Kind of an abstract Gusev-like ending that pans away from my main characters
An ember broke free of the fire with a snap and floated into the sky, a firefly against the spread of backdropping stars. The flickering red grain danced in soft, frantic circles, rising upward. It dipped and seemed to be falling back to earth, before shooting up again, brightening as its red surface was drenched with cold night air. And, for just a moment, it seemed to die and disappear among the night. But to someone looking closely, someone dreaming into the deep black above them, the determined spark could be seen, minuscule and irredeemable, drifting up to be lost in the dark colosseum of dying lights.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Ketchup Bottle
I watched a middle-aged woman walk out of the condiment aisle and hoped it hadn't been her, because I had convinced myself that whoever it was would be important to me, and this woman did not call me to me with any electricity at all. The ketchup bottle was still facing forward, anyway, and my moment of worry about the poor uninteresting woman was unfounded. I walked to the center of the aisle and spun the ketchup bottle placed in the front. Better, I thought, with the label now facing away from me and the back of the bottle facing out. I wondered what I would say if she appeared now, as I stood with my hand on the bottle. Would I speak up and say something about my obsession with this bottle and how I had become obsessed with the idea that whoever it was who had also been turning the ketchup bottle around for the last two months would change my life forever? Or, would I pretend to be browsing the nutritional information of the various tomato based sauces, ignore the interested gaze, and move on? At that moment a simultaneous mixture of horror and relief swept over me. What if this had all been going on in my head? What if the bottle remained turned around because of sloppy shelving practices at this particular Safeway, or worse, what if the whole thing could be chalked up to coincidence? I knew that if either of these scenarios were the case, if no one else was turning around the bottle, and there was no obscure but somehow important communication going on with this ketchup bottle, that there was a good chance I was crazy or worse. This idea settled uncomfortably on me like an awareness of having made an inappropriate joke that comes in just after the joke is spoken, and hangs in the air, unacknowledged, like a bathroom smell. However, I reached out and turned the bottle around anyway, and the rear label faced me. I breathed a sigh of strange relief and walked toward the front of the store to checkout. I glanced one last time over my shoulder as I left the aisle behind. A woman stood at the far end, opposite the ketchup, and took in the various mustard options. She didn't look up. I wondered if she could be my ketchup-girl and laughed a little at myself. Pathetic, I thought, buy a dog or something.
I sat there, huddled and frozen at the aisle's end, waiting for him to leave. Just go say something I thought, but I couldn't bring myself to it. I watched as his hand hovered by the ketchup bottle. He looked troubled. Finally, he walked away, and I walked to the bottle to feel the last of the dissipating warmth from his touch.
I sat there, huddled and frozen at the aisle's end, waiting for him to leave. Just go say something I thought, but I couldn't bring myself to it. I watched as his hand hovered by the ketchup bottle. He looked troubled. Finally, he walked away, and I walked to the bottle to feel the last of the dissipating warmth from his touch.
Monday, May 11, 2009
1st Sentences
by Xochitl M. Perales
“The Void! The Void!,” Kevin screamed in a tone of agony.
A severed ring finger lay glinting mildly on top of a mulberry bush, a diamond engagement ring still attached, for some strange reason.
In the beginning, Demons ruled over the planet Nardor.
Analisa sat down ignoring our conversation, immersed in a book written by Sister Souljah, which she claims was assigned reading for one of her classes – yeah, right.
She had never had road rage before, but there’s always a first time for everything.
Would that I could walk on two feet like the rest of Earth’s inhabitants, but, alas, this is no longer a possibility for someone such as me, a former Guatemalan who had the misfortune to cross paths with a leg-eating werewolf.
I never asked to be born with three eyes, but I did at least appreciate having more than perfect vision.
Beware of the reptilian shapeshifters impersonating government officials, my mother always told me.
The sun cast blue-green rays across the valley in undulating waves, a mirage in conjunction with the dust clouds scattering the air in blurry patches.
“Your husband is dead,” said the stranger in the dark green suit.
Love is a song I stopped singing a long time ago, the moment it became apparent to me that the world was headed straight to hell in a pile of dirty diapers.
Across weather-beaten trails her bruised feet proceeded, blue as the peacock’s shimmering feathers rising antenna-like atop its head.
Monsoon season marks the time when Marisa’s husband likes to start fights and pick up loose women at the local bar.
He was the gayest homophobe I had ever met in my life, and I do not claim this lightly.
I cried endlessly as they lowered my lover’s coffin into the ground.
When in doubt, always consult a journeyman carpenter for the best way to seal up a room containing your worst enemy, while still allowing for enough air to breathe and a way to get food and supplies in and out.
My morning began with a cup of coffee, and a bloody corpse lying on my living room floor.
Fuck that!
I was embarrassed to be seen in public with a self-proclaimed alien abductee, especially one making every attempt imaginable to get taken again, regardless of the consequences.
I heard the sound of thunder, like war drums pounding in sturdy patterns down the contours of my spine, a terrifying experience, stark and ominous, and yet filled with a beauty too immense to even be whispered about in the dark.
“I’m going to kill that bastard!”
The little girl could not possibly understand the effect of her brilliant purple smile on the members of the congregation, who had moments earlier been praying for a sign that what they were doing would be sanctioned by God.
As the Cheetah took the Caribou down, it performed a dance so gentle and precise, and my eyes filled with tears to see the Cheetah first embrace its prey in a seemingly loving fashion, then bend over slowly to bite the Caribou’s neck, like a vampire’s kiss, in a beautiful death blow.
Where is that nasty bitch who ruined my life!?
The baby roach meandered its way uncertainly across the bathroom floor, a speck of brown-colored candy corn in motion.
“The Void! The Void!,” Kevin screamed in a tone of agony.
A severed ring finger lay glinting mildly on top of a mulberry bush, a diamond engagement ring still attached, for some strange reason.
In the beginning, Demons ruled over the planet Nardor.
Analisa sat down ignoring our conversation, immersed in a book written by Sister Souljah, which she claims was assigned reading for one of her classes – yeah, right.
She had never had road rage before, but there’s always a first time for everything.
Would that I could walk on two feet like the rest of Earth’s inhabitants, but, alas, this is no longer a possibility for someone such as me, a former Guatemalan who had the misfortune to cross paths with a leg-eating werewolf.
I never asked to be born with three eyes, but I did at least appreciate having more than perfect vision.
Beware of the reptilian shapeshifters impersonating government officials, my mother always told me.
The sun cast blue-green rays across the valley in undulating waves, a mirage in conjunction with the dust clouds scattering the air in blurry patches.
“Your husband is dead,” said the stranger in the dark green suit.
Love is a song I stopped singing a long time ago, the moment it became apparent to me that the world was headed straight to hell in a pile of dirty diapers.
Across weather-beaten trails her bruised feet proceeded, blue as the peacock’s shimmering feathers rising antenna-like atop its head.
Monsoon season marks the time when Marisa’s husband likes to start fights and pick up loose women at the local bar.
He was the gayest homophobe I had ever met in my life, and I do not claim this lightly.
I cried endlessly as they lowered my lover’s coffin into the ground.
When in doubt, always consult a journeyman carpenter for the best way to seal up a room containing your worst enemy, while still allowing for enough air to breathe and a way to get food and supplies in and out.
My morning began with a cup of coffee, and a bloody corpse lying on my living room floor.
Fuck that!
I was embarrassed to be seen in public with a self-proclaimed alien abductee, especially one making every attempt imaginable to get taken again, regardless of the consequences.
I heard the sound of thunder, like war drums pounding in sturdy patterns down the contours of my spine, a terrifying experience, stark and ominous, and yet filled with a beauty too immense to even be whispered about in the dark.
“I’m going to kill that bastard!”
The little girl could not possibly understand the effect of her brilliant purple smile on the members of the congregation, who had moments earlier been praying for a sign that what they were doing would be sanctioned by God.
As the Cheetah took the Caribou down, it performed a dance so gentle and precise, and my eyes filled with tears to see the Cheetah first embrace its prey in a seemingly loving fashion, then bend over slowly to bite the Caribou’s neck, like a vampire’s kiss, in a beautiful death blow.
Where is that nasty bitch who ruined my life!?
The baby roach meandered its way uncertainly across the bathroom floor, a speck of brown-colored candy corn in motion.
The Doorbell (Exercise 16)
The Doorbell (Exercise 16)
During the first three years Bea and Tom rented the house on Cedar Street once every few months the doorbell would ring without it having been rung. It never happened more than three times a year, so they didn't think very much of it. They made occasional jokes about a ghost, but no serious concerns or explanations arose.
But then the doorbell started ringing more frequently. At 3am. Or 5am. Once a week. Then three times a week.
“Should I see if I can unhook the doorbell,” Tom asked Bea.
“But what if we actually need it? How will I be able to hear UPS?”
“I don't like being woken up by it. I feel tired all day at work,” Tom said scratching just above his right sideburn, a frequent habit of his during a state of irritation or trying to solve a problem.
Bea decided she would sleep on the couch in the living room so she would be near the door to open it and determine what was causing the ringing the next time it happened. She had Tom's old baseball bat with her just in case. But that night the doorbell didn't ring. Nor did it ring the next night. On the third night she went back to sleeping in their bedroom. She had trouble falling asleep. Tom was snoring loudly and she kept anticipating hearing the ring of the doorbell. She counted even numbers backwards from one thousand. She felt she had just gone to sleep when it rang. She flung the covers off, picked up the bat and ran to the door, tossing it open. No one was there. She stepped out onto the porch and looked up and down the silent, dark street. Nothing.
The doorbell began ringing during the day, while Tom was at work. It happened five times in one day. Bea's nerves were frazzled. Tom said she looked pale.
“Maybe we should move?” he thought aloud.
Bea pressed her fingers to her temples. “No,” she said softly. And then, “Tom, what if it's something otherworldly?”
“What do you mean?” he asked not liking where this was going.
“Like a spirit or...a ghost.”
“That's ridiculous. I'm sure it's either a) malfunctioning or b) some joker playing tricks on us.”
The next day, after Tom had left for work, Bea picked up the hefty, worn yellow pages and thumbed through them until she found a listing for a psychic that sounded promising. She began to dial the number.
To Be Continued...
During the first three years Bea and Tom rented the house on Cedar Street once every few months the doorbell would ring without it having been rung. It never happened more than three times a year, so they didn't think very much of it. They made occasional jokes about a ghost, but no serious concerns or explanations arose.
But then the doorbell started ringing more frequently. At 3am. Or 5am. Once a week. Then three times a week.
“Should I see if I can unhook the doorbell,” Tom asked Bea.
