[podcast play for two voices]
Sally: Hey there!
Tom: Hey! I haven’t heard from you in a while.
Sally: So, so busy! I’m really sorry I fell off the face of the earth there. You know how it is.
Tom: Yeah. I was wondering about you …
Sally: Wonder no more!
Tom: So how you been?
Sally: [sighing] Oh, you don’t even want to know. One thing after the other …
Tom: That’s how things happen. In sequence like that.
Sally: [laughing] Tell me about it!
Tom: It’s been crazy here too.
Sally: I bet. God, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. But, look, I really have to ask a favor.
Tom: Sure, no problem. Whatever.
Sally: I can’t explain why or anything, but I need you to do something for me.
Tom: You know I will. What is it?
Sally: It’s going to sound weird, but trust me, okay?
Tom: When have I not?
Sally: [laughing again, this time a little forced] True, true! I guess I know who to call, huh?
Tom: I should hope.
Sally: Yeah …
Tom: So?
Sally: Okay, I won’t keep beating around the bush. It’s just that I need you to … well, bascially, I need you to set yourself on fire.
Tom: … uh …
Sally: I know, I know! I totally wouldn’t ask if there were any other way. I swear I wouldn’t! But this is the only thing left. Please?
Tom: Set myself on fire?
Sally: Just for a little while.
Tom: My whole self?
Sally: Well, yeah. But not like a total self-immolation or anything. I mean, that’s just crazy …
Tom: And this is what?
Sally: [sighing wistfully] A favor for me?
Tom: Well …
Sally: I swear I won’t ask you for anything else for the whole rest of the year! I swear I won’t. But I really need you to do this, okay? You’re the only one I can trust.
Tom: I … guess. I guess I can do it. For you.
Sally: [clapping] Yay! You are the best!
Tom: Hold on a sec.
Sally: Sure, of course.
[Liquid splashes unevenly to the floor. A match strikes.]
Tom: [tortured, anguished screams as flames crackle]
Sally: Oh, not now, not now! I meant later!
Tom: [voice quavering in pain] Not … now?
Sally: No, sorry I wasn’t clear. I meant tonight. Can you do it again tonight?
Monday, November 14, 2005
Sunday, November 13, 2005
update: the deal with Pancakes
People ask me questions. One of these questions is in essence this:
So what's the deal with Pancakes?
Yeah, the deal ...
In all honesty, it's probably not worth figuring out at this point. Pancakes is a character, yes. She's also a character in a story within another story about a girl named Pancakes. And she's kind of a ubiquitous concept in a lot of the writing I've been producing over the last few years. Hence her gracing this blog with her weird little name.
At this point, all you really need to know is that Pancakes is more of a she than an it (or a they). Don't think about it too hard. I promise I'm not. But I do know what I'm doing. Kind of.
Okay, you can all go back to work now. That's all we have time for.
So what's the deal with Pancakes?
Yeah, the deal ...
In all honesty, it's probably not worth figuring out at this point. Pancakes is a character, yes. She's also a character in a story within another story about a girl named Pancakes. And she's kind of a ubiquitous concept in a lot of the writing I've been producing over the last few years. Hence her gracing this blog with her weird little name.
At this point, all you really need to know is that Pancakes is more of a she than an it (or a they). Don't think about it too hard. I promise I'm not. But I do know what I'm doing. Kind of.
Okay, you can all go back to work now. That's all we have time for.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Act Two
Pancakes never consciously recalled the first time she saw her mother onstage, but it made a deep impression on her nonetheless. In many ways, it set the template for the most important relationships and decisions of her life. But at two years old, Pancakes hardly knew what it meant to see her mother on a theater stage, in costume and under bright lights, speaking words and articulating movements scripted by someone else.
It was best that Pancakes didn’t recall it, actually, because if she had, she would have been unable to avoid interpreting the incident as symbolic. She would have recognized it as the moment that set in motion many of the things that came later: her fascination with her Broadway star mother and their strained, distant relationship … her close, comforting relationship with her father and her tendency to overlook him … the seemingly predetermined career path she’d take between her mother’s connection with stagecraft and her father’s facility with the written word … her fixation on dazzle and spectacle … her ill fit in the company of others. And it all would have been too much, coming from her. She would have suggested that it hinted of destiny. Later, feeling intellectually foolish, she would have rescinded that statement entirely—all the while secretly believing it was true. If nothing else, she would at some point have written a play about it, and it seems almost a certainty that the ponderous heavy-handedness of the material would have consigned it to being one of her lesser works.
The moment in question occurred just a month after Pancakes’s second birthday, when she and her father flew for a two-week stay in London. There her mother, Lorinda, was nearing the end of a long run onstage in a popular revival of Lillian Hellman’s two-play cycle about a corrupt, avaricious family in the Old South. The flight so jetlagged Pancakes that she fell deeply asleep her first full night in England, while she and her father sat in the front row of the theater before the beginning of that evening’s performance. The play had begun its second act before she awoke for more than a few drowsy moments, and when she finally began to look around the darkened theater inquisitively, she eventually focused on the action taking place on stage. There, wheeling around with girlish delight and almost glowing with beauty and grace, was her mother! Pancakes was so surprised and excited that she cried out for her. A few members of the audience laughed quietly, a few others scowled in annoyance, and her father quickly hushed Pancakes before she yelled again. Lorinda, whose professionalism was honed up to and beyond a fault, seemed not to miss even a beat. Her sole glance of motherly concern toward the front row was so well disguised by her character’s animated mannerisms that no one other than she realized that she’d heard her daughter calling out for her at all.
It was best that Pancakes didn’t recall it, actually, because if she had, she would have been unable to avoid interpreting the incident as symbolic. She would have recognized it as the moment that set in motion many of the things that came later: her fascination with her Broadway star mother and their strained, distant relationship … her close, comforting relationship with her father and her tendency to overlook him … the seemingly predetermined career path she’d take between her mother’s connection with stagecraft and her father’s facility with the written word … her fixation on dazzle and spectacle … her ill fit in the company of others. And it all would have been too much, coming from her. She would have suggested that it hinted of destiny. Later, feeling intellectually foolish, she would have rescinded that statement entirely—all the while secretly believing it was true. If nothing else, she would at some point have written a play about it, and it seems almost a certainty that the ponderous heavy-handedness of the material would have consigned it to being one of her lesser works.
The moment in question occurred just a month after Pancakes’s second birthday, when she and her father flew for a two-week stay in London. There her mother, Lorinda, was nearing the end of a long run onstage in a popular revival of Lillian Hellman’s two-play cycle about a corrupt, avaricious family in the Old South. The flight so jetlagged Pancakes that she fell deeply asleep her first full night in England, while she and her father sat in the front row of the theater before the beginning of that evening’s performance. The play had begun its second act before she awoke for more than a few drowsy moments, and when she finally began to look around the darkened theater inquisitively, she eventually focused on the action taking place on stage. There, wheeling around with girlish delight and almost glowing with beauty and grace, was her mother! Pancakes was so surprised and excited that she cried out for her. A few members of the audience laughed quietly, a few others scowled in annoyance, and her father quickly hushed Pancakes before she yelled again. Lorinda, whose professionalism was honed up to and beyond a fault, seemed not to miss even a beat. Her sole glance of motherly concern toward the front row was so well disguised by her character’s animated mannerisms that no one other than she realized that she’d heard her daughter calling out for her at all.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
particulate
Until suddenly one day, that’s all she could see. Dust was everywhere. In the end, life was a desperate bid to keep the dust cleared. Move it around, wipe it down, shake it off. But the dust kept coming, unrelenting. It was patient and slow and indomitable. And eventually one day it would overwhelm her, it would overwhelm everyone. And dust would cover the entire landscape. It would grow into a thick, heavy, swirling sea of grayish matter. In the end, the dust would win. It had only to abide.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
After the Four-Color Action Has Ended
They brought the medication at 10:30 and 4:30. He knew that. They were very punctual about it. Plus, there was little else besides the less consistent meals that he could look forward to each day. He watched the light spill in his window, watched the shadows lengthen across his spare hospital room, and watched the darkness retake the room. In between, medication and meals. Very little else to do before those things but lie back and wait. Very little else to do after those things but lie back and wait.
There was a lot of lying back and waiting. Hours and days and weeks of lying back and waiting.
But it’s not like he wanted to do much else. It’s not like he could do much else. He filled his time mostly with books. There were the books his mother and his cousin had sent, and often he found himself staring at their pages.
He couldn’t concentrate long enough to read a full page of text, much less a chapter or a full book, but some of the paragraphs he quite liked. He lay there, a book open on his chest, his eyes picking their way through the orderly regiments of letters. Letters formed words, a fact he liked, and words in turn formed sentences. It all made sense to him.
Plus, when enough of those sentences joined together in as a team, they asserted themselves as a paragraph. A tight unit of unified thought. Sometimes it described action. Sometimes it meandered through a pattern of thoughts. Some mixed it up a bit with both, but in any event the paragraph was self-contained. Why read more?
He enjoyed the paragraphs on thinking more than the ones about action. The action sentences used language that was quick. It was jagged to him. It was sharp. Those passages used shorter phrases, more dynamic verbs. Maybe they were more engaging, but they were stupid, he thought, pointless. Why would someone run across a field? What would make them drive a car? To what end would they fly a kite, swim a river, or argue with their spouse? Just a lot of energy dissipating into the air, as far as he could tell. No matter how much was done, there was always more to do later. It was exhausting, and it never seemed to end. Even completing a paragraph, he realized with sadness, only implied that another one was to come.
When he thought about it too much, he felt fatigued. He tried not to think about it, to let his mind be blank. He was no less fatigued then, but at least he didn’t notice as much.
The paragraphs on thinking were different. They weren’t so concerned with achieving a concrete end. They still had things to say. She feels lonely. He wonders about the existence of God. The people hope for a good harvest, a new goat, some way to keep the Cossacks from overrunning the village. All of it happens in the head, and this he particularly liked. It was about brains, not brawn. The action paragraphs were the other way around.
Another thing he liked: The paragraphs on thinking had a different philosophical outlook. True, they also implied that things would go on and on, paragraph after paragraph. But they did so with a difference. Yes, they seemed to say, every obstacle overcome only reveals another one on the horizon. So why rush and make a lot of noise about it? Better to drift toward deeper understanding, a more varied worldview. Consider all sides. Enjoy the linkages between proposition and supposition. Ponder the relationships between statements.
All of this was a neverending puzzle box that kept his hours between meds far fuller than anyone suspected. They say him lying there, nearly motionless, day after day. They saw how he scarcely turned the pages of his books, how he ignored direct questions, how he seemed not even to notice the massive manacles that restricted his arms’ range of motion to a scant few inches.
He heard some of the staff whispering, discussing his medical chart where they stood outside his bright little hospital room. There seemed to be some disagreement between them, but he wasn’t sure why. It kept drawing his attention away from the paragraph he'd been working on all morning. Why couldn’t he be left alone to recuperate? That’s what they said he should do. Rest. Relax. Take some time off to gather his strength. They told him that he had been through quite an ordeal. That was exactly how the doctor had put it when he had woken up in this room four weeks ago: “You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
Quite an ordeal? They had no idea. Not a single one of them would have survived it. Not even a little of it.
As he listened to the conversation on the other side of the heavy door, his thoughts were drawn away from the paragraph he had been enjoying that morning. It irritated him to be interrupted in this way. How could he not hear them? There were three speakers, he noted. Two of them he knew. The other he did not, though something about it seemed familiar. Familiar in an uncomfortable way, like a half-remembered bad dream.
“His healing is much more accelerated than expected,” Voice One said. It sounded like the day nurse who sometimes opened the blinds wider than he would have liked.
