over to face the wife. She had blackened circles under her eyes from working late nights during the past week. He began counting the wrinkles on her forehead.
“I don’t find you robotic. Well, not usually. You just have a tough time in sharing your emotions. Many men have that problem. I’ve always thought it was something they taught you in school, probably in that health class where they separate the boys and girls.”
“They didn’t separate us in school. We all had the same health class.”
“That explains many things about your development.”
The husband finished counting twelve wrinkles on the wife’s forehead. He reached over and ran his finger across her forehead, releasing the wrinkles. “I don’t like dealing with those parts of my life,” the husband said.
“You deal with the children’s problems fine—and I have no complaints about you and the household. And I think our relationship has lasted rather well. Everyone has problems of course, and we’re no exception, but I think we work them out rather well. I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”
The husband was silent for a while. When it was clear to the wife that he didn’t intend to say anything else, the wife said, “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing, I’m an instinctual animal, remember?”
“Come on. Tell me. I want to know what’s been going through that thick head of yours tonight.”
“First it’s a little head, now it’s a thick head—you have to make up your mind.”
“Tell me, please,” the wife said. She lifted her head up on her elbow and stared at the husband, her face a mold of pleading emotions.
“I’ve been on an emotional rollercoaster these past few days. I don’t know what set if off, whether it was the death of Charlie at work from a heart attack—he was only 44, two years older than me!—or the kids growing up so quickly, or unresolved issues from my childhood. Damn, listen to me, I sound like one of those daytime talk show guests.”
“No you don’t, dear. Maybe you’re finally hitting the dreaded midlife crises. I was hoping you were immune to it. Heck, I was sure it was going to take all our energies to get us through mine, but here it, as clear as your nose on your face. Existentialism meet my husband, husband, this is existentialism.”
The husband snorted. “I don’t think this is my midlife crisis. If it was, I should be out buying a Porsche or climbing a mountain to prove my manhood or something. I’m not feeling old, just empty. It’s like there’s tons of stuff out there and I don’t know about any of it. I feel like I’ve wasted so much of my time on the silly little things and now I have no time for the big important things—that is, if I ever figured out what the big important things are. Does that make any sense?”
“Sure it does. Everyone has worries in life. Yours are coming to you late, and they seem so intense because you’ve always been so sure of everything. It’s all been a completely logical adventure for you.”
“Stop turning me into a cliché,” the husband said. He sat up in bed and covered his face with his hands.
The wife had never seen the husband like this before. She didn’t know what to make of him, whether to be impressed or scared. She crawled over and put her hands on his back, trying to massage away his worries.
“Is it about your childhood?” the wife said.
“Not everything relates back to childhood—no matter what that Freud guy said.”
“I know that. It’s just that you had a tough childhood, and now things are coming to a head with your thoughts. Your experiences might have left you scarred. You never had a chance to work them out. You shouldn’t be ashamed. I always hoped we’d work those problems out together.”
“Is it affecting the children? I don’t want the children growing up the same way I did.”
“How can it affect the children if I didn’t even think you were having these thoughts—whatever these thoughts are, you still haven’t told me—until now. The children love you very much, and because you’re not cold toward them, I love you for that.”
The wife continued, “My father was different. He died before we met—I’m sure I’ve told you this story a million times, but—here I go again—he was a brilliant doctor, a pioneer in blood-related illnesses. I was so very proud of him, we all were, my mother, my sisters, but none of us was ever close to him, even my mother. He never shared anything of himself, and he died without letting anyone in. I sometimes wonder if perhaps there was nothing else inside of him except the medicine. I know there’s more in you, and our kids know that. You’re a wonderful father and they feel that.”
“You know that I haven’t been to my own father’s gravesite in over twenty years. My mother used to take us there. I’d pretend to be sleeping in the backseat of the station wagon. She would visit the gravesite with my sisters, and I would sleep through it. I didn’t want to deal with it, you know. Crying was such a waste of energy. If I didn’t think about it, I figured it’d go away. And the more I didn’t think, the further away it went. It seemed to work. The feelings cropped up less and less over the years.”
The wife ran her hand through his hair. “You never talk much about that part of your life. I wish you would tell me more about it. I feel like there’s a whole part of you that I miss. It must be tough to bottle it up for all these years.”
“It’s easier than you think.”
The next morning, after the wife had bundled up the children and sent them to school, the husband sat down at the breakfast table and found a plate full of pancakes. The wife had cooked nothing but oatmeal with sliced bananas for the last fifteen years for breakfast. The husband didn’t think the wife knew how to cook any other breakfast food.
“This looks good,” the husband said. He poured the maple syrup over the pancakes, and cut into the pancake with his fork.
“See, things can always change.”
“Dad’s doing better today, isn’t he?” George’s daughter asked. “He’s responding well,” the doctor said. “But we’re only treating his body. His mind leaves us more each day, one memory at a time until only his body remains.” George’s daughter leaned over George and kissed his forehead. “I believe in a soul, doctor. And I know it’s floating around here somewhere. Even if my dad’s body doesn’t know I’m here, his soul does. And that’s the least I can offer him.”
George held the baseball bat choked high on the handle. One foot outside the batter’s box, he reached across the plate and pounded the bat. The umpire asked George if he was ready, and George held up his hand toward the pitcher. He stepped into the batter’s box and dug in his cleats. The umpire crouched behind him. He repeated what his coach had told him: two on base, down by one, two outs, top of the ninth, get on base. He heard Nancy’s promise delivered in a mock raspy voice before the game: “Do it for me and I’ll do it for you.” The pitcher wound up and threw the first pitch. George ducked when he saw the ball approaching his head but he was too late. He heard that the ball cracked his helmet, and even saw what it looked like afterwards, but he didn’t remember any of it. His high school team won after the next batter hit a double to the corner that drew two runners home. Nancy couldn’t do it for him that night, but she made up for it on prom night.
George woke up when the nurse prodded his arm. “The doctor will be here in a moment, George. Relax.” He didn’t know the time, and when he looked through the window, he thought he saw the sun sitting on the horizon. It was hard for him to see, though. Buildings, one piled on the next, blocked the horizon and most of the window. But if there was a horizon, he felt confident that the sun would sit on it. “How are you doing this morning, George?” His doctor was a young pretty thing. George didn’t she could be older than his daughter, certainly not old enough to be a doctor. But he couldn’t remember how old his daughter was. George reached toward the doctor to ask her, but became distracted when he saw his own wrinkled arm. A cord ran out from his arm into an IV bag. He tried to say something but nothing came out. George reached for the cord in his arm but the doctor held his arm gently and he moved it back onto the bed.
George put down his pencil and raised his hand. His teacher Mrs. Cummings sat at her desk marking homework papers. The kids around George looked over at him, but he ignored them. When she came over to his desk to collect the test, she told him to put his head down and rest. He couldn’t resist watching her walk back to her desk, fascinated by the way her tight cranberry skirt stretched across her legs as she walked. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. As he put his head down on the desk over his crossed arms, he smiled in the knowledge that he would one day marry that woman.
The car’s engine idled and Nancy sat in the passenger seat. They had pulled to the curb over an hour ago, and George still talked about religion. Nancy was a devout Catholic and had no doubts about her beliefs. George had more doubts than he could count, and when he finished his tirade on cults and religion, Nancy laughed, and George took this as a good sign. When she started talking, George reached his hand past the shifter and placed it on Nancy’s knee. She wore blue slacks and didn’t seem to notice the hand. She continued, and George, feeling her soft skin under the cotton, didn’t hear what she said. When he tried to respond, he knew he spoke in gibberish, and she patted his hand on her knee as if she understood.
George screamed. He couldn’t free his arms from the covers in the crib. The lights came on and his mother entered the room. She leaned over the crib and cooed. He tried again to move his arm, and screamed. She reached down and picked him up, loosening the sheets. He wagged his arms on her shoulder and laughed. His mother laughed and rocked George up and down. With his ear on her shoulder, he heard her humming through her body. He reached over, grabbed her earring, and closed his eyes.
The principal’s office seemed brighter than the rest of the school. George sat on the wooden chair outside it crying. The secretaries, sitting at their typewriters and talking on their telephones, paid him no attention. His chair was next to two empty wooden chairs, which moments before held Thomas and Stan. The microphone used for the morning announcements was across the door near the window. George wiped away the tears and studied the microphone. A large red switch dominated the wall with the letters “A/V” typed on blue tape above it. None of the secretaries watched George as he stood up, walked over to the microphone, and clicked the switch. A loud click sounded in the gray speaker at the other end of the office. George screamed, “I love Mrs. Cummings,” into the microphone.
George placed his hand on Nancy’s stomach. Her breathing was shallow and her stomach barely moved his hand up and down. The moon’s light shone through the shaded windows and illuminated her face. He traced her cheek and nose with his finger. She was still beautiful. He placed his hand on her stomach, trying to feel her cancerous growth. He never believed in prayer, but he prayed for the thousandth time for remission. She grew worse each day, and the doctors had increased the morphine drip to the point where she rarely came out of unconsciousness. He had promised never to leave her, and after forty years, he didn’t intend to start breaking his promises.
George dropped to the kitchen floor and pounded it with his fist. The ceramic tile under his fist cracked. He heard his mother screaming from upstairs. He pounded the next tile with his fist until it cracked. Red clouds of anger obscured his vision. He asked himself, not for the first time, how his mother could be so stupid? The next tile he broke cut his fist and he bled on the tiles. “What do you think you’re doing?” his mother asked, standing cross-armed in the kitchen door. “You break my stuff, I break yours,” George said. “You stop that this instant,” his mother said. George kept pounding until his mother grabbed him by the arms and carried him screaming back to his bedroom.
The green dining hall tray was still warm from the dishwashing machine. George and Nancy had stolen the trays from the dining hall to ride down the snow-covered hill outside his dorm room. Two of their friends had already flung themselves down the hill, and George prepared himself. He sat on top of the hill on the tray and held onto the ground with his gloved hands. Nancy gave him a slight push, and he started down the hill. He felt the tray gliding over the snow, picking up speed. He approached the bottom dip of the hill at high speed when he saw a white, upside down bucket sticking out from the ground. He tried to maneuver away from it, but it was too late. He was sideways when he struck the bucket, and his tailbone smacked the bucket. He fell sprawled on the snow, his butt numb. He sat up and tried to wave to Nancy not follow, but she was already on the hill, heading toward him. He crawled away from the bucket, and she changed course to intercept him, safely away from the bucket.
There were three kids left, two on the far side of the dodgeball line, and George. George didn’t have the ball. He waited with his back to the wall for the next throw. Mrs. Cumming watched from the sideline, her whistle poised in her mouth, ready to blow out the next kid. The last three throws banged harmlessly against the wall near George. The kids watching grew bored with the throws, and chanted “Chickeny George, Chickeny George.” Even his teammates joined in, since Mrs. Cumming switched up the teams for each game. The ball banged the wall next to George and he flinched. The ball bounced back across the line. George decided to catch the next ball, knowing it was only a matter of time before they threw him out. When they next threw the ball, George stepped up and held out his arms. He was amazed when he looked down and saw the ball wrapped up in his arms. He bent over it so it wouldn’t escape. Mrs. Cumming called the thrower out, and George smiled at her, confident that he had impressed her. He ran up to the line and threw the ball hard, hitting the final kid in the knees. It wasn’t until Mrs. Cumming blew the whistle that he looked down and saw that his foot had landed over the line. He looked at Mrs. Cumming, but she was already choosing new teams. The wedding bells that always filled his head when he saw her vanished in that moment.
They swam toward the wooden platform floating in the lake. George wasn’t a good swimmer and he was having trouble keeping up. Nancy kept circling back for him, encouraging him to continue. He struggled on, taking turns crawl stroking through the water, and paddling on his back. The platform didn’t seem to be getting closer, and he grew worried, until she swam back for him. The way he told the story, the dolphins saved him by escorting him safely to the platform. Nancy knew better, but never interrupted his story. She would later tell George that he never called her anything sweeter than a dolphin. He would tell her she was crazy, and that dolphins did save him. He would then kiss her.
Warning: Ugh. This is bad--even for David writing.
Try as I might, I can’t slow the days. Most people want to drag out days, see how long they can pull out the putty of time. For me, I don’t have many of them left, and I want to use each of them to the best of my ability. I’m not writing this out of sympathy. I don’t want your sympathy or your kind wishes. I have enough support for both, and more would be like whistling on the wind. Instead, I want to share with you my experiences. I want you to learn something from my mistakes, and I hope that by sharing this with you during each hour of every day, the hours will move slower and I’ll be able to savor them for longer.
I won’t bore you with the details. My death is coming, and while I don’t welcome it, I’m resolved and content with my life. This isn’t about pity. I’ve said that already. I’ve spent my last days talking to everyone and anyone that will listen. I walked the streets and searched for listeners. I didn’t want to tell them my life’s story. I didn’t want to tell them anything. I wanted them to tell me about themselves. I know the information is going to disappear in a few weeks. I know that. My brain will decompose, and all of the great information they told me will be no more. But that’s what I’ve done my entire life, and I couldn’t stop now that I know it’s the end.
When you try to speak with random people on the streets, you find more people willing to talk than you expect. The streets were wet and gray when I walked them this morning. Most streets are that way. I rambled about for hours on the street with vendors and people rushing off to work. Many confused me for a beggar. They’d listen with half an ear, ready to bolt at the first mention of money or needs, or unfortunate situations. When I tried to explain that I wasn’t after anything, I was doing more of a science experiment, most would warm up. Some would continue running, throwing back an excuse about their time or obligations. A few of them were honest, but others were scared to talk to me, afraid it was a scam. I don’t look much like a college student anymore. The last twenty years has aged me beyond that look. But what I do have is an open face. I try to look willing and open to new ideas about all the things that they’re interested in hearing about. That’s what I try to get across to them. I’m interested in who they are, deep down within themselves.
I’m trying to leave a mark on the earth. I don’t know many people, and when I die, besides the lawyer who will handle the details, I won’t be missed. I doubt the lawyer will miss me much either—well, he’ll miss my retainer, I’m sure, buy not much else. That’s why I decided to do something with my life. This is the story about my last hurrah in the face of impending death. What I want to make of myself in the last seven days of my life. I either have an illness or a death threat—probably the latter. I got involved with the wrong people, and my time is about up. I could make a run for it and live on the lamb, but it’s not who I am. I pay my debts. They gave me seven days to close up my affairs. I plan on using every moment to right myself. I know it’s too late to get a spot in heaven, if heaven exists. I’m okay with that. I just want to leave the world a little better than when I came.
You would think someone who is going to die soon would not spend all of his time typing away at an internet café. This is another part of my plan: to record these moments in the hopes that when someone reads them, I’ll be able to convince others that I spent the time valuably. I don’t know why I care so much what other people think at this point in my life, but I do. I guess I’ve always been the type of person who looked for others to tell him he’s doing a good job.
I’ve lived a pretty fucked up life up to now. I don’t pretend that it’ll get better any time soon, but I have little choice now. It’s ending. I’ll go out honorably, at least as honorably as a man in my position can go out. I’ve come to terms peacefully on my claims. What’s more for me to do?
It’s nighttime, scattered streetlamps light the park. I’m playing basketball inside a chain fence, which holds a small, painted basketball court with graffiti-covered boundary lines caked onto the concrete court. I play basketball by myself in the park, soaring and slamming the ball through the metal rim (just as I do in real life).
On a beautiful dunk, I hang on the rim a moment too long, and pull down the glass backboard. A stream of glass falls on the back of my neck cutting me up something awful. I feel behind my head and my hand returns to my face covered in blood and fragments of glass. The back of my shirt feels wet with more than my sweat, and I begin making my way over to the public telephone at the end of the park.
On the floor near a park bench, I find a black cape. I pick it up, probably with thoughts of stemming the flow of blood, and wrap it around the back of my neck. I feel a hood flopping on my back and pull it up over my head. Two pointed ears poke up from the top of the hood and I realize it’s a Batman hood.
With the hood still in place, I make my way to the pay phone and dial the emergency number. The phone rings and a lady picks up. The world spins and I fear a loss of consciousness before I bring control back by banging my ear with the earpiece.
“Emergency, anyone there?” a high-pitched female asks patiently.
“I’ve been cut all across the back of my neck. I need some help.”
Has problems on the phone; tries to give address; a gang comes past and I join them. They’re talking about a fight. I’m still losing blood, and my head is light. Is everything a dream? I know I need a doctor, but I can’t shake the gang, who drag me along, ignoring my blood and my bat costume.
I forget the rest of the dream. It was much better this morning, when I should written it down. Now, as it aged and pieces of it dropped away from me, it seems not nearly as exciting as the movie-esque story I had this morning. For shame.
Mysticism: man that conveys his emotions; lives in a cold world as he tries to control his output, always nervous that if he feels anything, those around him will suffer. That’s not a story, that’s a stupid superhero characterization—now, what’s the damn story? Murder mystery? World saving? Intrigue? Thriller? Family? Love story? Horror? The MC should be charismatic, it’s the easiest way for people to like him, and that’s something I really need to include in my stories.
What questions would you like to ask? When did he discover that his emotions can be so powerful? Did his family know? Was he an orphan? (No.) He had a relatively normal family life, but he had to separate himself from his family after, well, I know where this is going, after the death of one of his parents. He realized the destructive powers of his emotions; he dropped out of school because of the same cause—how could he live with himself when each A or D would result in uncontrolled emotions that would somehow hurt the people around him.
How does his powers work?
I must hold back the truth to prolong the excitement and mystery. The MC is nervous about his engagement to the mysterious woman—he can’t figure her out and he doesn’t want to. She’s after his skills. She’s smart and she knows who he is and wants what he has to teach. Does he lie to her? Yes, but not often. He should appear wise beyond his given age of 31.
They’ve dated for one year (originally three years, but I think he’s more a man of action—he’s lived long enough to make decisions quickly, not ponder them for years, or remain nervous or indecisive about his decision). She’s from a wealthy, if dysfunctional, family. He tells her little of himself. He’s seemingly wealthy, but he won’t talk of his family or anything that happened to him past the last ten years. She tells him everything, and looks for an emotional opening, trying to find a deeper connection with him.
He works at a used bookstore, buying back the books from the customers, and stacking the shelves. He doesn’t seem to need the money—he takes her out to fancy dinners and shows, something a stock boy in a used bookstore could not afford—but she watches him cash the checks each week. He leads a simple life of working, meditation, and reading. He has friends in the neighborhood, mostly people he runs into each day—the newspaper stand owner, the Italian restaurant waiters, the school crossing guard he passes each morning during the school year, as he walks to work. He knows intimate details about each and they count him a friend even if he never talks about himself beyond his daily activities, which, for them, is enough information for their causal relationship. He doesn’t have any educated friends, and he resists her efforts to include him in her circle of professionals and artists.
He has a love of fine foods and expensive clothing and paintings. His apartment is small if well decorated. He lives in Columbia City and spends most of his days in this small neighborhood in the southern part of Seattle. He ventures into the more chic areas at night and on the weekends. He doesn’t drive, but he uses the same yellow taxi driver. He hates driving. He spends at least three hours every day locked in his study in his apartment. The shades are drawn, and he refuses to show his girlfriend (Kelly?) the inside of his sanctuary. He tells her that—maybe—he’s working on his great American novel in the room. He calls it his sanctuary and jokes about its insides, revealing details about it that are more lavish each time she asks.
Even when he sneaks into his study when his girlfriend is staying over, she is never able to get a glance into the sanctuary. She has tried to be sneaky, but even when the door is open, and she has a clear view, she can’t seem to make out the insides. There does appear to be light inside, and she can’t figure out why she can’t see beyond the open door.
The MC is not sure why she interests him so much. He acknowledges that she reminds him of his young self, but he also knows that that isn’t a particularly good thing. He had weird ideals when he was young, and that’s certainly not something he wants to encourage in her.
A thought: what if I reverse the relationships for this story? The narrator is not the one with the secret—it’s the girlfriend with the secret, and the narrator is trying to figure her out to get closer to her. The narrator doesn’t understand what he’s getting into. Perhaps that’s why she finds him charming. She will share her secret with him, which will introduce this world to the reader. As to the end—I’ll have to think on how that works in this situation.
Originally (as I planned the story while walking through the park), the girlfriend knew something of the MC’s secret and she was more of a predator. She of course liked him (he is charming because of his acquired wisdom and worldliness), but she wanted the secret from him. She had studied him and she thinks she knows what he is. Either way should work—and this will give a reason for the mystery (except from the meta-fiction, why does the narrator keep this from me since he appears to be telling this after the mystery has been solved dynamic).
By the way, I’m purposefully leaving this vague—the secret, that is—to keep me interested in writing this story. I haven’t tried this before, but it appears to be the best of both worlds: I get to post about everything I write, and I keep the reader enough in the dark that I don’t feel that I’ve already told the important aspects of the story. These are notes and a synopsis of the story, in case you hadn’t figured that out yet (although, after the title, and rereading through the notes, it would be hard to confuse this with anything but notes).
I’m not good at anything. I’m terrible at most things, actually, including the art class my parents signed me up for. They see potential. My parents, that is, not the teachers. I’m just another student here, another weekly tuition, which they use to pay their bills as they attempt to work as real artists, not as midwives for the pretentious students that sit around and glop paint onto the canvas.
Today Tanya, the Monday, Wednesday, Friday art teacher, she prefers we call her by her first name, while Donald, the Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday art teacher prefers we call him Mr. Tunsun, but we all call him Donald because we don’t like him much, showed us some of her artwork. She doesn’t normally bring in anything she’s working on. We think it’s because she doesn’t want us to get down on ourselves. She’s a professional artist, haven’t had three art shows over the last ten years. She’s a graphics artist, although she trained in paint and canvas. She brought in a graffiti filled brick wall. She carried it in on a red wagon, the type the used to buy kids to haul their stuff around in. The wall was about three feet high and four feet across, and she had painted it in miniature tags, the type that used to decorate all the boroughs before the mayor ordered a cleanup before I was born. That’s at least what my parents told me. They were fans of graffiti and fought for some of the more artistic work to remain on the walls, or at least have them removed to other places.
Tanya’s work was good. She’s not terrible at this art thing. She gets her feelings across in the work. She hasn’t sold the wall yet, though. She brought it in to show our parents mostly. There are ten kids in the class besides me, and except for Tommy, all of our parents are very affluent. We’re not supposed to talk about that, but it’s true, and I don’t know why they ask us to deny it, even amongst ourselves. I think Tanya is hoping one of our parents will buy it or talk to one of their friends and have it presented in a show where someone might buy it. My parents will like it, I told Tanya. And they did, and they promised to make a few phone calls when they got home. I showed my parents my work. It wasn’t phone call worthy.
I’ve hit a rut as of late. I’m tired of the constant painting and lessons. We paint five hours a day, and study academic classes for another five hours. We’re given two hours of free time during the day to read or socialize, but most of us walk around outside, talking about the weather, mostly. We watch the younger children in the school play in the swings and monkey bars, but we outgrew that years ago.
Today I painted a tree. It was the tree that lives outside my bedroom window. I would have climbed down it or up it, but I’m afraid of heights, and my bedroom is on the second floor. That’s what the kids in movies do: they sneak out of their bedrooms by climbing down adjoining trees. I think my parents want me to do that. Every time we watch a movie where a kid does that, my parents always point it out, and they threaten me with grounding if I try that. Serious grounding. But I know they’re trying a version of reverse psychology. They do that. They’re overeducated, and they think they can manipulate me by setting strict boundaries for the rules they want me to break, and loser boundaries for those they want me to obey. I realized what they were trying to do from the beginning, but I’m not much of a rule breaker, and I end up following both types, much to chagrin of my parents.
I’ve been thinking of hanging up my paintbrushes. I haven’t talked to my parents or teachers about it, but I feel it’s almost time. There’s not much I want to paint anymore. There are no visions of beauty or intrinsic truths that capture my imagination. I’ve tried realistic and abstract. I’ve tried ridiculous sculptures and filming. I’ve tried it all, and what I’ve figured out is that everything has been done already. I’m derivative. And not a terribly good derivative at that. I should have gone to tennis camp instead of art camp. I see that now. Even though thanks to my scrawny body, I would never have been a professional, at least I would have known that going in. My parents and teachers always assumed I would make it.
They plan to send me to France when I graduate next year for my first year of university. There’s an art institute that has already accepted me based on my portfolio. I’m thinking of running away instead. I haven’t figured out where I want to run to, and I have a sneaking suspicion that this is what my parents want: they want me to experience the real world on my own terms instead of on their terms. They didn’t set any strict rules about running away, I know. I don’t think they consciously want it, but when they talk about their past and their regrets, I feel that was a big one. They never did anything rebellious. They followed the route set by their parents and accomplished everything beyond even their own parents’ expectations. I don’t think they want that for me. I don’t think I could be more successful, at least financially, than them.
I thought about leaving a note, but I wasn’t sure what I would say. They’ll figure out what I was thinking. They need only look through my portfolio to see where my head is at these days.
“My name is Albert, and I’m a hell of a guy,” Albert said. He stood next to his chair. Ten other men sat in similar chairs in a circle. On the floor next to the chairs were white coffee cups, most filled with cigarette butts.
“Hello, Albert,” the other men said in unison.
Tim smiled broadly at Albert and leaned toward him before speaking. “Albert, why are you such a hell of a guy?” Tim was the group’s leader. He had been running the “The Man’s Men” group for three years, and had twenty ten-men groups that he met each week.
Albert smiled sheepishly. “I put my wife in her place this past weekend. It happened exactly as you predicted. She was nagging me about the lawn, and I explained to her what I felt my job was and what I felt her job was, and what I thought about our respective jobs.”
Tim stood up and walked behind Albert. “Did you explain or did you yell?”
“I yelled,” Albert said with a small laugh. “I don’t think she’s ever heard me yell. And you know what happened? She shut up.”
“She couldn’t have stayed quiet the entire time, Albert, did she? What happened then?” Tim waited behind Albert and played with the strap of the small black journal he carried around whenever he conducted his group sessions. He took meticulous notes on each man within the group, chronicling their development and character. Albert looked at the other men in the circle when he answered.
“When I finished yelling, she started to get into her feelings. I cut her off like you said, and I told her that I only wanted to talk about thoughts and not feeling. Then when she started talking again, I cut her off again, and said that those thoughts had to be rational ones or I wasn’t going to listen to them.”
Tim began clapping and the other nine men joined in. “Excellent, Albert, truly excellent. Do you see what a little confidence and truth can do to your woman? What happened during the rest of the evening?”
“She was real angry, but she didn’t say anything. When I went to kiss her at night, she let me, and she seemed vaguely satisfied in what I was doing.”
“This is what I’m speaking about,” Albert said and walked between two chairs back into the center of the circle. “This is what I’m trying to bring you to understand. Our wives are only the first step, of course. There’s an entire world waiting, an entire world that needs a firm hand, needs the decisiveness of our thoughts, or understanding, our unyielding sentiments. We are building toward that. This is your first step, each of your first steps. In time, we’ll take other steps, smaller steps, but as important, until we arrive at our proper place in the world.”
Tim went on for another hour, lecturing the men about their roles at home and in the society at large. The men listened and smoked their cigarettes, which Tim encouraged, reminding them that as men, their bases instincts and hungers must be satisfied, nothing should be sacrificed at the alter of emotions. Tim passed around bottles of whiskey and the men drank heavily. Tim was a small man in stature, but when he spoke, he seemed gigantic. The men felt his presence when he was in the room. Their eyes did not leave him when he spoke, and when he left the room, they felt like the air had been let out, his presence was that strong.