“But what if we actually need it? How will I be able to hear UPS?”
“I don't like being woken up by it. I feel tired all day at work,” Tom said scratching just above his right sideburn, a frequent habit of his during a state of irritation or trying to solve a problem.
Bea decided she would sleep on the couch in the living room so she would be near the door to open it and determine what was causing the ringing the next time it happened. She had Tom's old baseball bat with her just in case. But that night the doorbell didn't ring. Nor did it ring the next night. On the third night she went back to sleeping in their bedroom. She had trouble falling asleep. Tom was snoring loudly and she kept anticipating hearing the ring of the doorbell. She counted even numbers backwards from one thousand. She felt she had just gone to sleep when it rang. She flung the covers off, picked up the bat and ran to the door, tossing it open. No one was there. She stepped out onto the porch and looked up and down the silent, dark street. Nothing.
The doorbell began ringing during the day, while Tom was at work. It happened five times in one day. Bea's nerves were frazzled. Tom said she looked pale.
“Maybe we should move?” he thought aloud.
Bea pressed her fingers to her temples. “No,” she said softly. And then, “Tom, what if it's something otherworldly?”
“What do you mean?” he asked not liking where this was going.
“Like a spirit or...a ghost.”
“That's ridiculous. I'm sure it's either a) malfunctioning or b) some joker playing tricks on us.”
The next day, after Tom had left for work, Bea picked up the hefty, worn yellow pages and thumbed through them until she found a listing for a psychic that sounded promising. She began to dial the number.
To Be Continued...
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Pomp
Don’t ask me how it works, I’m just a photographer. I only found out about this gig on Monster. You plug in a resume listing a double major in Photography and American History and you’re not going to get too many worthwhile hits. Just unrelated insurance garbage mostly. So when a high-paying salaried position with Kronos Industries comes up, yeah, you bite.
So no, I don’t know the secrets of time travel. I don’t know how they get the pod from point B to point A. How I don’t end up in the vacuum of space due to the constantly changing position of the Earth as it revolves around the sun at thirty kilometers a second. I don’t know anything about how the Earth I come back to isn’t exactly the same as the Earth I’ve left. I don’t know how they power it, how much the operating costs, where Kronos gets all its funding. I’m just a photographer. All I know is point and click.
Okay, so maybe I’ve been briefed on a little bit. I know a little about the safety procedures should the pod get stuck somehow in the past. I know about how far back the pods are capably of going, somewhere in the neighborhood of nine-hundred years though they keep revising that figure upward. I certainly know all the protocols and procedures for minimizing the impact of the present on the past. They run you through that shit for six months before you set foot in a pod. It’s practically a boot camp. And then every six months after that they require a quiz on specifics to make sure you’ve retained all that knowledge. That’s not to mention the periodic rules revision sessions they schedule whenever somebody up high decides to clamp down on some detail or another. Most of this is public knowledge, right? It’s all discussed in those teledocs, or written about in Ira Tang’s supposed tell-all indictment of Kronos and its nefarious meddling with history.
This isn’t one of those, of course. Absurd really, given the thoroughness that these minimization protocols are drilled into our heads. For the most part Kronos has treated me very, very well. A cushy salary far above anything I might have expected when I graduated from college. Nice benefits. Unbeatable hours. Here’s a company that actually requires three week breaks between jobs, only requiring that you work through a small stack of books in your down time. So you end up spending somewhere between a couple of hours and two days back in the past, and you get the next three weeks to relax and bone up on the current historical consensus about your next assignment. Not too bad.
And the work itself? Please, you hardly need a photography major for it. You’re creating a historical photographic record of pre-daguerreotype civilization. None of your shots are ever going to be put in a gallery or a show. Remember, you’re not even using your fancy SLR here, just a standard issue digital point and click with a mediocre zoom. No tripods, no zoom lenses, nothing that could possibly be construed as a weapon by a culture not yet exposed to such technologies. You do the best you can, but nobody is expecting Ansel Adams here.
So no, I don’t know the secrets of time travel. I don’t know how they get the pod from point B to point A. How I don’t end up in the vacuum of space due to the constantly changing position of the Earth as it revolves around the sun at thirty kilometers a second. I don’t know anything about how the Earth I come back to isn’t exactly the same as the Earth I’ve left. I don’t know how they power it, how much the operating costs, where Kronos gets all its funding. I’m just a photographer. All I know is point and click.
Okay, so maybe I’ve been briefed on a little bit. I know a little about the safety procedures should the pod get stuck somehow in the past. I know about how far back the pods are capably of going, somewhere in the neighborhood of nine-hundred years though they keep revising that figure upward. I certainly know all the protocols and procedures for minimizing the impact of the present on the past. They run you through that shit for six months before you set foot in a pod. It’s practically a boot camp. And then every six months after that they require a quiz on specifics to make sure you’ve retained all that knowledge. That’s not to mention the periodic rules revision sessions they schedule whenever somebody up high decides to clamp down on some detail or another. Most of this is public knowledge, right? It’s all discussed in those teledocs, or written about in Ira Tang’s supposed tell-all indictment of Kronos and its nefarious meddling with history.
This isn’t one of those, of course. Absurd really, given the thoroughness that these minimization protocols are drilled into our heads. For the most part Kronos has treated me very, very well. A cushy salary far above anything I might have expected when I graduated from college. Nice benefits. Unbeatable hours. Here’s a company that actually requires three week breaks between jobs, only requiring that you work through a small stack of books in your down time. So you end up spending somewhere between a couple of hours and two days back in the past, and you get the next three weeks to relax and bone up on the current historical consensus about your next assignment. Not too bad.
And the work itself? Please, you hardly need a photography major for it. You’re creating a historical photographic record of pre-daguerreotype civilization. None of your shots are ever going to be put in a gallery or a show. Remember, you’re not even using your fancy SLR here, just a standard issue digital point and click with a mediocre zoom. No tripods, no zoom lenses, nothing that could possibly be construed as a weapon by a culture not yet exposed to such technologies. You do the best you can, but nobody is expecting Ansel Adams here.
Poolside (counterpoint characters morphed into the characters talking back exercise)
Poolside
Two men sat by the motel pool from precisely noon to 2 p.m. each day, sunning their doughy-white, sunscreen slathered bodies and drinking iced tea. Despite the mirror image they projected, they did not know each other and rarely spoke to one another. They had an unvoiced agreement that one reigned over half of the pool and the furniture lined up against one side of the water, and the other ruled over the other half. They both wore sunglasses, the better to ignore each other with, or secretly eye each other, comparing guts and muscle definition. This went on for three days, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, until the weekend crowd interrupted the usual abandoned feel of the hotel, and families with swarming kids took over the pool area. On Friday, the only place the two men could find to relax were two lounge chairs, side by side.
Bill Harrington arrived first, carrying his own striped beach towel and The New Yorker. He lowered himself into the chair, flinching at the shouts of two boys trying to hit each other with pool “noodles,” those obnoxious strands of colored foam that floated. He commenced slathering sunscreen, and just as he finished, Roy Jacobs sauntered in the gate, wearing a white polo shirt and swim trunks, carrying a canvas tote bag. His face fell, seeing the glut of people everywhere, and the only available spot next to Bill. He trudged to the chair, yanked his shirt off and plopped down.
“All good things come to an end, huh?” Roy leaned toward Bill, who was rubbing at his hands furiously with a handkerchief.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Having the pool to ourselves. It couldn’t have lasted forever.”
“No. Yes. You’re right.
“It was nice while it lasted.” Roy rummaged in the bag and pulled out a huge, grease-streaked bottle of sun screen so old the lettering was starting to wear off.
Bill decided it would be better to shake hands now. He hated the slime feeling of sunscreen on his hands. Elsewhere, it was fine, but if it touched his fingers, he felt as if he’d been doused in a vat of liquefied fat. “I don’t think we’ve properly met. I’m Bill Harrington.”
“Hi-ya, Bill. I’m Roy. Jacobs.” He thrust forward a thick-fingered hand and vigorously shook.
“So what do you do, Roy,” Bill asked, aware of the fact required chit-chat had commenced. If he had just nodded at the first comment, and remained silent, they would both be sunning themselves by now, avoiding eye contact, acting as if they were alone at the pool. The introduction had sent them plunging into inevitable conversation, like dropping down the first roller coaster dive. Might as well submit to gravity at this point, he thought.
“I drive a bus. In San Jose. We’re over here, my wife and I, to get away from the rat race, you know? Take in the desert air, get a little sun. What do you do?”
“I’m an airline pilot.” Bill slipped on his sunglasses.
“Oh that’s nice.” Roy knew Bill was used to hearing exclamations at this fact, forced amazement. “We’re both in the business of carting people around.”
Bill forced a chuckle. “I suppose you could say that.”
“You suppose?”
“Well, I don’t mean to imply that driving a bus isn’t important,” Bill said, groping about his mind for a quip, a rescue. “It’s just that flying a plane isn’t like walking and chewing gum.”
“Oh, and driving a bus is. A monkey could do it.” Roy gave a wide grin. His teeth were so white and straight people often asked him if they were fake. Bill cringed. Roy watched a bead of sweat trail down Bill’s forehead, then leaned toward him and intoned, “Try driving a vehicle almost twice as wide as most cars, in rush hour, trying to keep a schedule, while listening to people shout at each other so bad you think a riot’s going to break out. Or a stabbing. I’ve had stabbings on the bus before. Now handling all that takes talent. You’re locked in some little compartment giving orders to a co-pilot I assume.”
“It’s not a good thing to assume,” Bill stammered.
“Oh, just you get to do that. Because you’re an airline pilot.”
“No, I didn’t mean to assume what you did— I was just saying… I was just saying flying an airplane is technical. It’s not a people mover. It’s a delicate, immense, deadly, involved piece of machinery that must be handled with… with skill.”
“Right. You’re a character, Bill.”
“Well, that’s right. I am a character and so are you! It’s not my fault someone’s putting words in my mouth. I find that I rarely agree with them.”
“Well I agree with mine.” Roy furrowed his brow, staring hard at Bill.
Bill wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. The temperature had become unbearable all of the sudden. “Does that make you more real then? Where did you get the capacity to agree?”
“Well where did you get the capacity to disagree? You just said something the writer of this story obviously didn’t plan on. But you just blurted it out, all on your own, like you… we are the ones in charge. Maybe we’re really writing this story.”
“No,” Bill argued, raising his voice to Roy’s aggressive volume. “Because I would have gotten rid of all these annoying people by now and we’d be sitting back, relaxing, enjoying ourselves. I don’t have an ulterior motive. The writer does. And I’m beginning to think you’re in cahoots with her.”