“No, this isn’t unexpected,” Voice Two corrected her. “His case isn’t typical.” This sounded like the doctor who frowned a lot but rarely said anything to him directly. “What we have to consider aren’t the physical injuries. Those are easy to mend. It’s what’s happening in his head that concerns me.”
“But as badly as he was injured—” began Voice One.
“You see how much better he is, don’t you?” Voice Two admonished. “I would remind you that this isn’t your area of expertise, it’s mine. So listen to me when I tell you that the psychological aftereffects of his injuries are the concern.”
“Of his injuries,” repeated a third voice in a tone clearly designed to show weariness.
Voice Two sounded flustered. “Well, at the … ordeal. How he received them.”
“Let me sum it up for you,” Voice Three said. This was a voice of authority, no mistake. It was no faster than the others, maybe slower, but it had a way of hurrying things. “Yes, he’s healing nicely for the most part. But the fact is he’s uncommunicative, he’s lethargic, and he seems to have lost all interest in the outside world. We have to do something about that.” Still he couldn’t place this third voice. It was low and had a nasal tone. And clearly it invited no argument.
Voice Two outlined an intensive course of drug therapy, trauma counseling, and the slow introduction into his routine of small group encounters. “He needs to see that people need him,” the voice concluded. “To show him that he’s connected to others. If that gets through, things should take care of themselves.”
“How soon will all that take?” Voice Three wanted to know.
“A few months, perhaps. Depends. Several weeks if he has a breakthrough.”
“Make it two weeks,” Voice Three insisted. “That’s all we can spare. At the outside.”
Both the doctor and nurse tried to protest, but the Voice Three cut them short. Two weeks, it was decided, was the extent of his additional recuperation. After that, he would have to be back on the job, without fail. The rest would have to come to an end.
As he listened to the conclusion, he felt anger pressing on him like a great weight. He glanced at his book, but found that he had absentmindedly crushed the heavy, leatherbound volume in his balled fist. The thick novel had been reduced to a dense kernel of wood pulp, as small and hard as a marble. Disgusted, he held it up in front of his face with two fingers. He stared intently at it and the tight sphere shimmered with heat and burst into white-hot flame. A second later, only a curl of smoke and a scattering of powdered ash remained.
More paragraphs awaited him, one after the other. None of them about thinking.
There was a lot of lying back and waiting. Hours and days and weeks of lying back and waiting.
But it’s not like he wanted to do much else. It’s not like he could do much else. He filled his time mostly with books. There were the books his mother and his cousin had sent, and often he found himself staring at their pages.
He couldn’t concentrate long enough to read a full page of text, much less a chapter or a full book, but some of the paragraphs he quite liked. He lay there, a book open on his chest, his eyes picking their way through the orderly regiments of letters. Letters formed words, a fact he liked, and words in turn formed sentences. It all made sense to him.
Plus, when enough of those sentences joined together in as a team, they asserted themselves as a paragraph. A tight unit of unified thought. Sometimes it described action. Sometimes it meandered through a pattern of thoughts. Some mixed it up a bit with both, but in any event the paragraph was self-contained. Why read more?
He enjoyed the paragraphs on thinking more than the ones about action. The action sentences used language that was quick. It was jagged to him. It was sharp. Those passages used shorter phrases, more dynamic verbs. Maybe they were more engaging, but they were stupid, he thought, pointless. Why would someone run across a field? What would make them drive a car? To what end would they fly a kite, swim a river, or argue with their spouse? Just a lot of energy dissipating into the air, as far as he could tell. No matter how much was done, there was always more to do later. It was exhausting, and it never seemed to end. Even completing a paragraph, he realized with sadness, only implied that another one was to come.
When he thought about it too much, he felt fatigued. He tried not to think about it, to let his mind be blank. He was no less fatigued then, but at least he didn’t notice as much.
The paragraphs on thinking were different. They weren’t so concerned with achieving a concrete end. They still had things to say. She feels lonely. He wonders about the existence of God. The people hope for a good harvest, a new goat, some way to keep the Cossacks from overrunning the village. All of it happens in the head, and this he particularly liked. It was about brains, not brawn. The action paragraphs were the other way around.
Another thing he liked: The paragraphs on thinking had a different philosophical outlook. True, they also implied that things would go on and on, paragraph after paragraph. But they did so with a difference. Yes, they seemed to say, every obstacle overcome only reveals another one on the horizon. So why rush and make a lot of noise about it? Better to drift toward deeper understanding, a more varied worldview. Consider all sides. Enjoy the linkages between proposition and supposition. Ponder the relationships between statements.
All of this was a neverending puzzle box that kept his hours between meds far fuller than anyone suspected. They say him lying there, nearly motionless, day after day. They saw how he scarcely turned the pages of his books, how he ignored direct questions, how he seemed not even to notice the massive manacles that restricted his arms’ range of motion to a scant few inches.
He heard some of the staff whispering, discussing his medical chart where they stood outside his bright little hospital room. There seemed to be some disagreement between them, but he wasn’t sure why. It kept drawing his attention away from the paragraph he'd been working on all morning. Why couldn’t he be left alone to recuperate? That’s what they said he should do. Rest. Relax. Take some time off to gather his strength. They told him that he had been through quite an ordeal. That was exactly how the doctor had put it when he had woken up in this room four weeks ago: “You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
Quite an ordeal? They had no idea. Not a single one of them would have survived it. Not even a little of it.
As he listened to the conversation on the other side of the heavy door, his thoughts were drawn away from the paragraph he had been enjoying that morning. It irritated him to be interrupted in this way. How could he not hear them? There were three speakers, he noted. Two of them he knew. The other he did not, though something about it seemed familiar. Familiar in an uncomfortable way, like a half-remembered bad dream.
“His healing is much more accelerated than expected,” Voice One said. It sounded like the day nurse who sometimes opened the blinds wider than he would have liked.
“No, this isn’t unexpected,” Voice Two corrected her. “His case isn’t typical.” This sounded like the doctor who frowned a lot but rarely said anything to him directly. “What we have to consider aren’t the physical injuries. Those are easy to mend. It’s what’s happening in his head that concerns me.”
“But as badly as he was injured—” began Voice One.
“You see how much better he is, don’t you?” Voice Two admonished. “I would remind you that this isn’t your area of expertise, it’s mine. So listen to me when I tell you that the psychological aftereffects of his injuries are the concern.”
“Of his injuries,” repeated a third voice in a tone clearly designed to show weariness.
Voice Two sounded flustered. “Well, at the … ordeal. How he received them.”
“Let me sum it up for you,” Voice Three said. This was a voice of authority, no mistake. It was no faster than the others, maybe slower, but it had a way of hurrying things. “Yes, he’s healing nicely for the most part. But the fact is he’s uncommunicative, he’s lethargic, and he seems to have lost all interest in the outside world. We have to do something about that.” Still he couldn’t place this third voice. It was low and had a nasal tone. And clearly it invited no argument.
Voice Two outlined an intensive course of drug therapy, trauma counseling, and the slow introduction into his routine of small group encounters. “He needs to see that people need him,” the voice concluded. “To show him that he’s connected to others. If that gets through, things should take care of themselves.”
“How soon will all that take?” Voice Three wanted to know.
“A few months, perhaps. Depends. Several weeks if he has a breakthrough.”
“Make it two weeks,” Voice Three insisted. “That’s all we can spare. At the outside.”
Both the doctor and nurse tried to protest, but the Voice Three cut them short. Two weeks, it was decided, was the extent of his additional recuperation. After that, he would have to be back on the job, without fail. The rest would have to come to an end.
As he listened to the conclusion, he felt anger pressing on him like a great weight. He glanced at his book, but found that he had absentmindedly crushed the heavy, leatherbound volume in his balled fist. The thick novel had been reduced to a dense kernel of wood pulp, as small and hard as a marble. Disgusted, he held it up in front of his face with two fingers. He stared intently at it and the tight sphere shimmered with heat and burst into white-hot flame. A second later, only a curl of smoke and a scattering of powdered ash remained.
More paragraphs awaited him, one after the other. None of them about thinking.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
He’s Going the Distance!
He balanced between the parallel bars, holding himself up with minimal effort. His arms were locked, his weight pulling straight down. As long as he could hold the position, he could keep his feet clear of the ground. The moment he lost his poise, he’d have to drop. He’d been hanging there for eight minutes already, and some kids were starting to notice.
“He’s hypnotized!” Rudy shouted to the thirty-eight other kids playing on the blacktop beside the gym. “Bill’s hypnotized. He’s never coming down off the bars!”
Rudy always had to grab the attention. Here he was, holding himself in a perfectly balanced position for eight minutes, and Rudy had to be the one to blab about it. Rudy was always like that. Like when they played dodge ball. Rudy wasn’t even the best thrower. Not even tenth. But he shouted and made fun and acted like he was so great. Lucky for him he was great at least at dodging, because people aimed for his head sometimes.
Kids started to gather by the sets of steel monkey bars where Bill held himself suspended. His body hung between two of the handlebars, his hands wrapped halfway around each of the longer parallel support bars. He looked straight ahead, down along the south wall of the gymnasium toward the other playground, the one where the little kids in first and second grade played. Nobody ever went over there except after school hours. It was the enemy camp.
But Bill could see the kids gathering around without looking directly at them. He could see them out of the corner of his eye, and first there were just a couple of them, but then there were more and more. They kept coming until almost no one was on the other side of the blacktop anymore. A lot of the balls had stopped bouncing. Virginia and Betsy were still twirling their jump rope, but none of the other girls wanted to gain admittance to their inner circle for a change. Soon enough those two would return to power as the girls who set the standard for fun during after-lunch recess, but not at the moment. At the moment Bill was suspending himself into the grade-school history books. People were saying that he’d been hanging there now for nine minutes!
Tyler and two other kids, a boy and a girl, climbed up on the monkey bars near him. Tyler climbed up to his level and lowered himself into a position similar to Bill’s. He hung there in front of Bill, looking right into his face.
“What’re you doing?” Tyler asked.
“Testing my will,” Bill said.
The two other kids looked at each other. “What?” the girl said. She looked at the boy, then at Tyler. “What is he talking about?”
“What are you talking about?” Tyler asked. “It’s a test?”
“I’m testing myself,” Bill explained. “To see how far I can go.”
Tyler and the girl laughed. “You’re not going very far right now!” Tyler said. The other boy looked at Tyler and tried to laugh because others were laughing.
Bill felt his arms burning a little, but he still wasn’t exerting much force. He just kept himself centered, and he felt fine like that. He could see that Tyler had done it wrong. He wasn’t positioned right. He already kept shifting his weight from one arm to the other.
“That’s okay,” Bill said at last. He didn’t know what they wanted from him. He couldn’t help but look at Tyler from where he was, but he tried to look past him a little.
Tyler rolled his eyes and wiggled his head. “You’re crazy!” he shouted, and dropped to the ground. The other two kids with him laughed like he’d said the funniest thing in the world. They climbed down, and all three of them stepped back from the monkey bars to join the rest of the class.
Bill’s elbows felt wobbly. He tried to steady himself by looking out across the ball field on the school yard. He looked at Myrtle Street beyond that and watched a blue car drive by and out of sight. If he didn’t think about his arms very much, he kind of forgot about them. What if he stayed up on the bars even past recess? Would they make him go inside? What if he was going to break a record or something? He hoped they’d check first before they made him stop.
“He’s hypnotized!” Rudy shouted to the thirty-eight other kids playing on the blacktop beside the gym. “Bill’s hypnotized. He’s never coming down off the bars!”