Nobody knew how many of these circles Tim ran. He had trained many men in his way of thinking, and those men had started circles of their own. Tim would visit these circles, but he trusted the men he trained to train them in his way. They would say later that he had built an army slowly over time, that his men had become his men after many years of indoctrination. It wasn’t true, of course. The men were Tim’s after the first time they heard him speak. He had to visit a circle only once to leave a mark upon the men. They men didn’t understand the mark but they knew it for what it was: a bind upon them, a guide in their life, a new way of living.
Some men in the circles did not take to Tim’s way. They leaders identified these early, and they would work with them. For the tougher cases, they called Tim in. He would either convince those cases, or none of the men would see those cases again. They didn’t ask what happened to them. Most assumed they were let go and told never to return or report what went on in the meetings. Some assumed they were killed. The truth, though, was somewhere in between.
I hugged the muddy ground of my foxhole. The explosions started an hour ago, and had not let up. I waited alone in the foxhole and searched the woods for movement. I unstrung my bow and put the string in my oil-covered pouch. The rain was heavy today, and I knew after the mages moved on, we would be given the orders to advance. Our mages pounded their side of the line as badly as there’s pounded ours. What a horrible way to make war. Give me steal and arrows any day over this mages’ game.
Boy walks into a convenience store and shoplifts a toy gun and a box of caps for the gun. After leaving the store, he breaks into a run. The storeowner sees him start running through the door, and follows, shaking his fist and yelling that he’ll catch him the next time he comes into his store. The boy laughs and runs away, knowing that since this is his grandmother’s neighborhood, and his parents almost never bring him here, there’s a fat chance that the storeowner will ever see him again.
This is difficult for me. I’m not drinking yummy caffeine today because lately I’ve found myself drinking it in preparation for writing, i.e., I would drink hours before I planned to write to rev myself up. That’s ridiculous, of course, and I drank it not for the revving reason but because I felt I had to, which is a sure sign that I’ve been drinking too much of it.
To avoid that fate, I cut off my caffeine for today and probably the rest of the weekend, with one caveat: there is a remote possibility that this weekend the hospital will call Julie for a delivery of one of her “continuity patients.” If this happens, I will find myself with two choices: sit around Julie’s spacious apartment basking in the glow of her television; or escaping her apartment and heading to Banana Bread, her local (chain) coffee/lunch shop with free internets. If that most unfortunate of happenings occurs, and I chose the second option (a slight possibility with lovely television waiting unrestricted for me to watch), then I might partake in the yummy-ness known as caffeine, err, coffee.
I keep promising myself that I will write a story-ish entry, and I keep trying and failing. My discipline is waning on this issue, and I continue to pound out words toward my Goal that have no value and are terribly uninteresting to read.
Tried and true, grayness descends over veiled sight. I wait in the gray clad airport, people stream by across stainless steel walls and glass overlooking skies of gray. The door opens and lines of people walk out, looking dazed as they exit as if they expected a warm reception from the gathered people. We’re not waiting for you buddy, keep it moving so we can get on sometime today, I’d say if they asked. But they don’t, they walk past and break their straight lines looking for their baggage or the toilets or their loved ones, but not here at the gates.
People chat on their phones or watch the television, the speaker blaring in half of the seated area: to keep people in a stressful situation calm, it’s always best to put a television in front of them. The news replays interviews on today’s kidnapped or missing or runaway child, as the man- or child-hunt for her continues through the airwaves. Today’s story of the day. We’re not happy unless something miserable is happening to others, and then we want to watch the horror, keeping watch over how we would feel in their situations but being secure that it isn’t our situation, it’s their situation, and we’re safe at home, and our children are safe at home, and watching the show is like watching a movie where we don’t know what’s going to happen at the end, and because of that, it’s rather exciting. We hope for a happy ending, but we’re sometimes more satisfied with the unhappy ending, our feelings can extend in those situations for longer than they would if everything turned out okay, a prank, or a fake runaway bride, calling in her own kidnapping and rape. Why do we care? I don’t, but the television subjects me to it as if I don’t have a will of my own. I don’t, obviously, not here, in this public space where the television caters to the least of our society, which is to say, the majority of the society who want to dwell in the world of conflict and adversary because their lives are oh so dull, not realizing that the reason they are dull, their lives, that is, is because of what they don’t do, what they sit around and hope to do from the distance of the screen.
Everyone is traveling somewhere today or returning to somewhere. I’m traveling, leaving on a jet plane, but I do know when I’ll be back, which is a bit disappointing. Work was short today with little accomplished except counting the minutes until I escaped and made my way home. I watched a movie, but the clocked ticked on and I left the house too early to hunt dinner at the airport lounges, and find a place to patter away on the keys to say something so I could say that today I said something, like every day. It wasn’t a thing of beauty or a thing of interest, but it was a thing, and in my strange state of NEQID, as I attempt to improve myself and those around me—even those unwilling—I feel this is the step that will take me over the falls into the rushing whitewater.
The walk around looking for chairs. He has black hair, like a helmet. Wears a brown leather coat and runs by me too quickly to find the other details. A mustache, I believe, but he’s gone now, a silhouette against the brilliant windows, where the sun hasn’t even thought about setting. We’re still in the long days, but now the days are growing shorter. They’ll feel like forever for the next few weeks, but afterwards, it’ll grow darker earlier and we’ll wonder where the daylight went.
There is a water fountain behind me with a funny, artistic touch: with each touch of the button, a loud gulping sound of water is sounded from a hidden speaker, startling the drinker and amusing the children who wait nearby, ready to jump out and laugh at the unsuspecting drinker. If I was drinking, I’d pretend it was nothing or perhaps pretend I was deaf so the children’s amusement would be less. It goes with my cool, On the Road, persona. I’m the Dean of today’s world. But don’t tell him because if he didn’t live in a book, he would hunt me down and slap me silly for pretending to be as cool or as out there as he claims to be.
Words of lords and mages try to escape me and I fight them, digging my teeth deep into their substance and refusing to let go until I stop typing. I wrote those before, those words of stories that go nowhere, and I went nowhere, as I’m wont to do. One of these days, I keep telling myself, things will be different. I will not pound out words like this, these consternated, if highly stylized, at least for today, words in an attempt to reach that not climbable Goal. I wish I could climb it and get it done with, a few moments of pain and then it would disappear and there would little for me to do.
My bags are heavy today. In lieu of the dragging bag I brought my backpack and packed it until I can barely lift it or throw it over a shoulder. I also have my shoulder bag, but I can lift that. The added weight of the two bags is almost too much for me. The flight should leave in an hour from now, which gives me time to press out these paragraphs and run to the toilet before the plane sits at the gate and loads the passengers. I’m hoping there are many children going to Disney. There don’t seem to be that many when I look, but I’ve since forgotten what most of them look like, or, more exactly, I’ve forgotten to look for them most times I’ve boarded, living in my own world of searching for my seat and looking down at everyone around me.
It’s hot in here and I brought my jacket. The guy across from me interests me. He has a Mac G4 on his lap over a carrying case that might be cool if it wasn’t full of Velcro. He has curly brown hair, which is receding slightly in the front. You wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t looking for it or didn’t have experience. He wears brown, rectangular glasses over his pale white face. He wears a yellow button down shirt and a black hiking blazer. His pants are black as well with black sneakers. He has three bags to bring on the plane, the gray computer bag fits nicely in his computer bag. It looks like he’s reading the internets, something I find myself doing too often instead of working or writing, but those are the breaks. Distractions dominate me and I want to give them their due.
Lots of phone calls are going on around me. I’m glad this ends, the phone calls, when the plane closes its doors. There is talk of allowing the calls on the plane. The FAA and the FCC are in discussions, perhaps to form the FBB to regulate the phones on the airplanes. I’m too clever sometimes I hurt myself. I’m trying to get the rest of these words out so I can relax on the airplane and read the New Yorker and my current book. I forget its name, but it’s in my books list. I like it. He has a poetic writing style that I would strive for if I understood it. I read another of his books about a CIA agent in a wheelchair. I didn’t like it when I read it, but I seem to remember to many of its details not to have somehow touched by its words. It is similar to movies that I don’t think I liked until I find myself thinking about them weeks later, wondering about this or that aspect, a sure sign that my dislike of the movie was probably misunderstood or misdirected.
My hands and wrists are buzzing from too much uncomfortable leaning, and the warmth of the computer is not helping me concentrate. I’ll be done with this and fetch a chocolate chip cookie before my flight. I already had Chinese food in the airport. There’s a conspiracy amongst the airport Chinese food places. They all serve the same food at, what I’m assuming, the same price. The bourbon chicken lady gives free samples because the mix of bourbon and salt makes the first bite much better than the rest. Dinner, however, found me hungry and I scarfed it down while watching CNN and Larry King, who, I don’t understand, still cares about the ridiculous people he interviews. Doesn’t he see how empty his interviews are? He’s a skinny one, his shoulders seemingly popping up from his thin shirts, and his suspenders holding his chest from jumping out of his skin. That wasn’t the poetic description I hoped for, but I can’t always find the words, and I’ve accepted that.
A couple is playing their walkman too loud, the speakers around their neck instead of over their ears. Who are they trying to impress with that tinny noise? I’m sure if they were given the option they’d be driving an SUV with the doors open and the music pumping out.
I’m hitting upon my last few words and they could not come soon enough. I’ll have more to say tomorrow, I hope. I’ll stick the fork in today and write it off to too much not thinking at work, and too little driving in traffic, attempting to control the road rage that promises to squash me one of these days. I thought that would do it, but there are still twenty-five words to the Goal. Make that only seven. And this one should do it.
***
I won't bother posting this in a separate post because, well, it's nothing...again.
“When do you think they’re going to send us out?”
“You’re that anxious to get into a fight?”
“Are you the new mage?”
“That’s me. Where’s the lord?”
“Sir Dendle is at the front of the lines, preparing for our next move. Do you need an escort?”
“No, I should be able to find him. Thank you.”
He wore flowing yellow robes as someone fitting his stature. He graduated from the mage academy the past Friday, and he received his first assignment: supporting Sir Dendle in his fight against the barbarians from the north. They provided him with provisions and a horse, and he spent three weeks riding to the front.
I started writing a “story” and hit a wall, hard. As I was babbling about yesterday, we saw two forms of entertainment today: “Batman Begins,” and “View from the Bridge.” While it’s difficult to compare movies and plays, I enjoyed both, and I learned something important that I had hopes of applying to my writing.
Before I get there, I have to talk about the title. I have nothing against Literature majors. Hell, if I had to do it again, I would probably have added it to my long list of degrees. What I’ve grown sick of, however, is my endless discussion on writing, my countless paragraph and words that I devote to talking about how I’m going to make it all better. All of my analysis and promises and consternations I follow up with nothing. I spend so much time wasting words on this because I’m scared of spending words or thoughts on stories. So much babbling again.
What I learned from the play—and will share with you instead of writing a story—is that good stories don’t need explosions, they need characters and simple situation. There were few if any clever lines in the play, but it was enjoyable, and it was a story. That’s what I need to tell: simple stories with interesting characters that do something. Bah. I repeat myself.
I thought about pounding out the Goal tonight, but I don’t feel up to it. I’m disappointed with my feeble attempts below. I reached a story-decision point in the writing, and I click over to the internets, and return here to put words in this part instead of the story part. It sickens me. I know. More consternations.
On a positive note, I’m having a wonderful time with beautiful Julies. Tomorrow should be a more relaxing day. In the afternoon, we will go to one of the resident’s houses for a potluck lunch for the new interns. Julie made a reservation at a new restaurant for the evening, but other than that, we plan to relax, maybe go for a swim if the weather warms up (it’s been in the 60s, which is delightful, but a bit cool for swimming).
I won’t waste your time with many more words. Failure never tastes good.
***
“I am Batman,” Tommy said.
“No you’re not,” I said for the third time. We had just gotten out of the movies and were walking back to Tommy’s house. Tommy’s energy scared me sometimes. Out of all of our friends, he was the only one who could jump around for hours and not get tired. It served him well on the basketball court, where he played point guard for our junior high school team. But when we were alone, his energy made me nervous.
“How do you know I’m not Batman?”
“First, because there is no such thing as Batman, it’s just a movie guy. And second, even if there were such a thing as Batman, you sure as hell aren’t going to be him. For one, you’re too scrawny. Batman would be huge and muscular. Not to mention taller, Batman would be much taller.” That shut Tommy up. He was very sensitive about his height. He was the shorter kid in class, and while he was quick as a squirrel, he hadn’t grown much since we were freshman in school. It was a sore spot with him, and a sure way to shut him when his energy threatened to swallow you.
Tommy didn’t say anything as we walked the next three blocks. A block from his house, he stopped. Three pictures were leaning against the trash. “You think they’re throwing those away,” Tommy asked.
“Probably.”
Tommy leaned the first one back. It was a photograph of leopard hunting its prey. Behind the first one was a photograph of two frogs with red feet on a lily pad. Tommy stared at the third photograph the longest. It showed
Her hair was as blonde and long as an eighteen year old. Seeing her from behind, you might think she was a teenager: she was slim with shapely legs covered in thick stockings. When she turned around, the truth was not as pretty. She was old, her chin over-biting her upperlip. Her nose, bumped in its middle hooked over her lips. Her hands were skinny and pale, paler than her perfectly blonde hair. She had large blue eyes, which looked more gray than blue now. People always suspected she dyed her hair, but she didn’t. The hair was a gift of her genes, and she had flaunted it throughout her life, using it to do something. Her waddle was now well developed, heading at a forty-five degree angle into her sunken chest. She wore a pearl-like stretch bracelet around her tiny wrist. Today, she wore beige nursing shoes, the comfortable type with rubber sole and straps. She would have preferred to wear her heels to give the illusion (at least from behind) that she was still the beautiful woman she had been in her youth, but her feet had expanded so much as she grew older, that she could not find shoes that fit her. And, besides, she didn’t think she could walk in those heels anymore. After breaking her hip three years before, her balance had never recovered.
He came in here every day to complete the crossword puzzle. The little hair that remained above his hair he slicked back. A small curl formed at the back of his neck. He wore thick, bronzed glasses that darkened the area around his eyes. His skin was a reddish pink, looking almost bovine. He wore a graying mustache over his pointed nose. His chin showed the beginnings of stubble. He wore a plaid short-sleeved, button-down shirt with a blue checkbook in its right pocket. A packet of cigarettes weighed down the opposite pocket, and he took frequent smoke breaks outside the diner for a quick smoke. He had a gray jacket with ridges on the bottom of the sleeves and jacket. The jacket was made of a slick material to reflect rain, and perfected in him the 1970s look.
She was older than him, and when she came into the diner, she drank her coffee and stared. She never brought newspapers or books to read. She always sat with her back to the television, and never tapped her foot or seemed to take much entertainment from the people moving about her. She drank tea and ate half sandwiches. Except for the tea, she didn’t have a usual, and the waiter waited patiently while she decided on the morning’s food. She said “Let’s see” as she scanned the menu, having, much to the waiter’s chagrin, seen the menu for the past five years, and having had to have memorized its contents.
Over the past few months, he started greeting her when he entered. At first, she didn’t know how to respond. Her reactions were slow and she wouldn’t respond until after he had passed. She kicked herself for that. She had had a wild youth, and had been with many men before age had taken away most of her assets. She had never settled down, never finding the right man, or, perhaps as she now thought, never being the marrying type to find the right man.
The man, Herbert, once he sat down, pulled out his red pen and began inking the answers into the crossword. He wasn’t terribly good at the crossword, but when he finished filling in his version of the answers, the grid was filled in with words that mostly made sense. They both sat facing the same direction but at different tables each day. Some days she would be facing his back, others he would be facing her back.
Molly thought she was beyond these feelings. She hadn’t had a real desire in years, but she missed the companionship. She had distanced herself from many of her friends over the years, as the married and had first kids and then grandkids. She never regretted her decision. She had done what she needed to do. Her eyes, when she looked at things now, moved rapidly back and forth, as if they couldn’t find the focus. Molly had given up smoking many years before after her once beautiful voice began to sound horse. She had smoked more because of the way it had made her look than the taste. Like most things in her life, it had not been difficult for Molly to give up the cigarettes. Her passions ran cold, and she never loved or hated much.
She lived in an apartment she had purchased thirty years before. She had worked somewhere. Her apartment building, during those thirty years, was taken over by a developer who turned it into one of the most desirable buildings along the sound. All her neighbors had sold to the young professionals that began to pay outrageous amounts for the small apartments.
Tara had moved in next to her three years back. She was a young executive at a small publishing house. She had left her family in Toronto to take her job, and she missed them terribly, especially her grandmother who she had a close relationship with. Tara found Molly a good surrogate for her grandmother, and befriended her immediately. Tara had brown, reddish hair, and wet, hazel eyes, which looked almost transparent. That day, she wore a peach, rounded neck on which a Jewish star hung. She wore cackie? Pants and brown, sandel-like shoes, which slipped and stomped as she walked.
Herbert wore a bright red baseball cap with no writing. His keys were attacked to his pants with a climber’s thingy, and his pants were dirty. Ever day, as he left the diner, he would offer Molly his paper. She would look at him and the paper, putting on her glasses, which made her eyes appear enormous, look at the paper, and refuse it. He would try to push it on her, but she would shake her head and he would shrug and walk out, not sure how else to strike up the conversation.
Tara learned about Molly’s visits to the diner when she convinced her to meet her for lunch one Sunday. Now, about once a week, Tara would find Molly in the diner and join her. Molly was at first uncomfortable with the visit, unsure how she could stand the change in her routine, but over time, as Tara became a closer confidant, she began to look forward to the visits.
Molly’s blue jacket was velvety, and around the left arm near the wrist, a red band had been sewn. It had been quite a stylish jacket many years before. One of her boyfriends had bought it for her after she had showed interest in it while walking in front of a clothing store.
She stained the tea cup with her lipstick. She still spent an hour each morning applying her face, as she put it. The makeup did not much do much to tighten the skin, which Molly could have sworn seemed to becoming unglued from her face. She wore four rings on each hand.
Tara pulled her hair back in a white band. She was a part-time student and waiter at an Italian place. She loved people and did well in school, but never applied herself because she could never figure out what she wanted to be. Her desires did not run financial or even familial (except for her family back in Canada). Tara saw the way Herbert looked at Molly when they were in the Diner. She had broached the subject on a few occasions, but Molly had always waved her off. Tara walked a bit hunched over, her knees pointed toward each other, giving her a walk like she was wearing a tight skirt that hobbled her legs together, even though she was wearing pants.
Tara began visiting the diner when Molly wasn’t there. She sat and watched Herbert as he did his crossword puzzle, and she asked the wait staff about him. They knew little, as he didn’t speak much with them except to order his daily cheeseburger.
Hoodlums try to rob the diner while the three of them are there—Herbert tries to save Molly? Herbert’s family comes for a visit, and Molly understand that she’s the one who is alone in life, and not him. Tara always looks behind her toward Herbert when she sits with Molly. She hopes he’ll take the hint that they’re talking about him. It’s Tara that talks about him.
Molly was a ballet dancer. She was good and played in local dances, but never made the jump to a big city ballet. She was beautiful and used her beauty to date many men and received many marriage proposals, but, having grown up in an abusive house, never trusted anyone enough to stay with them longer than a month. As she grew older, the offers came less often and she didn’t miss them. She lived her life, as she did her dancing, without passions, content in the daily routines, such as her cup of tea, and her visits to the diner.
“He looks so alone over there,” Tara said, giving an exaggerated look past Molly’s shoulder to where Herbert sat sipping his coffee. Tara smiled at Herbert when he looked up.
“Stop that,” Molly said.
Tara waved at Herbert who coughed and went back to his puzzle. “I think he likes you.”
“Well, that’s all good and fine, but have you ever thought that maybe I wouldn’t like the looks of him? All you young people think you know so much better what’s good for us older people. I’ve been around here a while, and I know what’s what and what I want, and Herbert isn’t what I want.”
“So that’s his name,” Tara said. “I didn’t know you knew his name.” Molly blushed, her pale face turning a pinker pale as the blood tried to find veins that still worked in her face.
…
“And this doesn’t mean that you get to do any hanky panky.”
“I wasn’t even thinking about that. Besides, I don’t even think I could do hanky panky anymore.”
“They have drugs for that now.”
“I had heard about those drugs. But I haven’t had anyone to try those drugs on.”
“Don’t think you’re going to try it them on me.”
“I wasn’t thinking about it.”
“That’s good, because I haven’t had those types of desires in years. I’m an old lady now.”
“No that old.”
“Well, maybe not that old.”
***
One of the lenses in his eyeglasses were black. He carried around a blind man’s stick, a pair of darker sunglasses to wear over his glasses, and an eyepiece, usually used to see distances. He used it to things ten feet away. He wore a straw hat and a black vest over his beige shirt. He carried a black bag with many pockets over his left shoulder. When he read the paper, he held it up to his face, his hat covering the top of it and his right eye close enough to make out the words. He had a white beard, which fell a few inches from his chin. He shaved the sides of his face and his upper lip. He was skinny and wore no jewelry. On first glance, he looked like an explorer, with his hat and beard and stick. He walked slow but surely, trying to avoid any obstacles, which he couldn’t make out from far away.
In the center of the room sat a large vat of melting lard, its smell reminded Darlene of afternoons eating French fries. A red-painted chain hung from a ceiling crane and ended in a large hook that hovered over the vat.
“I don’t suppose I will be able to convince you not to lower me into this here vat?” Darlene asked.
Her captor pushed her forward toward two guards armed with pikes. A third guard pressed a red button on the crane control, and the hook began dropping toward the vat. When it was almost touching the lard, the guard gave the hook a yank, and the arm holding it swung out until the hook rested near the ground.
“Lard, sweet Darlene,” the evil professor began, “is what is in, as you put, ‘this here vat.’ Lard, as you will soon find, has a very high boiling point and produces little in the way of smoke while cooking. It is ideal for cooking the human flesh for that reason. When I’ve tried to fry people in other liquids, the smoke and scents have been awful. Lard produces what most consider a pleasant scent while cooking. Now, for you, since you’ve been such a wonderful student, I’ve developed a bit of a surprise. Instead of dropping you in boiling lard, I will warm up the lard while you bask in it, similar to the lobster dipped into water that is not yet boiling. The lard is now at a comfortable eighty degrees, hot enough to melt, but not hot enough to cook human flesh. Once lowered into the vat...”
“Uh, professor,” Darlene interrupted, raising her hands, which the professor had tied with thick rope.
“Yes, sweet Darlene?”
“What I’d like to know, before you continue, if that is okay with you, since I know this is the part of your speech where you begin to explain the intimate details of my death and everything—where was I? I hate when I start talking and forget where I was heading, oh, yes, the lard. You were talking about the boiling point of lard. What is it?”
The professor was a small man with a large amount of flesh on his body. His wore small, concave spectacles, which enlarged his eyes to almost three times their size. He didn’t have the classic evil laugh, instead going with a gurgling chuckle. “That is an excellent question, sweet Darlene. You were always a good student, have I told you that yet? The boiling point of lard, that is, the point at which it begins to bubble is three-hundred forty degrees Fahrenheit.”
...[discussion of the politics in the dept. of evil]
“You seem well informed for a graduate student in evil studies,” the evil professor said.
“You’d be surprised how well-informed the graduate students are. Not that we would think to usurp the faculty.”
“Surely not.”
“We wouldn’t think of it.”
“That would be evil,” the evil professor said with a grin.
“Very. But this isn’t about our evil plans, but yours. Do you mind if I ask questions as you go along with your plot? I’m very interested in using this as a learning experience.”
The evil professor pushed his index finger into the bottom of his chin. “I’m not sure how useful this will be as a case study, seeing how at the end there won’t be much left of you, but I’m sure you know what they say about me.”
“That you’re an intolerable bore?”
“No, not that one.”
“That the hairs on your palm outnumber those on your head?”
“Now that one hurts,” the evil professor said. “They say, and I’ve heard this even from freshman in the evil survey class, they say that I never miss an opportunity to edify. So, please, do ask away. I’ll be happy to expound on my thoughts and planning.”
“These henchman, how did you find...
Darlene—rest of the evil faculty. What would they think of him? Methodology.
I’m trying something new, something I have not tried before. I’m going to inject my pain and suffering, the very same pain and suffering that you, the tired reader of my writings, have suffered with through the last few years, into my stories. Why, you may ask, am I going to do this? My answer is simple and yet simple (I was going to say it was simple yet complicated, but then I realized that what I consider complicated is only complicated so long as it remains fuzzy in my brain. Once it comes out, and it does usually come out in one form or the other, the complication turns into disorganization or simpleness. No thought, once properly organized, is complicated. The complication is in the not understanding of thought, not in its expression). The simple answer is because I can and I need to pad words and explain to myself why I am doing things. I do not know if these clever words—for what are these words but an expansion of my most selfish thoughts—will survive in the final drafts. It’s enough that they survive in this first draft and let me throw out my consternations into the altar of what I want to say, which is anything, when I admit the truth, but an anything that will hopefully turn into something that someone actually wants to read, instead of something I want to say, which, I know, is not one and the same.
The story I will attempt to write is a mishmash of experiences I had during my camp years. After attending (and hating attending) a Jewish day camp during my childhood years, I went back to that same camp as a counselor through the end of my high school years and into and through my college years. It wasn’t until I left college that I decided it was time (and time enough) for me to stop looking after children for money. I enjoyed my counselor time much more than my day camp time. I was not a good camper. I had a tendency to be scared of everything, from getting on the camp bus in the morning to swimming in the pool. There wasn’t a thing I wasn’t scared of while at the day camp. But as a counselor, those fears turned into power. Here I was in my element. I was a man amongst boys. As I grew through the counselor ranks—and I grew quickly as most of the boys (not so much the girls) outgrew the ranks of counselorhood and decided to pursue real summer occupations, such as working in bagel stores and pizzerias, and taking on summer internships that would prepare them for real life, which was something I didn’t concern myself about for many years into my adult life, the real life, that is. There was something reassuring about staying in the day camp world and moving up through the hierarchy of the counselors. There was a certainty that I would excel. It’s like I imagine the military: if you stay there long enough, you’ll get ahead. I know it’s more complicated than that, but that’s how things look to me from the outside never looking in.
By the time I left the day camp world, I was a god. I had a walkie-talkie and they only gave the walkie-talkies to important people: the adults, teachers mostly, who ran the camp, and the senior most counselors, most of which, when I look back, were related somehow to the staff or were the types that people hung about because they were cool, even if their coolness was only relative to the younger people they hung about with.
I’m getting tired already. This style is exciting but awfully tiring—well, that’s not absolutely true. It’s not the style that’s tiring but the sitting here in the coffee shop thinking about how great this would be if any of these words were at all useful. I’m word counting again, even though I don’t want to. I’m thinking if I can set goals for days and go off, not rereading but instead expanding upon what I’m working on, I might start hitting goals of unimagined expanse. I know, it’s funny to me also. None of this will ever happen. I’ll grow tired and hit the road, Jack. And, let me tell you, I might not come back.
Getting back to my story, the mishmash of events that I’ve decided might make a good tale. I’m throwing stuff together. It didn’t happen like this, and the characters I’m drawing up, while their names might sound like real people, are in fact not as they were. I don’t remember how they were. My brain has long since flushed that kind of knowledge. I can perhaps remember anecdotes (I originally wrote antidotes, which I guess in a way this is to the poison of my childhood—but even so, that wasn’t the correct word), but I didn’t know enough at that time to throw those people into groups and categories as I do now. I haven’t been able to create these categories, like in a dictionary (although, I can imagine, drawing a book of caricatures of these characters, which, still imagining, would probably be funny in that near-truth type of humor), but my study of people didn’t happen until I became self-aware of myself—I mean, really, how do you expect to truly know anyone around you unless you can pretend to know yourself. As to self-awareness, I’m still not sure I’m there, but I know it’s a pursuit.