A chubby girl stuffed into a pink bikini ran screaming off the diving board into a cannon bomb, splashing the legs of both men. Bill gave Roy an accusatory look. Roy ignored the look and pressed, “How do you know it’s a her?” It was the first genuine question he’d asked all day.
“Well I know that much,” said Bill.
“Right, I’m asking you how you know. Because I don’t. All I know is the writer is manipulating us to fight in an attempt to show something. I’m supposed to show how you assume things about me when you don’t know me at all. For instance, did you know I’m a trust fund baby? I chose bus driver as a career because I like driving around all day and people watching.”
“You are?”
“See! You assumed I was some poor Joe nobody who was forced into the job. You resented my comparison that what we do is the same thing, because you think you’re job is more skilled and don’t want to be compared to someone of a lower class. A lowly bus driver.”
“I’m not of a higher class,” Bill contested, holding up his hands in defense.
“You’re not?” Roy paused, running his eyes over Bill’s The New Yorker, his meticulously trimmed mustache, his personal beach towel instead of a hotel towel, his fancy watch. “Then what’s with all the ‘I beg your pardons’ and ‘I supposes?’ You sound downright stuffy.”
“My good sir—
“See! That! No one actually talks like that. Are you British?”
“Look, I’m simply conveying my character through dialogue, as you’ve been constructed to do. So lay off.”
“Ha! Lay off! That’s something I would say, not you.”
“Quite right. Let me see… So bugger off!”
“That’s more like it.”
“May we get back to the point at hand, please, Roy?”
“Sure thing. Go ahead. I don’t mean to be so distracting. Although I really do, if you know what I mean,” Roy scrunched his face to give Bill a wink, wink. He wasn’t a good winker. It looked more like a grimace after eating something much too sour.
“The point at hand is that like you, my background isn’t what you would assume. I grew up in a rough and tumble area of Pittsburg with six brothers and sisters. I started working full-time at age 14 to pay for college because I knew I wanted to get out. Now I have a master’s in engineering and I’m an airline pilot and my wife’s a gorgeous lawyer and I’m damn proud of myself so if you don’t mind, I’d like you not to belittle what I do.”
“Okay, okay. I see where this is going. We were supposed to somehow come about these discoveries and both feel guilty for assuming things about the other person and learn our lesson so hopefully the reader learns their lesson too. Heavy handed, if you ask me.” Roy shrugged his shoulders and noticed the pool had suddenly emptied. The water was smooth as a sheet of paper, no movement whatsoever.
“It wouldn’t have to be heavy handed,” Bill argued. “What we just did was heavy handed. A skilled writer could pull it off with finesse, with delicate artistry. With…”
“Without cliché’s? Like ‘rough and tumble’?”
“Rough and tumble? Oh, I did just say that, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. Totally cliché.”
“Well it’s not my job to avoid such pitfalls. It’s hers. In no way am I to blame.”
“True. You’ve got her there. This whole thing is her job. Pity she’s not as good at her job as we are at ours.”
“Well, it’s obvious she’s taken the easy way out.”
“It’s a downright shame.”
“However, she is revealing something about her character this way.”
“But she’s not a character. She’s real. Something I’m kind of glad I’m not.”
“Maybe she is a character. I’ve got a feeling I’m writing this story more than her.”
“Me too.”
Two men sat by the motel pool from precisely noon to 2 p.m. each day, sunning their doughy-white, sunscreen slathered bodies and drinking iced tea. Despite the mirror image they projected, they did not know each other and rarely spoke to one another. They had an unvoiced agreement that one reigned over half of the pool and the furniture lined up against one side of the water, and the other ruled over the other half. They both wore sunglasses, the better to ignore each other with, or secretly eye each other, comparing guts and muscle definition. This went on for three days, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, until the weekend crowd interrupted the usual abandoned feel of the hotel, and families with swarming kids took over the pool area. On Friday, the only place the two men could find to relax were two lounge chairs, side by side.
Bill Harrington arrived first, carrying his own striped beach towel and The New Yorker. He lowered himself into the chair, flinching at the shouts of two boys trying to hit each other with pool “noodles,” those obnoxious strands of colored foam that floated. He commenced slathering sunscreen, and just as he finished, Roy Jacobs sauntered in the gate, wearing a white polo shirt and swim trunks, carrying a canvas tote bag. His face fell, seeing the glut of people everywhere, and the only available spot next to Bill. He trudged to the chair, yanked his shirt off and plopped down.
“All good things come to an end, huh?” Roy leaned toward Bill, who was rubbing at his hands furiously with a handkerchief.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Having the pool to ourselves. It couldn’t have lasted forever.”
“No. Yes. You’re right.
“It was nice while it lasted.” Roy rummaged in the bag and pulled out a huge, grease-streaked bottle of sun screen so old the lettering was starting to wear off.
Bill decided it would be better to shake hands now. He hated the slime feeling of sunscreen on his hands. Elsewhere, it was fine, but if it touched his fingers, he felt as if he’d been doused in a vat of liquefied fat. “I don’t think we’ve properly met. I’m Bill Harrington.”
“Hi-ya, Bill. I’m Roy. Jacobs.” He thrust forward a thick-fingered hand and vigorously shook.
“So what do you do, Roy,” Bill asked, aware of the fact required chit-chat had commenced. If he had just nodded at the first comment, and remained silent, they would both be sunning themselves by now, avoiding eye contact, acting as if they were alone at the pool. The introduction had sent them plunging into inevitable conversation, like dropping down the first roller coaster dive. Might as well submit to gravity at this point, he thought.
“I drive a bus. In San Jose. We’re over here, my wife and I, to get away from the rat race, you know? Take in the desert air, get a little sun. What do you do?”
“I’m an airline pilot.” Bill slipped on his sunglasses.
“Oh that’s nice.” Roy knew Bill was used to hearing exclamations at this fact, forced amazement. “We’re both in the business of carting people around.”
Bill forced a chuckle. “I suppose you could say that.”
“You suppose?”
“Well, I don’t mean to imply that driving a bus isn’t important,” Bill said, groping about his mind for a quip, a rescue. “It’s just that flying a plane isn’t like walking and chewing gum.”
“Oh, and driving a bus is. A monkey could do it.” Roy gave a wide grin. His teeth were so white and straight people often asked him if they were fake. Bill cringed. Roy watched a bead of sweat trail down Bill’s forehead, then leaned toward him and intoned, “Try driving a vehicle almost twice as wide as most cars, in rush hour, trying to keep a schedule, while listening to people shout at each other so bad you think a riot’s going to break out. Or a stabbing. I’ve had stabbings on the bus before. Now handling all that takes talent. You’re locked in some little compartment giving orders to a co-pilot I assume.”
“It’s not a good thing to assume,” Bill stammered.
“Oh, just you get to do that. Because you’re an airline pilot.”
“No, I didn’t mean to assume what you did— I was just saying… I was just saying flying an airplane is technical. It’s not a people mover. It’s a delicate, immense, deadly, involved piece of machinery that must be handled with… with skill.”
“Right. You’re a character, Bill.”
“Well, that’s right. I am a character and so are you! It’s not my fault someone’s putting words in my mouth. I find that I rarely agree with them.”
“Well I agree with mine.” Roy furrowed his brow, staring hard at Bill.
Bill wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. The temperature had become unbearable all of the sudden. “Does that make you more real then? Where did you get the capacity to agree?”
“Well where did you get the capacity to disagree? You just said something the writer of this story obviously didn’t plan on. But you just blurted it out, all on your own, like you… we are the ones in charge. Maybe we’re really writing this story.”
“No,” Bill argued, raising his voice to Roy’s aggressive volume. “Because I would have gotten rid of all these annoying people by now and we’d be sitting back, relaxing, enjoying ourselves. I don’t have an ulterior motive. The writer does. And I’m beginning to think you’re in cahoots with her.”
A chubby girl stuffed into a pink bikini ran screaming off the diving board into a cannon bomb, splashing the legs of both men. Bill gave Roy an accusatory look. Roy ignored the look and pressed, “How do you know it’s a her?” It was the first genuine question he’d asked all day.
“Well I know that much,” said Bill.
“Right, I’m asking you how you know. Because I don’t. All I know is the writer is manipulating us to fight in an attempt to show something. I’m supposed to show how you assume things about me when you don’t know me at all. For instance, did you know I’m a trust fund baby? I chose bus driver as a career because I like driving around all day and people watching.”
“You are?”
“See! You assumed I was some poor Joe nobody who was forced into the job. You resented my comparison that what we do is the same thing, because you think you’re job is more skilled and don’t want to be compared to someone of a lower class. A lowly bus driver.”
“I’m not of a higher class,” Bill contested, holding up his hands in defense.
“You’re not?” Roy paused, running his eyes over Bill’s The New Yorker, his meticulously trimmed mustache, his personal beach towel instead of a hotel towel, his fancy watch. “Then what’s with all the ‘I beg your pardons’ and ‘I supposes?’ You sound downright stuffy.”
“My good sir—
“See! That! No one actually talks like that. Are you British?”
“Look, I’m simply conveying my character through dialogue, as you’ve been constructed to do. So lay off.”
“Ha! Lay off! That’s something I would say, not you.”
“Quite right. Let me see… So bugger off!”
“That’s more like it.”
“May we get back to the point at hand, please, Roy?”
“Sure thing. Go ahead. I don’t mean to be so distracting. Although I really do, if you know what I mean,” Roy scrunched his face to give Bill a wink, wink. He wasn’t a good winker. It looked more like a grimace after eating something much too sour.
“The point at hand is that like you, my background isn’t what you would assume. I grew up in a rough and tumble area of Pittsburg with six brothers and sisters. I started working full-time at age 14 to pay for college because I knew I wanted to get out. Now I have a master’s in engineering and I’m an airline pilot and my wife’s a gorgeous lawyer and I’m damn proud of myself so if you don’t mind, I’d like you not to belittle what I do.”
“Okay, okay. I see where this is going. We were supposed to somehow come about these discoveries and both feel guilty for assuming things about the other person and learn our lesson so hopefully the reader learns their lesson too. Heavy handed, if you ask me.” Roy shrugged his shoulders and noticed the pool had suddenly emptied. The water was smooth as a sheet of paper, no movement whatsoever.
“It wouldn’t have to be heavy handed,” Bill argued. “What we just did was heavy handed. A skilled writer could pull it off with finesse, with delicate artistry. With…”
“Without cliché’s? Like ‘rough and tumble’?”