Rudy always had to grab the attention. Here he was, holding himself in a perfectly balanced position for eight minutes, and Rudy had to be the one to blab about it. Rudy was always like that. Like when they played dodge ball. Rudy wasn’t even the best thrower. Not even tenth. But he shouted and made fun and acted like he was so great. Lucky for him he was great at least at dodging, because people aimed for his head sometimes.
Kids started to gather by the sets of steel monkey bars where Bill held himself suspended. His body hung between two of the handlebars, his hands wrapped halfway around each of the longer parallel support bars. He looked straight ahead, down along the south wall of the gymnasium toward the other playground, the one where the little kids in first and second grade played. Nobody ever went over there except after school hours. It was the enemy camp.
But Bill could see the kids gathering around without looking directly at them. He could see them out of the corner of his eye, and first there were just a couple of them, but then there were more and more. They kept coming until almost no one was on the other side of the blacktop anymore. A lot of the balls had stopped bouncing. Virginia and Betsy were still twirling their jump rope, but none of the other girls wanted to gain admittance to their inner circle for a change. Soon enough those two would return to power as the girls who set the standard for fun during after-lunch recess, but not at the moment. At the moment Bill was suspending himself into the grade-school history books. People were saying that he’d been hanging there now for nine minutes!
Tyler and two other kids, a boy and a girl, climbed up on the monkey bars near him. Tyler climbed up to his level and lowered himself into a position similar to Bill’s. He hung there in front of Bill, looking right into his face.
“What’re you doing?” Tyler asked.
“Testing my will,” Bill said.
The two other kids looked at each other. “What?” the girl said. She looked at the boy, then at Tyler. “What is he talking about?”
“What are you talking about?” Tyler asked. “It’s a test?”
“I’m testing myself,” Bill explained. “To see how far I can go.”
Tyler and the girl laughed. “You’re not going very far right now!” Tyler said. The other boy looked at Tyler and tried to laugh because others were laughing.
Bill felt his arms burning a little, but he still wasn’t exerting much force. He just kept himself centered, and he felt fine like that. He could see that Tyler had done it wrong. He wasn’t positioned right. He already kept shifting his weight from one arm to the other.
“That’s okay,” Bill said at last. He didn’t know what they wanted from him. He couldn’t help but look at Tyler from where he was, but he tried to look past him a little.
Tyler rolled his eyes and wiggled his head. “You’re crazy!” he shouted, and dropped to the ground. The other two kids with him laughed like he’d said the funniest thing in the world. They climbed down, and all three of them stepped back from the monkey bars to join the rest of the class.
Bill’s elbows felt wobbly. He tried to steady himself by looking out across the ball field on the school yard. He looked at Myrtle Street beyond that and watched a blue car drive by and out of sight. If he didn’t think about his arms very much, he kind of forgot about them. What if he stayed up on the bars even past recess? Would they make him go inside? What if he was going to break a record or something? He hoped they’d check first before they made him stop.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Twenty-seven Reasons It Will Simply Never Come About
1. It might set a bad precedent.
2. I am base and obvious in my desires and ambitions.
3. The world is a cruel place—all the more so when one is aware of that fact.
4. I cannot get the information I need without further upsetting the situation that I need the information in order to resolve.
5. Professional seers claim I am badly aspected and cannot escape my fate.
6. We do not learn lessons through wish fulfillment, and I am evidently being kept after class.
7. I leave little room for compromise, though compromise is the most obvious, efficient path.
8. Those involved do not know what they want to do, and they are seeking the guidance of one another as to how to proceed.
9. Karma.
10. What I am attempting to do is, in fact, impossible given our present understanding of the physical world.
11. Money, supplies, and enthusiasm are low.
12. It’s a bad plan, poorly conceived but brilliantly packaged.
13. Communications are down.
14. Despite all our talk about infrastructure, no one’s done a damn thing about it.
15. My definition of success is way more ambitious than I will ever realize.
16. The gods are angry.
17. We’re not on the same page.
18. Somebody planned the whole stupid thing for a holiday weekend, and they should have realized that everyone would be away.
19. She never got my letter.
20. A series of small, seemingly meaningless occurrences will steer things another way, perhaps revealing indirectly the intentions of an inscrutable higher intelligence.
21. They’re working with the wrong figures.
22. We’re still working out what the meaning of “is” is.
23. There’s a blood curse on the whole group owing to a foul deception perpetrated by our ancestors.
24. Sunspots.
25. Everyone will begin speaking different languages all of a sudden and will abandon the unfinished tower.
26. We forgot to account for the possibility of there being a centerless universe—random, arbitrary, and without mercy or pity.
27. Some people are born unlucky.
2. I am base and obvious in my desires and ambitions.
3. The world is a cruel place—all the more so when one is aware of that fact.
4. I cannot get the information I need without further upsetting the situation that I need the information in order to resolve.
5. Professional seers claim I am badly aspected and cannot escape my fate.
6. We do not learn lessons through wish fulfillment, and I am evidently being kept after class.
7. I leave little room for compromise, though compromise is the most obvious, efficient path.
8. Those involved do not know what they want to do, and they are seeking the guidance of one another as to how to proceed.
9. Karma.
10. What I am attempting to do is, in fact, impossible given our present understanding of the physical world.
11. Money, supplies, and enthusiasm are low.
12. It’s a bad plan, poorly conceived but brilliantly packaged.
13. Communications are down.
14. Despite all our talk about infrastructure, no one’s done a damn thing about it.
15. My definition of success is way more ambitious than I will ever realize.
16. The gods are angry.
17. We’re not on the same page.
18. Somebody planned the whole stupid thing for a holiday weekend, and they should have realized that everyone would be away.
19. She never got my letter.
20. A series of small, seemingly meaningless occurrences will steer things another way, perhaps revealing indirectly the intentions of an inscrutable higher intelligence.
21. They’re working with the wrong figures.
22. We’re still working out what the meaning of “is” is.
23. There’s a blood curse on the whole group owing to a foul deception perpetrated by our ancestors.
24. Sunspots.
25. Everyone will begin speaking different languages all of a sudden and will abandon the unfinished tower.
26. We forgot to account for the possibility of there being a centerless universe—random, arbitrary, and without mercy or pity.
27. Some people are born unlucky.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Commuters
The funnest time we ever had on the bus was when the substitute bus driver was there for a whole week. We didn’t know him at all, and you know that thing where when just one thing’s different, you all of a sudden don’t know if you’re in the right place? I was getting on the bus that morning, and I was talking to Jeremy, and then I looked up and saw this grinning guy with a beard looking down from the bus driver’s seat. And I thought, No, this is wrong. Like I thought it was the wrong bus. Even though all that was different was this driver with the beard and the old-timey bus driver’s hat. But it was still my bus, and Jeremy shoved me from behind, and Cheryl Morrison, who always sits right up in front of the bus because she likes to act like she’s in charge called me a “lollygagger.” Like that even means anything.
The guy drove okay. He liked to tell the other cars that they needed to get out of his way or that they were changing lanes too much, but he didn’t yell. He just said it normal, and he kind of laughed like he thought everybody else was funny in a way that only he knew. And then he’d ask us questions. He could see the whole bus without looking back, because they had one of those gigantic rearview mirrors. And you’d look up when you heard his voice, and you could see him looking at you in that big mirror. He had really dark eyes, and you’d see them looking at you and you’d think you were in trouble. But instead he’d ask you something, and it was funny if it wasn’t you he was asking. Because, like, on that first day, he looked right at me about halfway to school and he asked me, “Hey, you like that little blondie girl sitting up front of you?” And I did, but I couldn’t just say it. And Tammy just looked out the window and pretended that something was going on out there while everybody looked at her or looked at me. And I’m pretty sure my face was really, really red for a while.
But the guy wasn’t mean or anything. At the end of the bus ride, he told us his name. Bill. Bill the Bus Driver. He was really into being a bus driver. Not like any other driver we ever had. And when he’d see other yellow school buses from any school at all, not just ours, he’s honk and wave to the driver over there. I don’t think a lot of those other drivers knew it was Bill, because not that many of them waved back. But Bill still acted like they were friends. “That Charlie!” he said. “He’s crazy! Like he don’t see me!”
He talked to us all more and more as the week went by. Sometmes just asked general stuff. About how we liked school or which teachers we liked or didn’t like. It was stuff that most grown-ups didn’t really ask, stuff that we all talked about, but just to other kids. Like my dad would ask how I liked school, and he really just wanted to hear that it was okay. But Bill the Bus Driver would make you give reasons, and then you’d realize that “okay” wasn’t even an answer. The first time Bill was asking about school, Matt Tate said school was “fine,” and Bill went, “Fine? Fine? What’s that mean? I know a girl who’s fine, but I don’t know no school’s that’s fine. What’s fine about it?” And Matt didn’t know, and none of us knew. So we had to get a different answer. Carol Schmidt was the first one who said it right: “It’s boring.”
“There you go!” yelled Bill. “That sounds like my school!” And everybody laughed, and after that we all thought Bill was the coolest. Later, Michael Williams told him about Miss Fletcher and how she hummed to herself and thought nobody heard her. And Robbie Gold did a great impression Principal Furneau, all hunched over with his hair in his eyes. It was just like him! Tammy totally surprised me, because usually she was so quiet, but she went, “And Mrs. Winthrop, she’s that lady in the attendance office, always, always, always says hi to everybody the exact same way: ‘GOOD day, and how are weeeee?’” And everybody busted out laughing, because that was exactly how she sounded.
After the first day, Bill showed up with a boombox in the bus. It was tied to the big metal thing where Bill grabbed a handle to open and close the doors. When we asked about the boombox, Bill said he needed it to get going in the morning. He said we could all use some “solid jams,” and we liked the way Bill nodded his head along with the beat. Pretty soon, we were doing it too. Between songs, the DJ kept yelling “You’re plugged into your ORIGINAL old-school party station!” It was great, and even the kids who usually just put in their headphones and stared out the window listened to Bill’s boombox instead of whatever they usually listened to. After that, we all looked forward to hearing the boombox when we got on the bus, and even though only a few of us knew any of those songs at first, we had a bunch of favorites by the next day. When we’d hear the thumping and drumming of something we liked, we’d say, “Woo!” and Bill would say, “Yeah, yeah!” and the whole bus would be into it.
On Wednesday, we were all about how cool Bill was. He didn’t always remember every part of the route, but then he’d ask us to help him out, and that was fun. We were good about it until that afternoon Michael Szmuda said, “Yeah, and turn right here!” even though we all knew that was wrong. So Bill turned, and a bunch of us started laughing and then he knew we’d tricked him. But he pretended that he didn’t care and just kept turning and turning and turning down different streets until nobody knew where we were. We said, “Hey, maybe this isn’t right.” But Bill acted like he knew just what he was doing, even though all he kept doing was taking turns on streets we’d never seen before.
After a while, I told Bill I thought we were really lost, and then he acted like he finally heard us. He looked really surprised, and then he said, “Guess I’m going to have to get some directions then,” and pulled the bus over in front of this little, little house on this street that didn’t even have any sidewalks. He jumped out and told Cheryl Morrison that she was in charge, which she totally loved, but that, no, she couldn’t take names, which she totally hated. And then he ran up to the little white house and went inside. A couple of times while he was gone, Cheryl Morrison tried to tell somebody she was taking their name, but we all knew she couldn’t, so whatever. It’s not like we were going to leave the bus, anyway, because nobody knew where we were at all.
And then Bill came back, and he had this big styrofoam ice chest, like the kind you get when you forget the one you have at home. He wouldn’t tell us what he had inside and just stuck it up by his seat. “Just give it a minute,” he said. “You got to learn some patience. I tell you, in this life there’s nothing you use more than your patience.” Andy Solchow asked if Bill knew where we were now, and he said, “Now, later, always. That was my house.”