I start the story with high drama. I’m in the gymnasium at the end of camp. I’m the head of counselors in my group. I planned to throw everything out here, what was happening, but I realized if I did, it would only be a few paragraphs long. What will make this interesting is if I created the characters, told you a bit about them, and maybe made you care some for them—and I’m not talking about just the main character and the evil head of the sports group. There’s more to it than that. There are all the precocious five year olds that run around the protagonist’s feet. You should know about them as well.
Take Hunter, for example. He’s the cutest of the bunch. So cute that the female counselors when they come around looking for cute young boys, always play with him, hold him, I guess they’re pretending he’s their child. None of the female counselors has children yet, although to call them too young to have children is probably inaccurate. His name wasn’t Hunter, I think it might have started with a Z. He had a freckled face and dark hair and light eyes. He was on my bus route and had a bunch of sisters and lived a few blocks from me. That’s a lot of ands. Like the rest of the children in my group, he was a good kid. All my kids were good, at least the year I’m thinking of. I thought they’d always be that good, but at least for that first year that I was a head counselor, they were good. They listened to the stories I invented, which, because of the time, involved many of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, turtles which I had a good association with because I always wanted to be a ninja, I liked turtles, and I was still a teenager.
This opening up feels good. I’ve been forcing myself into more conventional storytelling hats, and I found out that I suck rather badly at those conventional storytelling. I don’t think this is good, but at least I’m writing words, and writing words is better than the shit I’ve been doing over the last couple of weeks. I’m sitting here telling stuff and enjoying myself. But even as I sit here, I still feel the need to pack up and go home. The computer’s keys are mostly worn now. I press the keys too much and say too little. I read in the New Yorker three (really two, since the middle one bored me after I stuck with it for a page) debut fiction stories. The best of the lot was the first one, written by a twenty-three year old woman (the story’s main two characters were boys, and I had originally thought she was a man until I saw her picture and thumbed back to find the name of the author, which was female). It hurt to look at her picture (she, along with the other two authors, thirty-four, and over forty, had their picture in the magazine taken in the Strand bookstore in NYC). I had to fold the page over so I wouldn’t see her glaring smile making fun of me for my pitiful lack of words. But I’m over it now. So, she wrote a brilliant story at twenty-four, and I’ve written shit since I started over three years ago (can you believe it’s been that long?). I’m over it. Really. Stop looking at me in that way, I said I was over it and I’m going to get back to telling this story.
There’s Hunter or Zebra or Zail or Gail or Gabrielle. There are others, but I don’t remember much about them. There was the slightly overweight kid who was the leader of the kids. He would talk almost like a five-year old counselor, and would counsel us on some of the problems of his fellow campers. He was very good at sports, and while we taught the rest to play whiffle ball, he would analyze our technique. I would say: elbows up, square yourself on the swing. I didn’t know much about baseball. I was a terrible athlete, particularly as a camper. I knew a few things after graduating from camper since I’d been to baseball games and understood the sport from watching it on television and at the stadiums. I think my arms had always been too thin to swing fast enough to make contact with the ball. But to a five-year old, I was a god at sports. For example, I knew which base to run to if I got a hit, a rare occasion, even as I tried to play softball in the counselor’s games—I would sit out as the third person in right field, feeling like a five year old, standing out there hoping nobody would hit the ball in my direction, but also hoping to look good for the girl counselors who came out to watch us, especially C, the daughter of one of the big wigs. I always had a thing for her.
We sat on the rugged carpet that led up from the room outside the synagogue to the classrooms on the second floor. I was sitting with her—after being a counselor for a year, she decided she’d rather work in her father’s office and do administrative work (I would head to the air-conditioned office any chance I had to try to say a few words to her)—on the carpeted steps, and we were chatting. She was very pretty with a nice body, and she thought I was smart, which I liked. She seemed more nice than smart, but I didn’t care much at the time. She would listen to my weird theories and we would sit and talk. I probably should have asked her out then, or any of the other times that I would talk to her, but I didn’t. I heard a few years later that her younger sister, a very nice girl who decided to be a counselor instead of an office worker, had died of cancer. She looked like an uglier, darker version of C. Am I evil to say that? I liked her—she was more of an experimenter. She questioned her faith even after being raised in an orthodox home. She was also smarter than C.
I don’t think throwing these memories out on paper will ever qualify as a story. If anything it sounds more like a badly organized essay on my life growing up. So be it. I can go back and organize it at a later time. I just need stuff to work with the organization, and this feels good, this remembering. I never think I have much of a memory until I dig back into the banks and look for something and find a mother load. Lots of words written today. I wish some of these words were worth something, but I’ll keep at it and not worry about all the shit that’s going through my head, like, why I wasted so many words and said almost nothing. Or, more disgustingly, how I said so many things (which I might work up the nerve to post, but I’m not sure yet) but how none of them have any value for my career as a writer. (That’s a funny one: ‘career as a writer’.)
The camp had a smell. Each summer, as I returned either as a camper or counselor, that smell would assail me. I read an article once that discussed the different type of people. There are what are called super-smellers. These super-smellers have more smell bumps on their tongue (our smell system somehow works through the tongue, I think—I’m trying to pull this all from memory, so you’ll have to excuse me if something of this is wrong). You can tell you if you’re a super smeller by counting the smell bumps (there is a more technical term for it, but I like smell bumps better). Being an omnipotent type of person, I am the best of all things, including a super smeller. I always thought this was an advantage, until I realized that with my super powers of smell and taste, I smell and taste the good along with the bad. And, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s more bad than good in the world. So, my super smell bumps would remind me each year when I walked in through the front door of the camp. The smell was a mixture of the polyurethane they coated the gym floor with and the smell of aged books and unwashed old men, which, when you smell those odors side by side, you realize are very similar. That smell haunted me as a camper and welcomed me as counselor. When I would go into non-camp buildings later in life and smell those odors, I would be instantly transported back to this rather large piece of my life: the two months of summer that happened every year for almost fifteen years. That was a long 30 months of my life.
It’s amazing how I can’t invent things. I can’t invent characters or things they do, but I can pull back all these memories that swim near the bottom of the pool, back to the surface. I wish I could now take these memories and manipulate them into something worth telling. Here I go consternating instead of moving this forward. I gave myself permission to do this because it helps me continue writing (it’s either this or start alt-tabbing—which I can’t actually do in this coffee house, since I refuse to pay the $4 per day to surf the otherwise free internets). The thought of it pushed me into a few moments of weakness. I’ll see if I can continue this reminiscing.
There were three main girls in my summer camp career: J, C (although I never went out with her), and S. I still have some of my pathetic letters to the last one. What does this have to do with anything? I don’t know. I’m trying to pull enough together to tell some sort of story. I though it was going to be the one about M and J (or maybe it was another girl, like M, I don’t remember now). But it sounds like it’s going to have to be a more complicated story to get the real feel of camp. Perhaps I’ll tell it from the position of the old and young David, the camper and counselor. The—my god, I can’t believe I’m wasting time on this bullshit. I thought I was supposed to be writing and giving these clever asides as part of the writing process, not dulling the story to an imperceptible bump on the page with over analysis and meta-writing, the only thing I’m seemingly good at.
I’m running into the end of my string, and my kite still wants to fly higher. I should call it a day (or at least an afternoon). I’ll do that as soon as the bathroom opens so I can pee before I walk to the bookstore (it’s another used one that’s going out of business% off! Ed. Note: it turns out that it was a new book bookstore, and there was little of the inventory left except cobwebs and Harry Potter books—I saw five people buy the new hardcover while I was there. It’s really not that good, people. I’m going to wait for the movie) and then to my car for my ride home. I wanted to bicycle this evening, and I need to call Scott and figure out what time works for him.
I eventually have to do this exercise for the other parts of my life: my pathetic college life, my childhood (which I’ve been mining unconsciously for the last couple of years), and my work life, which I haven’t felt ready to touch yet, probably because I’m too close to it. Then I have my love life (that’s funny)—which, since Julie, has changed much for the better. But I think I do have a few stories there. The bathroom is open and I’m going to make a run for it. I’ll stop by later and see if I have any words left.
I tried to pretend that this was all my own idea, but I got it from reading another article about Gertrude Stein’s book, The Making of Americans. It’s a very dense novel that’s almost impossible to get through (I haven’t tried yet, but I do want to now after reading the article). In it, she tries to write a novel, but the more interesting part is her consternating about writing, as she talks to her readers about how hard it is to write a novel. This 900-page tome is full of her consternations, something I am infinitely familiar with, and, I mean, if it worked for Gertrude Stein, surely it won’t work for me.
***
Here are the tidbits I started with this morning.
I’m feeling overconfident. I walk into the gymnasium. I have a date later with Jessica. She said yes when I asked. Friends and sister had pressed me into her. I dallied by the entrance and talked to other counselors. M, the sports director, came over to break us up. M is an albino, although we do not know the name for his condition, or even that he has a condition. He has white hair and white skin and wears dark glasses. He never takes the glasses off but if he did his eyes would be pink. I know this now but I didn’t know this then.
Jessica is a short dark-haired girl. Her hair is curly and always looks wet. She is quiet and has a younger sister who goes to the camp. She hunches over and looks a bit like a mouse. I forgive her that. She showed interest and I pounced. Although, pounced is probably too strong a word. It had taken me the entire summer to ask her on a date. Tonight the campers put on an end of summer performance for their parents. Tonight is also the night that most of the parents give tips. The tips are usually cash and stuck into white envelopes with our names. The parents give the envelopes to their children who in turn hand it to us. We thank the children graciously and then look up and smile conspiratorially at the parents.
I like her name: Jessica. It reminds me of Jessica Rabbit from the real-action cartoon that came out that year. My Jessica doesn’t have the body of her Rabbit namesake. But her name does add something to the experience.
“Split up this group,” Maurice says when he approaches the circle of counselors standing behind the children watching the television. “Go back with your groups.”
The circle breaks apart and I take a step toward the back of my campers. They sit in front of a television on a rolling, metal stand, and watch Roadrunner cartoons. I count five campers from my group. It is still early for most of them to show up.
“David, I thought I said to go with your group,” Maurice says.
“They’re right here,” I say and point at the five children sitting a few feet in front of me by the television.
“Then go sit by them,” Maurice says. He puts the whistle in his mouth and blows it away from me toward two older campers running around the gym as if it’s a gym or something. The campers freeze and walk back to their groups.
Maurice turns to face me again. “I thought I told you to go by your campers.” I take a few steps toward my group again. Anger flashes across my vision. When I look I see the red veins highlighted in my eyes as if I looked inward instead of outward. Doesn’t Maurice know that I have a date tonight? Doesn’t he know that I’m not one of the campers for him to yell at? I look back at him and don’t say anything.
“Do you want me to kick you out of here?” he asks. I don’t have an answer for him. I cross my arms across my chest
Live in the camp: Color War; Jessica is the life guard of the small bank of pools at the back of the Jewish day camp in Brooklyn. The yarmulkes or hats. The religious verse not-so-religious children. The separation of the boys and girls. The counselors. The food.
Scenes: Maurice and David in the gym. David and Jessica in the pool with the children. Does Jessica like David? Dark skinned, clear face and whites of her eyes. Black, single-piece bathing suit with large breasts and dark, wet hair. She’s younger than David. She’s religious and I’m not. I’m conservative. She liked me last year but I thought she too young for me. Now I like her but I am going to college next year. I have a group of five-year olds that I sit on a rug in the coat room of the synagogue where the camp takes place. I’m sharing head counselor with Michael because neither of us are old enough to have a group. This might affect our tips as our group has two head counselors instead of a head and an assistant. We did “Pretty Woman” with the children. I choreographed the dance and Michael chose the music. He made a good choice and the campers pretended like they were hitting on woman. I drew a large picture of Jessica Rabbit for the song, which one of the campers walked across the stage with at the beginning of the song, showing that she was the pretty woman. One of the counselors asked for the poster at the end of the show. Her sorority’s mascot is Jessica Rabbit—which I didn’t think strange but now can’t understand it—and she wanted the life-sized poster for her sorority house. I should have said, “sure, if you’ll invite me over to install it,” but I wasn’t that clever. I’m still not that clever.
***
David longed to be the type of guy who, after buying a clock based on its aesthetics and realizing after a week that it didn’t keep good time regardless how beautiful it looked on his wall, would bring the clock back to the store and demand a replacement. Instead, he was the type of guy to think these thoughts, but leave the clock on the wall as a “thinking” piece, in which he challenged the conceptions of visitors to his house.
I meant to work more on this when I arrived home, but video games found me and didn’t let me go until late. We at least won, if that’s any consolation. And, yeah, I know this is too clever and doesn’t go anywhere. I’m reading DFW, so you can blame him for that.
“He’s watching and following me around.”
“Who’s that?”
“Him, you know—the watcher, Big Brother, The Man, He Who Knows Everything—Him.”
“You mean God?”
“I don’t know if I would call him God.”
“Would it concern you if God followed you around, if he was watching everything you said and everything you did?”
“I wouldn’t mind it if the Big Cheese watched everything I did. I mean, he has to watch everything I do, he’s omnipotent, isn’t he?”
“Omniscient you mean of course.”
“Omniscient, omnipotent, you’re not inspiring confidence, doc. I thought you said this was a non-confrontational space, that I can speak my mind and not worry about judging or evaluating or note taking, or anything remotely dangerous.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a habit of mine is all. I studied ontology in college and those words had very specific meanings. Omnipotent means all powerful and omniscient means all knowing. Most people don’t know that, and I wasn’t thinking less of you, but I did want you to understand the difference.”
“Wouldn’t a being that’s all powerful necessarily be all knowing?”
“Arguably, but that’s not the intention of the word.”
“That seems a rather ridiculous division. I can imagine an omniscient being not being omnipotent—although, even that is difficult—but for an omnipotent being not to be omniscient, that seems incredible. I mean, isn’t part of being all powerful is the ability to use that power to know things. And if you can know everything, wouldn’t you necessarily know everything. If you take it from that angle, that is, one of the powers in all powers is knowledge, then you can see that an omnipotent being must be omniscient. But I understand why you shared that difference.”
“. . .”
“I’m okay with it, doc. People always try to appear superior to me, judge me and try to find me wanting. I’m used to it.”
“Leaving aside that that wasn’t what I was doing—I wouldn’t do that with you, of course. I’m here to help, not prove that I’m better than you, but let’s leave that to one side for another time. The best way I can show you what I’m trying to do here is to help you with your real problems, and I figure if you don’t think I’m helping, you’ll find someone else. Getting back to your development, why do you think people judge you—what are they trying to prove?”
“They’re judging me to find me wanting, obviously. They think because I accomplished so much at such a young age, that doesn’t mean I’m better than they are. I’m just luckier.”
“Your analysis is a good starting point. We can look at it in two ways: the first is that we analyze your analysis for its truth, and second is that we can analyze your analysis for what it says about you, what your beliefs are, why these issues surface with you. Let’s start with the second one.”
“We’re starting there because you don’t give much credence to my thoughts, eh, doc?”
“I already explained that I give great weight to your thoughts. But we’re not here to analyze just your thoughts—you can do that without me. We’re here to analyze the motivation behind your thoughts, find where your problem areas are to help you improve.”
“So, what do my thoughts about people judging me tell you about me?”
“What do they tell you about yourself?”
“Don’t throw that shit back at me. I already told you what I think. I think it’s a valid argument. You should have seen the broker’s face when I told him I’d like to buy my vacation home. He tried to call my mother to find out if I was serious—my mother! He couldn’t believe that I earned all that money by myself, with my own hard work and my own brainpower. He was sure I either inherited it or won the lotto or something. God forbid I was smart.”
—If they didn’t find me wanting, do you think I’d be paying you $300 an hour to speak?”
“I thought we agreed not to talk about this as something you’re paying for, but something that a normal, well-adjusted person needs, like they need clothing or medical treatment of a non-judgmental type. If you think of it from that perspective, then perhaps you’ll remember that we’re here for your good.”
“I remember, doc. I’m trying to get better with this complex of mine. Where were we?”
“. . .”
“I don’t want you to take it personal.
“Do you do anything but talk?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, all you seem to do these days is talk, talk, talk. It would be one thing if you had something to say, but you don’t. You’re talking to hear yourself talk. Say something else—describe the world around you, make fun of the people near you, do something except this constant clever bantering. It gets old very quickly.”
“You really shouldn’t hold back. You should come out and say what’s on your mind. It’s much easier that way.”
“There you go again, heading out there for cleverness and ignoring my advice.”
“OK. I get it. What do you want me to say? You want me to talk about the people around me? You want me to tell you how much I hate my job, how my boss has the chops to berate me, steal my work claiming it as his own, and fail to promote me for four straight years. How my girlfriend can barely stand to look at me anymore, and seems more interested in my friends than in me. Is this what you want me to focus on?”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Well, what did you mean?”
“I was hoping you’d talk about me.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
“So, what’s new in your life?”
“It’s kind of late to start that line of conversation now. I know you’re asking that only because I made you feel bad for half a moment. I also know that in the other half to this moment, you’re going to begin talking again, and I’m going to analyze your problems, present you with solutions—which you won’t use because you’re not looking for solutions. You’re looking for commiseration, and, to tell you the truth here, since I think we’re good friends in this, I don’t give a shit about commiserating about issues that you can fix with such little effort.”
“Bitter aren’t we?”
“You just go on and on, and I’m sick it. I didn’t mean to go off on you, with the whole commiseration thing, but you drive me crazy sometimes and leave me little choice. You’ll forgive me, I hope.”
“I always do. You’re a great friend, have I told you that yet?”
“You should tell me that more often.”
Green jeans. He’s wearing green jeans and a brown belt. I can’t believe I agreed to meet him. That Sandra is quite the yenta. His shirt is beige with a pair of wraparound sunglasses dangling from a pocket. A patch on his hand shows a military star, or maybe it’s a park ranger star—do they even have stars for the park rangers? I’m going to kill Sandra when I see her next.
I sip the martini and smile at Green Jeans. He has a name, I think, but since he told it to me when I was still under the shock of the green jeans, I now don’t remember it. It’s for the best. I check the chests of his shirt, expecting to find his name embroidered in script on one of his pockets, but no luck. His left pointer fingernail is caked with dirt. His other fingernails are clean enough, however. I wonder how that happened.
***
(No sitting!) Charles couldn’t sit. Anxiety played a fiddle on his anxious shoulder, and he couldn’t find a way to satisfy his urge to flick it off. Samson had spoken for the last thirty minutes, dominating the conference room with his bland voice and measured cadence. Charles wandered the room, straightening chairs and trying to absorb the information Samson provided. The problem was that Charles had already absorbed all the information Samson had on the subject, and he couldn’t find a way to cut him off without creating a scene. Four other people listened in the room, all seated, and none seeming to wonder why Charles wandered the room. One of them, a minor executive named Leonard, peppered Samson with questions. Samson took great pleasure in answering these questions. After listening to three of these questions, Charles was now convinced that Leonard was goading him on.
“And you were saying about the agreement—I didn’t quite understand where the other side was coming from,” Leonard said to Samson. Charles was sure that Leonard watched Charles’s reaction through what would be—and for Charles to believe this he admitted he had to accept it as a trait of Leonard’s—an amazing peripheral vision.
Charles couldn’t listen to the answer and fled the conference room. He decided it best to get a few drinks for the participants, show that he cared about their thirst content, and return in fifteen minutes. That should give Leonard and the rest of the sycophants enough time to listen to Samson’s stories and repetitive ideas enough that they feel their toady quota fulfilled.
***
Heat blisters formed on the red button as it glowed.
I am wired. Two shots of caffeine in a day wrought with travel anxieties were too much. I sit on the airplane, the taste of yummy caffeine still dominating my mouth, too anxious to read (what has turned out to be a rather good book—even forgiving the Oprah endorsement and the strangely boring opening chapter—Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections) or my New Yorker (I have to finish about two and a half more magazines and I’m caught up for the first time since I started my subscription), or write much besides these overly commented words.
I flirt with stories and find little traction for my mud-caked wheels. I have so many ideas of how I should be writing and what I need to say, and no way to focus long enough to apply or understand those ideas. I’ve come across this writing truth before: verbosity. I need to find a way to say the same thing in more ways, not being repetitive (which contributes to ennui, mine and my imaginary reader’s), but to reinforce. Franzen does this well in his book. You know the character of the characters because he overdoes he, he exaggerates and applies their characteristics to all situations, peppering the reader with descriptions that, getting back to that opening chapter, reinforce your understanding that the father is succumbing to dementia or Alzheimer.
There I go again, referring to real authors and wasting time analyzing without fleshing out or understanding my analysis. I’m surprised and shocked at this development. But I will say, at least I’m writing and not not writing, as has been my condition for the last few weeks. I know the causes and some treatments, but I’m not sure if I want to apply them anymore. I’m not sure why I’m doing this or what I hope to accomplish. My work has become more satisfying lately. Why do I do this? Why torture myself, when I could spend my free time doing free-time stuff, like watching television and playing video games, and going out (okay, even that one is too strange even for me). That’s my angst, my consternation of the last few weeks.
I write these words because I am trapped on an airplane. I knew if conditions were different, if, say, I had finished my work day at around now, and was stuck in traffic heading home, I wouldn’t have opened my computer and started typing after scarfing down my evening meal. My walks to the lake and my musings in my Moleskine have lessened, and I’m not sure if I’m upset. I enjoy this—I’m enjoying it right now—but sit me in front of this screen and make me say something that is not words about how I should say that something, and I’d be at a loss; wasted and confused, unfocused and unrelenting in my overly clever and under-analyzed ideas. Profundity is not my calling. I neither analyze nor understand. I write scenes to write scenes, put words on paper that I can reread like a proud parent, even if, unknown to me, my child is hideously malformed.
I’m overloaded now. I feel it in my head as my world spins around me and I try to hold on to the keys that keep throwing my fingers off the board. I know in a few hours I’ll be overcome with guilt and a deep-stomached sickness and the wastefulness of this time, the caffeine-induced words that, absent such extreme measures, would never have been squeezed out of my drying husk. The airplane shakes around me and I find that as a sign that this is a reality. I become reliant on such drugs for real achievement and know that it is not me but the yummy caffeine cycling through my veins that enable these moments of mania. I had wishes of manic moments, of seeing transcendent truths and sharing them with someone. I come up short each time, finding only abject rejection.
I should be overloaded. That will be my new strategy. With too much yummy caffeine and not enough sleep will brilliance erupt? Or, more likely, a strange ambivalence to the changes in me. I see these changes on the basketball court, the opening up of my real thoughts onto the world, the trash talking, the ridiculing that harbors deep within me, the emotional extent to which these false objects play within my mind. My heart beats in my chest and I feel the slacking of purpose, the rate at which nothing and nobody can exclaim what should go forth. Now I’m not even making sense. My attention wavers to the movie shown, and I watch without listening.
Triangulation of truths. Two sides and angles and I can give you the third, or can I? There, it leaves me, dried leaves on the concrete ground, crunched in passing.
Generalized happiness. Insecurity over future desires. Tugs from the past, worries of future. Meaningless words and unformed thoughts. Nothing analyzed nothing gained. Time spent wasted on wasted time. When does the revelry play? Roaring tomorrows and drops that ping the bottom of wooden buckets.
Universality. Studies of craziness and thoughtfulness, where is the difference? Where does truth’s wart-covered nose poke itself? The cleverness of times awasting, the restfulness of times aplenty. Time and again I have to ask where the meaning, what’s the needled point. Can I get blood from an empty wound? Pin pricks and all don’t aspire to greatness. Great coursing wounds and childhood angst remains top priorities for a society bent on the preoccupation of saying nothing with long sentences of nothingness. Ah, to think of nothing on my way to something. Zero sum evenings and infinite days.
The barbeque was to start promptly at noon. “Do you think anyone’s coming?” David asked Julie.
Julie sat next to him in the cabana reading a magazine. She wore three-quarter pants and held a magazine over her head to either block out the sun or read the article; David wasn’t sure which. “We invited eleven people, and we know my sister is coming, so, yes, someone will come.”
The cabana faced the small barbeque area, where they had piled the food and paper goods on the table. A purple dolphin balloon swam from a string above the table. David admired how the dolphin always kept its nose into the wind, a trait he first saw while piloting the shopping cart through the aisles.
David bit his lip and looked over the food again. He watched the dolphin twist in the wind for a bit. “Okay, I’ve done the math, I can eat six hamburgers and maybe four hot dogs, I figure you’re good for two of each, and your sister can down the same.”
“What are you talking about?” Julie put down her magazine and turned on her chair. She wore a black hat with her ponytail sticking out. Her glasses, which darkened in the sun, looked black.
“I was figuring what we would do if nobody shows. We have to eat all this barbeque meat somehow, and I was divvying it up, is all. Are you trying to tell me you can’t eat two hot dogs and hamburgers?”
“First off, I’m the good eater of the relationship, so, yes, I can eat that much, you should worry more about your own eating. And second, they’ll show up, don’t worry so much. It’s not even noon yet.”
“You did tell them it starts at noon, right?”
“Well, sort of,” Julie said. She flicked imaginary lint off her white shirt.
“What does that mean?”
“I told people to be here noonish.”
After my last handwritten rant, I ran out of space in my Moleskine. There are a few pages left, but from sitting in my back pocket for most of this year, the bindings loosened and the final pages became awkward to use. So, I declared the 2005 Moleskine done. I finished my first Moleskine on 28 June 2004. While I wrote more on the computer this year than in the Moleskine, I still have found enough occasions to open the beautiful black book and start scribbling. There’s something almost arcane about drawing the letters, as if I was writing an incantation into a spell book. When drawing the Moleskine, I lose all temptations to edit anything but the immediate words, and I know that I’m only a page flip away from hiding from my last page’s failures. Ah, the beauty of consternations—even in talking about my Moleskine, there’s no mistaking it.
(The first scribbles of the new Moleskine.)
They sat. They talked. They bored the author until he razed their house and tortured their first children. He roamed the forest and spoke to trees, confusing them for friends he never would have had. His cheek caught on a hook and his head yanked with the fishing line until he felt sure that his cheek would rip.
“The old man doesn’t want to accept he’s getting old.”
(Scribbles end. Yeah, I know, pathetic.)
The weather is changing in Seattle. I feel I’m only a few weeks away from lighting my first fire of the season. I can’t wait. While this warm summer has been nice (at times too nice—I think my body can only take so much sunlight before I grow weary and squinty), I do miss the comfort of a dark room with a rosy fire. I miss lying on the couch, the blue and white glare of the computer screen illuminating me, while I listen to the cracking of the wood, and the pounding of the keyboard. I know I need to write more. I know I’m spending too much time in front of the other computer, the evil computer, not practicing my craft. I know many things. But seasons change and Davids change, and hopefully the things I know will coincide.
The talk. The emotional discussion. It comes up while discussing people, rewarding them with a word of praise swallowed in overflowed eyes. Getting choked up, are we? There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all to see around here. You know the next part: now, move along. Story ideas fight me with wooden sticks. So few stories to tell except those I’m afraid to imagine. I live in a house of strangers. Wake up and play the roles, but whatever you do, don’t show yourself waking. Bad way to start. Stop thinking of rules and start writing. Too little thinking. Start planning. Where’s the outline you promised me for moments like this where I’m finding the words and the voice; I’m singing at the top of my voice but I don’t know the lyrics and I don’t know the tune. Why didn’t you provide me the sheet music? How am I to improvise without knowing the chords? Why do you insist on analogizing badly?
Blue boxes over blue tables on blue rugs. I’m not sad. I’m not sad. Terror awaits the sadness. I could throw undecipherable words on the page for hours at a time and end up having said nothing. That’s what I do: I say nothing with no plan to say anything and I talk about the endless nothing sayings as if that inandofitself is saying something. That should be a word.