“Rough and tumble? Oh, I did just say that, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. Totally cliché.”
“Well it’s not my job to avoid such pitfalls. It’s hers. In no way am I to blame.”
“True. You’ve got her there. This whole thing is her job. Pity she’s not as good at her job as we are at ours.”
“Well, it’s obvious she’s taken the easy way out.”
“It’s a downright shame.”
“However, she is revealing something about her character this way.”
“But she’s not a character. She’s real. Something I’m kind of glad I’m not.”
“Maybe she is a character. I’ve got a feeling I’m writing this story more than her.”
“Me too.”
NARDOR (HELL YEAH)
Isaac Smith
Craft Fiction
Ex #4
NARDOR!
In the beginning, demons ruled the planet Nardor.
But there never was a beginning. Someone had to be commissioned to find a beginning. The old one had been shown to be weak and in doubt.
Beginnings are hard. Such as an over cooked egg or a petrified fetus. They are hard to find and they are hard to keep. It’s easy for a beginning to morph into illusions and betray its own simple truth. Something had to be done to keep Nardor viable in the community of life.
On Nardor word circulated. Something had to be made to work as the commission. Dust Bunnies crafted with glue and glitter which is to say Dust Bunnies made things with glue and glitter. Mostly useless things like eye patches, toaster covers, mittens for amputees, saddles and awkward earrings until they united to create a great wall that stretched nearly the entire length of the planet Nardor which is to say exactly 875 inches and three quarters and a hay penny. This was an impressive wall even to a listless Dust Bunny who had vague ideas of suicide such as Bread Dough, who kept saying, “Wow!” over and over. Even the blind Dust Bunnies ran their stubby paws back and forth across the great mass until a law had to be written forbidding blind Dust Bunnies from touching the wall unless they had proof they only had three days to live and then and only then could they touch the wall.
The lowest Dust Bunny named Dirty Poo woke early and had a vision- a vision of his grandmother’s floating Dust Bunny head and it said, “Dirty Poo, you’ve been a disappointment all these years but now is your time, your time to shine and bring good fortune to the family name.”
“But Grandma how many years have I spent trying the learn the art of colored macaroni and the way of the hot glue gun. How can I ever find the beginning to Nardor?” Asked Dirty Poo.
“Your journey will be long and full of doubt and tragedy but this is your destiny Dirty Poo. Do not forsake your destiny.”
“But where do I begin Grandma? I’m scared.”
“Start with the wall. It’s like an ancient language. This is all I can tell you. I am being called back to the other side. Be brave Dirty Poo!” And with that his grandmother’s head disappeared.
Dirty Poo didn’t feel confident. He did not feel like the chosen one. He doubted he’d even had a vision. For two full days Dirty Poo cowered under his blankets. “If I wait long enough surely someone else will find the beginning and win the wall and we’ll have a parade with lots of colored construction paper, glue and glitter. Someone like Big Pud will save the day,” said Dirty Poo to himself.
“Hey Dirty Poo! Where are you?” asked Bread Dough.
“I’m under my covers.”
“Did you hear the news?”
“What news?” Dirty Poo pulled his head from the covers and stared at his cousin Bread Dough who had black glitter glued under his eyes which was suppose to make Bread Dough look dead but just made him look like he had the advanced stages of leprosy. “Did someone find the true beginning to Nardor?”
“Big Pud...”
“I knew it would be Big Pud. Thank all the holy craft supplies of Nardor on Big Pud. What a relief. I thought I might...”
“Hey! Shut up for a second Dirty Poo! You didn’t let me finish. Big Pud and his best bud Chest Thump went looking in the forbidden Hallway of Doom and something attacked them and...”
“And...Well? What happened to them?”
“Only Chest Thump made it back and he’s missing the top half of his head so the doctors don’t things he’s gonna survive through the night.”
“You’re telling me Big Pud is dead? I can’t believe it. I went to school with him. He was voted best smelling Dust Bunny and the most likely to invent something really important. What attacked them?”
“Chest Thump said it came out of nowhere. It’s was huge and loud like a skyscraper screaming at the top of its lungs.”
“A skyscraper?”
“You know from the picture books in grade school. Tall things with windows,” said Bread Dough.
“I guess I remember. I just can’t believe it. I can’t. If Big Pud and Chest Thump can’t do it then who can? Why’s it so important for us to know the beginning anyway? Does it really matter how it all began. I mean don’t we know? Everyday in school we would recite-- ‘In the beginning, demons ruled the planet Nardor. But the Dust Bunnies vanquished the Demons. In a great battle that lasted one hundred days. It did not come without great cost. For in the end only two Dust Bunnies stood, still alive after the great battle with all the demons dead around them. These two Dust Bunnies are our saviors- Golden Rod and Glitter Lash. This is our beginning.’ Sounds good to me.
“That’s not what they teach the little Dust Bunnies anymore Dirty Poo. I swear you never pay any attention to the world around you. You just cower under your blankets all day. Things have changed. There’s evidence that demons still exist. That all the demons were not killed in the great battle.”
“What evidence?”
“Most recently there was a photo, it’s a bit blurry but its clearly the silhouette of a demon. Right here on Nardor. Close to the Hallway of Doom. That’s why everyone’s all worked up. They even cancelled the Great Colored Macaroni Celebration. Not that you would care Dirty Poo, you never go.”
“Look Bread Dough I need your help. I haven’t told anyone this but I had a vision. It was my Grandma’s head- floating and um...she said I was the one who would find the true beginning to Nardor. Will you help me?”
“You! Find the true beginning! You’re messing with me! And you want me to help you! You know I’m listless and vaguely suicidal.”
“Look I can’t do this by myself. I’m serious. Maybe together we can do this.”
“Well let me think about it...okay, I’m in. I mean the worst that could happen is I could die and that would vaguely fit into my future goals. So where do we start?”
“The wall Bread Dough, the wall.”
To Be Continued..
Craft Fiction
Ex #4
NARDOR!
In the beginning, demons ruled the planet Nardor.
But there never was a beginning. Someone had to be commissioned to find a beginning. The old one had been shown to be weak and in doubt.
Beginnings are hard. Such as an over cooked egg or a petrified fetus. They are hard to find and they are hard to keep. It’s easy for a beginning to morph into illusions and betray its own simple truth. Something had to be done to keep Nardor viable in the community of life.
On Nardor word circulated. Something had to be made to work as the commission. Dust Bunnies crafted with glue and glitter which is to say Dust Bunnies made things with glue and glitter. Mostly useless things like eye patches, toaster covers, mittens for amputees, saddles and awkward earrings until they united to create a great wall that stretched nearly the entire length of the planet Nardor which is to say exactly 875 inches and three quarters and a hay penny. This was an impressive wall even to a listless Dust Bunny who had vague ideas of suicide such as Bread Dough, who kept saying, “Wow!” over and over. Even the blind Dust Bunnies ran their stubby paws back and forth across the great mass until a law had to be written forbidding blind Dust Bunnies from touching the wall unless they had proof they only had three days to live and then and only then could they touch the wall.
The lowest Dust Bunny named Dirty Poo woke early and had a vision- a vision of his grandmother’s floating Dust Bunny head and it said, “Dirty Poo, you’ve been a disappointment all these years but now is your time, your time to shine and bring good fortune to the family name.”
“But Grandma how many years have I spent trying the learn the art of colored macaroni and the way of the hot glue gun. How can I ever find the beginning to Nardor?” Asked Dirty Poo.
“Your journey will be long and full of doubt and tragedy but this is your destiny Dirty Poo. Do not forsake your destiny.”
“But where do I begin Grandma? I’m scared.”
“Start with the wall. It’s like an ancient language. This is all I can tell you. I am being called back to the other side. Be brave Dirty Poo!” And with that his grandmother’s head disappeared.
Dirty Poo didn’t feel confident. He did not feel like the chosen one. He doubted he’d even had a vision. For two full days Dirty Poo cowered under his blankets. “If I wait long enough surely someone else will find the beginning and win the wall and we’ll have a parade with lots of colored construction paper, glue and glitter. Someone like Big Pud will save the day,” said Dirty Poo to himself.
“Hey Dirty Poo! Where are you?” asked Bread Dough.
“I’m under my covers.”
“Did you hear the news?”
“What news?” Dirty Poo pulled his head from the covers and stared at his cousin Bread Dough who had black glitter glued under his eyes which was suppose to make Bread Dough look dead but just made him look like he had the advanced stages of leprosy. “Did someone find the true beginning to Nardor?”
“Big Pud...”
“I knew it would be Big Pud. Thank all the holy craft supplies of Nardor on Big Pud. What a relief. I thought I might...”
“Hey! Shut up for a second Dirty Poo! You didn’t let me finish. Big Pud and his best bud Chest Thump went looking in the forbidden Hallway of Doom and something attacked them and...”
“And...Well? What happened to them?”
“Only Chest Thump made it back and he’s missing the top half of his head so the doctors don’t things he’s gonna survive through the night.”
“You’re telling me Big Pud is dead? I can’t believe it. I went to school with him. He was voted best smelling Dust Bunny and the most likely to invent something really important. What attacked them?”
“Chest Thump said it came out of nowhere. It’s was huge and loud like a skyscraper screaming at the top of its lungs.”
“A skyscraper?”
“You know from the picture books in grade school. Tall things with windows,” said Bread Dough.
“I guess I remember. I just can’t believe it. I can’t. If Big Pud and Chest Thump can’t do it then who can? Why’s it so important for us to know the beginning anyway? Does it really matter how it all began. I mean don’t we know? Everyday in school we would recite-- ‘In the beginning, demons ruled the planet Nardor. But the Dust Bunnies vanquished the Demons. In a great battle that lasted one hundred days. It did not come without great cost. For in the end only two Dust Bunnies stood, still alive after the great battle with all the demons dead around them. These two Dust Bunnies are our saviors- Golden Rod and Glitter Lash. This is our beginning.’ Sounds good to me.
“That’s not what they teach the little Dust Bunnies anymore Dirty Poo. I swear you never pay any attention to the world around you. You just cower under your blankets all day. Things have changed. There’s evidence that demons still exist. That all the demons were not killed in the great battle.”
“What evidence?”
“Most recently there was a photo, it’s a bit blurry but its clearly the silhouette of a demon. Right here on Nardor. Close to the Hallway of Doom. That’s why everyone’s all worked up. They even cancelled the Great Colored Macaroni Celebration. Not that you would care Dirty Poo, you never go.”
“Look Bread Dough I need your help. I haven’t told anyone this but I had a vision. It was my Grandma’s head- floating and um...she said I was the one who would find the true beginning to Nardor. Will you help me?”