It was weird how excited we all got when he said that. I guess because grown-ups didn’t usually just show you their houses and stuff. It was always mysterious, stuff about their lives. Like the time Jeremy and I saw our old math teacher at the mall and she was walking next to her husband and they both looked mad. We still remembered that sometimes, and it was still weird. So then everybody wanted to ask Bill about his house and if he had a wife and if he had kids and stuff. And some stuff Bill would answer and some stuff he kind of wouldn’t. He said, yeah, he had a lady but he didn’t see her anymore. He lived with his brother and his cousin, and one of them had some kids. But when we kept asking questions about where his wife went, he got quieter and quieter until he finally said it was time to open up that ice chest.
So Bill pulled over and got a bunch of Cokes out of the ice chest. They weren’t that cold, but they were cold enough, and we all got excited, because usually we weren’t even supposed to have drinks on the bus at all. Sammy Bitner wasn’t going to have one, and he looked really sad about it, but Bill found out that it was just because he was worried about keeping kosher. So they found that there was a little mark on the side that meant it was okay, and then everybody got their own can of Coke. And even when this one kid said they couldn’t have caffeine, Bill got out a can of Sprite and said that would be okay for him. It was so cool. And then Bill found his way back to where we’d turned off with no problem and we realized we were never lost at all.
On that Friday, a bunch of us were begging Bill to do something fun like that again, but he just kept shaking his head. He was smiling, though, so we knew that meant he might. He told us there were rules and that he was supposed to stick to his route. People checked up on that kind of stuff. But as we went along the route and we dropped off some of the kids, the rest of us kept saying, “But now there’s only this many of us, and now there’s only this many. Nobody’s going to tell.” We told Bill we should go drive off the route and get a Coke. We should go to the donut shop. We should get shakes at the drive-thru. We had enough money and everything.
So then Bill made a weird turn, and we got excited again. There were only twelve of us left on the bus, including me and Jeremy. And I was excited even more because Tammy was there, and I liked that we were both getting to have an adventure together. When she looked around to see where we were going, I looked at her and then she looked at me and she smiled, and that was pretty much the best day ever on the bus as far as I was concerned. Although then we bumped over some train tracks and Tammy kind of fell over in her seat and I had a really hard time not laughing, because I knew she’d be embarrassed and then not look at me for a while.
Bill pulled the bus up at a convenience store. He turned around and looked right at us, not in the mirror this time. “Okay, the bus leaves in five minutes exactly,” he said. “Let’s all run in there and get something good, then come back and I’ll take you home. Five minutes, I’m serious.” And we knew it, so we tried to be good. But it was so much more fun being at the store when we weren’t supposed to be that of course we were laughing and stuff, and it took longer than usual for us to calm down and pick out what we were going to buy. Bill kept hushing us, but that just made it funnier, and we kept laughing, then trying to stop, then laughing some more.
I know it took longer than five minutes, but Bill didn’t say anything. He put on “your ORIGINAL old-school party station!” and turned it up real loud, and there was this “Atomic Dog” song that started up. We loved that song, and we were really hyper with all the sodas and candy, so we were dancing around. We’d bought Bill a giant Mr. Goodbar, because we found out on Wednesday that’s what his last name was. He thought that was hilarious, and after he closed the bus doors and started driving, he just kept shaking his head every once in a while and saying, “You kids are a trip.”
At each of our stops, Bill turned halfway in his seat and said goodbye to each kid getting off. “Ashley Jenkins, you be good now.” Or “An honor to’ve met you, Michael Pallino.” Or “Cheryl Morrison, you let your sweet side show more and you’ll be just fine.” I don’t know if Cheryl Morrison liked that he said that, but later when I got to know her better she was a lot nicer than I expected. When we got to Jeremy and my stop, Bill told me, “You got to talk to that girl. Don’t just be staring at her. She’ll come around.” And I was so glad that Tammy had already gotten off two stops before so she didn’t hear.
It was sad, though, on Monday when the bus pulled up and our old driver was back. Not that she wasn’t okay, but she wasn’t Bill. No boombox, no talking to the whole bus, no drinks, no unscheduled stops. She was just polite, but sometimes had to get mad when someone was acting up or when we got too loud. We asked her about Bill, but she said she didn’t know him, that he was just filling in and she didn’t think he’d be back. We asked her if Bill was still working or if he’d gotten in trouble, and she said she tried her best not to know about such things and we’d be better off if we didn’t either. It was weird, and I felt kind of bad about it, and I turned around and saw Tammy looking sad too. I asked her what she thought about Bill being gone, and she wrinkled up her nose and said she thought it sucked.
The guy drove okay. He liked to tell the other cars that they needed to get out of his way or that they were changing lanes too much, but he didn’t yell. He just said it normal, and he kind of laughed like he thought everybody else was funny in a way that only he knew. And then he’d ask us questions. He could see the whole bus without looking back, because they had one of those gigantic rearview mirrors. And you’d look up when you heard his voice, and you could see him looking at you in that big mirror. He had really dark eyes, and you’d see them looking at you and you’d think you were in trouble. But instead he’d ask you something, and it was funny if it wasn’t you he was asking. Because, like, on that first day, he looked right at me about halfway to school and he asked me, “Hey, you like that little blondie girl sitting up front of you?” And I did, but I couldn’t just say it. And Tammy just looked out the window and pretended that something was going on out there while everybody looked at her or looked at me. And I’m pretty sure my face was really, really red for a while.
But the guy wasn’t mean or anything. At the end of the bus ride, he told us his name. Bill. Bill the Bus Driver. He was really into being a bus driver. Not like any other driver we ever had. And when he’d see other yellow school buses from any school at all, not just ours, he’s honk and wave to the driver over there. I don’t think a lot of those other drivers knew it was Bill, because not that many of them waved back. But Bill still acted like they were friends. “That Charlie!” he said. “He’s crazy! Like he don’t see me!”
He talked to us all more and more as the week went by. Sometmes just asked general stuff. About how we liked school or which teachers we liked or didn’t like. It was stuff that most grown-ups didn’t really ask, stuff that we all talked about, but just to other kids. Like my dad would ask how I liked school, and he really just wanted to hear that it was okay. But Bill the Bus Driver would make you give reasons, and then you’d realize that “okay” wasn’t even an answer. The first time Bill was asking about school, Matt Tate said school was “fine,” and Bill went, “Fine? Fine? What’s that mean? I know a girl who’s fine, but I don’t know no school’s that’s fine. What’s fine about it?” And Matt didn’t know, and none of us knew. So we had to get a different answer. Carol Schmidt was the first one who said it right: “It’s boring.”
“There you go!” yelled Bill. “That sounds like my school!” And everybody laughed, and after that we all thought Bill was the coolest. Later, Michael Williams told him about Miss Fletcher and how she hummed to herself and thought nobody heard her. And Robbie Gold did a great impression Principal Furneau, all hunched over with his hair in his eyes. It was just like him! Tammy totally surprised me, because usually she was so quiet, but she went, “And Mrs. Winthrop, she’s that lady in the attendance office, always, always, always says hi to everybody the exact same way: ‘GOOD day, and how are weeeee?’” And everybody busted out laughing, because that was exactly how she sounded.
After the first day, Bill showed up with a boombox in the bus. It was tied to the big metal thing where Bill grabbed a handle to open and close the doors. When we asked about the boombox, Bill said he needed it to get going in the morning. He said we could all use some “solid jams,” and we liked the way Bill nodded his head along with the beat. Pretty soon, we were doing it too. Between songs, the DJ kept yelling “You’re plugged into your ORIGINAL old-school party station!” It was great, and even the kids who usually just put in their headphones and stared out the window listened to Bill’s boombox instead of whatever they usually listened to. After that, we all looked forward to hearing the boombox when we got on the bus, and even though only a few of us knew any of those songs at first, we had a bunch of favorites by the next day. When we’d hear the thumping and drumming of something we liked, we’d say, “Woo!” and Bill would say, “Yeah, yeah!” and the whole bus would be into it.
On Wednesday, we were all about how cool Bill was. He didn’t always remember every part of the route, but then he’d ask us to help him out, and that was fun. We were good about it until that afternoon Michael Szmuda said, “Yeah, and turn right here!” even though we all knew that was wrong. So Bill turned, and a bunch of us started laughing and then he knew we’d tricked him. But he pretended that he didn’t care and just kept turning and turning and turning down different streets until nobody knew where we were. We said, “Hey, maybe this isn’t right.” But Bill acted like he knew just what he was doing, even though all he kept doing was taking turns on streets we’d never seen before.
After a while, I told Bill I thought we were really lost, and then he acted like he finally heard us. He looked really surprised, and then he said, “Guess I’m going to have to get some directions then,” and pulled the bus over in front of this little, little house on this street that didn’t even have any sidewalks. He jumped out and told Cheryl Morrison that she was in charge, which she totally loved, but that, no, she couldn’t take names, which she totally hated. And then he ran up to the little white house and went inside. A couple of times while he was gone, Cheryl Morrison tried to tell somebody she was taking their name, but we all knew she couldn’t, so whatever. It’s not like we were going to leave the bus, anyway, because nobody knew where we were at all.
And then Bill came back, and he had this big styrofoam ice chest, like the kind you get when you forget the one you have at home. He wouldn’t tell us what he had inside and just stuck it up by his seat. “Just give it a minute,” he said. “You got to learn some patience. I tell you, in this life there’s nothing you use more than your patience.” Andy Solchow asked if Bill knew where we were now, and he said, “Now, later, always. That was my house.”
It was weird how excited we all got when he said that. I guess because grown-ups didn’t usually just show you their houses and stuff. It was always mysterious, stuff about their lives. Like the time Jeremy and I saw our old math teacher at the mall and she was walking next to her husband and they both looked mad. We still remembered that sometimes, and it was still weird. So then everybody wanted to ask Bill about his house and if he had a wife and if he had kids and stuff. And some stuff Bill would answer and some stuff he kind of wouldn’t. He said, yeah, he had a lady but he didn’t see her anymore. He lived with his brother and his cousin, and one of them had some kids. But when we kept asking questions about where his wife went, he got quieter and quieter until he finally said it was time to open up that ice chest.
So Bill pulled over and got a bunch of Cokes out of the ice chest. They weren’t that cold, but they were cold enough, and we all got excited, because usually we weren’t even supposed to have drinks on the bus at all. Sammy Bitner wasn’t going to have one, and he looked really sad about it, but Bill found out that it was just because he was worried about keeping kosher. So they found that there was a little mark on the side that meant it was okay, and then everybody got their own can of Coke. And even when this one kid said they couldn’t have caffeine, Bill got out a can of Sprite and said that would be okay for him. It was so cool. And then Bill found his way back to where we’d turned off with no problem and we realized we were never lost at all.
On that Friday, a bunch of us were begging Bill to do something fun like that again, but he just kept shaking his head. He was smiling, though, so we knew that meant he might. He told us there were rules and that he was supposed to stick to his route. People checked up on that kind of stuff. But as we went along the route and we dropped off some of the kids, the rest of us kept saying, “But now there’s only this many of us, and now there’s only this many. Nobody’s going to tell.” We told Bill we should go drive off the route and get a Coke. We should go to the donut shop. We should get shakes at the drive-thru. We had enough money and everything.
So then Bill made a weird turn, and we got excited again. There were only twelve of us left on the bus, including me and Jeremy. And I was excited even more because Tammy was there, and I liked that we were both getting to have an adventure together. When she looked around to see where we were going, I looked at her and then she looked at me and she smiled, and that was pretty much the best day ever on the bus as far as I was concerned. Although then we bumped over some train tracks and Tammy kind of fell over in her seat and I had a really hard time not laughing, because I knew she’d be embarrassed and then not look at me for a while.