Green shirt with a badge around his neck. Hair flopping behind him, crinkly and curled, like a cheap doll’s head covered in yarn. He doesn’t remember why he’s here. He knows it has something to do with making money, but he’s not sure if that’s enough anymore. He remembered a time of ideals. He met his wife with ideals. They were in a philosophy class and they were discussing Plato’s forms. The idea took him: a perfect embodiment of a Thing existing beyond our reality of the thing. His wife didn’t agree. She found it ridiculous, a child’s imaginings of a world that exists only for them and knowable only by them. He loved her at that moment.
She explained her ideals on their first date. She cared about people, but she cared about certain people more than about other people. She cared about family more than friends, friends more than neighbors, neighbors more than community, etc. She even carved out celebrities. Because she watched them and grew with them, she felt they were closer to neighbors and therefore it was all right if she cared more about them and read voraciously about their lives in trashy magazines. Her ideals were a lack of ideals. He did not share her views; he felt there was a perfect ideal, a utopia when it came to ethics and morals of society.
His wife won the argument in the philosophy class, and she won the argument about ideals. He went to work for a large corporation, made enough money to support their growing family, and found, at least in the beginning, that he was happy when she was happy, ideals be damned. He loved his family, but as time passed, he began to forget why he worked and what he worked for. His beliefs did not match the stock-price driven beliefs of his employers. He wanted his life to have a meaning besides his children—even though he loved his children beyond anything he thought possible before their existence.
The ideal question grew like a cancer in his stomach. At first it weighed down his commutes. Then he started thinking about it while he worked on his projects. He found himself staring into a world he thought he knew and enjoyed as he spoke with colleagues that he found he had less than nothing in common with. When the question began affecting his time with his children, he began to accept that this was not something that went away on its own.
“I warned you I wasn’t the Sandra you heard each night on the radio serial,” Sandra says.
“It wasn’t like that,” I say. “Maybe we should order more wine before we get into this again.”
“Then what was it like?” she asks.
This puzzles me. At first, I admit to myself, it was her voice on the radio show. It was beautiful and vulnerable, like Vivien Leigh, an old Hollywood actress whose voice shook coyly behind a relentless force. Later it became more than her voice, more than her conviction. She intrigued me. I never knew what she was going to do next, and not knowing drove me crazy. I wanted to know, and my desire to know scattered the reason from my head.
Before I answer, she says, “It’s worse than you think.” She squeezes the table’s edge and leans away from me as if she’s tethered to the table and afraid of flying away from the table and my life. “I led you to believe I was something I wasn’t. I liked your wit and maturity, but it was your youth which I fell in love with. Isn’t that a horrible thing? I hated old people, old people like my friend Ben and his wife, who doted on the young as if to regain youth by association. I didn’t think I was like them. But I am.”
Sandra stands, neatly folds her napkin, and places it on the table. She is nothing if not proper at all times, even times like this. I try to look at her eyes, to see if this is hurting her, but her eyes are downcast and her large eyelashes hide her feelings.
“You could just love me for who I am,” I say. I taste the cliché as it escapes my mouth and I wonder if I’m lying to myself. I’ve fantasized about this break up with her many nights while we lied in bed and I suffered her holding me. She’s too old for me. At twenty, eleven years is enormous. She has a history: been married, sworn off children, and, now that she mentioned it, she has given words to a silent worry of mine: maybe she is trying to relive her youth through me. These thoughts flash through my head as I continue my formulaic response. “Must there be an analysis, an accounting of the whys?”
“Such a great kid you are.” Sandra reaches over and pats my cheek. I never felt so childish, and her motion sold it for me. Each time her palm patted my cheek, I felt ten years younger, until I was the toddler pulling on a mother’s apron strings. When Sandra realizes what she had been doing, she removes her hand. The motion looks calculated and I begin to have doubts about its sincerity.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that,” she says.
“I think you do,” I say. “Did it take you long to script it? Is it going as well as you imagined?”
She’ll love it. She loves the ring I bought—seriously discounted, the rock from the pawnshop and the band, a second-hand tiffany setting, from an estate sale, all put together by a jeweler friend for almost nothing, all details I’ve lovingly shared with her. She clearly loves me. And she loves my wedding plans. Or does she? Why is she looking at me in that way?
“You don’t like it?” I decide to ask her, no reason to drag this out. A flash of worry almost overcomes me before I realize how good the plan is, how nice it looks printed on the overlarge color printer at Kinko’s, all for $1.32 a page with the coupon. I displayed it on a borrowed wooden easel and used an old metal antenna as the pointer. I thought about using a laser pointer for more control, but I felt the old-style pointer would feel more personal at a time like this. I swallow—my mouth a bit dry after the forty-five presentation.
Her look is either extreme pleasure or maybe the all-you-can-eat-shrimp buffet at lunch is trying to swim its way back to sea. “What’s not to like?” she finally responds. I search her face for the meaning behind the words before realizing how foolish I’m being. It was too much for her and it overcame her, of course. I have to be careful next time. Darla was never one for surprises, especially of the type I repeatedly manage.
“Then it’s settled! This is going to be the most perfect wedding ever.” I begin jotting down additional notes on the wedding plans, ideas that had come to me as I explained each colored page to her. Wedding planning is terribly difficult. There are so many details to manage! Darla is very lucky that she has someone like me who revels in the detail work without losing sight of the goals.
“Honey, can we talk?” She places her hand on my shoulder and I grab her cold fingers and give them a squeeze.
And then it hits me. She feels left out! She wants to be part of the planning, and here I’ve done almost eight percent of the work already. How could I have been such a fool? I turn around to face her and drop off the chair onto my knees. “Oh, Darla, I am so sorry. I know this is so much for you, and I know what you’re thinking. You want to be part of this. You want to help me with the planning. How could I have been so blind to this? This is your wedding as well, and you must have been dreaming of this day since you were a little girl, playing the princess at the end of ‘Cinderella.’ Please, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me,” I leave the sentence unfinished and kiss her fingers. She blushes and pulls her hand free.
“Oh…oh, you know me too well, darling.”
“Then don’t leave. Stay, we’ll plan this together.”
“I have to make a call. We’ll talk about this later, at dinner.”
(to be continued...maybe)
I ask for water for the third time after the waitress ignored me the first two times. I know the third time won’t be the charm. She nods in my direction and it doesn’t take a detective to read the look in her face: I see she won’t be bringing me any water. The manager has been making noises in my direction, pointing and talking to the waitress. She tried to have me leave four times already, making motions to bring over the check or asking if I wanted anything else or if I planned to take up her table the entire day and if so if I was planning to repay her for her lost tips—okay, she didn’t say that last part, but I could tell by her eyes, which now that I really study them are a bit too close together, that she was thinking it. I ignore her motions and her requests and her silent snide remarks. I know there’s a line of people waiting outside for this table, but I was here first, and, besides, I haven’t got my story for the day yet.
The Sunday paper is sprawled across the table. I have not read one word. I turn the pages rhythmically. If anyone was watching—and while people do stare at me, nobody watches me, not the way I watch them—they would discover that I turn the page exactly every forty-five seconds. I don’t bother with my watch anymore. With practice, anyone can discover the beauty of knowing time. If you understand intervals, train yourself to do something over and over at the same interval, it becomes second nature, a clock in your brain that ticks and subliminally lets you know when it’s time to move on. Turning pages in the newspaper is like that for me. Even when I change sections, as I do approximately every fifteen minutes, depending on the size of the section, my timing is not thrown off. My internal clock doesn’t let it. I continue to move with the time, not reading the news so much as living the news. Why read the newspaper, stuff that happened the previous day, when I can live in the news that will happen tomorrow? I’m a news junky, and I want the latest in what happens, even stuff that has not technically happened yet, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I find that stuff when I listen to what people say when they’re at their most vulnerable—when they think they’re eating a safe meal with their friends or family.
I switch through the conversations around me, turning my head like the knob on a radio, trying out each table like a station, focusing in for a few moments before moving on. From the ideal table, I can tune into eight conversations without much effort, and about four additional conversations if the acoustics are just right and the background noise ideal. They put me against the wall today, and I’m stuck with five tables within tuning range. There’s not much going on. A family squabble, the reminiscing of a high school football game from the seventies, and the travel plans of what sounds like a to-be-divorced woman and her teenage son. They’re going to Disneyland, ostensibly to celebrate the divorce. It’s amazing what people celebrate these days
Across from me is a table for four occupied by an older man and a younger woman. It takes me only a few seconds of sorting through the emotions before I know that this will be my story. A casual listener might not realize that this conversation is pay dirt, dripping with glorious mystery. I was always a mystery buff and because of that, I’m not a casual listener. The man wears a satiny blue spring jacket and wide dark sunglasses. His hands are folded in front of him over a burgundy sweater, and his legs dangle outside the cushioned bench, as if preparing to run at a moment’s notice. He has gray hair and a pink face. His head keeps moving but you can’t tell what he’s looking at because of his glasses. He speaks out of the side of his mouth, giving his words an unformed feel.
“Brad’s been working on her, she probably changed her will again,” the man says. I turn my head to the left so that my right ear is closer to the table. I read somewhere that one’s right ear is better for overhearing conversations and one’s left ear is better for listening to music. I’ve eavesdropped enough to know that this is true. Once I learned the trick, my ability to listen to conversations increased dramatically. I let my eyes lose focus, better to concentrate more fully on the conversation, like a blind person, focusing one’s efforts on one less sense sharpens the others significantly.
“She threatens to change it every week,” the woman responds. “She’s using it as a weapon to change us. It’s not going to work. We’re not going to fall for it, regardless of how much the old bag has stashed away. Have you found out how much she has stashed away?”
The man grunts in the negative and takes a large bite from his egg sandwich. I listen to munching before the woman starts in again. Her voice sounds a bit desperate, as if the faēade she was grasping threatens to slip away. “What did she change it to this time?”
“Eleanor wouldn’t say, but she spoke how happy she was that Brad had attended her the previous week. He came over and ate with her on the weekend.”
“Brad’s breaking our once a week rule! We all agreed.”
“Yes. And it seems to be working for him.”
I suck the final few drops of coffee from my mug. If there is a conspiracy between coffee shop owners in the city, then they would see me a mile away and would refuse me service. They can do that: refuse whomever they want service, like casinos that refuse the card counter, or clothing stores that refuse the lady buying clothes each week for a weekend affair only to return on Monday. But there is no conspiracy because each week, as I rotate through the coffee houses and diners, I find no places that refuse me service. They don’t recognize me, and if they heard, they would. It’s not like you can miss me in a crowd. They don’t know that when I sit down with my family-sized breakfast and bottomless coffee mug at seven in the morning on a Sunday, I’m there for the day. I have a wonderful bladder, and I can hold my coffee all day if need be. I’ve found a few diners who don’t mind me so much, they don’t mind me taking up space or eating into their profits. But those high-minded establishments are far and few between, and it is only in those places where I’ll chance getting up to drain the morning’s coffee. In the other establishments, if I do get up, I’ll return to my seat and find my table occupied by a family of four trying to decide what type of butter and syrup delivery systems they should order, square or round.
Except for a pile of bushy black hair, I can’t see what the woman looks like. “I spoke with Herbert,” she says. “He’s still with us. He keep worrying that we’ll report him to the bar or something. I keep telling him that it’s not unethical to protect our peace of mind from that hag but he can go on and on about his duties to his clients. When this is over, we should think about reporting him just for spite and the blabbering I have to deal with every time I speak to that insufferable man.”
“Does he still think we’ll be needing his services once she’s gone?”
I hear the smile in the woman’s voice. “Of course, darling. You should know me better by now. Herbert is as convinced of our sincerity as the hag—well, at least before Brad started in on her again.”
“So what did Herbert say? Did she change her will again?”
“Not since yesterday. Herbert has not been dragging his feet on her requests for meetings. He visits her once a month, but he only goes when I’m there, so there’s not much we’re missing.”
“How is she doing? Any closer?”
“Not that I noticed. She’s forbid the doctors from talking to us now. We have no idea when the old hag will die. With Brad starting in again, it better be soon. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep up with this.”
By now, even a casual listener would see why this conversation is interesting. I see the framework of the detective story forming: a large family fights over the last will and testament of the matriarch. She probably has a fortune stored away. Grubby old women usually do, the grubbier the bigger the fortune, or so the suspects always believe. If she’s killed, there’s a whole family of suspects. From the sounds of it, any one of them could do it. But would any of them do it? I get too far ahead of myself. I try to slow my breathing but find it difficult. I wasn’t always this big. Largeness, like most great things in life, happens slowly, almost too slowly to notice the change. I never minded the girth, but there are a few things that I found difficult to get used to: one is that inertia increases with one’s size. Stopping becomes a bigger challenge than moving, and once I grow excited, calming myself feels like trying to stop a moving train with nothing but one’s breath.
“Does she talk to Herbert about her health?” the man asks.
“She has not respect for that buffoon. For however much I despise her, she’s not a stupid woman. And however much I hate to admit it, it’s probably where I get my cunning from. The old hag knows how to read a person—well, with the exception of her children. We were always a difficult lot. Herbert knows less than we do.”
“I wish she’d just die already. This is killing me. Her sitting on top of her oversized bank books up in her oversized house looking down her nose at us,” the man says.
“Oh, I don’t think she looks down on me so much. You, you know she never thought you were good enough for me. I sometimes wonder if she was right about that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve asked one small favor of you in this, and you still refuse to do it.”
“I spy on your brothers and sisters. Why isn’t that enough?”
I’m a mystery buff. Ever since I was a child, when I read my first mystery book, The Mystery of the Watermelon Thief, I have tried to recapture that initial feeling, the feeling of living in a mystery, not knowing everything. Mystery books and newspaper stories provide little mystery for me now. I either solve them when provided with the first clues, or grow bored when not enough is said to deduce the conclusion. When the detective solves it at the end with undisclosed truths, well, that’s not a mystery book, that’s a fraud. When the clues are given, the suspects seem to whisper in my ear whether they’re guilty. It’s little challenge, and besides, it’s not real. Not real like this is real.
The waitress serves breakfast to the man and woman, and I jot down notes on the prospective mystery in my small book. I never became a detective because of my physical limitations. The waitress stops by my table. I keep my head down and continue to scribble, I point to the empty glass of water and mug of coffee. I know it will do little good but I still feel as if I have some rights as the customer. I know it’s not so much that I give these places bad business—because clearly I spend enough here. It’s that a fat person taking up two seats at one of the diner’s tables is not the most appetizing inducing experiences for other customers. They want me in, the feed bag attached, and me out as fast as possible. A fat customer, like a fat chef, is not the best way to sell food.
“She’ll die of natural causes soon enough,” the man says. “We just need to stay on top of things until then. You have Herbert and I have your brother and sister. What more do we need to do? Brad won’t be able to keep up his acting. He has too great of a temper on him. This’ll be over soon enough. Now, eat up and let’s get going. Your mother’s birthday is this week and we need to buy her something special, something to make her not think of Brad’s visits anymore.”
“You are a weak man,” the woman says, her voice garbled by the foodstuff in her mouth.
I wish I had more information on this family. It will be fun to follow the newspapers, figure out who the prosecutors will pin the murder on. I found my story for the day.” I squeeze up out of the bench and walk over to the couple. I keep my eye on my table, ready to spring back if the waitress makes a move to evict me.
“Mr. Thomas,” I say when I’m in front of the table. “Is that you Mr. Thomas?”
The man looks at me, confused and woman looks down. She’s much prettier and younger than I had suspected. As I study her at my periphery, I realize that it’s not that she’s younger but that her face was frozen with shots. Her skin, while smooth, gives her a surprised look. Even without her wrinkles, the rest of her features reveal her age.
“I’m sorry,” the man says. “You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
“Stop joking. Don’t you recognize me? It’s George, George McCord. I work at the post office down the road. You always stop in to pay your bills. It must be the uniform, you don’t recognize me without the blues.”
“Again, I’m sorry, but my name is not Mr. Thomas, and I don’t live around here. We’re visiting Janice’s mother in the neighborhood. You must have me confused with someone.” Janice still refuses to look at me, picking at her food with her fork.
“I am so ashamed. I’m sorry, Mr. . .”
“Mr. Nielson,” the man says.
“I’m so embarrassed, Mr. Nielson. Please forgive me. I’ll crawl back to my table and hide under the, well, the tablecloth.” I smile and pat my stomach familiarly. Mr. Nielson laughs with me and I turn to catch the waitress clearing away some of the dishes off my table. I grab the coffee stained mug and hold on to it, daring the waitress to pull it away from me.
“Mr. and Janice Nielson, daughter and son-in-law of Eleanor,” I write in my book. This week, they will receive an unexpected gift from me. Their mother, Eleanor, will finally reach her final peace. And then the real mystery will begin. Lots of mysteries and deeds ahead of me. For such a fat man, I have a surprising way with deeds. I busy myself counting the number of ripped out pages in my book before the current page: thirty-two. Soon there will be thirty-three.
She giggles and covers her mouth not for the first time. She: medium sized, very cute face, dark straight hair separated into two pony tails, legs that are alarmingly large, what some people may call “junk in her trunk.” Her face is lovingly symmetrical, with button eyes and a pug nose. Except for her oversized legs, there’s nothing wrong with her. Not that there is anything wrong with her legs, mind you. I just like my legs a bit smaller, not necessarily chicken or curvy, but, well, not threateningly vice sized.
I see that you’re judging me instead of paying attention to my date. I’m not a horrible person, I’m just picky, and sausage legs, well, sausage legs, she isn’t doing it for me. I think she said something. She’s looking at me. She’s expecting something from me. Maybe she’s waiting for me to say something new. No, it’s worse, she’s waiting for an answer. I shouldn’t have been focusing so much on her legs, but they’re huge! How can I not focus on them? They’re not even visible, they’re under the table. I feel so shallow. This isn’t working. Maybe I should bail. No, she’s Henry’s friend, and Henry would not forgive me if I didn’t at least stay through the date. And maybe, just maybe, if I can get over her tree trunks, I can see her inner beauty. I bet she’s a beautiful person—a beautiful person with a very large—and I’m sure supporting—base. Now that was just cruel, I’ve got to stop.
“What was that,” I say, trying to look abashed, and trying to resist again pretending to tie my shoes to sneak a peek of the forked branches she calls legs. I can’t resist. She’s saying something, and I lean over to tie my shoes for the fifth time that night. I peek under the tablecloth. I truly am dreadful, but there they are. How can such a petite girl have such a humongous lower body? Is it even physiologically possible? Maybe she stuffed pillows under there to test me, see if I’m just another man who goes after looks instead of personality or brains. Yes, she’s playing with me. Her top half is too good. I peek my head further under the table to try and see any obvious pillow-like marks or unnatural bulges along her elephant-sized legs, something to convince me that this is all just a test, and when I get her into bed and peel off her oversized black jeans, that normal-sized legs will wait for me.
“Are you okay down there?” she asks. I bump my head on the way up, rubbing when I finally clear the table. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. Putting aside her leg size, I try to figure out if she’s flattered or disgusted. Her face really is cute. A small wrinkle forms between her thinned eyebrows. She doesn’t wear much makeup, and her cheeks are naturally pink, and not in that unflattering splotchy way. She’s looking at me sideways. I consider my repertoire of facial expressions and choose slightly abashed but mostly naughty. It’s the right choice, her disgust transforms into flattered, and she fans her neck, probably without realizing. She has such a thin neck. She wears a plunging neckline that shows her shapely and small breasts, a completely normal-sized chest, I should add. Red patches form around her neck. I’m not sure if it’s the heat, the embarrassment, or the pleasure, but it is certainly sexy.
“Damn shoelaces,” I say, the story pouring out before I check for consistency and provability. “I bought a new pair today, and it’s one of those rain-based ones, you know, the ones where you can walk through puddles and feel secure that your shoelaces won’t go undone and you’ll end up tripping over them, which will only soak them further and lead to fraying the fabric—of the shoelaces, I mean. For all the shoelaces’ water resistance, it doesn’t take much for them to fly open. I’ve tried the bunny ears and the wrap around and the reversed knot and the bunny ears and the doubled bunny ears and the bunny ears followed by the doubled reversed knot, and nothing seems to hold the laces in place. In case Henry didn’t tell you, I have a few—well, a few might be an understatement—quirks, and un-tightened shoelaces, well, that’s very high on my list of things that need fixing if I ever wanted to be so called, and here I’ll quote and then unquote, normal.”
She giggles—not as obvious as last time, but definitely a chuckle. She covers her mouth and looks down. When she looks up again, her head is still bowed and her eyes look huge, we’re talking moon-sized whites. How did I ever think she wasn’t sexy? She picks at the lip of her coffee cup, and I stress whether that is a good sign or bad sign. She’s still looking at me, and she’s not tapping her foot (from previous experience, definitely a bad sign), so maybe I still have a chance. Wait, what am I thinking? This is pillar-legged girl, do I even want a chance? How does she sit so straight with those things under the table. They remind me of marshmallows, stored in a tight bag and waiting to burst with the slightest pinch. The vision of her jeans bursting open passes in front of me, with globs of fat and marshmallows flowing out. I can’t imagine the mess it would make.
“Tell me about your childhood,” she asks, breaking my reverie of her marshmallow legs. Many women think that the way to understand a guy is to delve deep back into his childhood—the parts of a man start in his hometown in his first house in his family today. It’s all bullshit, of course, but I’ve seen it too often not to see the pattern or understand how it affects how the date ends. You have to think of dating like a sales call: you have something to sell, yourself, and they’re the ones doing the buying. It’s all about manipulating the bottom line, the product, you. Of course, it is possible that she’s looking for nothing but a good fuck. Some girls do that, you know. Turbo legs, though, she doesn’t look the type. Those looking for a good fuck never seem to care much about how I was brought up.
I wonder if she’s one of those people that can’t stand people like me, slow talkers. You see, I like to think through all the angles before I respond. Many people like to move the conversation along faster, they want me to respond immediately, give them their chance to say something. It’s been said many times before, but in most conversations, the other person is only biding their time until they can say something. We all love to talk, and we put up with the listening just for the opportunity to say something. Me, I like to talk as much as the next person, but I also like to think through what was last said. As I said, I’m a slow talker, and if a person can’t handle it, I see it as a weakness in the other person. I’m methodical, I line up the shots, see where things are going, maneuver in line with where I plan to go, I do all of this before I respond. Maybe she’s pregnant. I haven’t been around many pregnant woman, but perhaps they don’t gain weight in their upper body; instead they gain all of their weight in their lower body. No, that doesn’t make any sense. Mothers carry the baby in their belly, and her belly looked flat. Maybe she’s having one of those strange vaginal pregnancy—I wonder if there is even such a thing.
“Your childhood,” she asks again. She must think me daft. She’s tilting her head toward me and smiling. Maybe I still have a chance.
“I’m sorry. I like to think things through before I jump in, especially when it comes to my childhood—I don’t think anyone has ever had a normal childhood, and I’m certainly on that top of that list of anybodies.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” she says, her head moving a bit to the left and a bit to the right, as if the movement will enhance the veracity of her statement. While maybe not enhancing the statement, it is awfully cute. It’s not as exaggerated as seen on comedy shows, it’s quite slight, actually, like her—except for her legs. Those damnable legs. Why do the gods torture me like this? Why create such a seemingly great girl, and then endow her with such scary jell-o filled limbs? They’re mocking me, they are.
But who am I to be so choosy? I mean, I don’t have huge legs or anything, but I’m not exactly the model of fitness. I guess it’s the guy’s prerogative to be choosey when it comes to physicality. It’s strange: us guys, we expect perfection in our woman, but we’re more than happy to grow a big belly or gain a few or a few hundred pounds. I guess the double standard is alive and well. It might be because a guy is visually stimulated, and a woman is verbally or spiritually stimulated.
Either way, those are huge legs.
I left Killton Academy for the Insane at the small hours of the night. As a good girl, I pretended to swallow a few pills and put the pillow over my head and when they shut the lights out I shut my lights out, or so they thought, and I spit the pills like watermelon seeds on the pillow for the night nurses to find. They weren’t very smart. I befriended them and they thought I was their friend, or maybe they thought they were my friend, but it didn’t matter much. None of it did. I didn’t do well behind walls and gates and locked doors, and there were too many needles and applesauce snacks for me to sleep, and for the last three months, I couldn’t sleep a wink.
They thought I slept well, they thought I adjusted. I attended the doctor conferences and the group sessions and I cried my eyeballs out along with the rest of the gooseberries until they thought I was one of them, they thought I embraced their paradigms and medicines and therapies and their warm fuzzy slippers. It’s what I wanted them to think. It was a lull. I’m a normal girl in a normal cage listening to normal counseling waiting for them to punch my ticket to leave. I tore up the ticket in the small hours of the night, with my three roommates snoring away and the nurse’s station dark, probably because they were doing the naughty thing in the back room with the night physician or the night attendant or perhaps it was the night alley cat that always seemed to find its way through the caged windows and locked doors. And these people thought I was the sick one.
The door creaked as I left and I kept down a giggle by squeezing my nose and chattering my teeth. The gooseberries were all asleep and the nurses were doing their wild thing and that left me and the locked door alone for a bit. The door never had a chance and I left Killton Academy for the Insane at the small hours of the night. I followed the road for miles, wagging my finger to let it know that I would have none of its slithering and curving, that it should continue straight on and leave me about, thank you very much. It didn’t take long to find the railroad tracks, two faithful iron bars that needed no scolding to travel straight into the night and with fairy’s dust and hopes and wishes into the next day.
I waited in the bushes and pinched each arm when my eyelids threatened to lower the curtains and give away my position. The night critters and the swinging trees babbled and I listened carefully because you never know when a critter or tree will say something weighty. I was in a reverie when the ground shook and a tiny dot of light wiggled in my direction, the breeze not yet up and the toot-toot still silent. I waited for the large locomotive to pass before I grabbed the train and yanked it toward me, hugging the car close to my chest as it stampeded its way through Killton up north and the back country. I slid through the nooks and into a dark car, releasing the train to go about its business while I went about my business in the corner.
The train car was cold and stacked with automobiles, a recursive experience as I imagined the trains moving the cars moving the people moving the trains and round and round until I grew dizzy and grabbed the wall. The air was cool and paper cardboard armored the cars. I poked at the car’s vulnerable spots with my long finger, leaving marks and fingerprints along the paintjobs.
I let myself into a luxury car where I saddled up on the plastic-covered leather upholstery and made myself a good bed, where I slept for the first time in months. I knew the cure for insomnia, and it wasn’t small blue pills or darkened rooms smelling of ammonia. It was the sound of the train moving over track and the rattle of locked doors and chains as we tooted away from the Killton Academy for the Insane and into the wild wilderness of the north.
I knew it was morning when a strip of light crept along the wall. I gathered my things and poked out the door. I watched for many miles, searching my bearings, and after two abandoned stations, I realized I was close. I jumped as the train bent like a stick in the hands of a five-year child, the ground slanting and rolling me down, a film of dust forming on my clothes and skin, a welcome relief after two days in the conditioned air of the train box. I sat with my hands in front of my angled legs and watched my toes alight with the red glow of the train as it sped by. When all was left was its curvy backside, it appeared stationary for the longest time before I saw it shrink and toot and shrink until it all but disappeared. I remembered my manners just in time and jumped up before it vanished to wave my goodbye, a thank you for the fine journey to anywhere, U.S.A.
I wondered what the gooseberries at the Killton Academy for the Insane would think of me at the edge of the tracks. I looked around for the first time since the small hours of the night, and stocked the gooseberries’ heads with the overcast sky filled with the puffiest of clouds stacked one on top of another like squished marshmallows bought for the campfire, but flattened at the bottom of the sack, beneath the pots and pans and dried dinners and extra clothes. Most would think me a sight, with my sack of goodies and the train tooting its farewell. Some would think me mad, but there are worse things than to be thought mad by a gooseberry.