“You! Find the true beginning! You’re messing with me! And you want me to help you! You know I’m listless and vaguely suicidal.”
“Look I can’t do this by myself. I’m serious. Maybe together we can do this.”
“Well let me think about it...okay, I’m in. I mean the worst that could happen is I could die and that would vaguely fit into my future goals. So where do we start?”
“The wall Bread Dough, the wall.”
To Be Continued..
Out Loud
You love to watch her read. You sneak around the apartment and stand in the doorways as she devours books and picks through articles. In the bathroom where she keeps large stacks of magazines, you tuck a few of your Sports Illustrated’s in between her Cooking Light and People. When she isn’t home, you rearrange the novels she leaves stacked on the stairs, moving Jane Austen’s, Pride and Prejudice, to the top, marking the passages about love with little yellow post it notes.
When she rips the post it notes from the pages and sticks them to the wall of the stairs, you smile, knowing she read the words you have read. You picture her reading those words as you kiss her that night, and bite her lip more violently. If only she would read them out loud to you and you could know to which words she gravitated. She won’t though. She won’t even let you watch her read those novels. Only when she thinks you aren’t home, she sinks down on the steps and takes them in her lap. You have to park blocks away and sneak back into the apartment to see her do this, to be able to watch her put her nose to the binding and breath in the book.
After you park those 5 blocks away, behind the red truck, on the street you know she never drives, you run back to the apartment. As you hop the fence in the back, hoisting yourself over the old wood, you sometimes get dirt on your crotch. She always rubs stain stick on the mark without questioning you. You wonder if she knows you came back, that you saw her put her hand to her head and sigh as she put the book down at the bottom of a pile.
When she reads articles in the kitchen, knees tucked up against her chest, and back to the oven, you worry that her butt will hurt. She always refuses when you offer her a pillow to sit on, and glares at you when you linger after coming to get a drink. She knows you are only there to watch her. If you stay too long she crinkles the articles into a ball of paper and tosses them beneath the sink. “Baby,” you say. She stands up and walks out without responding.
In the pantry you find her with a cookbook. “How about French toast,” she asks you. “Peach,” she says with resolution. You walk forward to touch her and before your hand can make contact she gives you the book, opened to the page of the recipe. “This is what I want,” she says and squeezes past you into the kitchen.
You follow her and think about how odd it is that you live in an apartment with a pantry. She sits on top of the kitchen table and looks at you. “Well?”
You hand her the book back, “you read.”
She starts to protest and then stops as you reach for the day old brioche. “Puree one half cup peaches.”
In the freezer next to the peaches, you find the remote to the T.V. When you take it out, she glares at it. “I thought about punching the T.V. I thought it would be more hurt if it had a piece taken from it.” You put the remote back in the freezer.
“What next?”
You watch her eyes move over the book, her body sways as her mind works through the words and you wish that you could hold her. When her lips move, you watch as they mold around the words like a black cave swallowing any scavenger who dares to explore. “Whisk 4 eggs and two tablespoons of sugar together.”
It’s funny to you, that word whisk. You whisper it over and over to yourself as you flick your wrist back and forth, “whisk, whisk, whisk, whisk, whisk.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m whisking.” You turn to her, whisk and bowl in hand. Her knees sit split to you and you can see underneath her robe. She has on no underwear. She rests the book back between her legs blocking your view.
“Fine, get on with it.” The book jostles in her lap as she wiggles her hips on the wood. You want to snatch that book from between you.
To the eggs you add cream, vanilla and puréed peaches, whisking them without asking her. As the French toast comes together you don’t look at her, not until it’s done. Dusting both plates with powdered sugar you turn to her. She is still running her fingers over the text, strumming them.
“Baby,” you say.
She looks up and sets the book to the side. The full view of her is there for you again. Her lips split into a full open smile. It stops you and the plates tilt toward your thumbs. You can feel the syrup, but you don’t look down. When she walks toward you, you stand motionless. She takes both plates and you don’t protest when she sets them on the kitchen counter. Leading you to the stairs, she licks your thumbs clean all the while keeping her eyes on yours.
On the stairs she makes you sit down and then she sits down on your legs. The bones of her butt dig into you and you wince into her hair. It smells like a flower and you wonder which one. She takes a book from the bottom of the pile and flips it open to one of the last pages. Holding it in her lap she puts her finger to the text.
You read, “‘I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.’” She seems to purr as she twists in your lap. Tucking her head under your chin, she closes her eyes.
When she rips the post it notes from the pages and sticks them to the wall of the stairs, you smile, knowing she read the words you have read. You picture her reading those words as you kiss her that night, and bite her lip more violently. If only she would read them out loud to you and you could know to which words she gravitated. She won’t though. She won’t even let you watch her read those novels. Only when she thinks you aren’t home, she sinks down on the steps and takes them in her lap. You have to park blocks away and sneak back into the apartment to see her do this, to be able to watch her put her nose to the binding and breath in the book.
After you park those 5 blocks away, behind the red truck, on the street you know she never drives, you run back to the apartment. As you hop the fence in the back, hoisting yourself over the old wood, you sometimes get dirt on your crotch. She always rubs stain stick on the mark without questioning you. You wonder if she knows you came back, that you saw her put her hand to her head and sigh as she put the book down at the bottom of a pile.
When she reads articles in the kitchen, knees tucked up against her chest, and back to the oven, you worry that her butt will hurt. She always refuses when you offer her a pillow to sit on, and glares at you when you linger after coming to get a drink. She knows you are only there to watch her. If you stay too long she crinkles the articles into a ball of paper and tosses them beneath the sink. “Baby,” you say. She stands up and walks out without responding.
In the pantry you find her with a cookbook. “How about French toast,” she asks you. “Peach,” she says with resolution. You walk forward to touch her and before your hand can make contact she gives you the book, opened to the page of the recipe. “This is what I want,” she says and squeezes past you into the kitchen.
You follow her and think about how odd it is that you live in an apartment with a pantry. She sits on top of the kitchen table and looks at you. “Well?”
You hand her the book back, “you read.”
She starts to protest and then stops as you reach for the day old brioche. “Puree one half cup peaches.”
In the freezer next to the peaches, you find the remote to the T.V. When you take it out, she glares at it. “I thought about punching the T.V. I thought it would be more hurt if it had a piece taken from it.” You put the remote back in the freezer.
“What next?”
You watch her eyes move over the book, her body sways as her mind works through the words and you wish that you could hold her. When her lips move, you watch as they mold around the words like a black cave swallowing any scavenger who dares to explore. “Whisk 4 eggs and two tablespoons of sugar together.”
It’s funny to you, that word whisk. You whisper it over and over to yourself as you flick your wrist back and forth, “whisk, whisk, whisk, whisk, whisk.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m whisking.” You turn to her, whisk and bowl in hand. Her knees sit split to you and you can see underneath her robe. She has on no underwear. She rests the book back between her legs blocking your view.
“Fine, get on with it.” The book jostles in her lap as she wiggles her hips on the wood. You want to snatch that book from between you.
To the eggs you add cream, vanilla and puréed peaches, whisking them without asking her. As the French toast comes together you don’t look at her, not until it’s done. Dusting both plates with powdered sugar you turn to her. She is still running her fingers over the text, strumming them.
“Baby,” you say.
She looks up and sets the book to the side. The full view of her is there for you again. Her lips split into a full open smile. It stops you and the plates tilt toward your thumbs. You can feel the syrup, but you don’t look down. When she walks toward you, you stand motionless. She takes both plates and you don’t protest when she sets them on the kitchen counter. Leading you to the stairs, she licks your thumbs clean all the while keeping her eyes on yours.
On the stairs she makes you sit down and then she sits down on your legs. The bones of her butt dig into you and you wince into her hair. It smells like a flower and you wonder which one. She takes a book from the bottom of the pile and flips it open to one of the last pages. Holding it in her lap she puts her finger to the text.
You read, “‘I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.’” She seems to purr as she twists in your lap. Tucking her head under your chin, she closes her eyes.
Monday, May 4, 2009
exercise 18
If I had to pick my arch nemesis, it’d be my sister’s dog.
As she walked into the confessional, all she could think was, please Jesus, don’t let this priest be as hot as the last one.
When I told my aunt my boyfriend was shorter than me, she simply replied, it all evens out when you’re lying down.
Tomorrow is the day I will tell him.
In our town there are only two options: get out of here as soon as you can or develop a coke habit.
All things considered, that was probably the best barbeque I’ve been to.
Today, I met a lesbian.
We’d been Jewish for about twelve years.
The only thing I ask of my friends is that they not eat pickles around me.
I looked at my baby in the car seat and knew I had to give her away.
She hates me.
It’s Wednesday again.
Every year, he rereads A Streetcar Named Desire.
He knew that none of them understood Catcher in the Rye like he did; they were all big phonies.
Despite her efforts, her pan de polvo would never come out like her grandmother’s.
They used to be close, the sisters, but not anymore.
It has been three years since her best friend stopped talking to her.
She worked very hard to overcome her pigeon-toed feet.
It’s been too long since her mother’s called.
Almost everyday she tells me robots will take over the world.
He hoped nobody would remember his birthday.
As she walked into the confessional, all she could think was, please Jesus, don’t let this priest be as hot as the last one.
When I told my aunt my boyfriend was shorter than me, she simply replied, it all evens out when you’re lying down.
Tomorrow is the day I will tell him.
In our town there are only two options: get out of here as soon as you can or develop a coke habit.
All things considered, that was probably the best barbeque I’ve been to.
Today, I met a lesbian.
We’d been Jewish for about twelve years.
The only thing I ask of my friends is that they not eat pickles around me.
I looked at my baby in the car seat and knew I had to give her away.
She hates me.
It’s Wednesday again.
Every year, he rereads A Streetcar Named Desire.
He knew that none of them understood Catcher in the Rye like he did; they were all big phonies.
Despite her efforts, her pan de polvo would never come out like her grandmother’s.
They used to be close, the sisters, but not anymore.
It has been three years since her best friend stopped talking to her.
She worked very hard to overcome her pigeon-toed feet.
It’s been too long since her mother’s called.
Almost everyday she tells me robots will take over the world.
He hoped nobody would remember his birthday.
Toby's first sentences
The man sitting next to me looks like Jesus.
If it weren’t for horses the world would starve.
The forest has never been my friend.
The clowns gathered around the baseball diamond and hosed down the slip and slide.
Every child should have a ghost horse.
If heaven is what I’m aiming for, then I better re-sight my rifle.