Bill pulled the bus up at a convenience store. He turned around and looked right at us, not in the mirror this time. “Okay, the bus leaves in five minutes exactly,” he said. “Let’s all run in there and get something good, then come back and I’ll take you home. Five minutes, I’m serious.” And we knew it, so we tried to be good. But it was so much more fun being at the store when we weren’t supposed to be that of course we were laughing and stuff, and it took longer than usual for us to calm down and pick out what we were going to buy. Bill kept hushing us, but that just made it funnier, and we kept laughing, then trying to stop, then laughing some more.
I know it took longer than five minutes, but Bill didn’t say anything. He put on “your ORIGINAL old-school party station!” and turned it up real loud, and there was this “Atomic Dog” song that started up. We loved that song, and we were really hyper with all the sodas and candy, so we were dancing around. We’d bought Bill a giant Mr. Goodbar, because we found out on Wednesday that’s what his last name was. He thought that was hilarious, and after he closed the bus doors and started driving, he just kept shaking his head every once in a while and saying, “You kids are a trip.”
At each of our stops, Bill turned halfway in his seat and said goodbye to each kid getting off. “Ashley Jenkins, you be good now.” Or “An honor to’ve met you, Michael Pallino.” Or “Cheryl Morrison, you let your sweet side show more and you’ll be just fine.” I don’t know if Cheryl Morrison liked that he said that, but later when I got to know her better she was a lot nicer than I expected. When we got to Jeremy and my stop, Bill told me, “You got to talk to that girl. Don’t just be staring at her. She’ll come around.” And I was so glad that Tammy had already gotten off two stops before so she didn’t hear.
It was sad, though, on Monday when the bus pulled up and our old driver was back. Not that she wasn’t okay, but she wasn’t Bill. No boombox, no talking to the whole bus, no drinks, no unscheduled stops. She was just polite, but sometimes had to get mad when someone was acting up or when we got too loud. We asked her about Bill, but she said she didn’t know him, that he was just filling in and she didn’t think he’d be back. We asked her if Bill was still working or if he’d gotten in trouble, and she said she tried her best not to know about such things and we’d be better off if we didn’t either. It was weird, and I felt kind of bad about it, and I turned around and saw Tammy looking sad too. I asked her what she thought about Bill being gone, and she wrinkled up her nose and said she thought it sucked.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Dear John
She stomped away from the table, pushing through the crowded dance floor. She shoved her way toward the door of the club. She heard Nate calling after her.
“Aw, come on! What? What did I say now?” It was the question of a person who regularly asked such things, who frequently saw angry people walking away from him. She was familiar with it from the past three months She heard it a lot.
She elbowed her way through the tight crowd, interrupting dancers, drinkers, and smokers alike. They were all in her way, that’s all she could see. Her anger and elbows cleared a narrow path of escape. But even over the thunderous music and the yammer of the crowd, she heard Nate’s parting shot.
“What the hell? Is it your time of the month or something? Having a little PMS moment, baby?”
It was so stupid. That should have made it funny, made her laugh at him. But instead it was infuriating.
She held her elbows up in front of her and plowed into the crowd. She was small and slender, so she had to know how to throw out attitude and intimidation. She moved quickly, roughly jostling people, barely looking where she was going, never slowing down. She hated this club anyway. She hated the music, the people, the fact that people used energy drinks as mixers. She hated Nate and his asshole friends. She hated the fact that she wore her leather jacket tonight and that it was a hundred degrees next to the dance floor and thirty degrees outside.
At last she broke free of the throng and made it to the relatively open lobby. She wanted to run outside right away, but she saw the snow coming down outside. The temperature had probably dropped another ten degrees since they had come in a couple of hours ago. She slunk over to the far side of the lobby, backed up against a wall, fished inside the pockets of her jacket for a cigarette. She pulled out a crumpled pack containing two damaged cigarettes. One was torn near the filter, the other was still intact. She put the better one back in the pack for later and tore the filter off the other. She hadn’t smoked filterless cigs since she was eighteen and liked to prove to the senior girls how hardcore she was. She felt that way again now. She felt like hitting someone just to see that scared, surprised look on their face.
An inch-high flame from her Zippo lit the cigarette with a messy, sooty flame. She could smell that she’d singed her bangs a little bit. She took deep drags from the cigarette. At least she did at first. But the unfiltered smoke nearly made her cough explosively, so she took smaller pulls. How hardcore would it be to start choking like she’d never even smoked before?
While she smoked, she glowered at everyone who walked by, at the goth girls drinking straight gin and pretending to like it, at the rocker dude whose sideburns were as wide as a guitar neck, at the bouncer who looked like he was thinking about asking if she was okay. She wasn’t known for her easy laugh or lighthearted nature, but tonight Nate had made her feel almost murderous. She wanted to spit venom at anyone who came near. No one did.
She sighed and looked down at her hands, at the nicotine stains on her fingers, at the little blue elephant-head stamped on her by the club. She saw that she’d stopped shaking. It was weird, because until that point she hadn’t even realized she’d been shaking ever since Nate started in on her. She’d been so mad that she didn’t notice how much madder she was than she realized. She’d had had to walk away from Nate many times. Why was this time different than all the others? Even before she’d started dating him, she knew he could be insensitive, self-centered, often vulgar. He could be sweet when he wanted to—usually when he wanted something—and she’d always thought he was sexy. She used to be excited to be seen with him. Now the attention he got for his looks pissed her off. She’d started to think that a disfiguring scar might do wonders for him.
She looked across the lobby as she took the last few drags off her cigarette. There was Nate, coming right at her. Unprecedented. He had always before been content to let her blow off steam and come back when she calmed down. He didn’t even care if that meant a week later back at his apartment. She figure out early on that he was never going to come after her. Now he had, and he looked angry.
His anger made her forget how mad she was. The look on his face scared her a little bit. She became aware all of a sudden of how much taller and bigger he was than her. It was a difference she couldn’t make up just with attitude.
“Jesus goddamn Christ,” he hissed as he walked up to her. “I’m sick to death of you always running out because you can’t take a fucking joke! What the hell is up with you?”
She just stared at him, wide-eyed. Her breath came very fast.
He threw up his hands in exasperation. “What?” he yelled. “Am I supposed to check in with you every time I want to say something? Are you so goddamn sensitive that I can’t mention anything that has to do with you ever?”
She swallowed as she imagined the satisfying feel of a beer bottle in her hand as it connected with his temple. She almost smiled. “That’s not it, Nate,” she finally said, trying to get the edge back into her voice. “You know, you treat me like shit in front of your friends. You always do that!”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s what you say. All I said back there was that you didn’t seem interested in sex these days.”
She shrank back, shocked. “Nate! If that was … believe it or not, even that’s not something you’re supposed to say! But what you said—” She looked around. Her voice sounded loud to her in the small lobby. She continued more softly, “What you said was that I had cobwebs between my legs. That’s pretty fucking bad.”
“It was supposed to be funny. You don’t have get so pissed. When did you become such a bitch?”
She stared at him and thought for several long seconds about what to say. “I don’t know. Mostly since I met you.” She flicked her cigarette butt at his feet and dodged past him. She fled outside into the snow. He stared after her, but didn’t follow.
It was bitter cold outside, and she had no plan. She impulsively headed off toward the parking lot down at the end of one of the long city blocks. She walked carefully but fast, careful to measure her strides in case she hit some ice. She walked hard, bringing her boots down with excessive force with each step. The streets were nearly empty, and the few people who passed did their best to look like they didn’t notice the angry girl stomping through the snow.
She wanted so much to lash out, but how? She was twenty-two now. She couldn’t pick a fight with someone like she used to. She wished she could try beating Nate senseless, but he had the size and weight advantage on her. She’d tried it before, but never got in more than one good punch before he grabbed her tight and held her in a bear hug until she relented. He always found that funny. The idea of it now made her almost vibrate with rage. Pity she’d never thought to use a tire iron, she thought.
She saw a bottle in her path. Dark brown with a little dusting of snow on top. She too aim and kicked it violently with her boot, breaking it almost in half and sending the pieces clattering against a brick wall. A couple walking nearby hurried around a corner to avoid her. That made her feel good.
She continued down the street, looking for any objects to send flying. Plenty of bottles presented themselves. Brown, green, and clear glass went flying, ricocheting off walls, littering doorways, spraying into the street. She kicked over trash cans, jammed the toe of her boot into the side of a wet cardboard box, punted a full can of half-frozen beer across the street. She wanted to do more. She was consumed by the anger, almost enjoying it. But it didn’t seem to be going away. It was growing.
She turned the corner, heading down the adjacent block toward the parking lot Nate had found. He didn’t like to pay for parking, so he got what he paid for: It was far away, dark, and secluded. It was actually a little more dangerous than she had realized. Fucking Nate. It was his fault she was here. In the dark. In the snow. Pissed off and hurt and alone. He wasn’t the one who felt unsafe, so what did he care? He didn’t mind telling his friends about their sex life. He wasn’t the one who felt stupid just for being younger and not knowing every stupid TV show reference all his friends got. It wasn’t his concern if she didn’t think crude jokes at her expense were hilarious. Somehow in his mind, all that added up to her being a bitch.
She refused to take his shit anymore.
As soon as she found the parking lot, she started looking for Nate’s van. His ridiculous Volkswagen microbus was usually pretty easy to spot, but she couldn’t remember exactly where he’d parked. She wondered if he’d left already. He could have just left! She started feeling panicky. A fresh edge of anger emerged, and she clenched her fists. But then she caught sight of the little van on the far side of the lot and she headed straight toward it.
She checked her jacket pockets, but then remembered that she’d been frisked going into the club. She stopped and bent over, slipping two fingers inside the top of her left boot until she found what she was looking for. Carefully, she pulled out a black-handled switchblade, a Valentine’s Day present from an old boyfriend, and sprung the blade as she advanced.
Her pace remained steady until she got within twenty yards of the van, and then she involuntarily broke into a run. She almost slipped on the snow, but caught herself. The blood pounded in her head. She heard Nate’s question: “When did you become such a bitch?” She advanced quickly and raised the knife.
With all the force she could muster, she plunged the knife down with two hands. It sank easily into the cold rubber of the tire, and she felt a rush of air on her hands from the jagged gash she made. The knife was in tight, and she had to work it back and forth to loosen it. Soon she’d torn a sizable hole in the tire. It was flat and beyond repair. The microbus sagged slightly at one corner.
Breathing hard, she moved to the next tire, the left front, and pushed the knife in slowly. The blade was loose in the handle and it was narrow, not really made for cutting into thick tire walls. But her anger gave her a freakish amount of strength. Again she made as messy a cut as she could, then stepped back to admire how the microbus now leaned to one side. She really hated that goddamn microbus. She grinned as she moved around to the other side of it.
She felt a bit calmer, but she wanted to finish what she’d started. She placed the tip of the knife against the tire and pushed gently, then with increasing force until she had just punctured it. The air seeped out slowly, and while the tire lost its shape, she made several more slits through its surface, enjoying the feel of the thin metal cutting into the tough exterior of rubber and cords. She was sweating profusely, and her hands were feeling numb with cold, but she felt calm enjoyment as she destroyed the tire. She moved then to the last tire.
On the final slash, she took her time, angling in toward the tire’s valve with precision. It was almost surgical. She made light cuts around it, then made slightly deeper ones. She continued in this fashion until the air began to leak out in a steady stream, at which point she cut more deeply until she was able to cut the entire valve away. She tucked the little rubber-covered metal shaft into her hip pocket as a souvenir.