I followed the track until it came upon a station with two wooden benches long since abandoned, and the letters on its white-painted signpost gone the way of the station manager. An overgrown road led away from the tracks toward my destination. I had not visited Dainty since my parents moved us away, this was before they shipped me to the Kilton Academy for the Insane. The town even back then was dying and my parents believed the death throes stole my sanity. I explained patiently that towns, even dying towns, don’t steal sanity, that sanity was a gift that you had to take care of, like a pet, and if you let your guard down even for a moment, it might run away and you would spend the rest of your days searching for it, holding its leash and posting signs on telephone poles and calling the neighbors to see if they had seen it run past. I didn’t bother to explain that I held my own sanity well in hand, its leash taut as it sniffed the nearby bushes for truths. My parents wouldn’t have understood because they themselves held empty leashes, tautly walking along like the invisible dog trick.
At the bend in the road, I stopped and studied a large green sign stating “Dainty, North Dakota, pop. 135.” Someone had glued a bumper sticker emblazoned in glitzy silver that read “Fastest Growing City in North Dakota.” At the bottom of the sticker was a copyright mark with the year 1991. We had left Dainty in 1989, and even then, Dainty was becoming a ghost town, and by saying that I mean an old person town, since you can’t have ghosts unless you have dead people, and the surest way to have dead people is to stick a bunch of old people in a dying town.
I fought through the bushes and trees that had claimed the road and climbed to the top of the hill separating the abandoned railroad tracks from the rest of the town. From up here, the town looked miniature, like what you would find with a model train set. It took me a while to notice a large billboard at the top of the hill in front of the tree line. The billboard announces a new homesteading project: free land if you agree to live here for five years. They should televise it. It would be like the reality shows that some gooseberry or other would be watching on the boob tube. For me, I don’t think there’s enough land in all of North Dakota to convince me live here.
I work my way down toward town.
“Ms. Bouchard, I’m glad you made it,” the lady with the triangular bun and oversized glasses said to me. I slipped the name around my shoulders, shrugged a bit to test its weight, and stretched my neck like a cat, needing but a scratch behind my ears to find total pleasure. Snug as a rug in a mug of coffee, the name was. “We were a bit worried when you didn’t show up yesterday. We hoped you hadn’t gotten lost, these parts, they’re a bit windy until you know your way around. Have you had a chance to clean up? I hope you didn’t just arrive.”
“Afraid so,” I said with a southern accent. With a name like Bouchard, you had to be something or you were nothing, and southern sounded like something. The lady looked at me strangely and I mirrored her expression, drilling into her skull with my eyes until I could see gray matter leak out around my eyeballs. She looked away and cleared her voice and I could have sworn touched herself in that intimate place between her legs. I obliged and copied her movement and damn did it feel good. With all that good sleep on the train, I forgot how good that felt, the last time being my final night at Killton Academy for the Insane as I pushed the time past and waited for it to run out and the lights to go on and the television to warm up and the heated cereal to pop, crack, and sizzle in the plastic bowls.
The lady cleared her voice and looked away and I stifled my own cough, wiping imagined dirt off the front of my slacks. When the lady looked back, she looked relieved as if she was mistaken with what I was doing. I decided not to ruin her day. I did not recognize the woman. She must be one of the new homesteaders.
I left the Killton Academy for the Insane at the small hours of the night. As a good girl, I pretended to swallow a few pills and put the pillow over my head and when they shut the lights out I shut my lights out, or so they thought, and I spit the pills like watermelon seeds on the pillow for the night nurses to find. They weren’t very smart. I befriended them and they thought I was their friend, or maybe they thought they were my friend, but it didn’t matter much. None of it did. I didn’t do well behind walls and gates and locked doors, and there were too many needles and applesauce snacks for me to sleep, and for the last eight years, I couldn’t sleep a wink.
They thought I slept well, they thought I adjusted. I attended the doctor conferences and the group sessions and I cried my eyeballs out along with the rest of the gooseberries until they thought I was one of them, they thought I embraced their paradigms and medicines and therapies and their warm fuzzy slippers. It’s what I wanted them to think. It was a lull. I’m a normal girl in a normal cage listening to normal counseling waiting for them to punch my ticket to leave. I tore up the ticket in the small hours of the night, with my three roommates snoring away and the nurse’s station dark, probably because they were doing the naughty thing in the back room with the night physician or the night attendant or perhaps it was the night alley cat that always seemed to find its way through the caged windows and locked doors. And these people thought I was the sick one.
The door creaked as I left and I kept down a giggle by squeezing my nose and chattering my teeth. The gooseberries were all asleep and the nurses were doing their wild thing and that left me and the locked door alone for a bit. The door never had a chance and I left Killton Academy for the Insane in the small hours of the night. I followed the road for miles, wagging my finger to let it know that I would have none of its slithering and curving, that it should continue straight on and leave me about, thank you very much. It didn’t take long to find the railroad tracks, two faithful iron bars that needed no scolding to travel straight into the night.
I waited in the bushes and pinched each arm when my eyelids threatened to lower the curtains and give away my position. The night critters and the swinging trees babbled and I listened carefully because you never know when a critter or tree will say something weighty. I was in a reverie when the ground shook and a tiny dot of light wiggled in my direction, the breeze not yet up and the toot-toot still silent. I waited for the large locomotive to pass before I grabbed the train and yanked it toward me, hugging the car close to my chest as it stampeded its way through Killton up north and then the back country. I slid through the nooks and into a dark car, releasing the train to go about its business while I went about my business in the corner.
The train car was cold and stacked with automobiles, a dizzying experience as I imagined the trains moving the cars moving the people moving the trains and round and round until I grew dizzy and grabbed the wall. The air was cool and cardboard armored the cars. I poked at the vulnerable spots with my long finger, leaving marks and fingerprints.
I let myself into a luxury car where I saddled up on the plastic-covered leather upholstery and made myself a good bed, where I slept for the first time in years. I knew the cure for insomnia, and it wasn’t small blue pills or darkened rooms smelling of ammonia. It was the sound of the train moving over track and the rattle of locked doors and chains as we tooted away from the Killton Academy for the Insane and into the wild wilderness of the north.
I knew it was morning when a strip of light crept along the wall. I gathered my things and poked out the door. I watched for many miles, searching my bearings, and after two abandoned stations, I realized I was close. I jumped as the train slowed and bent like a stick in the hands of a five-year-old child, the ground slanting and rolling me down, a film of dust forming on my clothes and skin, a welcome relief after a night in the conditioned air of the train box. I sat with my hands in front of my angled legs and watched my toes alight with the red glow of the train as it sped by. When all was left was its curvy backside, it appeared stationary for the longest time before I saw it shrink and toot and shrink until it all but disappeared. I remembered my manners just in time and jumped up before it vanished to wave my goodbye, a thank you for the fine journey.
I wondered what the gooseberries at the Killton Academy for the Insane would think of me at the edge of the tracks. I looked around for the first time since the small hours of the night, and filled the gooseberries’ heads with the overcast sky overflowing with the puffiest of clouds stacked one on top of another like squished marshmallows bought for the campfire, but flattened at the bottom of the sack, beneath the pots and pans and dried dinners and extra clothes. Most would think me a sight, with my sack of goodies and the train tooting its farewell. Some would think me mad, but there are worse things than to be thought mad by a gooseberry.
I followed the track until it came upon a station with wooden benches long since abandoned, and the letters on its white-painted signpost gone the way of the station manager and pop stand. An overgrown road led away from the tracks toward my destination, Dainty, North Dakota. I didn’t know if she would remember me. I hadn’t been back since before my parents moved away, this was before they shipped me to the Kilton Academy for the Insane, before the world went all topsy-turvy and left me the sole survivor hiding on the island of sanity. The town even back then was dying and my parents believed the death throes stole my sanity. I explained patiently that towns, even dying towns, don’t steal sanity, that sanity was a gift that you had to take care of, like a pet, and if you let your guard down even for a moment, it might run away and you would spend the rest of your days searching for it, holding its leash and posting signs on telephone poles and calling the neighbors to see if they had seen it run past. I didn’t bother to explain that I held my own sanity well in hand, its leash taut as it sniffed the nearby bushes for truths. My parents wouldn’t have understood because they themselves held empty leashes, tautly walking along like the invisible dog trick. Dainty would have, though. She was a fine town and to be frank, only Dainty understood me.
At the bend in the road, I stopped and studied a large green sign with Dainty’s name and population, 135 people, and a bumper sticker emblazoned in glitzy silver reading “Fastest Growing City in North Dakota.” I left Dainty in 1998, and even then, Dainty was becoming a ghost town, and by saying that I mean an old person town, since you can’t have ghosts unless you have dead people, and the surest way to have dead people is to stick a bunch of old people in a dying town.
I fought through the bushes and trees that staked the road and climbed to the top of the hill separating the abandoned railroad station from the rest of Dainty. From here, the town looked miniature. I clapped and jumped as I recognized the roofs of the houses and shops. I dug the sand from my eyes and squinted this way and that and everywhere I looked, people wandered the streets, which seemed strange for a ghost town. Large silver lights and black sheets and folding chairs and walkie-talkies were everywhere. people going this way and that, and none looked the Dainty type, the harsh curious features, the instant smile as if there was nothing to show but hospitality, that is, until they got behind your back, and then you’d better watch carefully or there’d be knives sticking out in all different ways, and you might find yourself the newest resident of the Killton Academy for the Insane, I’m just saying.
But these people seemed different. I came upon a bored-looking lady swinging a talking device by its wire. She didn’t see me approach and I tapped her on the right shoulder and stepped to the left, silencing my giggle with a squeeze and a chatter. The lady wore a triangular bun and oversized pink glasses, smaller than a clown’s but larger than a person’s, the kind that makes you want to touch them to see if they’re real or plastic or just for show. She caught up with me as I stopped circling and reached for her glasses. When she saw me she laughed, which reminded me of the gooseberries who laughed at whatever I did, as if they saw deeper humor in us that the rest missed.
“Bouchard, I’m glad you made it,” she said, speaking faster than any Dainty person had a right to speak. I didn’t recognize the name, but I slipped Bouchard around my shoulders, shrugged a bit to test its weight, and stretched my neck like a cat, needing but a scratch behind my ears to find the ultimate pleasure. Snug as a rug in a coffee mug, the name was. “Dean’s been looking everywhere for you. I’m Sandy, by the way, not that you would know me, of course. Dean was worried when you disappeared.” She studied me, looking a bit struck, before she nodded and spoke into her talking device. “I found Bouchard, I’m coming to you, she’s dressed and ready.”
Static answered the talking device, and then a man’s voice. “It’s about damn time. Where the hell has she been?”
Sandy didn’t stop to answer and grabbed my dirty hand and pulled me down the hill toward the lights and the people. I always knew Dainty would provide for me. As I said, Dainty always understood me. Sandy walked fast and I skipped to keep up. We winded our way through surprised crowds who dodged from our path as if delighted that Dainty’s prodigal child had returned. I waved and spun around to look at them, making faces with my four fingers, thumb, and tongue before Sandy tugged me along. We passed old and new houses, all looked newly painted, but I could see beyond the paint that they hadn’t been used for some time. Good old Dainty, only a paint job away from oblivion.
As we moved closer to the center of town, we passed bunches of people huddled over cameras and more lights and wires that crisscrossed every part of the sidewalk and street. Sandy stopped pulling but I kept walking until I ran into a man wearing all black with a tight-cropped gray and white goatee that I wanted to grab and pull and climb in until I lost myself in the curls.
“Dean, I have no idea where she came from,” Sandy said to the man in black, at last letting go of my hand, and touching the triangular bun at the back of her head. I stretched my neck until I could study that most geometrical of hairstyles, wondering how she managed the sharp angles and points and whether maybe this time she’d let me cop a feel at her pink glasses.
“Bouchard, it’s nice you decided to join us,” Dean said.
“Glad to be here,” I said with a southern accent. With a name like Bouchard, you had to be something or you were nothing, and southern sounded like something. Dean looked at me strangely and I mirrored his expression, drilling into his skull with my eyes until I could see gray matter leak out around my eyeballs. He looked away and cleared his voice and I could have sworn touched himself in that intimate place between his legs. I obliged and copied his movement and damn did it feel good. With all that good sleep on the train, I forgot how that felt, the last time being my final night at the Killton Academy for the Insane as I pushed the time past and waited for it to run out and the lights to go on and the television to warm up and the heated cereal to pop, crack, and sizzle in the plastic bowls.
Dean cleared his voice again, and I stifled my own cough, wiping the dust and dirt of the road off the front of my slacks.
“We’ve been waiting for over an hour,” Dean said as if he had not been doing the naughty thing but a moment ago. “But that doesn’t matter much as long as you’re ready,” and here he paused and looked me up and down and I smiled most brilliantly, using my perfect white teeth as an interrogation spotlight. Perhaps I did look like riff-raff after so many years. That’s one of the things about the Killton Academy for the Insane, they don’t supply mirrors, and after a little while you forget that you even looked like someone or something. Dean peeled his eyes away from my sparkling teeth and continued, “but I guess you look ready to me.
“Set up for the first take,” Dean shouted. “Bouchard has decided to grace us with her presence. I want to roll in five. Bouchard, take your position so we can get the first scene in the can.”
I patted my bag and fell in behind Dean, close in so he couldn’t quickly get away. He smelled of lilies and oldness, like ripe Ivory soap and sawdust. He smelled of Dainty. He turned and grabbed me by the shoulders and walked me to the middle of a crowd surrounded by bright lights with cameras.
The crowd consisted of eighteen girls in groups of twos and threes. They were milling outside a large brick building. The building looked very familiar, but wrong somehow, as if I was looking at it from the wrong angle. The girls all wore pink pajamas and oversized bathrobes with green and blue emblems, like the one I wore, like the one they gave me at the Killton Academy for the Insane.
Dean yelled, “Action!”
The people always ask me, what’s it like being a real dog? I tell them that I’ve never been anything but a dog. They go on to say that had they been in my place, they’d have done things different. Dogs do smile, even the real ones, and when I hear the people talk like that, I pull back the lips around my jaw and give them a good look at my canines. You see, I grew up in a beautiful garden, raised by dogs. I didn’t know anything about the world outside my garden—its breadth, the people, tangible holography, or certified-real Zoos—until much later. I like to tell the people that I always knew there was something different about me. I’ve said it so often that I sometimes believe it when I say it, but in the dark of this cage where I record these words, I’m not so sure anymore. You see, the dogs I grew up with, they taught me how to be a dog. They also taught me to talk. Being around talking dogs, I thought it was the most natural thing in the world that dogs should talk. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that dogs don’t talk, at least the real ones don’t. Until me, that is.
It’s silly to think of it now, to look back to when I was a puppy. I could run from one end of my world to the other in a day. Large stonework walls surrounded my world, what I later called the garden. It’s not as unnatural as you might think. The ancient people believed that their world fell off at the end of watery horizons. When you grow up with a truth, you don’t bother to question it. I never had any doubts about the boundaries of my world. They were physical: I could nudge the walls with my nose to know their truth. I came to know much more than I wanted about the people and their truth, but that was later. At the time, the garden was large enough for me, and for a while, I didn’t think to want more.
My pack consisted of three dogs. Three dogs in an enclosed garden may seem strange now, but at the time I didn’t know about such things. The youngest dog of the pack was named Night. Her coat was a rich black, and while smaller than me, she could catch the quickest of prey with little effort. The pack leader was named Always. He taught us everything we needed to know about the garden. He was a large dog with gray fur that had turned white at its ends. When we were young, Always was around all the time to teach us the ways of the garden. But as we grew older, he spent less time with us, disappearing for long periods. When he disappeared, Night and I would search the garden for him. We never found a trace until he chose to return. For a garden surrounded by walls, not knowing where Always disappeared to was very distressing.
It’s easy to say I would have been happy if Always had let me stay in the garden. At the time I certainly would have disagreed. Night had a favorite way of describing how I dealt with my curiosity: “he would grab hold of it,” she would say. “And twist his head until the answers broke free.” Now that I’ve been out of the garden, I look back fondly, and not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what would have happened if I had stayed. But the people have a saying, once the cat is out of the bag, there’s no putting it back. This remains true for dogs as well.
A dog’s life is longer than the people think. While we live fewer years, our years are slower. It took me many talks with the people to figure this truth out. Part of it is the way the people approach the conversation. They tell me that they buy a ticket from the Cleveland Certified-Real Zoo many years in advance to have a conversation with me, the certified-real talking dog. They talk of “killing time until then” or “waiting months without thinking of much else.” Their lives, they say, build up to that moment. It’s hard for me to understand that. For a dog, we live in the long moment. We wouldn’t talk about killing time the same we wouldn’t talk about gnawing off a paw.
But it’s more than that. Our moments feel stretched out. I know this because when I finished a marathon conversation with the people, they tell me it felt too brief—some of them even feel robbed by the price. It’s difficult for me to know how to respond. From what the people tell me, they spend a lot of money to have a conversation with me. I’ve been out of the garden for many years, and I still don’t quite understand this talk of money. I think what the people are really complaining about is that they feel their moments are too short because they’re always living in the next moment. For dogs, the moments are very long. I imagine talking mice, if there were ever such beasts, would feel a short conversation with me felt like an eternity.
All this experience with the people began after I left the garden, of course. It was my own choice, and if there’s one thing youngsters should learn, it’s this: choices always have consequences. Even when you don’t realize you’re making a choice. I made my choice back in the garden. It was another perfect day. We did not worry about the garden’s weather. It grew slightly cooler in the winter months and slightly warmer in the summer months, but the overall climate was comfortably temperate. We had returned to our den after a successful hunt. Night carried two raccoons in her jaw. Always had disappeared a few months back, and I did not think or talk of him when he was gone. I missed him terribly and it seemed easiest not to dwell on such things.
Night dropped the half-eaten raccoon carcasses in the corner of the den, and stretched her front paws and arched her back. I lay by the entrance to the den, looking up at the pink sky.
Night trotted over to me and placed her head on my stomach.
“Do we die like the raccoons?” I asked Night.
She laughed at the notion. “Dogs don’t die,” she said. “We hunt and we kill prey, but there is nothing that hunts us.”
“When we hunt, I sometimes watch the prey, watch where they come from, watch their packs. Did you know that there are raccoons of all sizes and ages? Not all of them are fast. Some are like Always, their fur is gray and they move slowly. One time, I chased one of the older gray ones, chased him around until he died.”
“That’s what happens to raccoons when you sink those pointy teeth into them.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said, lifting my head to look over at Night. “The thing is, I never bit him. He was breathing fast and then he wasn’t. He just fell over. I poked at him, but he never rose and I left him there. Is that what happens when we get older? We fall over? What happens after we fall over? Will Always fall over?”
“You think too much,” Night said. “When I have a full belly, the last thing I want to do is wonder about things I don’t know. You can ask Always when he returns. He said this garden was ours forever, and that we were not like the animals that we hunt. I mean, think about it: no matter how gray Always looks, he never moves slowly, does he? And besides, Always told us everything good in the garden was for us. Falling over can’t be good, now can it.”
A few days later, Always returned. Night and I were splashing after a fish at the river. We tried to paw the fish, and then leapt to bite it, but the fish were too fast and too slippery. We weren’t sure how long Always watched us, but when we gave up our hunt, we saw Always standing on the side of the stream, smiling contently.
“A good day for fishing,” he said.
Night and I ran to Always, nuzzling our faces into his belly. We stayed that way for some time until Always stepped away and shook us free. “It is good to see you too,” he said. We followed him back to the den.
We were quiet at first. Whenever Always returned, I felt bashful and overwhelmed. But Always kept up the conversation, pointing out the different trees, insects, and fruits that lined the trail back to the den. “I must be boring you with my discussion of the sycamores and grasshoppers,” Always said. “I’ve been away awhile and you must have plenty of questions. What has been on your minds?”
“I want to know where you went,” I said. While I had plenty of questions about the garden, what was always gnawing at my curiosity was where Always disappeared to when he went on his journeys. I felt he knew something that I couldn’t know. It turned out he knew much more. Always was eager to share everything he knew except this one thing: his whereabouts on his journeys.
As I expected, Always would not answer. He told us early on that he there was only one rule in the garden: we were not to follow him when he left on his journeys. He never discussed what would happen if we did. He would explain that this was the only thing he asked us, and, in any event, we should trust him that it was bad. Instead of answering my question, Always started explaining the life of the river. Night and I lost ourselves in his description of the microscopic life of the river. We never thought to ask how Always knew so much about things he could not possibly see—at least not see as we knew see. We believed in him too much to question or wonder how he knew.
It was not more than a week later that Always announced he would be leaving the next day. We had just finished a dinner of fish that Always had caught from the river. I tried to argue with Always. I told him about all the things we wanted to learn. Always listened carefully to our request, but then repeated that he had to leave but would be back to answer our questions. It was impossible for us to become angry at Always. What we did become was sad.
“Will you take us with you?” I asked again.
“No. You should be happy here. You have everything you need, everything you could ever want. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“I know you will be,” I said. “I believe you, I really do. But where do you go? We’ve searched the entire garden after you leave. We’ve checked in every place we could think of and we’ve never found you. Where do you hid? In the trees? Under the stream?”
Always laughed fondly at my questions. “Does it matter that much where I go? Maybe I’m steps ahead of you. Even though I look old, I’m still very spry.” Always motioned to the fish bones that littered the outside of our den. “Spry enough to catch fish,” Always said with a smile. “Which is more than I can say about two pups that live around here.”
Night nudged me to let it go, to let him have his secrets. It was then that I hatched my plan. Instead of arguing, I switched to asking Always about the sky and clouds. Always nodded and began discussing the formation of clouds and the atmosphere. He went on for some time moving from high-level concepts to the lower-level stuff. We had heard parts of this before, but each time he taught us, he introduced us to something new.”
I yawned through most of his lecture. When Always lectured, I was usually awake and eager. Today I rested my head on my paws and took short naps. It was very late when Always finished. My eyes were closed and I was dozing lightly. Always whispered, “the sun is almost up. I will leave now. I trust you and the garden will treat each other well. Tell him not to worry about where I go. I will return soon and we’ll continue our discussions about the atmosphere, and then we’ll move into the stars and space itself.” I kept my eyes closed and listened to Always trot off into the forest.
When Always was out of sight, I opened my eyes. “I’m going to follow him,” I told Night. “I’m going to find out where he goes.”
“I am not going with you,” she said. “He told us not to follow him. Has he ever led us wrong?”
“But why do you think he told us that? Don’t you see? There’s something he doesn’t want us to see, something so amazing that he has to keep it hidden from us. Can you imagine what that thing could be? I have to know.”
Night was wary, but she was tired and it was early. I didn’t tell Night at the time, but the idea to follow Always came from her. She said that everything good in the garden was for us. Always was as good as it came in the garden, so everything he did must be good, including his journeys. I had not realized the connection until after I decided to follow Always. I tracked Always into the forest and Night followed.
It didn’t take long to find Always’ tracks. He moved quickly through the garden, but he had trained me and I knew how to follow even the smallest of signs of his passing. We tracked him through the rest of the day and caught up to him at night. We watched from the trees as Always approached the garden’s walls. The wall began to shimmer and move. The thought that there was something to move amazed me. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Always began to shimmer and transformed into a two-legged creature. He was the people. Before he walked into the wall, he turned back and saw Night. She stood in the opening away from the trees. When Always saw her, and then found me in the trees, I ran into the garden away from Always. Night was a few steps behind me.
We ran back to the den, and Night and I hid in the trees.
“Where are you, where are you hiding?” Always asked. I couldn’t see him, I couldn’t see if he was a dog or the people. My head was still a mess. Thoughts ran through it that made no sense. Always had described the things in the garden to the infinitely smallest scale. He said that the smaller you went, the larger the world became, until it was humongous. The garden was not small if you took into understood the subatomic sizes. We lived in an infinite world, Always would say. Everything smaller becomes smaller, and everything larger becomes larger.
“And that wasn’t enough for you,” Always said. I saw him in the clearing now. He was shaped like the people. “Never enough.”
“But it was Night,” I cried. “She was the one who wanted to follow you. I didn’t want to.”
“It doesn’t matters,” Always said. “You followed me, and now I have no choice but to tell you the truth, the real truth. This truth will be your prison and your escape.”
Everything became clear when I left the garden. The rest you know. I was a real talking dog in a world where most things were digital, created by tangible holography. What the people longed for most was realness. There was a difference between fabricated and real. The scientists didn’t realize it when they first fabricated items. Real items felt different. When you were around tangible holography, there was a feel of fakeness, as if the fabricated item lacked a spirit.
And that’s where the zoos came in. What people wanted most were real animals. After the boom of tangible holography, most animals disappeared as the people replaced then with cheaper and more custom fabricated animals. Most zoos began replacing their real animals with fabricated animals, but a few conservative zoos did not. These zoos banded together and introduced the idea of a certified-real animal. But the zookeepers themselves tried to outdo one another. The price of certified-real animals skyrocketed, until even real rats and pigeons, which once were seen as pests, brought astronomical prices. Bugs were not far behind—although the real cockroaches were still plentiful, as it seemed not even modern science could replace them.
That’s where I came in: the Cleveland Real Zoo’s most successful experiment. A certified-real talking dog.
Samuel walked into the restaurant alone. Tables crowded near the door and he felt scores of eyes on him. When he looked around ready to meet their accusing gazes, he found the patrons staring down at their food or talking quietly. They were quick. A couple in oversized coats walked in the restaurant behind him. It took him a few moments to find the hostess stand halfway into the restaurant.
This was Janet’s third week as the hostess at the restaurant. Her feet hurt and she moved her weight to her left foot. She needed new shoes. No, she decided. She needed a new job. As Samuel approached, Janet saw the curled-up magazine in his left coat pocket and the apologetic look on his face. She did not need to ask but she did. “Will it be just you tonight, sir?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a reservation,” Samuel said. “And it’s only me.” He felt the need to explain more. He thought about telling her that while he was on a business trip to New York City, he used to live here, only five years ago, in fact, and a few blocks from this very restaurant. It wasn’t that he couldn’t find anyone to eat with tonight. He could have called friends or old colleagues. Yesterday he had dinner with people from his old firm. They even paid for the meal and offered to buy dinner tonight. He was leaving on an early flight in the morning and decided to eat alone. He wanted to relax before the flight. Drink a glass of wine. Read a magazine. Return to the hotel early. He knew that she wouldn’t understand. He only wished that she wouldn’t look at him in that way.
Janet was short with an exaggerated figure. She wore a tight-fitting blue dress that drew attention to her curvier aspects. She chewed the end of her black hair as she looked over the crowded restaurant. She found only one empty table. Gillian was not going to be happy. This was the second single she would sit in his section.
When she first met Gillian she knew they would sleep together. Gillian was married but he looked good for a married man. He spent time with her during her first week teaching her the basics of the restaurant business. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that this wasn’t her first hostess job. She liked his attention. He was tall and muscled, and she enjoyed that he smelled of old rubber.
After they slept together he kept his distance at the restaurant. He had been tender during that night. He had told her that she was the first woman he had slept with since marrying. She could see the guilt worm away inside him when he looked at her. When she had been younger she would not have understood why he stayed away. She would have thought she had done something wrong. She was more experienced now and she had learned men’s inner workings better. She knew it wasn’t her fault. Besides he hadn’t been that good. For as much time as he spent in the gym every day, she thought those muscles would have been more useful in bed. Janet marked off Gillian’s two-top table on the hostess stand’s whiteboard.
Samuel watched Janet scratch out his table. The edges around Janet’s irises were dark and very solid. Her eyes’ whites were luminous. He could lose himself in those eyes. He felt her judging eyes swing back to him from the whiteboard.
“It’s Christmas time,” Janet said. “The restaurant is full this time of year with corporate parties. Next time you should make a reservation or we may not have a table open.”