My grandma purchased our kitchen table from an estate sale at a home where they worshipped the occult and from that day on we switched from alphabets to cheerios.
There is a man who has been awake since world war II.
If prepositions are a bad way to begin a sentence.
The sun had risen past noon when an altar boy, refreshed from his nap against the cool gravestone of Eli Whitfield, had awoken to see a ghost standing over an open grave and a man who stood beside the ghost who wore a blue corduroy suit coat with khaki pants who was eating boysenberries from a large tree in the center of the cemetery of the Church of Perpetual Adoration in Twentynine Palms, California.
Waking up on the third morning over the fresh grave of his father, Doctor Samuel Malcome picked the dirt out of his ears and listened for the dead.
I see a lot of things through the windows at work.
Unscrewing his right leg, my Uncle Leo lights a bottle rocket and drops it into the hollow shaft where his bones should be.
She had a son.
The last white man in the Americas caused quite a stir, appearing, as did the first white men, quite unexpectantly and the issue of what to do with him being a topic on which there was much disagreement.
Erving Grover did not know why his life was falling in around him, but he suspected that it had to do with bees.
I think we should join a church, she said.
I woke up and noticed that my right sock was missing, and that the car was on fire.
It occurs to me that things should have gone differently, but then, where would the story be in that?
The abalone turned slowly to me and whispered.
It was the summer of 1988, the drought had gone on now for two straight months and lawns were catching on fire all throughout the neighborhood.
She turns and looks at me, then she tells me something about myself.
It’s not enough to write a story, the story has to matter.
If he were a better man, then none of us would have to be here.
“Get to the river before you drown.”
February, 1865 was the last month without a full moon.
Fireflies in a jar are all I ever see in the darkness.
It was a three mile walk to the cemetery and General Williamson was thankful he would have none of that.
I felt like Luther pounding those ninety five thesis’ to the door.
Shakespeare was never in love.
My father’s hands creaked as he tied the knot on my tie.
I struggle with the overtakelessness of people.
Walking inside the freezer room, my mother took her time in choosing, scrutinizing each vial; seven hours later I was conceived.
If it weren’t for horses the world would starve.
The forest has never been my friend.
The clowns gathered around the baseball diamond and hosed down the slip and slide.
Every child should have a ghost horse.
If heaven is what I’m aiming for, then I better re-sight my rifle.
My grandma purchased our kitchen table from an estate sale at a home where they worshipped the occult and from that day on we switched from alphabets to cheerios.
There is a man who has been awake since world war II.
If prepositions are a bad way to begin a sentence.
The sun had risen past noon when an altar boy, refreshed from his nap against the cool gravestone of Eli Whitfield, had awoken to see a ghost standing over an open grave and a man who stood beside the ghost who wore a blue corduroy suit coat with khaki pants who was eating boysenberries from a large tree in the center of the cemetery of the Church of Perpetual Adoration in Twentynine Palms, California.
Waking up on the third morning over the fresh grave of his father, Doctor Samuel Malcome picked the dirt out of his ears and listened for the dead.
I see a lot of things through the windows at work.
Unscrewing his right leg, my Uncle Leo lights a bottle rocket and drops it into the hollow shaft where his bones should be.
She had a son.
The last white man in the Americas caused quite a stir, appearing, as did the first white men, quite unexpectantly and the issue of what to do with him being a topic on which there was much disagreement.
Erving Grover did not know why his life was falling in around him, but he suspected that it had to do with bees.
I think we should join a church, she said.
I woke up and noticed that my right sock was missing, and that the car was on fire.
It occurs to me that things should have gone differently, but then, where would the story be in that?
The abalone turned slowly to me and whispered.
It was the summer of 1988, the drought had gone on now for two straight months and lawns were catching on fire all throughout the neighborhood.
She turns and looks at me, then she tells me something about myself.
It’s not enough to write a story, the story has to matter.
If he were a better man, then none of us would have to be here.
“Get to the river before you drown.”
February, 1865 was the last month without a full moon.
Fireflies in a jar are all I ever see in the darkness.
It was a three mile walk to the cemetery and General Williamson was thankful he would have none of that.
I felt like Luther pounding those ninety five thesis’ to the door.
Shakespeare was never in love.
My father’s hands creaked as he tied the knot on my tie.
I struggle with the overtakelessness of people.
Walking inside the freezer room, my mother took her time in choosing, scrutinizing each vial; seven hours later I was conceived.
Interview With Theia
hello, Theia.
hi. do I know you?
Erin.
nice to meet you.
you've been hired for the cover shot of the magazine, I hear.
yes.
are you excited?
yes, very.
that's great, I'm really proud of you.
thank you.
I've always admired you, you know. I really mean that.
thank you. that means a lot ot me. I work very hard.
oh, I know. that's what I admire most about you. so, what made you decide to become a model?
well, I knew that I had beauty--not just conventional beauty, or the kind that you can heighten with makeup, but the kind that I could prefect--limitless. the kind of work that goes into the shaping of my body is as much an art as painting or music or writing--a kind of sculpture, if you will. I know I can be perfect--
most people would say you already are perfect.
I know, but I can surpass what they think is perfect, and become something greater. I can do it all if I only work hard enough...you look skeptical.
no, I'm sorry. I'm more intimidated and confused that anything.
what do you mean?
I keep asking myself if I would know perfection if I saw it.
I see. Well, I hope you can take what I have to say as an attempt to be helpful, but I'm compelled to speak.
please.
you'd better know what perfection is--better be damn sure who and what I am--before you write another word.
I know--that's pretty impressive of you to figure out who I am so fast.
it was only a little obvious. only my creator would know so much about me.
true. I guess I'm just so enthusiastic about making this a reality. I know I need to learn patience.
yes, patience would be good.
I need to be more like you, I suppose. In a strange, cruel, and bizarre way, I do know who and what you are. I'm just having a tough time articulating it.
you know that no one will accept your perfection as true perfection, right? when you've articulated me, no one will accept me as perfect anymore.
that's for sure. you are rather...fearsome.
I do my best. maybe you should just leave it up their imaginations.
no.
good answer.
what makes you say that?
I was just testing you. you know me; I always need to put my two cents in, and you're just the same. you wouldn't be a writer if you were good at keeping your mouth shut, would you?
no, I guess that makes sense...for better or for worse.
well, they don't have to find your perfect to be true perfect...really.
no, they don't. if they can just accept it long enough to finish the book!
exactly.
you know, characters like Johnny and Edward and Selene are a lot easier to write than you are.
perfection is tough; complication is easy?
yes...in a way.
I suppose that makes sense. It's a lot easier to make them interesting than it is to make me interesting.
yes, but that's the challenge. it's fun, in a self-torture kind of way.
builds character.
no pun intended, of course.
of course not.
hi. do I know you?
Erin.
nice to meet you.
you've been hired for the cover shot of the magazine, I hear.
yes.
are you excited?
yes, very.
that's great, I'm really proud of you.
thank you.
I've always admired you, you know. I really mean that.
thank you. that means a lot ot me. I work very hard.
oh, I know. that's what I admire most about you. so, what made you decide to become a model?
well, I knew that I had beauty--not just conventional beauty, or the kind that you can heighten with makeup, but the kind that I could prefect--limitless. the kind of work that goes into the shaping of my body is as much an art as painting or music or writing--a kind of sculpture, if you will. I know I can be perfect--
most people would say you already are perfect.
I know, but I can surpass what they think is perfect, and become something greater. I can do it all if I only work hard enough...you look skeptical.
no, I'm sorry. I'm more intimidated and confused that anything.
what do you mean?
I keep asking myself if I would know perfection if I saw it.
I see. Well, I hope you can take what I have to say as an attempt to be helpful, but I'm compelled to speak.
please.
you'd better know what perfection is--better be damn sure who and what I am--before you write another word.
I know--that's pretty impressive of you to figure out who I am so fast.
it was only a little obvious. only my creator would know so much about me.
true. I guess I'm just so enthusiastic about making this a reality. I know I need to learn patience.
yes, patience would be good.
I need to be more like you, I suppose. In a strange, cruel, and bizarre way, I do know who and what you are. I'm just having a tough time articulating it.
you know that no one will accept your perfection as true perfection, right? when you've articulated me, no one will accept me as perfect anymore.
that's for sure. you are rather...fearsome.
I do my best. maybe you should just leave it up their imaginations.
no.
good answer.
what makes you say that?
I was just testing you. you know me; I always need to put my two cents in, and you're just the same. you wouldn't be a writer if you were good at keeping your mouth shut, would you?
no, I guess that makes sense...for better or for worse.
well, they don't have to find your perfect to be true perfect...really.
no, they don't. if they can just accept it long enough to finish the book!
exactly.
you know, characters like Johnny and Edward and Selene are a lot easier to write than you are.
perfection is tough; complication is easy?
yes...in a way.
I suppose that makes sense. It's a lot easier to make them interesting than it is to make me interesting.
yes, but that's the challenge. it's fun, in a self-torture kind of way.
builds character.
no pun intended, of course.
of course not.
Friendship with Girls (Ex. 13)
It was easy for us to do the backstabbing. It came naturally to all of us. At one time or another each of us had been the victim of it, had understood that we were no longer liked, that the group did not approve of us, that everyone was talking about us but we didn’t know what was being said. Or we found out because someone would “defect” for a moment to tell us, but that was really just a way of playing the game in a different way, or making the backstabbing worse, because what is worse than knowing something your aren’t supposed to know and the only way to expose your knowledge is by making a scene. It is a test of the limits of one’s restraint, of one’s ability to suck it up, of one’s weakness in the face of the others. Likewise we had all been the ones doing the stabbing, picking apart the actions of one of the others, storing up scraps of gossip to parcel out at the most advantageous moment… “Did I tell you about the time when she….?”
It was about power. Or about using allegiances to gain power. It wasn’t always that way. There was a time when we all, or most of us anyway, thought we were actually friends. Thought that it was our common interest that bound us together, despite having such radically different approaches to life. Thought that we were superior because of our inclusiveness. Now we know better. Now we know there is a game to be played and the winner is the one who gets what she wants.
The shift began when she showed up. By she, I mean the bitch. This is not to say that we weren’t all bitches in one way or another, only that we all saw right away that she was a different kind of bitch than we were, dirtier, less polished, less practiced, louder. She was the kind who would make a scene. She didn’t play the back door way. We saw right away that nothing was to be gained by absorbing her into our group. In fact, some of us saw that more was to be gained, in the form of entertainment anyway, by not absorbing her, by passive-aggressively pushing her away. Maybe we would get to see her breakdown. If it wasn’t at our expense, it would be fabulous to watch.