Closing the knife and placing it in her boot again, she stepped back to admire her work. The van now sat on four deflated tires, resting on its rims. The vehicle had sunk a foot lower. It looked lame, maybe dead. She smiled and brushed the snow from her jeans. She felt better already.
She had one other idea. She felt through her pockets until she found what she was looking for. The Zippo sent up a bright flame as she lit her last cigarette. Back to the filters now, so she took a deep and dramatic drag on the cigarette before approaching the van. In broad strokes, she wrote a note in exaggerated, loopy cursive with a tube of black lipstick. The dark, smeared letters contrasted sharply with the dull yellow paint of the microbus. Nate wouldn’t be able to miss her message: “Love, Monica.”
“Aw, come on! What? What did I say now?” It was the question of a person who regularly asked such things, who frequently saw angry people walking away from him. She was familiar with it from the past three months She heard it a lot.
She elbowed her way through the tight crowd, interrupting dancers, drinkers, and smokers alike. They were all in her way, that’s all she could see. Her anger and elbows cleared a narrow path of escape. But even over the thunderous music and the yammer of the crowd, she heard Nate’s parting shot.
“What the hell? Is it your time of the month or something? Having a little PMS moment, baby?”
It was so stupid. That should have made it funny, made her laugh at him. But instead it was infuriating.
She held her elbows up in front of her and plowed into the crowd. She was small and slender, so she had to know how to throw out attitude and intimidation. She moved quickly, roughly jostling people, barely looking where she was going, never slowing down. She hated this club anyway. She hated the music, the people, the fact that people used energy drinks as mixers. She hated Nate and his asshole friends. She hated the fact that she wore her leather jacket tonight and that it was a hundred degrees next to the dance floor and thirty degrees outside.
At last she broke free of the throng and made it to the relatively open lobby. She wanted to run outside right away, but she saw the snow coming down outside. The temperature had probably dropped another ten degrees since they had come in a couple of hours ago. She slunk over to the far side of the lobby, backed up against a wall, fished inside the pockets of her jacket for a cigarette. She pulled out a crumpled pack containing two damaged cigarettes. One was torn near the filter, the other was still intact. She put the better one back in the pack for later and tore the filter off the other. She hadn’t smoked filterless cigs since she was eighteen and liked to prove to the senior girls how hardcore she was. She felt that way again now. She felt like hitting someone just to see that scared, surprised look on their face.
An inch-high flame from her Zippo lit the cigarette with a messy, sooty flame. She could smell that she’d singed her bangs a little bit. She took deep drags from the cigarette. At least she did at first. But the unfiltered smoke nearly made her cough explosively, so she took smaller pulls. How hardcore would it be to start choking like she’d never even smoked before?
While she smoked, she glowered at everyone who walked by, at the goth girls drinking straight gin and pretending to like it, at the rocker dude whose sideburns were as wide as a guitar neck, at the bouncer who looked like he was thinking about asking if she was okay. She wasn’t known for her easy laugh or lighthearted nature, but tonight Nate had made her feel almost murderous. She wanted to spit venom at anyone who came near. No one did.
She sighed and looked down at her hands, at the nicotine stains on her fingers, at the little blue elephant-head stamped on her by the club. She saw that she’d stopped shaking. It was weird, because until that point she hadn’t even realized she’d been shaking ever since Nate started in on her. She’d been so mad that she didn’t notice how much madder she was than she realized. She’d had had to walk away from Nate many times. Why was this time different than all the others? Even before she’d started dating him, she knew he could be insensitive, self-centered, often vulgar. He could be sweet when he wanted to—usually when he wanted something—and she’d always thought he was sexy. She used to be excited to be seen with him. Now the attention he got for his looks pissed her off. She’d started to think that a disfiguring scar might do wonders for him.
She looked across the lobby as she took the last few drags off her cigarette. There was Nate, coming right at her. Unprecedented. He had always before been content to let her blow off steam and come back when she calmed down. He didn’t even care if that meant a week later back at his apartment. She figure out early on that he was never going to come after her. Now he had, and he looked angry.
His anger made her forget how mad she was. The look on his face scared her a little bit. She became aware all of a sudden of how much taller and bigger he was than her. It was a difference she couldn’t make up just with attitude.
“Jesus goddamn Christ,” he hissed as he walked up to her. “I’m sick to death of you always running out because you can’t take a fucking joke! What the hell is up with you?”
She just stared at him, wide-eyed. Her breath came very fast.
He threw up his hands in exasperation. “What?” he yelled. “Am I supposed to check in with you every time I want to say something? Are you so goddamn sensitive that I can’t mention anything that has to do with you ever?”
She swallowed as she imagined the satisfying feel of a beer bottle in her hand as it connected with his temple. She almost smiled. “That’s not it, Nate,” she finally said, trying to get the edge back into her voice. “You know, you treat me like shit in front of your friends. You always do that!”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s what you say. All I said back there was that you didn’t seem interested in sex these days.”
She shrank back, shocked. “Nate! If that was … believe it or not, even that’s not something you’re supposed to say! But what you said—” She looked around. Her voice sounded loud to her in the small lobby. She continued more softly, “What you said was that I had cobwebs between my legs. That’s pretty fucking bad.”
“It was supposed to be funny. You don’t have get so pissed. When did you become such a bitch?”
She stared at him and thought for several long seconds about what to say. “I don’t know. Mostly since I met you.” She flicked her cigarette butt at his feet and dodged past him. She fled outside into the snow. He stared after her, but didn’t follow.
It was bitter cold outside, and she had no plan. She impulsively headed off toward the parking lot down at the end of one of the long city blocks. She walked carefully but fast, careful to measure her strides in case she hit some ice. She walked hard, bringing her boots down with excessive force with each step. The streets were nearly empty, and the few people who passed did their best to look like they didn’t notice the angry girl stomping through the snow.
She wanted so much to lash out, but how? She was twenty-two now. She couldn’t pick a fight with someone like she used to. She wished she could try beating Nate senseless, but he had the size and weight advantage on her. She’d tried it before, but never got in more than one good punch before he grabbed her tight and held her in a bear hug until she relented. He always found that funny. The idea of it now made her almost vibrate with rage. Pity she’d never thought to use a tire iron, she thought.
She saw a bottle in her path. Dark brown with a little dusting of snow on top. She too aim and kicked it violently with her boot, breaking it almost in half and sending the pieces clattering against a brick wall. A couple walking nearby hurried around a corner to avoid her. That made her feel good.
She continued down the street, looking for any objects to send flying. Plenty of bottles presented themselves. Brown, green, and clear glass went flying, ricocheting off walls, littering doorways, spraying into the street. She kicked over trash cans, jammed the toe of her boot into the side of a wet cardboard box, punted a full can of half-frozen beer across the street. She wanted to do more. She was consumed by the anger, almost enjoying it. But it didn’t seem to be going away. It was growing.
She turned the corner, heading down the adjacent block toward the parking lot Nate had found. He didn’t like to pay for parking, so he got what he paid for: It was far away, dark, and secluded. It was actually a little more dangerous than she had realized. Fucking Nate. It was his fault she was here. In the dark. In the snow. Pissed off and hurt and alone. He wasn’t the one who felt unsafe, so what did he care? He didn’t mind telling his friends about their sex life. He wasn’t the one who felt stupid just for being younger and not knowing every stupid TV show reference all his friends got. It wasn’t his concern if she didn’t think crude jokes at her expense were hilarious. Somehow in his mind, all that added up to her being a bitch.
She refused to take his shit anymore.
As soon as she found the parking lot, she started looking for Nate’s van. His ridiculous Volkswagen microbus was usually pretty easy to spot, but she couldn’t remember exactly where he’d parked. She wondered if he’d left already. He could have just left! She started feeling panicky. A fresh edge of anger emerged, and she clenched her fists. But then she caught sight of the little van on the far side of the lot and she headed straight toward it.
She checked her jacket pockets, but then remembered that she’d been frisked going into the club. She stopped and bent over, slipping two fingers inside the top of her left boot until she found what she was looking for. Carefully, she pulled out a black-handled switchblade, a Valentine’s Day present from an old boyfriend, and sprung the blade as she advanced.
Her pace remained steady until she got within twenty yards of the van, and then she involuntarily broke into a run. She almost slipped on the snow, but caught herself. The blood pounded in her head. She heard Nate’s question: “When did you become such a bitch?” She advanced quickly and raised the knife.
With all the force she could muster, she plunged the knife down with two hands. It sank easily into the cold rubber of the tire, and she felt a rush of air on her hands from the jagged gash she made. The knife was in tight, and she had to work it back and forth to loosen it. Soon she’d torn a sizable hole in the tire. It was flat and beyond repair. The microbus sagged slightly at one corner.
Breathing hard, she moved to the next tire, the left front, and pushed the knife in slowly. The blade was loose in the handle and it was narrow, not really made for cutting into thick tire walls. But her anger gave her a freakish amount of strength. Again she made as messy a cut as she could, then stepped back to admire how the microbus now leaned to one side. She really hated that goddamn microbus. She grinned as she moved around to the other side of it.
She felt a bit calmer, but she wanted to finish what she’d started. She placed the tip of the knife against the tire and pushed gently, then with increasing force until she had just punctured it. The air seeped out slowly, and while the tire lost its shape, she made several more slits through its surface, enjoying the feel of the thin metal cutting into the tough exterior of rubber and cords. She was sweating profusely, and her hands were feeling numb with cold, but she felt calm enjoyment as she destroyed the tire. She moved then to the last tire.
On the final slash, she took her time, angling in toward the tire’s valve with precision. It was almost surgical. She made light cuts around it, then made slightly deeper ones. She continued in this fashion until the air began to leak out in a steady stream, at which point she cut more deeply until she was able to cut the entire valve away. She tucked the little rubber-covered metal shaft into her hip pocket as a souvenir.
Closing the knife and placing it in her boot again, she stepped back to admire her work. The van now sat on four deflated tires, resting on its rims. The vehicle had sunk a foot lower. It looked lame, maybe dead. She smiled and brushed the snow from her jeans. She felt better already.
She had one other idea. She felt through her pockets until she found what she was looking for. The Zippo sent up a bright flame as she lit her last cigarette. Back to the filters now, so she took a deep and dramatic drag on the cigarette before approaching the van. In broad strokes, she wrote a note in exaggerated, loopy cursive with a tube of black lipstick. The dark, smeared letters contrasted sharply with the dull yellow paint of the microbus. Nate wouldn’t be able to miss her message: “Love, Monica.”
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Call Waiting
It was funny because when Viola heard me talking on my new phone system, she thought I had gone crazy. She thought I was just talking to voices in the air, voices only I could hear, but it was just a wireless system with one of those tiny earplugs. They don’t even have those where she’s from, I found out later. She thought there was something wrong with me, and she called my father and told him. I knew, because he beeped in on my line a few minutes after she’d brought me my snack. He wanted to know if I was okay. Yeah, I said. Why? Oh, he said, Viola was worried about you. She said you were having a spell. No, I said. Just talking on the phone. And he says, Well, whatever, and then hangs up.
Monday, September 26, 2005
How to Insult Almost Any Species with One Simple Request
(for use by Homo sapiens)
“Excuse me, could you please hand me— Oh … right. You can’t.”
“Excuse me, could you please hand me— Oh … right. You can’t.”
Thursday, September 22, 2005
new additions to The Mysterious Adventures of Pancakes Dunst
#9
Pancakes Dunst Battles the Blanket Policy!