Samuel could not think of how to respond. Many of the tables had been pushed together to fit the large corporate parties. His company’s holiday party was early the next day. He would not be home in time to attend. He should have called ahead.
-Have you ever taken notice of the last thing each night that you think about?
-Not really.
-Think about: each night you fall asleep thinking about something, and then you start dreaming. It’s very likely that the last thing you think about each night is what your mind ends up focusing on in your dreams. Take it a step forward, what if you concentrate on picking out the thing you want to think about before falling asleep. I mean, how many people have probably unwittingly dreamed of sheep just because that was what they were taught to think of when they couldn’t sleep. Sheep is probably one of the most popular dream subjects because of it. I wonder how psychologists translate sheep in dreams. It’s probably a wool fetish or something. It’s mind boggling how people don’t consider the little things when deciding what to dream.
-Are you talking about blogging again?
-What? No, I’m talking about important, interesting things. Why would I talk about blogging again?
-I don’t know. You do spend too much of your time pounding out words that nobody reads. It’s only natural that if you spend that much time doing something you’re bound to talk about it continuously until everyone around you—that is, everyone who is not blogging, which is all of your normal friends and family, just for the record—gets very sick of it and begins tuning you out when you begin to broach the subject. Even if you were just talking about whatever crazy thoughts popped into your mind, how do I know you’re not just looking for fodder for tonight’s entry? Do I want to be an unwitting participant in your quest to entertain the world? A world, I should remind you, which does not want to be entertained by the likes of you. Let me clarify, an insular world that only finds you entertaining when it itself is involved in the medium. It’s like the high school trumpet player who grows up and loves trumpet music. It’s not that he loves the sound of the trumpet, it’s that he can imagine himself playing the song—however poorly. Just the knowledge that he’s related to the real trumpet player makes him love the sound and the players of that instrument more than anyone else. It’s the same thing with blogging. Those who blog love to read blog. Those who don’t get bored out of our egg-thin skulls listening to you blab on about it endlessly.
-I was talking about dreams and where they take you. What’s with your hostility toward my blog? I don’t even go there with you. I know you’re not interested. I was in the moment. Look how hazy it is in here. You’re not supposed to be like this now. I’m thinking deep thoughts. I thought we were thinking deep thoughts.
-I thought we were in free association mode here. I wasn’t exactly attacking you. I was freely associating.
-We were, but it was my free association we were talking about. Pass it over here. You’re boggarting it.
-I ain’t boggarting, I’m taking my turn. It’s just my turn lasts a while, especially when you start philosophizing on the meaning of dreams or going on about your blogging.
-I wasn’t—thanks. I wasn’t talking about dreams. I was talking about controlling your dreams.
-Same difference over here.
‘I read a report about global warming today,’ said the liberal, mentally rubbing her hands together and readying herself for a fight.
The conservative made a face. ‘Global climate change, if you please.’
‘What’s that?’ the liberal asked, always wary when the conservative tried to change the name of an issue. She had been royally screwed on the move from the estate tax to the death tax. The conservative never received any support for repeal of the estate tax until he changed it to death tax. It took the liberal a long time to realize that politics wasn’t about position papers anymore, or deep analysis of issues and the effects of those issues on the country and the world. She now knew that politics was about marketing, something the conservative learned much earlier. Controlling the positioning of the issues—be it the what the issue is called or who it effects—was the first step in achieving political goals.
‘When did you change it?’ the liberal asked out of intellectual curiosity. It was impossible to argue the reframing of an issue with the conservative. She knew if she was going to win on this issue, she’d have to take it to the people.
‘We started on it about a year ago,’ the conservative said. He was very confident in his strategy, the full extent of which the liberal did not know yet. “It sounded much less scary that way.’
The liberal agreed. It did sound better, another excellent marketing job. ‘But don’t you think people will still grow nervous about changes to the climate? I can’t imagine they want another ice age.’
‘Oh we’ve thought about that,” the conservative said. He was winding up for the pitch. He slowed his delivery, watching the liberal carefully for her reaction. ‘The thing about climate change is that it might not be so bad.’
‘I don’t follow,’ the liberal said, following quite well and very nervous about where he was heading.
‘Think of the dinosaurs. They lived in a much different climate than us. And they seemed to make out well, quite well.’
‘So you’re saying if the climate changes we’ll all grow as big as dinosaurs?’
‘Think of how happy that’ll make the dinosaurs,’ the conservative said.
‘The large teeth?’
‘And the sharp claws,’ the conservative agreed emphatically. ‘You should never forget the claws.’
‘When I speak with you, I never forget the claws.’
“Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go. I know how I must sound. It’s fantastical. Unbelievably so. You’ll be entertained either way: a crazy person’s detailed delusions, or an fantastical and sad story.
“That is kind of you.
“Before I called you? I was studying the phone. When I’m not talking on it, I spend a lot of my time studying the phone. I stare at it for hours at a time, some days. The phone is red and heavy. It is much larger than the phones I remember. Of course, it’s been so long time since I’ve seen other phones, it’s hard to know for sure. My memory is no longer my friend. It tricks me sometimes. Makes me think I remember something that I don’t, or creates a memory that I know couldn’t be real. What do phones look like today?
“Oh, that is interesting. That small, really? I’m not doubting you. It’s just this phone is not small. I know things have changed. My little window into the world gives me at least that much information.
It’s a bit of a cliché that I have a big red phone but I enjoy the color. The walls and floor in the room are white, as is the table. The table has a few blue and red speckles as well. The chair at the table is a worn white leather chair. And the toilet and sink are both porcelain white. If it wasn’t for the red phone, I think I would lose the ability to discern colors.
The phone has a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. I sometimes sit at the phone and turn the rotary. It doesn’t do anything, mind you. When I lift the headset, it automatically connects somewhere. I don’t know who does connection or who decides on what number. If they listen in on my conversation, they never say anything. When someone hangs up on the other end, another call is placed, and another, until I hang up the phone on the receiver.
(383)
She entered our detectives’ room at the end of my shift. I should have realized this was going to be a late one. She had that strange look on her face, the type that told me she probably shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, perhaps preparing dinner or taking care of her kids. Or, after I got a closer look at her clothing, she should have been supervising her nanny who would prepare dinner and bathe and put the kids to sleep. In my precinct, we get a lot of her type. I wondered not for the first time whether we were fighting crime or paid to fight these women’s boredom. I guess in the end it didn’t make a difference. Talking with her was what kept the money in my bank and the food on my kids table. Their mother prepared their dinners and was happy to do it. And I was happy for her to do it. She wasn’t a kept woman. She was a good woman. She did her share and I did my share. It didn’t take a detective to know that the woman before me never did her share.
She walked through the wooden gate and made her way to my desk. I was the only one left. I was here to catch any calls before we called it a night. Her clickity-clackity shoes echoed off the walls. She was more plastic than natural. Good to look at but not look at too closely. “Officer?” she asked as she made her way to the front of my desk.
“Detective, Ma’am. Detective Thomson. What may I do for you this evening?”
“May I sit?” she asked as she sat on the wooden chair. I should have told her that less than an hour before an HIV-positive drug addict sat on that very chair. We caught him lurking around the mansions around Turner’s bend. We couldn’t figure out how he got there since no public transportation went anywhere near our precinct. He wouldn’t tell us, but we figured a drug deal went bad and they dropped him here as a little lesson. I guess that made us the drug dealers’ muscles. We had a job to do and we did it. The addict won’t be heading to these parts again. For all I knew, he might have bled a little into the wood. It was an old chair and there were many splinters. The office was one big splinter, when you really got down into it. The fresh coat of paint they threw on the walls each year was as bogus as she was. It was all rotten to the core.
“Please. What’s on your mind?” I asked her. I maintained a bemused look. It was the most serious I could manage at this time of night in front of these type of woman.
She looked me in the eye. She had blue eyes. The type of blue you only see in aquariums and advertisements for tropical beaches in far off islands where I’ll never be able to afford a vacation. I could see why swimming in her waters could be so addicting. It’s too bad that sharks infested her waters. I feel bad for her husband. He probably thought he was getting so much more than a plastic trophy. I guess we always think we’re getting so much more until we get it home and unwrap it.
“I had the strangest call tonight,” she said. “I debated whether I should come here. There are so many prank calls. But he sounded so honest, so sincere.”
I judged she fell for a swindle, and she wanted me to pry her out away from whatever they got from her. I thought I misjudged. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a late night after all. We fill out the paper, and she talks to her bank and credit cards and makes everything right. It’s better when they come early on this. I’ve caught a few of these cases where they waited too long and it took hours to get all the paper straight. There’s a reason their husbands thought to keep these women in trophy cases. Better there than breaking everything in sight. A bull in a china store is no better.
“Tell me about what happened, Ma’am. It’s never worse than you think it is. We’ll take care of it.”
“Protect and serve, eh, officer?” the woman asked. Her head turned to the side and she looked at me sideways. I could see each of her black lashes curled up and away from her eyes. My wife was a good cook and great with the children, but she didn’t have an eyelash to bat an eyelash at, if you see where I’m going. I’m a man, as weak as any other man. And don’t think I didn’t think about it right there. Finish the paperwork. Maybe she’s feeling lonely. Maybe she likes men in uniform. I have a uniform in the back, in the locker room. It was all very private. Everything was always very private back there.
“That’s what I’m here for. To protect and serve, Ma’am. In all ways. What is your name? For the report, I mean. We need to keep good records here.”
“Sandra MacDonald,” she said. She put her left hand on the desk and the huge engagement ring almost blinded me. It was larger than her thumb’s knuckle. I pulled out my notepad and jotted down her name. “That’s with an M-A-C,” she added.
“Okay, Mrs. MacDonald. What happened on that call tonight?”
“Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go. I know how I must sound. It’s fantastical. Unbelievably so. You’ll be entertained either way: a crazy person’s detailed delusions, or an fantastical and sad story.
“That is kind of you.
“Before I called you? I was studying the phone. When I’m not talking on it, I spend a lot of my time studying the phone. I stare at it for hours at a time, some days. The phone is red and heavy. It is much larger than the phones I remember. Of course, it’s been so long time since I’ve seen other phones, it’s hard to know for sure. My memory is no longer my friend. It tricks me sometimes. Makes me think I remember something that I don’t, or creates a memory that I know couldn’t be real. What do phones look like today?
“Oh, that is interesting. That small, really? I’m not doubting you. It’s just this phone is not small. I know things have changed. My little window into the world gives me at least that much information.
It’s a bit of a cliché that I have a big red phone but I enjoy the color. The walls and floor in the room are white, as is the table. The table has a few blue and red speckles as well. The chair at the table is a worn white leather chair. And the toilet and sink are both porcelain white. If it wasn’t for the red phone, I think I would lose the ability to discern colors.
The phone has a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. I sometimes sit at the phone and turn the rotary. It doesn’t do anything, mind you. When I lift the headset, it automatically connects somewhere. I don’t know who does connection or who decides on what number. If they listen in on my conversation, they never say anything. When someone hangs up on the other end, another call is placed, and another, until I hang up the phone on the receiver.
(1314)
She entered our detectives’ room at the end of my shift. I should have realized this was going to be a late one. She had that strange look on her face, the type that told me she probably shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, perhaps preparing dinner or taking care of her kids. Or, after I take a closer look at her clothing, she should have been supervising her nanny who would prepare dinner and bathe and put the kids to sleep. In my precinct, we get a lot of her type. I wondered not for the first time whether we they paid us to fight crime or to fight these women’s boredom. I guess in the end it didn’t make much of a difference. Talking with her was what kept the money in my bank and the food on my kids table. Their mother prepared their dinners and was happy to do it. And I was happy for her to do it. She wasn’t a kept woman. She was a good woman. She did her share and I did my share. It didn’t take a detective to know that the woman before me never did her share.
She walked through the wooden gate and made her way to my desk. I was the only one left. I was here to catch any calls before we called it a night. Her clickity-clackity shoes echoed off the walls. She was more plastic than natural. Good to look at but not look at too closely. “Officer?” she asked as she made her way to the front of my desk.
“Detective, Ma’am. Detective Thomson. What may I do for you this evening?”
“May I sit?” she asked as she sat on the wooden chair. I should have told her that less than an hour before an HIV-positive drug addict sat on that very chair. We caught him lurking around the mansions around Turner’s bend. We couldn’t figure out how he got there since no public transportation went anywhere near our precinct. He wouldn’t tell us, but we figured a drug deal went bad and they dropped him here as an object lesson, knowing how we treat people like him in our precinct. I guess that makes us the drug dealers’ muscles. We had a job to do and we did it. The addict won’t be heading to these parts again. For all I knew, while we processed him in that very chair, he might have bled a little into the wood. It was an old chair and there were many splinters. The office was one big splinter, when you really got down into it. The fresh coat of paint they threw on the walls each year was as bogus as she was. It was all rotten to the core. I didn’t speak about these types of things when her kind was in earshot. As I said, I was here to put food on my kid’s table, and if I had to baby the likes of her, I was a good father, and I’d do it.
“Please. What’s on your mind?” I asked her. I maintained a bemused look. It was the most serious I could manage at this time of night in front of this type of woman.
She looked me in the eye. She had blue eyes. The type of blue you only see in aquariums and advertisements for tropical beaches in far off islands where I’ll never be able to afford a vacation. I could see why swimming in her waters could be so addicting. It’s too bad that sharks infested her waters. I feel bad for her husband. He probably thought he was getting so much more than a plastic trophy. I guess we always think we’re getting so much more until we get it home and unwrap it.
“I had the strangest call tonight,” she said. “I debated whether I should come here. There are so many prank calls. But he sounded so honest, so sincere.”
I immediately thought she fell for a swindle. This happens more than you can imagine. You couldn’t tell by looking at them, but these trophy wives are the loneliest creatures. They’ll talk to anyone just for the chance to put them down. And that includes telemarketers and swindlers. I saw how this evening was going to go down: she wanted me to pry her out away from whatever they got from her. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a late night after all. We fill out the paper, and she talks to her bank and credit cards and makes everything right. It’s better when they come early on these types of things. I’ve caught a few of these cases where they waited too long and it took hours to get all the paper straight. If she spoke to him on this night, then I might be able to get this all squared away in an hour. There’s a reason their husbands thought to keep these women in trophy cases. Better there than breaking everything in sight. A bull in a china store is no better.
“Tell me about what happened, Ma’am. It’s never worse than you think it is. We’ll take care of it.”
“Protect and serve, eh, officer?” the woman asked. Her head turned to the side and she looked at me sideways. I could see each of her black lashes curled up and away from her eyes. My wife was a good cook and great with the children, but she didn’t have an eyelash to bat an eyelash at, if you see where I’m going. I’m a man, as weak as any other man is. And don’t think I didn’t think about it right there. Finish the paperwork. Maybe she’s feeling lonely. Maybe she likes men in uniform. I have a uniform in the back, in the locker room. It was all very private. Everything was always very private back there.
“That’s what I’m here for. To protect and serve, Ma’am. In all ways.” I turned my bemused look into a meaningful one. If she was going to flirt, I was going to flirt right back at her, food on the kids’ table or not. “What is your name? For the report, I mean. We need to keep good records here.”
“Sandra MacDonald,” she said. She put her left hand on the desk and the huge engagement ring almost blinded me. It was larger than her thumb’s knuckle. I pulled out my notepad and jotted down her name. “That’s with an M-A-C,” she added.
“Okay, Mrs. MacDonald. What happened on that call tonight?”
She laughed nervously. I straightened in the chair and cleaned the ink off the tip of the pen. I chewed the pen cap and waited for her to continue. In any good interrogation, you have to let the witness talk it through first, before you start putting words into their mouth. It makes it seem like those words were their own, and I’m always after honest words: as in honest-sounding words.
“He didn’t give me his name,” Sandra started in. “I have a good memory for these things, conversations. I’ll tell it like he said it and I’ll let you think if this is as crazy as it sounded.”
“However you want it. Take your time. Do you want water or coffee or something?”
“That’s okay. He sounded so desperate. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The phone rang late this evening. It was after dinner and the kids were asleep. I was straightening up after our dinner. I don’t spend much time on the phone. I never liked phones. It surprised me when it rang. My mother called in the morning, after I had seen the kids off to school. That was the only phone call I usually pick up all day. But I had a feeling about this one.”
I jot down notes as she talks. I nod and write the L.A. Raider’s schedule in my pad. I almost have the games for the season memorized. Knowing when you’re going to play who is important in planning strategy for your team. They were going places this year, I knew.
“I picked up the phone on the third ring. There was a man on the other side. As soon as I picked up he started saying, ‘hello, hello?’ He kept repeating it, as if not expecting to hear anyone on the other side. He had called me, and it was strange. I greeted him and asked who he was. He said me he didn’t know. I held the phone’s handset at arm’s distance away from and really looked at it. I don’t know what I was expecting. I thought maybe it would tell me who this strange man was. Normally I would have hung up. I think most normal people might have. There was just something in his voice that sounded desperate. It wasn’t only desperation it was also—I don’t know how to say this. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t really place it. It was like a déją vu moment. You know the type? You are sure you’ve heard it before but you just don’t know when. He kept talking as I held the handset away from my ear. He sounded resigned, as if another person was about to hang up on him, and he kind of understood why we did that and didn’t want to hold it against us.”
I wondered what type of scam she was involved with. This didn’t sound like the typical Nigerian call. The scammers are much smarter now. Either they pretend to be a bank or something to get your information at the beginning of the call. Or the keep you on the phone for a while. They want to build up your trust before they start asking for things. This sounded like the second case. “You heard all of that when not even listening into the phone?”
“I know it sounds strange.” She laughed. “It sounds strange to me too as I describe it. But I knew that voice and I knew what it wanted. I put the phone back on my ear and I said hello again. He stopped talking for a moment. Then he started in. He spoke slowly. It wasn’t like he was choosing his words carefully, it was like he was afraid that if he said things too quickly I would run away, like a dog approaching a bone to see if it’s safe to grab. He said, ‘Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go before I even start in.’ I assured him that I did want to hear what he had to say. At the time it was just curiosity. He reminded me of someone that I couldn’t place I figured if he spoke more I’d be able to put a name on it.”
“Have you placed him now that you’ve had some time to think about it?” I asked, looking for a way to cut this story shorter. Wherever Sandra was trying to get, she certainly was taking her sweet time.
She ignored me, lost in her memories of the strange phone call. “I asked him what his name was.
I know how I must sound. It’s fantastical. Unbelievably so. You’ll be entertained either way: a crazy person’s detailed delusions, or an fantastical and sad story.
“That is kind of you.
“Before I called you? I was studying the phone. When I’m not talking on it, I spend a lot of my time studying the phone. I stare at it for hours at a time, some days. The phone is red and heavy. It is much larger than the phones I remember. Of course, it’s been so long time since I’ve seen other phones, it’s hard to know for sure. My memory is no longer my friend. It tricks me sometimes. Makes me think I remember something that I don’t, or creates a memory that I know couldn’t be real. What do phones look like today?
“Oh, that is interesting. That small, really? I’m not doubting you. It’s just this phone is not small. I know things have changed. My little window into the world gives me at least that much information.
It’s a bit of a cliché that I have a big red phone but I enjoy the color. The walls and floor in the room are white, as is the table. The table has a few blue and red speckles as well. The chair at the table is a worn white leather chair. And the toilet and sink are both porcelain white. If it wasn’t for the red phone, I think I would lose the ability to discern colors.
The phone has a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. I sometimes sit at the phone and turn the rotary. It doesn’t do anything, mind you. When I lift the headset, it automatically connects somewhere. I don’t know who does connection or who decides on what number. If they listen in on my conversation, they never say anything. When someone hangs up on the other end, another call is placed, and another, until I hang up the phone on the receiver.
(2,246)
She entered our detectives’ room at the end of my shift. I should have realized this was going to be a late one. She had that strange look on her face, the type that told me she probably shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, perhaps preparing dinner or taking care of her kids. Or, after I take a closer look at her clothing, she should have been supervising her nanny who would prepare dinner and bathe and put the kids to sleep. In my precinct, we get a lot of her type. I wondered not for the first time whether we they paid us to fight crime or to fight these women’s boredom. I guess in the end it didn’t make much of a difference. Talking with her was what kept the money in my bank and the food on my kids table. Their mother prepared their dinners and was happy to do it. And I was happy for her to do it. She wasn’t a kept woman. She was a good woman. She did her share and I did my share. It didn’t take a detective to know that the woman before me never did her share.
She walked through the wooden gate and made her way to my desk. I was the only one left. I was here to catch any calls before we called it a night. Her clickity-clackity shoes echoed off the walls. She was more plastic than natural. Good to look at but not look at too closely. “Officer?” she asked as she made her way to the front of my desk.
“Detective, Ma’am. Detective Thomson. What may I do for you this evening?”
“May I sit?” she asked as she sat on the wooden chair. I should have told her that less than an hour before an HIV-positive drug addict sat on that very chair. We caught him lurking around the mansions around Turner’s bend. We couldn’t figure out how he got there since no public transportation went anywhere near our precinct. He wouldn’t tell us, but we figured a drug deal went bad and they dropped him here as an object lesson, knowing how we treat people like him in our precinct. I guess that makes us the drug dealers’ muscles. We had a job to do and we did it. The addict won’t be heading to these parts again. For all I knew, while we processed him in that very chair, he might have bled a little into the wood. It was an old chair and there were many splinters. The office was one big splinter, when you really got down into it. The fresh coat of paint they threw on the walls each year was as bogus as she was. It was all rotten to the core. I didn’t speak about these types of things when her kind was in earshot. As I said, I was here to put food on my kid’s table, and if I had to baby the likes of her, I was a good father, and I’d do it.
“Please. What’s on your mind?” I asked her. I maintained a bemused look. It was the most serious I could manage at this time of night in front of this type of woman.
She looked me in the eye. She had blue eyes. The type of blue you only see in aquariums and advertisements for tropical beaches in far off islands where I’ll never be able to afford a vacation. I could see why swimming in her waters could be so addicting. It’s too bad that sharks infested her waters. I feel bad for her husband. He probably thought he was getting so much more than a plastic trophy. I guess we always think we’re getting so much more until we get it home and unwrap it.
“I had the strangest call tonight,” she said. “I debated whether I should come here. There are so many prank calls. But he sounded so honest, so sincere.”
I immediately thought she fell for a swindle. This happens more than you can imagine. You couldn’t tell by looking at them, but these trophy wives are the loneliest creatures. They’ll talk to anyone just for the chance to put them down. And that includes telemarketers and swindlers. I saw how this evening was going to go down: she wanted me to pry her out away from whatever they got from her. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a late night after all. We fill out the paper, and she talks to her bank and credit cards and makes everything right. It’s better when they come early on these types of things. I’ve caught a few of these cases where they waited too long and it took hours to get all the paper straight. If she spoke to him on this night, then I might be able to get this all squared away in an hour. There’s a reason their husbands thought to keep these women in trophy cases. Better there than breaking everything in sight. A bull in a china store is no better.
“Tell me about what happened, Ma’am. It’s never worse than you think it is. We’ll take care of it.”
“Protect and serve, eh, officer?” the woman asked. Her head turned to the side and she looked at me sideways. I could see each of her black lashes curled up and away from her eyes. My wife was a good cook and great with the children, but she didn’t have an eyelash to bat an eyelash at, if you see where I’m going. I’m a man, as weak as any other man is. And don’t think I didn’t think about it right there. Finish the paperwork. Maybe she’s feeling lonely. Maybe she likes men in uniform. I have a uniform in the back, in the locker room. It was all very private. Everything was always very private back there.
“That’s what I’m here for. To protect and serve, Ma’am. In all ways.” I turned my bemused look into a meaningful one. If she was going to flirt, I was going to flirt right back at her, food on the kids’ table or not. “What is your name? For the report, I mean. We need to keep good records here.”
“Sandra MacDonald,” she said. She put her left hand on the desk and the huge engagement ring almost blinded me. It was larger than her thumb’s knuckle. I pulled out my notepad and jotted down her name. “That’s with an M-A-C,” she added.
“Okay, Mrs. MacDonald. What happened on that call tonight?”
She laughed nervously. I straightened in the chair and cleaned the ink off the tip of the pen. I chewed the pen cap and waited for her to continue. In any good interrogation, you have to let the witness talk it through first, before you start putting words into their mouth. It makes it seem like those words were their own, and I’m always after honest words: as in honest-sounding words.
“He didn’t give me his name,” Sandra started in. “I have a good memory for these things, conversations. I’ll tell it like he said it and I’ll let you think if this is as crazy as it sounded.”
“However you want it. Take your time. Do you want water or coffee or something?”
“That’s okay. He sounded so desperate. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The phone rang late this evening. It was after dinner and the kids were asleep. I was straightening up after our dinner. I don’t spend much time on the phone. I never liked phones. It surprised me when it rang. My mother called in the morning, after I had seen the kids off to school. That was the only phone call I usually pick up all day. But I had a feeling about this one.”
I jot down notes as she talks. I nod and write the L.A. Raider’s schedule in my pad. I almost have the games for the season memorized. Knowing when you’re going to play who is important in planning strategy for your team. They were going places this year, I knew.
“I picked up the phone on the third ring. There was a man on the other side. As soon as I picked up he started saying, ‘hello, hello?’ He kept repeating it, as if not expecting to hear anyone on the other side. He had called me, and it was strange. I greeted him and asked who he was. He said me he didn’t know. I held the phone’s handset at arm’s distance away from and really looked at it. I don’t know what I was expecting. I thought maybe it would tell me who this strange man was. Normally I would have hung up. I think most normal people might have. There was just something in his voice that sounded desperate. It wasn’t only desperation it was also—I don’t know how to say this. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t really place it. It was like a déją vu moment. You know the type? You are sure you’ve heard it before but you just don’t know when. He kept talking as I held the handset away from my ear. He sounded resigned, as if another person was about to hang up on him, and he kind of understood why we did that and didn’t want to hold it against us.”
I wondered what type of scam she was involved with. This didn’t sound like the typical Nigerian call. The scammers are much smarter now. Either they pretend to be a bank or something to get your information at the beginning of the call. Or the keep you on the phone for a while. They want to build up your trust before they start asking for things. This sounded like the second case. “You heard all of that when not even listening into the phone?”
“I know it sounds strange.” She laughed. “It sounds strange to me too as I describe it. But I knew that voice and I knew what it wanted. I put the phone back on my ear and I said hello again. He stopped talking for a moment. Then he started in. He spoke slowly. It wasn’t like he was choosing his words carefully, it was like he was afraid that if he said things too quickly I would run away, like a dog approaching a bone to see if it’s safe to grab. He said, ‘Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go before I even start in.’ I assured him that I did want to hear what he had to say. At the time it was just curiosity. He reminded me of someone that I couldn’t place I figured if he spoke more I’d be able to put a name on it.”
“Have you placed him now that you’ve had some time to think about it?” I asked, looking for a way to cut this story shorter. Wherever Sandra was trying to get, she certainly was taking her sweet time.
She ignored me, lost in her memories of the strange phone call. “I asked him what his name was. He said he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember a lot of things. I was sure I had heard that voice before. It was why I stayed on the phone. I had to place it. It nagged at me like a mosquito.”
“What did he want?” I asked her. I realized it was time for the leading questions. I needed to lead her somewhere. I was again wrong about her. I thought she had come in to report something. Now I figured she had come in only to talk to someone. And where there’s talk there may be other things. I might have to give the wife a call, let her know that I’d be home late tonight. A late night report. The usual.
“He didn’t want anything, exactly. He seemed relieved to talk to someone. He kept telling me that most of the people he spoke to hung up immediately, or after they heard his story. He told me it was a fantastical story, unbelievably so. And the way he said it, I believed it. He voice was soft and had a roll to it. I could see myself falling on top of that voice and losing my way.”