There were some, well, one really, who saw what was to be gained by pretending to be friends with the bitch. This, some of us came to think, was actually some supreme form of bitchiness, or politics-playing, or just the underlying problem of being friends with girls. This was when we realized there was a game being played, that we had been played, and that like the bitch, we might not ever have realized it except that we did.
We would say to each other, “I heard she went to that party, at the washout.”
“Really? What happened?”
“I heard she got trashed and fucked a couple guys.”
“Who told you that?”
“I heard it from a bunch of people. I saw pictures on Joey’s myspace.”
“Joey took pictures?”
“Of course, you can’t trust any of those assholes.”
“I don’t like that. Except I kinda do, if he got pictures of the bitch.”
“So wait, she fucked two guys or three?”
“That’s not what she says. She has a whole different story of how the night went down,” one of us would say, the one who knew about the game we were playing.
“How do you know?”
“I asked her. You know what she says? This is fabulous. She says Adam asked her out and he was really sweet and gave her his jacket.”
“Adam?! Oh she totally got fucked!”
“Of course she did,” says the one of us who knows the game. “But she doesn’t know that we know.” There is a smile we all share, it is a knowing smile. A smile that shows we know we are going to do something with this information. We are going to play with it. We are going to write some notes from Adam to the bitch. We are going to show some pictures to some people. We don’t all know exactly what we’re going to do, but we are going to play the game a little harder.
“I hate that bitch!” we say.
“Of course we do,” says the game-player.
None of us see yet that the bitch could be any of us.
It was about power. Or about using allegiances to gain power. It wasn’t always that way. There was a time when we all, or most of us anyway, thought we were actually friends. Thought that it was our common interest that bound us together, despite having such radically different approaches to life. Thought that we were superior because of our inclusiveness. Now we know better. Now we know there is a game to be played and the winner is the one who gets what she wants.
The shift began when she showed up. By she, I mean the bitch. This is not to say that we weren’t all bitches in one way or another, only that we all saw right away that she was a different kind of bitch than we were, dirtier, less polished, less practiced, louder. She was the kind who would make a scene. She didn’t play the back door way. We saw right away that nothing was to be gained by absorbing her into our group. In fact, some of us saw that more was to be gained, in the form of entertainment anyway, by not absorbing her, by passive-aggressively pushing her away. Maybe we would get to see her breakdown. If it wasn’t at our expense, it would be fabulous to watch.
There were some, well, one really, who saw what was to be gained by pretending to be friends with the bitch. This, some of us came to think, was actually some supreme form of bitchiness, or politics-playing, or just the underlying problem of being friends with girls. This was when we realized there was a game being played, that we had been played, and that like the bitch, we might not ever have realized it except that we did.
We would say to each other, “I heard she went to that party, at the washout.”
“Really? What happened?”
“I heard she got trashed and fucked a couple guys.”
“Who told you that?”
“I heard it from a bunch of people. I saw pictures on Joey’s myspace.”
“Joey took pictures?”
“Of course, you can’t trust any of those assholes.”
“I don’t like that. Except I kinda do, if he got pictures of the bitch.”
“So wait, she fucked two guys or three?”
“That’s not what she says. She has a whole different story of how the night went down,” one of us would say, the one who knew about the game we were playing.
“How do you know?”
“I asked her. You know what she says? This is fabulous. She says Adam asked her out and he was really sweet and gave her his jacket.”
“Adam?! Oh she totally got fucked!”
“Of course she did,” says the one of us who knows the game. “But she doesn’t know that we know.” There is a smile we all share, it is a knowing smile. A smile that shows we know we are going to do something with this information. We are going to play with it. We are going to write some notes from Adam to the bitch. We are going to show some pictures to some people. We don’t all know exactly what we’re going to do, but we are going to play the game a little harder.
“I hate that bitch!” we say.
“Of course we do,” says the game-player.
None of us see yet that the bitch could be any of us.
The "you" exercise
This is where you belong. The muddy heat, the street mobbed and bursting at the margins. Your skin slicked with sweat, constantly wiping your forearms and swatting away the low tide building on your thumbs. This is an aching air, and you, you ache inside of it too. Your mouth is an open book in this country, it is filled with scrawled etchings. The word meandering on your tongue, only to fall back in retreat to your throat.
This is what I’m saying is happening to you. Though should it be this way. You were born to be here but these people. They see you and you walk in distance. Or maybe, that’s just how I see you. Maybe that’s just what we all expect. So who flinched first? Did you come to this country and wear America as your gleaming totem? Did you watch the shore and wonder why the shore set on the wrong side of the horizon?
How did this happen? How did everything become so unfamiliar? When everybody here looks just like you. They can see it in the way you carry your body through open space. The heaviness in each of your steps. They resent you. They resent how you walk in and expect to occupy a room. The well fed proportions of your body, this is an American body. A proud American body. Look at their bodies, like ripened vines, like dying wood.
They will come to you and ask for money. Their outstretched hands: a beggar’s language, they can smell the dollars. It smells like cedar and pork fat. It rests so comfortably in your right pocket. They know where it is, they know you wouldn’t keep it in your back pocket. Too much of an easy mark. A bulge like a beacon. But you, you’re too smart for that. It’s what the experienced travelers know and you are not, but you’re smart enough to know what they know.
You’ve read books. And not just any regular book, you’ve read books where the main characters suffer through existential crises, self referential bouts of meta-fiction. You’ve read stories where the main character was turned into a fruit fly, but it wasn’t a horror story or science fiction, but a long drawn out treatise condemning the effects unfair businesses practices have taken upon the nation of Fiji. You’ve read these books and understood them.
What did you expect to find when you came to this country? Did you expect them to welcome you home? Did you expect streams of men and women to stop in their tracks and exclaim “Look at this guy, this guy right here!” Were you expecting all the women to give a shit.That you could rope them in with promises of a life in the states with you-- that you could get enough liquor in them to buy into the prospect? And then leave them with enough liquor to forget?
Do you believe this country owes you something, since you were so gracious enough to return. Did you expect anyone to care. Did you expect, that when you spoke to your cousins about the malleable nature of faith, the belief in a universal spirit, your brief flirtations with Buddhist thought, Bahai’i Faith, Reiki, the 10 days of silent meditation, the sweat lodges and the sordid history of the Catholic church they would have taken it as nothing less than you thumbing your nose at their beliefs. Because you were. Because you didn’t make it about the scope of your faith, you made it about the narrowness of theirs. And sometimes your upper lip curls when you think said something profound. This is also something that does not require translation. Every person, of every culture knows a smug asshole when they see one.
And yes, about the prostitute in the karaoke bar. The one who told you she was from your mother’s hometown. The pretty one, who came to Manila to become the next Regine Velasquez. The one who told you after that second time you fucked her from behind like a goddamn beast (as you like to tell people) that she had finally found the man of her dreams; that you were a prince. Who cried in your arms because you were so perfect and she didn’t want to see you go away. Whose affection was a framework of trope expression and inexhaustible cliche? You bought it. You bought every single bit of it. And for once in your lonely, sorry life you thought someone loved you like that love you had given away to so many others. For a moment, you were almost validated. Almost balanced. Home was almost an equilibrium.
This is what I’m saying is happening to you. Though should it be this way. You were born to be here but these people. They see you and you walk in distance. Or maybe, that’s just how I see you. Maybe that’s just what we all expect. So who flinched first? Did you come to this country and wear America as your gleaming totem? Did you watch the shore and wonder why the shore set on the wrong side of the horizon?
How did this happen? How did everything become so unfamiliar? When everybody here looks just like you. They can see it in the way you carry your body through open space. The heaviness in each of your steps. They resent you. They resent how you walk in and expect to occupy a room. The well fed proportions of your body, this is an American body. A proud American body. Look at their bodies, like ripened vines, like dying wood.
They will come to you and ask for money. Their outstretched hands: a beggar’s language, they can smell the dollars. It smells like cedar and pork fat. It rests so comfortably in your right pocket. They know where it is, they know you wouldn’t keep it in your back pocket. Too much of an easy mark. A bulge like a beacon. But you, you’re too smart for that. It’s what the experienced travelers know and you are not, but you’re smart enough to know what they know.
You’ve read books. And not just any regular book, you’ve read books where the main characters suffer through existential crises, self referential bouts of meta-fiction. You’ve read stories where the main character was turned into a fruit fly, but it wasn’t a horror story or science fiction, but a long drawn out treatise condemning the effects unfair businesses practices have taken upon the nation of Fiji. You’ve read these books and understood them.
What did you expect to find when you came to this country? Did you expect them to welcome you home? Did you expect streams of men and women to stop in their tracks and exclaim “Look at this guy, this guy right here!” Were you expecting all the women to give a shit.That you could rope them in with promises of a life in the states with you-- that you could get enough liquor in them to buy into the prospect? And then leave them with enough liquor to forget?
Do you believe this country owes you something, since you were so gracious enough to return. Did you expect anyone to care. Did you expect, that when you spoke to your cousins about the malleable nature of faith, the belief in a universal spirit, your brief flirtations with Buddhist thought, Bahai’i Faith, Reiki, the 10 days of silent meditation, the sweat lodges and the sordid history of the Catholic church they would have taken it as nothing less than you thumbing your nose at their beliefs. Because you were. Because you didn’t make it about the scope of your faith, you made it about the narrowness of theirs. And sometimes your upper lip curls when you think said something profound. This is also something that does not require translation. Every person, of every culture knows a smug asshole when they see one.
And yes, about the prostitute in the karaoke bar. The one who told you she was from your mother’s hometown. The pretty one, who came to Manila to become the next Regine Velasquez. The one who told you after that second time you fucked her from behind like a goddamn beast (as you like to tell people) that she had finally found the man of her dreams; that you were a prince. Who cried in your arms because you were so perfect and she didn’t want to see you go away. Whose affection was a framework of trope expression and inexhaustible cliche? You bought it. You bought every single bit of it. And for once in your lonely, sorry life you thought someone loved you like that love you had given away to so many others. For a moment, you were almost validated. Almost balanced. Home was almost an equilibrium.
exercise 12, i think
Jamie arranged the hair around the corpse’s face with a delicate and maternal care. The brown curls were swept to one side with a pin that Jamie had set aside for a ‘special’ case. She saved the prettiest accessories for the prettiest corpses.
This one was young, probably in her late thirties, and so the green tinge of putrefaction had not yet reached her face. But it wouldn’t have mattered either way. Jamie had grown accustomed to cold bodies, stiff bodies, dry bodies. She had been working at the mortuary for three years and felt more comfortable around dead bodies than the cloying clusters of girls at the junior college. People outside of work seemed so pink and sweaty and always in a rush. The only person she didn’t mind was Zach.