On a class field trip to the Chrysalis Comforter Company, the cleverest girl in the world witnesses a contentious management meeting that leads to a sudden worker’s revolution. But who is the CEO so out of touch with the workforce that his decisions incite mild-mannered citizens to take up arms? A Forbes executive profile may hold some answers!
#10
The Ghost of Elvis Has Left the Building
It’s a haunted thrill ride for Pancakes Dunst and best friend Galen! A Thanksgiving trip to Graceland turns into a spooky shindig when a poltergeist interrupts a tour of Elvis’s home. Could this dangerous otherworldly disturbance derail Graceland’s business? And why? Willie the Caretaker seems to want to help discover the truth, but Pancakes is suspicious. Does he really believe the cleverest girl in the world hasn’t seen countless reruns of Scooby Doo?
#11
A Conspiracy of Bellhops
“That’s not my luggage,” the ambassador says, but the man in the red jacket and pillbox hat is already gone. Soon the mysterious metallic cases morph into spidery robots that bear him off to a generic lair of a generic evil mastermind. The world gasps. Will Pancakes Dunst not take action? Not when she’s advancing to the final rounds in an international chess competition. But as play proceeds, she notices the odd uniforms of the competition organizers. What up with the red jackets and pillbox hats?
#12
Alsatian, Dalmatian, Keeshond, and Pug, LLP
The American legal system is going to the dogs! Courtrooms across the country are being overrun by canines with doctorates of law, but these litigating pups tend to turn on juries when verdicts don’t go their way. Pancakes Dunst has her day in court to bring the calamitous counsel to heel, but wait … is that her long-lost beagle Ionesco denouncing her in a press conference? And what happened to his collar? That was brand new!
PLUS!
Pancakes Dunst Doesn’t Have Time to Play With Dolls! Super Deluxe Edition
with two brand-new stories—
“Mullets Over Oklahoma”
“An American Sock Monkey in Francisco Franco’s House”
Pancakes Dunst Battles the Blanket Policy!
On a class field trip to the Chrysalis Comforter Company, the cleverest girl in the world witnesses a contentious management meeting that leads to a sudden worker’s revolution. But who is the CEO so out of touch with the workforce that his decisions incite mild-mannered citizens to take up arms? A Forbes executive profile may hold some answers!
#10
The Ghost of Elvis Has Left the Building
It’s a haunted thrill ride for Pancakes Dunst and best friend Galen! A Thanksgiving trip to Graceland turns into a spooky shindig when a poltergeist interrupts a tour of Elvis’s home. Could this dangerous otherworldly disturbance derail Graceland’s business? And why? Willie the Caretaker seems to want to help discover the truth, but Pancakes is suspicious. Does he really believe the cleverest girl in the world hasn’t seen countless reruns of Scooby Doo?
#11
A Conspiracy of Bellhops
“That’s not my luggage,” the ambassador says, but the man in the red jacket and pillbox hat is already gone. Soon the mysterious metallic cases morph into spidery robots that bear him off to a generic lair of a generic evil mastermind. The world gasps. Will Pancakes Dunst not take action? Not when she’s advancing to the final rounds in an international chess competition. But as play proceeds, she notices the odd uniforms of the competition organizers. What up with the red jackets and pillbox hats?
#12
Alsatian, Dalmatian, Keeshond, and Pug, LLP
The American legal system is going to the dogs! Courtrooms across the country are being overrun by canines with doctorates of law, but these litigating pups tend to turn on juries when verdicts don’t go their way. Pancakes Dunst has her day in court to bring the calamitous counsel to heel, but wait … is that her long-lost beagle Ionesco denouncing her in a press conference? And what happened to his collar? That was brand new!
PLUS!
Pancakes Dunst Doesn’t Have Time to Play With Dolls! Super Deluxe Edition
with two brand-new stories—
“Mullets Over Oklahoma”
“An American Sock Monkey in Francisco Franco’s House”
Saturday, September 17, 2005
somebody has an issue with thespians
Almost as soon as Pancakes handed Pastina the casting list she’d worked out for O Socialism!, she found the paper flying back into her face as a crumpled ball. Pastina stared into her friend’s not-all-that-surprised face with not-all-that-unexpected anger.
“I cannot believe you!” Pastina yelled, her hands waving above her head. “What are you thinking?”
Pancakes shrugged and tried to look bored. “What?”
“You hate Astrid Inglaterra. You cut her down all the time. You make fun of her to her face. You started a club that was dedicated only to finding new bad stuff to say about her.”
“You joined it,” Pancakes pointed out.
“Because I’m your best friend, you dork,” Pastina said. “I don’t care one way or the other about her.”
“So what's the problem then? Why do you care that I cast her?”
Pastina looked skyward mock-thoughtfully. “Let’s see . . . um, one, because you never consulted me. Two, you would have totally flipped out if I tried to cast her. Three, because you’ve spent the past six years convincing me that she’s the vainest, most full-of-herself, shallowest show-off on the planet. Four, there was the time—”
“All right!” Pancakes yelled. “I get it.”
“Did I mention that you never asked me?”
“Yeah.”
“Because this isn’t the first time you’ve tried to hijack this musical. I don’t know why you have to be so hard to work with.”
“I’m sorry, Pas! I really just forgot.”
“You did not forget.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because casting Astrid as the lead in the show is a big, big thing. And you've pretty much remembered to bug me with every trivial decision along the way. It’s just when you think I might say no that you just do it first and ask forgiveness later.”
“But, Pas, she’s really good,” Pancakes said.
“I didn’t say she wasn’t good. I think I’m saying that you’re not good.”
“Fair enough,” Pancake said with a nod. “Then we’re agreed. Now, I’m not saying Astrid’s not a leech and a ninny and a bore . . . but she can hit a high C on command. And clothes fit her like she’s a dressmaker’s dummy. And her head’s so empty of any kind of original thought that she has loads of space left over to memorize lines. See? Don’t you get it, Pas?”
Pastina crossed her arms across her chest. “Get what?”
“Astrid’s the perfect actress.”
“I cannot believe you!” Pastina yelled, her hands waving above her head. “What are you thinking?”
Pancakes shrugged and tried to look bored. “What?”
“You hate Astrid Inglaterra. You cut her down all the time. You make fun of her to her face. You started a club that was dedicated only to finding new bad stuff to say about her.”
“You joined it,” Pancakes pointed out.
“Because I’m your best friend, you dork,” Pastina said. “I don’t care one way or the other about her.”
“So what's the problem then? Why do you care that I cast her?”
Pastina looked skyward mock-thoughtfully. “Let’s see . . . um, one, because you never consulted me. Two, you would have totally flipped out if I tried to cast her. Three, because you’ve spent the past six years convincing me that she’s the vainest, most full-of-herself, shallowest show-off on the planet. Four, there was the time—”
“All right!” Pancakes yelled. “I get it.”
“Did I mention that you never asked me?”
“Yeah.”
“Because this isn’t the first time you’ve tried to hijack this musical. I don’t know why you have to be so hard to work with.”
“I’m sorry, Pas! I really just forgot.”
“You did not forget.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because casting Astrid as the lead in the show is a big, big thing. And you've pretty much remembered to bug me with every trivial decision along the way. It’s just when you think I might say no that you just do it first and ask forgiveness later.”
“But, Pas, she’s really good,” Pancakes said.
“I didn’t say she wasn’t good. I think I’m saying that you’re not good.”
“Fair enough,” Pancake said with a nod. “Then we’re agreed. Now, I’m not saying Astrid’s not a leech and a ninny and a bore . . . but she can hit a high C on command. And clothes fit her like she’s a dressmaker’s dummy. And her head’s so empty of any kind of original thought that she has loads of space left over to memorize lines. See? Don’t you get it, Pas?”
Pastina crossed her arms across her chest. “Get what?”
“Astrid’s the perfect actress.”
Thursday, September 15, 2005
The Big Cheese in the Woods
Terrance had been on campus only two weeks so far this semester, but he was loving life. If he were a student, the tedium of attending classes, reading badly-copied course packets, and studying for exams might detract from the quality of his days, but he had no such obligations. With vague promises of future attendance and a plea of being “more into absorbing my world’s culture rather than merely studying its facts,” he was now entering his third semester of aimlessness.
“Good thing I’m so ruggedly handsome,” he thought to himself as he stopped along the street to admire his ruggedly handsome features in the glass in front of the display of the ruggedly handsome outfit on the ruggedly handsome mannequin in the window of the Urban Outfitters store. Terrance approved of what he saw, both in the glass and behind it. He would have to get those pants. And it looked like they might be on sale. Score.
But soon he resumed his loose-limbed and confident stride toward his destination. He had made plans to meet a group of friends for drinks, and he was now more than an hour late. Time to make a belated appearance, always leave them wanting more. Maybe tell them the story about the Duke of Wellington. That always got a laugh, maybe even a free drink or two.
Terrance realized suddenly that he was being approached by a scruffy-looking man who seemed intent on presenting him with something. Before Terrance could maneuver around him, the man swiftly opened a small, light brown valise just a foot from his face.
“Hey, dude, looking to buy a pipe?” he asked, indicating the single glass water pipe nestled atop the valise’s foam rubber–covered interior. Terrance wondered at this sales pitch. Surely it would be easier to display an array of pipes for those interested in such things. This method was just too hit-or-miss. You had to know your customer. This guy obviously didn’t.
“Got all I need,” Terrance said brusquely, though that’s not the way he himself would have described the manner of his speech. In fact, he went like this:
“So I’m like, ‘Back it up, dude!’” Terrance told his acquaintances at the bar. He took a large drink of his second microbrew beer of the hour. Everyone laughed out loud at the progression of his story. He pushed on toward its climax.
“Then I turn to him just before I go and say, ‘You’d be a lot better at selling bongs if you’d just go find some head shop and sit behind the counter!’”
The group of people around him—most of them, anyway—exploded in laughter. Terrance grinned and finished off his beer. Someone offered him another.
“Hey, Ter,” someone called to him from nearby, “why don’t you tell them the one about the Duke of Earl?”
Terrance took a long sip of his beer and waved his hand in front of him. “Hey, now, get it right. That’s the Duke of Wellington you’re talking about,” he said, and prepared for the drinks to flow until all hours. He just hoped the aftershave would hold up as well as his hair gel was.
Suddenly he thought he noticed something out of the corner of his eye and turned to get a better look. Whoa, was that waitress checking him out, or what?
“Good thing I’m so ruggedly handsome,” he thought to himself as he stopped along the street to admire his ruggedly handsome features in the glass in front of the display of the ruggedly handsome outfit on the ruggedly handsome mannequin in the window of the Urban Outfitters store. Terrance approved of what he saw, both in the glass and behind it. He would have to get those pants. And it looked like they might be on sale. Score.
But soon he resumed his loose-limbed and confident stride toward his destination. He had made plans to meet a group of friends for drinks, and he was now more than an hour late. Time to make a belated appearance, always leave them wanting more. Maybe tell them the story about the Duke of Wellington. That always got a laugh, maybe even a free drink or two.
Terrance realized suddenly that he was being approached by a scruffy-looking man who seemed intent on presenting him with something. Before Terrance could maneuver around him, the man swiftly opened a small, light brown valise just a foot from his face.
“Hey, dude, looking to buy a pipe?” he asked, indicating the single glass water pipe nestled atop the valise’s foam rubber–covered interior. Terrance wondered at this sales pitch. Surely it would be easier to display an array of pipes for those interested in such things. This method was just too hit-or-miss. You had to know your customer. This guy obviously didn’t.
“Got all I need,” Terrance said brusquely, though that’s not the way he himself would have described the manner of his speech. In fact, he went like this:
“So I’m like, ‘Back it up, dude!’” Terrance told his acquaintances at the bar. He took a large drink of his second microbrew beer of the hour. Everyone laughed out loud at the progression of his story. He pushed on toward its climax.