I lowered my voice. “Did you catch the number when he called?” She wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was staring at the wall behind me, lost in her thoughts.
“At this point he took a long deep breath. I could heard the wind cross over his throat and down into his lungs. He held it for a second a let it out. I thought he might be crazy, perhaps delusional. I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t that I was entertained, it was that I was enthralled. There was a mystery to it. Something real, and my life is so full of stuff that’s not real, if you know what I mean.”
I decided to take a different tact. There are always lots of ways to crack an oyster, and the more I looked at her, the more juicy I thought of the pearl inside her plastic shell. “Your life at home isn’t real?”
“When I told him I’d listen to his story he told me how kind I was. It was like I was giving him something, when just listening to him talk was giving me something. I asked why he choose me. This is where I got my first clue of what was going on. He told me he didn’t call me. Don’t look at me like that, officer. Ever since I walked through those doors, all you’ve been doing is judging the best way to get into my skirt. Just listen to the story first.”
Her last word gave me hope. Maybe once the crazy woman got through her story there might be something else in it for me. I looked longingly at the phone on the desk, only half listening to the crazy lady, the rest of me was planning the call to my wife. She checked the police blotter and would know if there was an investigation. The town was quiet, almost too quiet some nights to get away with what I had planned. I missed the first part of the crazy lady’s words before I pulled myself back over to her.
“He said he was studying the phone. He spent a lot of his time studying the phone when he wasn’t talking on it. Isn’t that the strangest thing? Who studies their phones? I mean, I see lots of business people on their fancy phones checking mail or sending messages. But who stares at a phone, especially an old rotary phone for hours at a time? When he described the phone I began to understand. I hadn’t seen a real phone is so long, it was almost comforting to know that those types of phones still exist.
The phone is red and heavy. It is much larger than the phones I remember. Of course, it’s been so long time since I’ve seen other phones, it’s hard to know for sure. My memory is no longer my friend. It tricks me sometimes. Makes me think I remember something that I don’t, or creates a memory that I know couldn’t be real. What do phones look like today?
“Oh, that is interesting. That small, really? I’m not doubting you. It’s just this phone is not small. I know things have changed. My little window into the world gives me at least that much information.
It’s a bit of a cliché that I have a big red phone but I enjoy the color. The walls and floor in the room are white, as is the table. The table has a few blue and red speckles as well. The chair at the table is a worn white leather chair. And the toilet and sink are both porcelain white. If it wasn’t for the red phone, I think I would lose the ability to discern colors.
The phone has a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. I sometimes sit at the phone and turn the rotary. It doesn’t do anything, mind you. When I lift the headset, it automatically connects somewhere. I don’t know who does connection or who decides on what number. If they listen in on my conversation, they never say anything. When someone hangs up on the other end, another call is placed, and another, until I hang up the phone on the receiver.
(3,128)
She entered the detectives’ room at the end of my shift. I felt sick when I saw her. I somehow knew that this was going to be a late night. She had that strange look on her face, the type that told me she probably shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, perhaps preparing dinner or taking care of her kids. Or, after I take a closer look at her clothing, she should have been supervising her nanny who would prepare dinner and bathe and put the kids to sleep. In my precinct, we get a lot of her type. I wondered not for the first time whether they paid us to fight crime or to fight these wives’ boredom. It didn’t make much of a difference in the end. Dealing with these wives was what kept the money in the bank and the food on the kids table. Their mother prepared their dinners and was happy to do it. And I was happy for her to do it. She wasn’t a trophy woman. She was a good woman. She did her share and I did my share. It didn’t take a detective to know that the woman before me never did her share.
She walked through the wooden gate and made her way to my desk. I was the only one left. I was here to catch any calls before we called it a night. Her clickity-clackity shoes echoed off the walls. She was more plastic than natural. Good to look at but not look at too closely. “Officer?” she asked as she made her way to the front of my desk.
“Detective, Ma’am. Detective Thomson. What may I do for you this evening?”
“May I sit?” she asked as she sat on the wooden chair. I should have told her that less than an hour before an HIV-positive drug addict sat on that very chair. We caught him lurking around the mansions around Turner’s bend. It was strange that he was in our precinct since no public transportation went anywhere near our precinct. He didn’t tell us, but we figured a drug deal went bad and they dropped him here as an object lesson, knowing how we treat people like him in our station. I guess that makes us the drug dealers’ muscles. We had a job to do and we did it. The addict won’t be heading to these parts again. For all I knew, while we processed him in that very chair, he might have bled a little into the wood. It was an old chair and there were many splinters. The office was one big splinter, when you really got down into it. The fresh coat of paint they threw on the walls each year was as bogus as she was. It was all rotten to the core. I didn’t speak about these types of things when her kind was in earshot. As I said, I was here to put food on my kid’s table, and if I had to baby the likes of her, I was a good father, and I’d do it.
“Please. What’s on your mind?” I asked her. I maintained a bemused look. It was the most serious I could manage at this time of night in front of this type of woman.
She looked me in the eye. She had blue eyes. The type of blue you only see in aquariums and advertisements for tropical beaches in far off islands where I’ll never be able to afford a vacation. I could see why swimming in her waters could be so enticing. It’s too bad that sharks infest her waters. I felt bad for her husband. He probably thought he was getting so much more than a plastic trophy. I guess we always think we’re getting so much more until we get it home and unwrap it.
“I had the strangest call tonight,” she said. “I debated whether I should come here. There are so many prank calls. But he sounded so honest, so sincere.”
I immediately knew that she had fallen for a swindle. This happens more than you can imagine. You couldn’t tell by looking at them, but these trophy wives are very lonely creatures. They have their chatter groups, where they get together and bitch about their help and their shopping. But when they get right down to it, they’re alone. They don’t confide in their husbands or their friends or their family. They don’t confide in anyone. I’ve seen many of them take the opportunity to confide in psychics and swindlers. They think they’ll talk for a chance to put someone down. And that includes telemarketers and swindlers. I saw how this evening was going to go down: she wanted me to pry her out away from whatever they got from her. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a late night after all. We fill out the paper, and she talks to her bank and credit cards and makes everything right. It’s better when they come early on these types of things. I’ve caught a few of these cases where they waited too long and it took hours to get all the paper straight. If she spoke to him on this night, then I might be able to get this all squared away in an hour. There’s a reason their husbands thought to keep these women in trophy cases. Better there than breaking everything in sight. A bull in a china store is no better.
“Tell me about what happened, Ma’am. It’s never worse than you think it is. We’ll take care of it.”
“Protect and serve, eh, officer?” the woman asked. Her head turned to the side and she looked at me sideways. I could see each of her black lashes curled up and away from her eyes. My wife was a good cook and great with the children, but she didn’t have an eyelash to bat an eyelash at, if you see where I’m going. I’m a man, as weak as any other man is. And don’t think I didn’t think about it right there. Finish the paperwork. Maybe she’s feeling lonely. Maybe she likes men in uniform. I have a uniform in the back, in the locker room. It was all very private. Everything was always very private back there.
“That’s what I’m here for. To protect and serve, Ma’am. In all ways.” I turned my bemused look into a meaningful one. If she was going to flirt, I was going to flirt right back at her, food on the kids’ table or not. “What is your name? For the report, I mean. We need to keep good records here.”
“Sandra MacDonald,” she said. She put her left hand on the desk and the huge engagement ring almost blinded me. It was larger than her thumb’s knuckle. I pulled out my notepad and jotted down her name. “That’s with an M-A-C,” she added.
“Okay, Mrs. MacDonald. What happened on your call tonight?”
She laughed nervously. I straightened in the chair and cleaned the ink off the tip of the pen. I chewed the pen cap and waited for her to continue. In any good interrogation, you have to let the witness talk it through first, before you start putting words into their mouth. It makes it seem like those words were their own. It helps them sound more honest since they believe the words are their own. They never are, of course. The words end up being whatever it is we feed them. In this case, I’m already working out the words I will include on the report. I just needed her to say a few keywords and sign the paper. After the paperwork, we can see if there’s anything left between us. I resisted smoothing back my hair.
“He didn’t give me his name,” Sandra started in. “I have a good memory for these things, conversations. I’ll tell it like he said it and I’ll let you think if this is as crazy as it sounded.”
“However you want it. Take your time. Do you want water or coffee or something?”
“That’s okay. He sounded so desperate. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The phone rang late this evening. It was after dinner and the kids were asleep. I was straightening up after our dinner. I don’t spend much time on the phone. I never liked phones and never gave my number out. It surprised me when it rang. Only my mother had the phone number, and she called early in the morning after I see the kids off to school. It was the only time it ever rings and the only time I ever pick it up. That’s why I was so surprised. At first I was worried. My mother isn’t in the best of health, and they know to call me if anything ever happens to her. Thankfully this wasn’t that call. But I did think for a moment that it might be, which is why I grabbed it.”
I pretended to jot down notes as she talked. I nodded often and wrote the L.A. Raider’s schedule in my pad. I almost have the games for the season memorized. Knowing when you’re going to play and who you’re going to play is important in understanding the strategy for your team. The Raiders were going places this year, I knew. I just wanted to make sure I understood how they were going to get there.
“I picked up the phone on the third ring. There was a man on the other side. As soon as I picked up he started saying, ‘hello, hello?’ He kept repeating it, as if not expecting to hear anyone on the other side. He had called me, and it was strange. I greeted him and asked who he was. He said me he didn’t know. I held the phone’s handset at arm’s distance away from and really looked at it. I don’t know what I was expecting. I thought maybe it would tell me who this strange man was. Normally I would have hung up. I think most normal people might have. There was just something in his voice that sounded desperate. It wasn’t only desperation it was also—I don’t know how to say this. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t really place it. It was like a déją vu moment. You know the type? You are sure you’ve heard it before but you just don’t know when. He kept talking as I held the handset away from my ear. He sounded resigned, as if another person was about to hang up on him, and he kind of understood why we did that and didn’t want to hold it against us.”
I wondered what type of scam she was involved with. This didn’t sound like the typical Nigerian call. The scammers are much smarter now. Either they pretend to be a bank or something to get your information at the beginning of the call. Or the keep you on the phone for a while. They want to build up your trust before they start asking for things. This sounded like the second case. “You heard all of that when not even listening into the phone?”
“I know it sounds strange.” She laughed. “It sounds strange to me too as I describe it. But I knew that voice and I knew what it wanted. I put the phone back on my ear and I said hello again. He stopped talking for a moment. Then he started in. He spoke slowly. It wasn’t like he was choosing his words carefully, it was like he was afraid that if he said things too quickly I would run away, like a dog approaching a bone to see if it’s safe to grab. He said, ‘Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go before I even start in.’ I assured him that I did want to hear what he had to say. At the time it was just curiosity. He reminded me of someone that I couldn’t place I figured if he spoke more I’d be able to put a name on it.”
“Have you placed him now that you’ve had some time to think about it?” I asked, looking for a way to cut this story shorter. Wherever Sandra was trying to get, she certainly was taking her sweet time.
She ignored me, lost in her memories of the strange phone call. “I asked him what his name was. He said he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember a lot of things. I was sure I had heard that voice before. It was why I stayed on the phone. I had to place it. It nagged at me like a mosquito.”
“What did he want?” I asked her. I realized it was time for the leading questions. I needed to lead her somewhere. I was again wrong about her. I thought she had come in to report something. Now I figured she had come in only to talk to someone. And where there’s talk there may be other things. I might have to give the wife a call, let her know that I’d be home late tonight. A late night report. The usual.
“He didn’t want anything, exactly. He seemed relieved to talk to someone. He kept telling me that most of the people he spoke to hung up immediately, or after they heard his story. He told me it was a fantastical story, unbelievably so. And the way he said it, I believed it. He voice was soft and had a roll to it. I could see myself falling on top of that voice and losing my way.”
I lowered my voice. “Did you catch the number when he called?” She wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was staring at the wall behind me, lost in her thoughts.
“At this point he took a long deep breath. I could hear the wind cross over his throat and down into his lungs. He held it for a second a let it out. I thought he might be crazy, perhaps delusional. I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t that I was entertained, it was that I was enthralled. There was a mystery to it. Something real, and my life is so full of stuff that’s not real, if you know what I mean.”
I decided to take a different tact. There are always lots of ways to crack an oyster, and the more I looked at her, the more juicy I thought of the pearl inside her plastic shell. “Your life at home isn’t real?”
She looked at me with that look that spoke volumes: it was as if I had no idea how difficult her life was. I swallowed down a laugh. This woman was quite something. Her life must be very difficult, with her big house and her help and her judging the common folk. Her oyster tasted sour already, and I hadn’t chucked the shell.
Her eyes flashed with anger as if she had been reading my thoughts. “My husband has been in a coma for the past eight years, officer. So, yes, my home life at times is surreal and at times difficult. When I say that there was something real in the man’s voice, what I was talking about was an emotional connection. It’s something I only have with my children, and it’s one way with children. A parent loves their children so much more than the children love their parent. It’s not their fault. It’s how it is. You love because you give, and children take. But that’s not important. I want to finish my report. I’ll try to leave the emotional asides to the side.”
“I’m sorry about your husband. I didn’t mean anything by it. Please, do go on. I want to finish this report for you and see what we I can do to help you.” After the news about her husband, I downshifted for a moment. What she was saying really got me thinking. But it didn’t take long to return to the subject at hand. She was as good as a widow and clearly not emotionally all here anymore. I judged whether this would be considered taking advantage of someone, and it fell into the line in the middle. I probably shouldn’t do it, but if I did, I wouldn’t go to hell—at least not over this infraction.
“When I told him I’d listen to his story he told me how kind I was. It was like I was giving him something, when just listening to him talk was giving me something. I asked why he chose me. This is where I got my first clue of what was going on. He told me he didn’t call me. Don’t look at me like that, officer. Ever since I walked through those doors, all you’ve been doing is judging the best way to get into my skirt. Just listen to the story first.”
Her last word gave me hope. Maybe once the crazy woman got through her story there might be something else in it for me. I looked longingly at the phone on the desk, only half listening to her words. I was planning the call to my wife. It wasn’t that my wife was suspicious but she was no dummy. Each night I worked late she checked the police blotter. She would know if an investigation ran late tonight. The town was quiet tonight, too quiet to get away with what I had planned. I missed the first part of her words before I pulled myself back over to her conversation.
“He said he was studying the phone. He spent a lot of his time studying the phone when he wasn’t talking on it. Isn’t that the strangest thing? Who studies their phones? I mean, I see lots of business people on their fancy phones checking mail or sending messages. But who stares at a phone, especially an old rotary phone for hours at a time? When he described the phone I began to understand. I hadn’t seen a real phone is so long, it was almost comforting to know that those types of phones still exist.”
“Did he tell you what type of phone it was?”
“It was a large red telephone. He described it as very heavy and very large. He was very in how big I thought the phone should be. When I told him about my cell phone he was amazed. It was like he had never seen a modern day phone. I thought of dementia, of course. He told me his memory was ‘no longer his friend’ and it played tricks on him. He sounded so sad and alone. I figured he was trying to call someone else when he got through to me. I started questioning him about who he was trying to reach when he got me.”
She had been talking for twenty minutes already. It was clear from her body language that she was no longer interested in me. I had lost interest when the fraudster turned out to be such an old guy.
“Oh, that is interesting. That small, really? I’m not doubting you. It’s just this phone is not small. I know things have changed. My little window into the world gives me at least that much information.
It’s a bit of a cliché that I have a big red phone but I enjoy the color. The walls and floor in the room are white, as is the table. The table has a few blue and red speckles as well. The chair at the table is a worn white leather chair. And the toilet and sink are both porcelain white. If it wasn’t for the red phone, I think I would lose the ability to discern colors.
The phone has a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. I sometimes sit at the phone and turn the rotary. It doesn’t do anything, mind you. When I lift the headset, it automatically connects somewhere. I don’t know who does connection or who decides on what number. If they listen in on my conversation, they never say anything. When someone hangs up on the other end, another call is placed, and another, until I hang up the phone on the receiver.
“Why’d you come to me? Why didn’t you go to the hospital? Isn’t that where your husband is now? Why not talk to doctors about this, why to me?”
“Don’t you think I started at the hospital? My husband was there, and the doctors listened to my story patiently. I could tell he wanted to suggest a psychiatric consult. I could see it in his eyes. He didn’t let me get through the entire story. He kept cutting me off and pushing me to get to the point. I appreciate that you mostly didn’t do that tonight, officer. I came to you because I had to find out whether the old man on the phone was real or not. If his story was true or if he was just a crazy man, then it wasn’t what I thought. Then I am crazy or he’s crazy, and either way it doesn’t get me much closer to my husband. But if it’s not—if he managed to make some connection through a different medium, then I have to know, officer. Will you help me?”
(3,626)
She entered the detectives’ room at the end of my shift. I felt sick when I saw her. I somehow knew that this was going to be a late night. She had that strange look on her face, the type that told me she probably shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, perhaps preparing dinner or taking care of her kids. Or, after I take a closer look at her clothing, she should have been supervising her nanny who would prepare dinner and bathe and put the kids to sleep. In my precinct, we get a lot of her type. I wondered not for the first time whether they paid us to fight crime or to fight these wives’ boredom. It didn’t make much of a difference in the end. Dealing with these wives was what kept the money in the bank and the food on the kids table. Their mother prepared their dinners and was happy to do it. And I was happy for her to do it. She wasn’t a trophy woman. She was a good woman. She did her share and I did my share. It didn’t take a detective to know that the woman before me never did her share.
She walked through the wooden gate and made her way to my desk. I was the only one left. I was here to catch any calls before we called it a night. Her clickity-clackity shoes echoed off the walls. She was more plastic than natural. Good to look at but not look at too closely. “Officer?” she asked as she made her way to the front of my desk.
“Detective, Ma’am. Detective Thomson. What may I do for you this evening?”
“May I sit?” she asked as she sat on the wooden chair. I should have told her that less than an hour before an HIV-positive drug addict sat on that very chair. We caught him lurking around the mansions around Turner’s bend. It was strange that he was in our precinct since no public transportation went anywhere near our precinct. He didn’t tell us, but we figured a drug deal went bad and they dropped him here as an object lesson, knowing how we treat people like him in our station. I guess that makes us the drug dealers’ muscles. We had a job to do and we did it. The addict won’t be heading to these parts again. For all I knew, while we processed him in that very chair, he might have bled a little into the wood. It was an old chair and there were many splinters. The office was one big splinter, when you really got down into it. The fresh coat of paint they threw on the walls each year was as bogus as she was. It was all rotten to the core. I didn’t speak about these types of things when her kind was in earshot. As I said, I was here to put food on my kid’s table, and if I had to baby the likes of her, I was a good father, and I’d do it.
“Please. What’s on your mind?” I asked her. I maintained a bemused look. It was the most serious I could manage at this time of night in front of this type of woman.
She looked me in the eye. She had blue eyes. The type of blue you only see in aquariums and advertisements for tropical beaches in far off islands where I’ll never be able to afford a vacation. I could see why swimming in her waters could be so enticing. It’s too bad that sharks infest her waters. I felt bad for her husband. He probably thought he was getting so much more than a plastic trophy. I guess we always think we’re getting so much more until we get it home and unwrap it.
“I had the strangest call tonight,” she said. “I debated whether I should come here. There are so many prank calls. But he sounded so honest, so sincere.”
I immediately knew that she had fallen for a swindle. This happens more than you can imagine. You couldn’t tell by looking at them, but these trophy wives are very lonely creatures. They have their chatter groups, where they get together and bitch about their help and their shopping. But when they get right down to it, they’re alone. They don’t confide in their husbands or their friends or their family. They don’t confide in anyone. I’ve seen many of them take the opportunity to confide in psychics and swindlers. They think they’ll talk for a chance to put someone down. And that includes telemarketers and swindlers. I saw how this evening was going to go down: she wanted me to pry her out away from whatever they got from her. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a late night after all. We fill out the paper, and she talks to her bank and credit cards and makes everything right. It’s better when they come early on these types of things. I’ve caught a few of these cases where they waited too long and it took hours to get all the paper straight. If she spoke to him on this night, then I might be able to get this all squared away in an hour. There’s a reason their husbands thought to keep these women in trophy cases. Better there than breaking everything in sight. A bull in a china store is no better.
“Tell me about what happened, Ma’am. It’s never worse than you think it is. We’ll take care of it.”
“Protect and serve, eh, officer?” the woman asked. Her head turned to the side and she looked at me sideways. I could see each of her black lashes curled up and away from her eyes. My wife was a good cook and great with the children, but she didn’t have an eyelash to bat an eyelash at, if you see where I’m going. I’m a man, as weak as any other man is. And don’t think I didn’t think about it right there. Finish the paperwork. Maybe she’s feeling lonely. Maybe she likes men in uniform. I have a uniform in the back, in the locker room. It was all very private. Everything was always very private back there.
“That’s what I’m here for. To protect and serve, Ma’am. In all ways.” I turned my bemused look into a meaningful one. If she was going to flirt, I was going to flirt right back at her, food on the kids’ table or not. “What is your name? For the report, I mean. We need to keep good records here.”
“Sandra MacDonald,” she said. She put her left hand on the desk and the huge engagement ring almost blinded me. It was larger than her thumb’s knuckle. I pulled out my notepad and jotted down her name. “That’s with an M-A-C,” she added.
“Okay, Mrs. MacDonald. What happened on your call tonight?”
She laughed nervously. I straightened in the chair and cleaned the ink off the tip of the pen. I chewed the pen cap and waited for her to continue. In any good interrogation, you have to let the witness talk it through first, before you start putting words into their mouth. It makes it seem like those words were their own. It helps them sound more honest since they believe the words are their own. They never are, of course. The words end up being whatever it is we feed them. In this case, I’m already working out the words I will include on the report. I just needed her to say a few keywords and sign the paper. After the paperwork, we can see if there’s anything left between us. I resisted smoothing back my hair.
“He didn’t give me his name,” Sandra started in. “I have a good memory for these things, conversations. I’ll tell it like he said it and I’ll let you think if this is as crazy as it sounded.”
“However you want it. Take your time. Do you want water or coffee or something?”
“That’s okay. He sounded so desperate. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The phone rang late this evening. It was after dinner and the kids were asleep. I was straightening up after our dinner. I don’t spend much time on the phone. I never liked phones and never gave my number out. It surprised me when it rang. Only my mother had the phone number, and she called early in the morning after I see the kids off to school. It was the only time it ever rings and the only time I ever pick it up. That’s why I was so surprised. At first I was worried. My mother isn’t in the best of health, and they know to call me if anything ever happens to her. Thankfully this wasn’t that call. But I did think for a moment that it might be, which is why I grabbed it.”
I pretended to jot down notes as she talked. I nodded often and wrote the L.A. Raider’s schedule in my pad. I almost have the games for the season memorized. Knowing when you’re going to play and who you’re going to play is important in understanding the strategy for your team. The Raiders were going places this year, I knew. I just wanted to make sure I understood how they were going to get there.
“I picked up the phone on the third ring. There was a man on the other side. As soon as I picked up he started saying, ‘hello, hello?’ He kept repeating it, as if not expecting to hear anyone on the other side. He had called me, and it was strange. I greeted him and asked who he was. He said me he didn’t know. I held the phone’s handset at arm’s distance away from and really looked at it. I don’t know what I was expecting. I thought maybe it would tell me who this strange man was. Normally I would have hung up. I think most normal people might have. There was just something in his voice that sounded desperate. It wasn’t only desperation it was also—I don’t know how to say this. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t really place it. It was like a déją vu moment. You know the type? You are sure you’ve heard it before but you just don’t know when. He kept talking as I held the handset away from my ear. He sounded resigned, as if another person was about to hang up on him, and he kind of understood why we did that and didn’t want to hold it against us.”
I wondered what type of scam she was involved with. This didn’t sound like the typical Nigerian call. The scammers are much smarter now. Either they pretend to be a bank or something to get your information at the beginning of the call. Or the keep you on the phone for a while. They want to build up your trust before they start asking for things. This sounded like the second case. “You heard all of that when not even listening into the phone?”
“I know it sounds strange.” She laughed. “It sounds strange to me too as I describe it. But I knew that voice and I knew what it wanted. I put the phone back on my ear and I said hello again. He stopped talking for a moment. Then he started in. He spoke slowly. It wasn’t like he was choosing his words carefully, it was like he was afraid that if he said things too quickly I would run away, like a dog approaching a bone to see if it’s safe to grab. He said, ‘Do you mind if I go on? There’s just so much I want to tell you. Not many people want to listen once I get into it. I know it’s me and all my talking, and I completely understand if you want to go before I even start in.’ I assured him that I did want to hear what he had to say. At the time it was just curiosity. He reminded me of someone that I couldn’t place I figured if he spoke more I’d be able to put a name on it.”
“Have you placed him now that you’ve had some time to think about it?” I asked, looking for a way to cut this story shorter. Wherever Sandra was trying to get, she certainly was taking her sweet time.
She ignored me, lost in her memories of the strange phone call. “I asked him what his name was. He said he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember a lot of things. I was sure I had heard that voice before. It was why I stayed on the phone. I had to place it. It nagged at me like a mosquito.”
“What did he want?” I asked her. I realized it was time for the leading questions. I needed to lead her somewhere. I was again wrong about her. I thought she had come in to report something. Now I figured she had come in only to talk to someone. And where there’s talk there may be other things. I might have to give the wife a call, let her know that I’d be home late tonight. A late night report. The usual.
“He didn’t want anything, exactly. He seemed relieved to talk to someone. He kept telling me that most of the people he spoke to hung up immediately, or after they heard his story. He told me it was a fantastical story, unbelievably so. And the way he said it, I believed it. He voice was soft and had a roll to it. I could see myself falling on top of that voice and losing my way.”
I lowered my voice. “Did you catch the number when he called?” She wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was staring at the wall behind me, lost in her thoughts.
“At this point he took a long deep breath. I could hear the wind cross over his throat and down into his lungs. He held it for a second a let it out. I thought he might be crazy, perhaps delusional. I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t that I was entertained, it was that I was enthralled. There was a mystery to it. Something real, and my life is so full of stuff that’s not real, if you know what I mean.”
I decided to take a different tact. There are always lots of ways to crack an oyster, and the more I looked at her, the more juicy I thought of the pearl inside her plastic shell. “Your life at home isn’t real?”
She looked at me with that look that spoke volumes: it was as if I had no idea how difficult her life was. I swallowed down a laugh. This woman was quite something. Her life must be very difficult, with her big house and her help and her judging the common folk. Her oyster tasted sour already, and I hadn’t chucked the shell.
Her eyes flashed with anger as if she had been reading my thoughts. “My husband has been in a coma for the past eight years, officer. So, yes, my home life at times is surreal and at times difficult. When I say that there was something real in the man’s voice, what I was talking about was an emotional connection. It’s something I only have with my children, and it’s one way with children. A parent loves their children so much more than the children love their parent. It’s not their fault. It’s how it is. You love because you give, and children take. But that’s not important. I want to finish my report. I’ll try to leave the emotional asides to the side.”
“I’m sorry about your husband. I didn’t mean anything by it. Please, do go on. I want to finish this report for you and see what we I can do to help you.” After the news about her husband, I downshifted for a moment. What she was saying really got me thinking. But it didn’t take long to return to the subject at hand. She was as good as a widow and clearly not emotionally all here anymore. I judged whether this would be considered taking advantage of someone, and it fell into the line in the middle. I probably shouldn’t do it, but if I did, I wouldn’t go to hell—at least not over this infraction.
“When I told him I’d listen to his story he told me how kind I was. It was like I was giving him something, when just listening to him talk was giving me something. I asked why he chose me. This is where I got my first clue of what was going on. He told me he didn’t call me. Don’t look at me like that, officer. Ever since I walked through those doors, all you’ve been doing is judging the best way to get into my skirt. Just listen to the story first.”