Zach had watery green eyes and black hair that hung down over his pale forehead. His skin was so white that Jamie guessed it would turn neon purple under the black light at the bowling alley. Even though he also attended Plainfield Community College, Jamie had only seen him there once, walking away from his girlfriend to smoke in the middle of a fight. Zach had seen her watching, but never said anything about it.
The steel door at the back of the mortuary groaned on its hinges as Zach swung it open and threw his keys on the aluminum counter. He was the other youth assistant during the week. Jamie tried to focus on applying foundation to the corpse’s cheeks and forehead.
“What’s up, kid?” Zach said, tossing his sweatshirt on the one plastic chair in the room. He opened the file cabinet and began leafing through the day’s deliveries and assignments. Jamie noticed a few burs that had fallen onto the concrete floor.
“You sleep outside or something?” Jamie asked as she tested eye shadows on the back of a receipt.
“What, you could smell it?”
“No, you don’t smell bad or anything…”
“Oh, thanks. I actually meant this,” Zach slid a miniature bottle of Jack Daniel’s out of his right pocket, the kind you can buy at gas stations to have with a chocolate cigar. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but this is just my morning chaser. I got so fucked up last night.”
Jamie watched him down the tiny bottle in a single bout. It was pathetic. All the same, she didn’t want to let on any concern or dismissal of this scene Zach was trying so hard to create. She decided on a warm brown for the corpse’s eyelids. “You know what they say,” she mumbled, distractedly, “hair of the dog or whatever…” Yes, warm brown matched the curls perfectly.
Jamie had moved on to a faint shade of lipstick. She had to hurry: the service was at noon, and she still had find the jewelry that the family had picked out and give the corpse to Zach for packing up into the hearse.
“Hey, would you look at this?” Zach yelled from the receiving room, which was adjacent to the prep room where Jamie worked. Zach was in charge of filing the initial paperwork when bodies arrived directly from the hospital. When there were puzzling cases, the coroner would come by the mortuary to examine the corpse.
“Check it out,” Zach said, twirling his empty bottle between his fingers. Jamie looked, but it was just another dead body. Well, it was a young body, but then she saw The Face. The Face wasn’t mutilated or disfigured. The Face wasn’t turning green. The Face wasn’t even ugly; in fact, The Face had a healthy complexion and was very beautiful. The Face also looked just like Zach’s girlfriend.
When Jaime realized who the corpse looked like, she clapped her hand over her mouth. Her Latex glove left a fine, white dust on her lips.
“Don’t worry, it’s not her,” Zach grinned, seeing Jamie’s thoughts race from one unlikely conclusion to another. “but I sort of wish it was.”
“What?” Jaime was still confused.
“Oh, we broke up a few weeks ago,” Zach twirled the bottle some more, then set it on the aluminum counter, finally, “or really, she broke up with me.”
“Oh,” Jamie stared at a crack making its way from the drain toward her shoe, “Oh, I’m sorry.”
This one was young, probably in her late thirties, and so the green tinge of putrefaction had not yet reached her face. But it wouldn’t have mattered either way. Jamie had grown accustomed to cold bodies, stiff bodies, dry bodies. She had been working at the mortuary for three years and felt more comfortable around dead bodies than the cloying clusters of girls at the junior college. People outside of work seemed so pink and sweaty and always in a rush. The only person she didn’t mind was Zach.
Zach had watery green eyes and black hair that hung down over his pale forehead. His skin was so white that Jamie guessed it would turn neon purple under the black light at the bowling alley. Even though he also attended Plainfield Community College, Jamie had only seen him there once, walking away from his girlfriend to smoke in the middle of a fight. Zach had seen her watching, but never said anything about it.
The steel door at the back of the mortuary groaned on its hinges as Zach swung it open and threw his keys on the aluminum counter. He was the other youth assistant during the week. Jamie tried to focus on applying foundation to the corpse’s cheeks and forehead.
“What’s up, kid?” Zach said, tossing his sweatshirt on the one plastic chair in the room. He opened the file cabinet and began leafing through the day’s deliveries and assignments. Jamie noticed a few burs that had fallen onto the concrete floor.
“You sleep outside or something?” Jamie asked as she tested eye shadows on the back of a receipt.
“What, you could smell it?”
“No, you don’t smell bad or anything…”
“Oh, thanks. I actually meant this,” Zach slid a miniature bottle of Jack Daniel’s out of his right pocket, the kind you can buy at gas stations to have with a chocolate cigar. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but this is just my morning chaser. I got so fucked up last night.”
Jamie watched him down the tiny bottle in a single bout. It was pathetic. All the same, she didn’t want to let on any concern or dismissal of this scene Zach was trying so hard to create. She decided on a warm brown for the corpse’s eyelids. “You know what they say,” she mumbled, distractedly, “hair of the dog or whatever…” Yes, warm brown matched the curls perfectly.
Jamie had moved on to a faint shade of lipstick. She had to hurry: the service was at noon, and she still had find the jewelry that the family had picked out and give the corpse to Zach for packing up into the hearse.
“Hey, would you look at this?” Zach yelled from the receiving room, which was adjacent to the prep room where Jamie worked. Zach was in charge of filing the initial paperwork when bodies arrived directly from the hospital. When there were puzzling cases, the coroner would come by the mortuary to examine the corpse.
“Check it out,” Zach said, twirling his empty bottle between his fingers. Jamie looked, but it was just another dead body. Well, it was a young body, but then she saw The Face. The Face wasn’t mutilated or disfigured. The Face wasn’t turning green. The Face wasn’t even ugly; in fact, The Face had a healthy complexion and was very beautiful. The Face also looked just like Zach’s girlfriend.
When Jaime realized who the corpse looked like, she clapped her hand over her mouth. Her Latex glove left a fine, white dust on her lips.
“Don’t worry, it’s not her,” Zach grinned, seeing Jamie’s thoughts race from one unlikely conclusion to another. “but I sort of wish it was.”
“What?” Jaime was still confused.
“Oh, we broke up a few weeks ago,” Zach twirled the bottle some more, then set it on the aluminum counter, finally, “or really, she broke up with me.”
“Oh,” Jamie stared at a crack making its way from the drain toward her shoe, “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Exercise #10 Memoir scene 2004 (Interview with a journalist at Columbia University)
A: “Jana, your writing is so smart, and there’s so much promise. It belies your lack of maturity in speech.”
J: “Thank You so much.”
A: “So…how does it feel to be first generation Chinese American?”
(The Five Second Thought)
(I hesitate on answering this question. The meaning of the inquiry mingled with feelings of inadequacy, alarm, and indignation. I look at this journalist whom I’d never met and who knew nothing, absolutely nothing of my experience, or
even whether I considered myself “Chinese American.” How dare she assume that was how I identified myself by? I felt inadequate, because I didn’t know how to answer such a question. I felt alarmed at having to answer her, because I felt no matter what I said, it would only serve as an addition to the idealized construction of set beliefs about “my place” in American society. My feelings of indignation were caused by the implications of the term “First generation Chinese American.” I was not a “first generation Chinese American.” My parents came over to the United States in their early twenties, and adopted a lifestyle here that had little connection to the way of life in China. Now, when they go back to visit, the older generations consider them “outsiders,” not one hundred percent Chinese.” I am not an immigrant who suddenly found myself in a new land; I had grown up here. My parents are the first generation Chinese Americans. I am the second generation of pure bred American girls, Chinese by ancestry, but surely, American culturally.)
J: “What would you say if I asked you how you felt being an American?”
A: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
J: (in a rush of words) “I’m just as American as you are. I grew up watching the same cartoons on Saturday mornings, went to the same theaters, and watched the same movies, listened to Madonna and Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston. I’m an American citizen just like you, and when I become eighteen, my ballot counts just as much as yours in political elections.”
(The One and a Half Second Thought)
(She’s looking at me searchingly and quizzically, trying to see where I am going with all of the things I just said)
A: “May I see some of the writing you brought with you today?”
J: “Sure, here is one…”
A: “No, I’d like for you to read them to me.”
J: “I don’t…”
(The Two-Day Thought)
(God, why did I break down in the middle of reading and cry in front of a total stranger? I really don’t understand why. I didn’t stop until I got out of the building. To that journalist, and perhaps to others, I am destined to write about the kinds of things a “Chinese person” would write about. I would constantly be limited to that point of view, the experiences of a categorized point of view. But I know it is my decision to break out of that)
J: “Thank You so much.”
A: “So…how does it feel to be first generation Chinese American?”
(The Five Second Thought)
(I hesitate on answering this question. The meaning of the inquiry mingled with feelings of inadequacy, alarm, and indignation. I look at this journalist whom I’d never met and who knew nothing, absolutely nothing of my experience, or
even whether I considered myself “Chinese American.” How dare she assume that was how I identified myself by? I felt inadequate, because I didn’t know how to answer such a question. I felt alarmed at having to answer her, because I felt no matter what I said, it would only serve as an addition to the idealized construction of set beliefs about “my place” in American society. My feelings of indignation were caused by the implications of the term “First generation Chinese American.” I was not a “first generation Chinese American.” My parents came over to the United States in their early twenties, and adopted a lifestyle here that had little connection to the way of life in China. Now, when they go back to visit, the older generations consider them “outsiders,” not one hundred percent Chinese.” I am not an immigrant who suddenly found myself in a new land; I had grown up here. My parents are the first generation Chinese Americans. I am the second generation of pure bred American girls, Chinese by ancestry, but surely, American culturally.)
J: “What would you say if I asked you how you felt being an American?”
A: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
J: (in a rush of words) “I’m just as American as you are. I grew up watching the same cartoons on Saturday mornings, went to the same theaters, and watched the same movies, listened to Madonna and Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston. I’m an American citizen just like you, and when I become eighteen, my ballot counts just as much as yours in political elections.”
(The One and a Half Second Thought)
(She’s looking at me searchingly and quizzically, trying to see where I am going with all of the things I just said)
A: “May I see some of the writing you brought with you today?”
J: “Sure, here is one…”
A: “No, I’d like for you to read them to me.”
J: “I don’t…”
(The Two-Day Thought)
(God, why did I break down in the middle of reading and cry in front of a total stranger? I really don’t understand why. I didn’t stop until I got out of the building. To that journalist, and perhaps to others, I am destined to write about the kinds of things a “Chinese person” would write about. I would constantly be limited to that point of view, the experiences of a categorized point of view. But I know it is my decision to break out of that)
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