Her last word gave me hope. Maybe once the crazy woman got through her story there might be something else in it for me. I looked longingly at the phone on the desk, only half listening to her words. I was planning the call to my wife. It wasn’t that my wife was suspicious but she was no dummy. Each night I worked late she checked the police blotter. She would know if an investigation ran late tonight. The town was quiet tonight, too quiet to get away with what I had planned. I missed the first part of her words before I pulled myself back over to her conversation.
“He said he was studying the phone. He spent a lot of his time studying the phone when he wasn’t talking on it. Isn’t that the strangest thing? Who studies their phones? I mean, I see lots of business people on their fancy phones checking mail or sending messages. But who stares at a phone, especially an old rotary phone for hours at a time? When he described the phone I began to understand. I hadn’t seen a real phone is so long, it was almost comforting to know that those types of phones still exist.”
I knew I shouldn’t, but how could I resist. “Did he tell you what type of phone it was?”
“Why yes, he did. It was a large red telephone. He described it as very heavy and very large. He was very interested to know how big I thought the phone should be. When I told him about my cell phone, he was amazed. He said he had heard of them before—he had spoken often on the phone to other people—but he had never seen one. He wasn’t only amazed at the phone. He wanted to know about other modern conveniences.”
There had to be a point here. And it was time I started guiding her to it. “You must have found that a bit strange.”
“It was like he had never been outside in modern time. I thought of dementia, of course. He told me that his memory was ‘no longer his friend’ and it played tricks on him from time to time. He sounded so sad and alone. I figured he was trying to call someone else when he got through to me. I started questioning him about who he was trying to reach when he got me.”
She had been talking for twenty minutes already. It was clear from her body language that she was no longer interested in me. I had lost interest when the fraudster turned out to be such an old guy. It’s not that I have anything against old people. My parents were very old and I liked them well enough. It’s that old people scared me. It might have something to do with my job, or maybe I spent too much time hiding from my grandparents when I was younger. The old people have a smell, and it’s a smell I wanted to avoid when possible.
“But his sadness had a curiosity that was deeply embedded in his speech,” she continued. “He found everything so interesting and amazing. He sounded trapped in the past, a place he no longer wanted to be but couldn’t figure out how to escape. That’s why he called people. At least that was what I thought in the beginning. The phone was his window to the outside world. The only when he received his information. He knew things had changed, but it was hard to explain the new things. It was like trying to explain colors to a blind person. They understand at some level, but it’s not the same level as someone who had seen colors.
“It was his description of his room that nagged at me. His phone was not only big, it was also red. It was the only color in the room. He admitted it was a bit of cliché, but he enjoyed the color. The walls and floors in his room were white, as was the table and chair. He said that if it weren’t for the red phone, he would lose the ability to discern colors. There were no other colors in the room. I asked about a window or a door, but he said there were none. Just the table, chair, and phone. I asked how he ate, and he said he didn’t know.”
“And the bathroom,” I asked. It was clear this caller was insane. I still couldn’t figure out why she brought this story to me. The hospital was for the insane people. We were only interested in the criminally insane at the station.
“I asked about that as well. He claimed there was none. It was an empty room with a table and a red phone. I had my doubts about his sanity again. He sounded like such a nice man, a man whose voice I could almost place. It was there, pulling at my furthest memories. But whoever it was, I couldn’t remember at the time. This closed-in room was not the only weird part of his story. He went on to describe how the phone worked.
“The phone had a rotary, with the ten numbers working their way around the dial counterclockwise. He would sit for hours and turn the rotary. It didn’t do anything, though. He would turn it and watch it turn back. It made that clicking sound as it worked its way around the dial. When he lifted the handset, it automatically connected somewhere. He didn’t know who connected him or how they decided on the number. All he did know was that they never called the same number twice. He didn’t know if they listened in on his conversation because they never said anything. When the person on the other line hung up, another call was placed, and then another, until he hung up the handset on the phone.”
“I think I see where you’re going and why you’re here,” I said. “You think he’s trapped somewhere and you want me to investigate into who he is?”
“You make me sound like a crackpot.”
I didn’t say anything. She did sound like a crackpot. She wanted me to investigate a strange call from a man who said he was trapped in a white box with a red phone. He never ate and never shat and she thinks this is the job for the police. I was wrong about her when I said she was a plastic trophy. At least plastic trophies knew to only worry about themselves or perhaps their dogs. This woman worried about crazy people—and crazy people, I began thinking, who might not even exist.
“I’m not done yet, officer.
“Why’d you come to me? Why didn’t you go to the hospital? Isn’t that where your husband is now? Why not talk to doctors about this, why to me?”
“Don’t you think I started at the hospital? My husband was there, and the doctors listened to my story patiently. I could tell he wanted to suggest a psychiatric consult. I could see it in his eyes. He didn’t let me get through the entire story. He kept cutting me off and pushing me to get to the point. I appreciate that you mostly didn’t do that tonight, officer. I came to you because I had to find out whether the old man on the phone was real or not. If his story was true or if he was just a crazy man, then it wasn’t what I thought. Then I am crazy or he’s crazy, and either way it doesn’t get me much closer to my husband. But if it’s not—if he managed to make some connection through a different medium, then I have to know, officer. Will you help me?”
The machine was large and dominated the center of the doctor’s office. I didn’t think it would be so big. It’s funny how they don’t have any photos of the machine, not anywhere. The thought was that the doctors were always trying to protect them, afraid that if the machine got into the wrong hands, bad things would happen. There was the one-time limitation, of course. Everybody knew that. You could ask the machine the question only once. Nobody knew what happened if you asked it a second time. It just wasn’t done. Maybe it always printed the same answer, and people didn’t want to tax its circuits. Or maybe the answers were so incredibly different, that we wouldn’t want to use the machine anymore.
Every person had the right to know one of the things about their deaths. There were three questions you could ask: when you were going to die, how you were going to die. There was only one question. It was an inalienable right to know how you were to die. The doctors controlled the answers for our own good. There were times when the answers weren’t shared.
You didn’t get to ask the question until you turned twenty-six years old. It was too late for some people, of course. A surprising large percentage of people die before their twenty-sixth birthday. Only the person could ask the question. The machine didn’t work by proxy. You needed to stand in front of the machine for the paper to slip out. And the strange thing about the paper was that nobody else could read it. There was nothing printed on it that people could see. Only the person who the paper was about could read what was written. I guess it’s not so strange when you live your life knowing these things. But of course you didn’t. That’s why you asked, isn’t it.
The machine beeped and burped and acrid smoke poured out of different doors and windows. It was a chaotic scene. And then, just like that, it stopped. And a small white business-card-sized card popped out.
(350)
The machine was large and dominated the center of the doctor’s office. I didn’t think it would be so big. It’s funny how they don’t have any photos of the machine, not anywhere. The thought was that the doctors were always trying to protect them, afraid that if the machine got into the wrong hands, bad things would happen. There was the one-time limitation, of course. Everybody knew that. You could ask the machine the question only once. Nobody knew what happened if you asked it a second time. It just wasn’t done. Maybe it always printed the same answer, and people didn’t want to tax its circuits. Or maybe the answers were so incredibly different, that we wouldn’t want to use the machine anymore.
Every person had the right to know one of the things about their deaths. There were three questions you could ask: when you were going to die, how you were going to die. There was only one question. It was an inalienable right to know how you were to die. The doctors controlled the answers for our own good. There were times when the answers weren’t shared.
You didn’t get to ask the question until you turned twenty-six years old. It was too late for some people, of course. A surprising large percentage of people die before their twenty-sixth birthday. Only the person could ask the question. The machine didn’t work by proxy. You needed to stand in front of the machine for the paper to slip out. And the strange thing about the paper was that nobody else could read it. There was nothing printed on it that people could see. Only the person who the paper was about could read what was written. I guess it’s not so strange when you live your life knowing these things. But of course you didn’t. That’s why you asked, isn’t it.
The machine beeped and burped and acrid smoke poured out of different doors and windows. It was a chaotic scene. And then, just like that, it stopped. And a small white business-card-sized card popped out.
It could be that the machine does more than tell you where you’re going to die. It let’s you choose to change it. If you ask it again, it’ll try again. People always think that dying by overeating ice cream is going to be a good death. Obesity, however, is never a good death. And then there’s the person who gets the dream card: the one that tells him he’s not going to die. Or at least he thinks it’s saying that he’s not going to die. What happens to that guy? He dies, of course. Everybody dies. He dies in the most unexpected way, of course. More unexpected than the card says.
Getting hit by a sign that says: “live forever” as an advertisement for face cream. Something silly like that. Then there’s the doctor angle. What are the doctors trying to hide? Why won’t they let people get two cards? So many mysteries to fill in. Who should narrate it? A wanna-be doctor? It should be somebody knew to the business, somebody who doesn’t understand the business he is in. Who controls the machines? It’s not the doctors. Never the doctors. It’s the funeral home directors. They’re the ones with the machines. Damn funeral directors. It’s family run, and it’s a package deal: you want the card, you have to sign up for the full burial package. The works. If you don’t hit the minimal threshold, you don’t get the machine. But the machines are stored and used it places other than funeral homes. They found that getting people into funeral homes to use the machine was impossible. Putting it in the local mall, however. That was possible and could be done.
That’s a sick angle. We’ll see where I go with it.
On an ordinary day in an ordinary week along an ordinary causeway. Let me start that over again. I was chatting them up. So show me chatting them up, stupid.
“Did you see how he did that?” I said as way of introduction. I’m my third cup in on a four-cup day, and I’m wired. I’m talking to three colleagues in the hallway. The meeting was a big success and we were going to celebrate in the cafeteria. I promised to buy the team lunch, and after that meeting, I was only too happy to fulfill my promise.
She was there. She was tall and blonde. Her hair curly and long and always present. No matter which way you looked at her, no matter what she was saying, it was there. You couldn’t avoid it. It wasn’t like her blue eyes or her straight teeth. They were there and I would lose myself for hours in them. It was more than that. There are some people whose entire presence makes you feel that there is something right in the world. That the world was not just created from a random bundle of energy, but was created with a purpose in mind, an end goal which the energy hurtled to at warp speeds. It’s not so much a waste of space if there’s not a purpose, but a waste of that immense amount of energy and time.
And at this moment she was it. She was what the universe was created for. I knew that the way the prophets must have known the truths. She laughed and her hair shook with such power that it blinded me.
We weren’t alone. Samuel was there. He was always there, always a step behind me, always waiting. I worked for Samuel. It wasn’t that he held that against me. He was the nicest man, a family man with a straight set of morals that wouldn’t allow him to accept the smallest kick back for anything from anybody. Vendors would throw gifts at him, and he would send them all back, thanking them profusely, but sure that it would be wrong on some moral level for him to accept any of the gifts. He wore a straight tie and straight slacks and every day would work as hard as he could, only to race home and work as hard as he could there as well. He was an upright guy, the type of guy that you couldn’t help adore and wish there were more like him. He was a great guy to work for. He was demanding but reasonable, he wanted the work done. And he never took credit for any of his employee’s work.
I’d worked for Samuel for five years, and they were the most productive five years of Samuel’s life. He told me as much. I was flattered, of course. This was my first job and my first boss, and Samuel had been working since before I entered high school.
And then there was Jane. Jane worked for Samuel as well and was overweight and short. She reminded me of those Norwegian trolls, the type with the frizzy hair and the squat bodies. He clothing all seemed to be cut from one piece of cloth and sewed back together in such a straight pattern that the skirt and the shirt might as well never have been cut. She squealed when she spoke. Excitement brought upon higher registers, and Jane was always excited about something. Even the small happy things excited Jane. She would find an extra dollar in her purse and she would exclaim her good fortune, before turning around and wondering who had stolen the rest of her money.
I stared at her and I imagined myself swinging my laptop and bashing her head in. Before the thought was finished in my head I knew I shouldn’t have thought it. It’s not the type of thought that normal people have, at least normal people who share their thoughts. But there it was. I pictured the black plastic top to my laptop crack across her forehead. I saw the blood spurt across the cover and drip onto the mouse pad. Her head would snap backwards before her chin bounced forward and onto her chest with a crack. It was not the type of thoughts anyone should have.
There is a thin cotton string that attached us all to sanity. Most people don’t realize it’s there. They think they are firmly in touch with their sanity and nothing could separate them. The separation happens more often than you think. Johnson was a sales clerk. I knew him mostly as a blue suited blur that moved quickly through our cubicles to the coffee room. He had few friends in the office, but he was not a loner. He would come to work late in the morning and his eyes would be blackened from a night spent drinking with his real friends, the friends that he didn’t work with.
On the third Wednesday of March, Johnson broke through the locks that protected the red door that led to the roof of the three-story office complex. He walked to the edge of the roof and stepped off the roof. He fell three stories onto the beautifully manicured lawn. He died on impact. It turned out that the string that held his sanity in check had snapped the previous night. He probably didn’t even realize it. It was a normal Tuesday night. He joined his roommates, two of which were still in school, on an elongated six to seven year undergraduate program, for a night at the local bars. They didn’t think of themselves as townies. Some of them were still in school, and if you were a student, you couldn’t be a townie. It was one of the unwritten rules of judging those who weren’t in school and happened to live in the backwater town that your college called its home.
I fantasized that the blank page would scare me today. It didn’t. I slid into my leather chair, opened the lid, and typed these two sentences. I’m at the end of them, the two sentences, that is. I’m not sure where I should go after this paragraph, or even after this sentence. Maybe I’ll stay a while here, hang around this paragraph, add extraneous words and mindless thoughts. You know, to get the proverbial juices flowing. I’m not sure which proverb the juices flow from, but I’m sure the proverb doesn’t miss them.
Ah, the second paragraph beckoned. I wasn’t sure I was going to move here, but here I moved before I gave it a second look. And now I’m here and I’m thinking the story must move forward. I haven’t even introduced myself. That’s rather common for me. I start in on the babbling and not moving forward and wasting time by talking about filled paragraphs, and I forget to introduce myself.
I’ve been trying to follow a formula I learned at public speaking training at work. When he arrived at how to tell a story, the instructor was very proud of his formula. He had never seen this formula anywhere. For all he knew, and he told us everything he knew, he had invented it. I don’t think he did invent it, but he was proud of it and we weren’t to tell him otherwise. He was a nice old man and it wouldn’t be nice of us to disillusion us. At least not right there in front of everyone. And for all I know he did invent it. He was old enough to have done so.
He instructed us this way. There are four easy steps to tell a story: step 1: choose a character. That’s easy. I’m the character. You may call me Harold, if you have to call me anything at all. I’m a forty-two year old office worker with a bit of a gambling problem. It’s those darn video poker machines everywhere. The state lottery installed them in bars and supermarkets, and I find myself in front of the screens, pounding away at the buttons even if I have only a few minutes of extra time here and there.
There’s much more about me that I’m not sharing, of course. There’s my upbringing in the broken house where the ceiling was literally falling in on me. Literally. As in I would wake up most mornings with plaster in my hair. You wouldn’t know it to look at most ceilings, but there’s enough plaster up there to last a long time, long enough to sprinkle white powder across a person’s hair for twenty years. It might have had something to do with our upstairs neighbors. They banged a lot on their floor. I didn’t know what it was until I was much older, of course. They were fiends. After all that banging you would think that the ceiling would eventually give way wholesale and fall on top of me. It never did. It didn’t even give way enough to form holes through which my adolescent self could peak through and learned a bit about this and a bit about that. I’d have to wait many years to learn about that. But at least I didn’t know what I was missing for many years afterwards. It would have given me a leg up, so to speak. It might even have made up for the broken house. It’s hard to say, to measure such dissimilar things and see if they’d balance out. Looking back it’s easy to say it would have. The plaster was so bad in high school that my first girlfriend was convinced my hair was turning gray. I think it was a turn on for her, what with me being the older guy and everything. She was actually older than me. She dumped me at the prom to go out with a real older guy. He was visiting from college for a break and that’s when she broke up with me. It was a lonely prom.
I didn’t think I had that much about me in me. I’m a rather boring person normally. I guess this is a abnormal situation. I didn’t mean to spend so much time in step 1 as I have three more steps I haven’t even touched yet. Step 2 is to choose a goal. The instructor didn’t indicate this, but the goal really shouldn’t be obvious. It would be easy for me to say that my goal was to quit gambling before I lost my proverbial shirt off my hairless back. You got to love those proverbs and clean backs. I’m rather proud of at least my back. No, I’m not going with such an obvious and healthy goal as quitting gambling. I like gambling and gambling likes me. Not in that it gives me much money, but in that it helps me pass time when I’m idling in traffic. That’s the mental traffic not the physical type. I haven’t driven in a long time. My eyes aren’t so good and they don’t let me drive much. I sometimes sneak out onto the road as they haven’t taken my driver’s license. It’s not renewed or anything, but I still have it. They tried to take it last time I failed the eye exam, but I left in a huff. That’s another story.
My goal is I want to quit my job. I do IT infrastructure management in a small chair in a small desk in a small cubicle in a small department in a small company in a small town in a small country. Well, the country isn’t really small. I got a bit carried away. But the rest of it is small. Very small. And I work for a very small man. He’s a close talker and he has terrible breath. I’m convinced he gargles with mothballs before he comes to work each morning. I’ve worked there eight years and I haven’t moved from my small chair. My boss hired me and he hasn’t moved much either. I’ve wanted to quit for most of those eight years. I was fresh out of college when I joined and I thought I was going places and the company was going places. I worked very hard to try to prove myself. I don’t remember if my boss had the bad breath initially, or he acquired it over time. The years blend together after awhile. I thought I would eventually look for something better but I didn’t. So that’s my goal: quit my job. I haven’t really given it much thought beyond that.
That brings me to step 3. This is the crucial step. This is where the drama and choice and story-ness really come in. I’m Harold, the forty-two year old systems integrator and I want to quit my job. The thing is—and step 3 is always the thing—the thing is the boss is my wife’s father. You see, step three is the obstacle that is stopping the hero (that’s me) from achieving his goal. I married after college and my father-in-law got me the job. He saw potential in me, and he wanted me to provide for his beautiful daughter. And she was beautiful back then. She was a poet. Her body was so long that it took me hours to work my eyes from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Trust me, I used to do that a lot. When we first married, I would stare and stare, and she would ask me what I was doing, and when I told her I was trying to measure he length, she would always laugh. She was not only long, she was long and beautiful, and I wanted to do anything to please her.
After I came out of school she agreed to marry me. I asked her father if it was okay, and he assured me it was under one condition. I would have to get a real job. When my wife introduced me to him during college, he nicknamed me hippy. Now before you get the wrong idea, I’m not a hippy. I don’t have long hair or particularly liberal beliefs. I certainly don’t believe in tie-die shirts or pacifism or strangely named ice cream. It was just he thought all college kids were hippies. He didn’t go to college and started working at the small company at a very young age. He worked his way up through the small company until he ran their infrastructure department. Now, he didn’t know much about telephones or networks or later computers, but he had been there a long time and that’s where he ended up. When a person ends up somewhere after long years, it’s hard to move them. It’s like a caramel bar that you lose in a couch. Over time it melts and molds itself into the metal frame of the couch and you kind of forget it’s there and it becomes part of the couch. You probably can’t even think of the couch without thinking of the caramel bar. You certainly don’t want to touch it, what with the stickiness and the sugar and the strange syrupy behavior it would exhibit.
So I agreed that I would get a job before I married his daughter, and look for a job I did. We wanted to be married before September, and I spent the entire summer going in and out of one dead-end job after the next. It was 1986 and the world was a different place than it is today. The jobs weren’t there for a recent college graduate with no aim and no experience and no connections. Well, I did have one connection. And so I went to work for him. I installed phone jacks and plugged in typewriters and did the stuff that makes offices work for small companies. It wasn’t bad in the beginning, as I said. I married and I was happy and life was as good as I ever thought it was going to get.
Then my wife became pregnant and the world changed. We were so excited and so focused on the baby that I started not to pay attention at work much. I started goofing off, reading books about babies and marriages and what I really wanted to be when I grew up. My father-in-law didn’t like that I wasn’t taking my job seriously anymore. He spent thirty years at the small company and he wanted me to take my work as seriously as he took his work because I was doing his work. Then the baby came along and I told my wife that I wanted to stop working for her father, and strike out on my own, get a job that really fit who I was. At the time, though, I still didn’t know who I was. I was a new father with a large rent and a used station wagon that my parents bought for us when our little bundle of joy arrived. I couldn’t afford the time to find myself. We discussed it and then she spoke with her father, and six years later I found myself in the same job in the same chair writing about the four-step approach to telling a story that I learned in a small conference room in a small training class.
And that brings me to step 4 in the storytelling process. After you have a character and a goal and an obstacle, you need a conclusion. What happens to the character? Does he overcome his obstacle to achieve his goal? I won’t be able to illustrate this last step because I’m still sitting here, thinking about how I’m going to tell my father-in-law that it’s over. That I love his daughter and his granddaughter, and except for his bad breath and his small stature, I don’t mind him much, but I can’t stand working for him in his small office at his small company. Maybe I’ll tell him later. I have a few minutes to kill now. I’m going to run over to the local bar and see how my luck stands today.
I started writing and ended up with nothing much. Ideas are like that. Lucky for me there’s always tomorrow.
My eyeballs barely stay open and my body feels like an oversized sore thumb. I walk up the stairs to the study and flop on my cushioned couch. A fiery sensation winds its way up over my calves. I shouldn’t blame the stairs. I purchased my three-floor condominium for the view and the extra space, and I figured the extra stairs wouldn’t kill me and might even keep me in the semblance of a normal shape. It didn’t. As I pulled my baggy burgundy shorts over my oversized legs in the locker room today, I cursed the stairs and their false guarantees.
I visited the gym today. I think of the visit the same way I thought of my visits to an elderly aunt who I never really knew, and who, at the end, had nobody but me left in the world. It was an obligation and perhaps the right thing to do, but the visits were never pleasant. It was a duty that I steeled myself by gritting my artificially altered teeth and breathing shallow mouth breaths.
I’m not much of a gym person. As much as I wish it wasn’t the case, there are gym people. I watched these rats scurry around the gym as if they owned the place. They wore elastic clothing that stretched and bounced and generally scared the lemon juice out of me. They spoke to each other with a familiarly that bordered on insanity, offering one another something called a spot, and providing suggestions about how to build muscles through the optimal number of reps verses resistance. I read many science fiction books, and there is the constant theme that the hero is a stranger in a new world. He shares his discovery of the new world. When I visited the gym, I felt that amazement and I hoped to share it with the world. It turns out I can’t. There’s a theory that it’s impossible for peoples of one epoch to understand peoples of different epochs. No matter how much history or philosophy or study, once an epoch line is crossed, there is no way to truly understand how the peoples in a different epoch lived or thought. It turns out the gym is the same way for me. I don’t think I will ever be able to explain it no matter how many times I visit. For my sake, I doubt that will add up to many.
It turns out the gym will stay in business even if I never go again, never use any more days in my three years worth of memberships. Like many things, it’s cheaper when you buy in bulk, and also like many things, you believe you’re going to use every last day of the membership. After the tour I had only the best of intentions.
I once bought a hundred six-pack paper towels. It was on sale in one of those warehouse stores, and the sale was so good that the wife and I decided to grab a whole mat of them. Did you know that they sell such things in mats? They even used a forklift to deliver the mat to our truck. They left us to load it, though. Loading would have been extra. We piled the extra-absorbent paper towels into large pyramids in our attic and promptly forgot about them. We would shop at the supermarket and without thinking buy a single or triple paper towel, always forgetting that waiting in our creaky attic was a mat full of absorbent goodness. I know it’s hard to imagine forgetting about a mat of paper towels. It turns out we did remember. It was after a terrible rainstorm, and our condominium had leaked all over. We used up the dry towels and our two rolls of paper towels in the kitchen when it hit us: we had an entire mat of paper towels in the attic. We lowered the attic stairs to find that the roof had leaked worse than the rest of the house. Lucky for us, the water got through the plastic wrapping and we were left with a soggy mat of paper towels and a surprisingly dry attic.
“Of course I knew,” I say knowing full well that neither of us really knows. You stare at me. At first you’re not sure if I’m joking. The glint in my eye gives me away. I knew not to glint and yet I couldn’t stop myself. If you’re not in on the joke, then what good is any joke?
We sit outside and the night is cool. The water laps up against the small sandy beach at the park. We rest on a bench that overlooks the edge of the lake. Oversized concrete steps lead into the water. We’ve swam in the water many summers over the past forty years. Most times I swam with you and held you back. You would never say as much but I always knew. When I didn’t swim in the water, I watched you from this very bench, and you swam past the swimmer’s platform and around the edge of the lake, before returning to the bench. I would pull you up out of the water and wrap you in the oversized towel.
There was a time we both swam past the swimmer’s platform to where the boats lowered anchor. The water was heavier than seawater, and I struggled when we returned. You swam in front and kept turning back. You told me about the dolphins, and how they circled me when I swam, and how they wouldn’t let me fall into the depths of the lake. I swam and felt the dolphins cool bodies pass near my legs and arrived at the platform where I leaned my tired arms over the deck and rested my head on the sun-warmed wood. Children screamed on the platform, and it rocked gently each time a child jumped into the lake. You treaded water near the platform and I stared past the liquid stars that filled my vision and saw you smiling back at me. I waved at the departing dolphins and thanked them for their help. It didn’t matter that no dolphins lived in the lake. I swam and made it because of the dolphins and retold this story many times, each time swimming further beyond the swimmer’s platform until it was only us and the boats and the dolphins as far as the eye could see.
You grab my hand as if you see my thoughts like oversized bubbles hovering above my head. You don’t know what I think but you’re content that my thoughts are about us. You consider the moment and love how peaceful and quiet it is. How perfect the night arrived. The afternoon rains left a strong ozone smell that settled across the wet grass. The evening cool sat on top of the rains. You rub at the goose bumps that suddenly form along your forearms. I pull your arm gently and bring you in close, wrapping my arm around your shoulder to ward off the cold.
We watch two couples walk past our bench. I try to overhear their conversations and you snort in mock disapproval. You remember my explanations: conversations distract me, and since I’m distracted I might as well listen closely to catch their words. I cannot stop eavesdropping anymore than your twilight years can steal your beauty. The couples whisper too quietly for me to catch more than passing words. I lean my head into yours and we watch the tiny white waves tickle the beach.
It grows late and the stars peak from behind the clouds. The wind rustles the trees and their branches shake their newly budding leaves. Spring is ending by dragging summer through the park. You close your eyes as I crane my neck to find the constellations that kept me company over the long years. I learned of a few as a boy, and I locate them like old friends in a crowd. I never bothered to learn the rest, the same way I never made efforts to meet the strangers that skimmed through my life. You loved to watch me tell stories about the stars to our children. They finger painted stars like connect-the-dot puzzles and described to me what they drew. From there I winded the tales of heroes and villains, modulating my voice with the intensity of moments and the anticipation of overdue outcomes.
You always told me to write what I said, and I explained that my stories like lightning bugs lost their light when placed in a jar. You didn’t believe me and pestered me until I recorded some words, and pestered me until those words became stories, and pestered me until I shared those stories. You knew that was always what I wanted even if I hid from the truth under thick blankets and firm pillows.
Scene 1. The dark of space. Something flairs across the sky. It looks like the tail of a spaceship. It’s a fireball launched by a bored mage. He lies on the ground surrounded by a warrior with her armor and weapons scattered about her.
“You’ll give away our position,” she says.
“To whom?”
“Don’t be so proper all the time. There’s nobody around but us.”
“And the thief. He’s somewhere.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, looking around. “He usually is.”
Is that really how you want to start it? You really want to have that much uselessness in there?
Start with a fight scene. Does anyone want to see horribles fight? I’m not too sure of that.