“Then I turn to him just before I go and say, ‘You’d be a lot better at selling bongs if you’d just go find some head shop and sit behind the counter!’”
The group of people around him—most of them, anyway—exploded in laughter. Terrance grinned and finished off his beer. Someone offered him another.
“Hey, Ter,” someone called to him from nearby, “why don’t you tell them the one about the Duke of Earl?”
Terrance took a long sip of his beer and waved his hand in front of him. “Hey, now, get it right. That’s the Duke of Wellington you’re talking about,” he said, and prepared for the drinks to flow until all hours. He just hoped the aftershave would hold up as well as his hair gel was.
Suddenly he thought he noticed something out of the corner of his eye and turned to get a better look. Whoa, was that waitress checking him out, or what?
Saturday, August 27, 2005
and it wasn't like he even checked
My friend Mark told me about a book he'd gotten from the library. It was all about life and simple things to do to get the most out of it. More like an owner's manual than a self-help book, though. It had really helped Mark. I could see how much he'd changed since reading it, and he hasn't gotten a speeding ticket in months.
"Some of it's just mnemonics," Mark said. "Some of it's isometric exercises. A whole bunch of stuff. You should check it out."
What was dumb was that Mark didn't remember the title exactly. "Something kind of boring, actually," he recalled. "The Dynamics of Something Something Something. But, you know, not really 'something, something, something.'"
Mark found the notebook that he'd written the call number on, though, so I got the number and went down to the library a couple of days later to get the book and see what it was all about. I couldn't find it. Mark must have written it down wrong, because that sequence of numbers didn't seem to be where it was supposed to fall.
So I went to the guy who was working that floor of the library and showed him the number. He looked at it, but didn't really say anything. I told him what the book was and that it was The Dynamics of Something Something Something, and he just shrugged. "We don't have that," he said and looked back at his computer so he could ignore me.
"Some of it's just mnemonics," Mark said. "Some of it's isometric exercises. A whole bunch of stuff. You should check it out."
What was dumb was that Mark didn't remember the title exactly. "Something kind of boring, actually," he recalled. "The Dynamics of Something Something Something. But, you know, not really 'something, something, something.'"
Mark found the notebook that he'd written the call number on, though, so I got the number and went down to the library a couple of days later to get the book and see what it was all about. I couldn't find it. Mark must have written it down wrong, because that sequence of numbers didn't seem to be where it was supposed to fall.
So I went to the guy who was working that floor of the library and showed him the number. He looked at it, but didn't really say anything. I told him what the book was and that it was The Dynamics of Something Something Something, and he just shrugged. "We don't have that," he said and looked back at his computer so he could ignore me.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Giving Kids the Business
(The Factory Owner’s Song, from the as-yet-unproduced Broadway musical O Socialism!)
[Interior of a spacious, almost cavernous bedroom, beautifully appointed with rich wallpaper, intricate moulding, decorative paneling in the doors, a massive fireplace at one end. Beside a wide picture window covered by crisp white draperies and heavy burgundy curtains is a large canopy bed. Horace Hardstubble, the Factory Owner, sleeps beneath the thick layers of blankets. The lighting from behind the window hints that dawn has just recently broken. As the scene begins, a servant in fine black dress enters from stage right and stokes the embers of the fire, producing a high, crackling flame. He then parts the heavy drapes to allow more light to filter into the room, then leaves. Hardstubble begins to stir, soon sits up and stretches, and in low tones begins his song. The tempo begins slowly, speeding up gradually after every few verses until we reach the rapid-fire, rousing end that sweeps us out of the room and onto the next scene.]
Each day I wake up early
And I’m feelin’ kind of surly
And I roust myself out of my feather bed
The servants stoke the fire
And the flames they burn much higher
As I take a shot of whisky for my head
I part the drapes and peer out
And I’m hoping it’s not clear out
’Cause the black clouds always brighten up my day
Fact’ry smoke is blowing
And I settle back then knowing
That my workers have arrived to earn their pay
’Cause we’re giving kids the business every day!
I don’t doubt the Church might like to have some say
But my profits stagnate when the kiddies play
None of them has got a future anyway
So we’re giving kids the business every day!
[Hardstubble finishes preparing to leave the house through these next verses. As he makes his way out the front door, the priest gives him a hello and a blessing. Hardstubble mounts his carriage, which whips off down the streets, occasionally running down a pedestrian, some of them kids.]
I eat and read the paper
Skipping stories of a caper
Between police and a shiftless, angry mob
My servants help to dress me
And the priest can’t help but bless me
Without me, no parishoner’d have a job
My carriage goes to lurchin’
As we hit the odd street urchin
Thank God Darwin has shown these accidents for
The way of Nature’s weeding out
The able worker from the lout
And it’s not like we don’t have a wealth of poor
So we’re giving kids the business, but what for?
They can work for me or they can find the door
There’s no kid too small or weak to do a chore
In fact, they’ll take work the grown-ups all abhor
So I’m giving kids the business AND what for!
[Arriving at the factory, Hardstubble strides into the main work area, where dozens of dirty, malnourished children are laboring away in hot, dirty, oppressive conditions. A few carry evidence of past injuries: bandages, noticeable limps, missing limbs. A couple have horrific accidents even as these next verses are sung. Any child who appears listless is berated by the obese, angry, florid foreman, who administers his instructions with a quick lash from a small whip.]
The fact’ry floor is teeming
With kiddies, some of ‘em screaming
As they lose an arm or leg between the gears
I wish they’d be more cautious
As their inj’ries make me nauseous
They rust all my machines with their damn tears
My foreman’s a drunken creep
But it matters more that he’s cheap
And he keeps the lads and lasses all in line
Through a fourteen-hour day
With only pennies for their pay
‘Cause I hate to part with money when it’s mine
And we’re giving kids the business, so don’t whine!
They’re all tougher than they look, they’ll be just fine
Not one of my kid’s a day younger than nine
It says so on the papers I make them sign
We’re giving kids the business unless they whine!
[Hardstubble makes his way to his office, which sits to one side of the main factory floor. He closes the door on the noise and the foul air, then shuffles angrily through papers on his desk. He grows increasingly angry and frustrated until by the end of these verses and the refrain verse, he’s shouting his lines out into the factory to warn all the kids not to complain. Then he slams the door and slumps down behind his desk.]
It’s true there’s some frustration
With the threats of legislation
It pays to keep lawmakers on the rolls
Social reformists hate me
Bloody do-gooders equate me
With a baby-eating, monstrous, evil troll
They all forget too quickly
Our economy was sickly
Before my smokestacks turned blues skies to gray
If they don’t like my money
And prefer their noontime sunny
Then they’ll need to find another place to stay
‘Cause we’re giving kids the business every day!
I own the means of production, so don’t say
That I have to let the rabble have their way
If I’ve a mind, I can always cut their pay
I’ll keep giving kids the business every day!
[Still working hard, the kids chime in after Hardstubble slams his door. They sing the first verse in unison.]
THE KIDS
He’s giving us the business
Our lives are on the brink
If T.B. doesn’t get us
We might succumb to drink
[A young boy sings this next part. He jeers as he sings.]
Our parents aren’t much better
My dad is locked away
In prison as a debtor
That’s prob’ly where he’ll stay
[A girl of about twelve sings this part. She seems resigned to her fate, more tired than sad.]
Me mum is a streetwalker
To pay for drink and board
But I try not to fault her
Soon I’ll be on that road
[The kids in unison again.]
Don’t look for silver linings
We faithfully report
No hope is out there shining
For people of our sort
‘Cause life is nasty, brutish, and it’s short!
[A very small and dirty child pops out of a pile of coal.]
RUNT
Like me!
[Interior of a spacious, almost cavernous bedroom, beautifully appointed with rich wallpaper, intricate moulding, decorative paneling in the doors, a massive fireplace at one end. Beside a wide picture window covered by crisp white draperies and heavy burgundy curtains is a large canopy bed. Horace Hardstubble, the Factory Owner, sleeps beneath the thick layers of blankets. The lighting from behind the window hints that dawn has just recently broken. As the scene begins, a servant in fine black dress enters from stage right and stokes the embers of the fire, producing a high, crackling flame. He then parts the heavy drapes to allow more light to filter into the room, then leaves. Hardstubble begins to stir, soon sits up and stretches, and in low tones begins his song. The tempo begins slowly, speeding up gradually after every few verses until we reach the rapid-fire, rousing end that sweeps us out of the room and onto the next scene.]
Each day I wake up early
And I’m feelin’ kind of surly
And I roust myself out of my feather bed
The servants stoke the fire
And the flames they burn much higher
As I take a shot of whisky for my head
I part the drapes and peer out
And I’m hoping it’s not clear out
’Cause the black clouds always brighten up my day
Fact’ry smoke is blowing
And I settle back then knowing
That my workers have arrived to earn their pay
’Cause we’re giving kids the business every day!
I don’t doubt the Church might like to have some say
But my profits stagnate when the kiddies play
None of them has got a future anyway
So we’re giving kids the business every day!
[Hardstubble finishes preparing to leave the house through these next verses. As he makes his way out the front door, the priest gives him a hello and a blessing. Hardstubble mounts his carriage, which whips off down the streets, occasionally running down a pedestrian, some of them kids.]
I eat and read the paper
Skipping stories of a caper
Between police and a shiftless, angry mob
My servants help to dress me
And the priest can’t help but bless me
Without me, no parishoner’d have a job
My carriage goes to lurchin’
As we hit the odd street urchin
Thank God Darwin has shown these accidents for
The way of Nature’s weeding out
The able worker from the lout
And it’s not like we don’t have a wealth of poor
So we’re giving kids the business, but what for?
They can work for me or they can find the door
There’s no kid too small or weak to do a chore
In fact, they’ll take work the grown-ups all abhor
So I’m giving kids the business AND what for!
[Arriving at the factory, Hardstubble strides into the main work area, where dozens of dirty, malnourished children are laboring away in hot, dirty, oppressive conditions. A few carry evidence of past injuries: bandages, noticeable limps, missing limbs. A couple have horrific accidents even as these next verses are sung. Any child who appears listless is berated by the obese, angry, florid foreman, who administers his instructions with a quick lash from a small whip.]
The fact’ry floor is teeming
With kiddies, some of ‘em screaming
As they lose an arm or leg between the gears
I wish they’d be more cautious
As their inj’ries make me nauseous
They rust all my machines with their damn tears
My foreman’s a drunken creep
But it matters more that he’s cheap
And he keeps the lads and lasses all in line
Through a fourteen-hour day
With only pennies for their pay
‘Cause I hate to part with money when it’s mine
And we’re giving kids the business, so don’t whine!
They’re all tougher than they look, they’ll be just fine
Not one of my kid’s a day younger than nine
It says so on the papers I make them sign
We’re giving kids the business unless they whine!
[Hardstubble makes his way to his office, which sits to one side of the main factory floor. He closes the door on the noise and the foul air, then shuffles angrily through papers on his desk. He grows increasingly angry and frustrated until by the end of these verses and the refrain verse, he’s shouting his lines out into the factory to warn all the kids not to complain. Then he slams the door and slumps down behind his desk.]
It’s true there’s some frustration
With the threats of legislation
It pays to keep lawmakers on the rolls
Social reformists hate me
Bloody do-gooders equate me
With a baby-eating, monstrous, evil troll
They all forget too quickly
Our economy was sickly
Before my smokestacks turned blues skies to gray
If they don’t like my money
And prefer their noontime sunny
Then they’ll need to find another place to stay
‘Cause we’re giving kids the business every day!
I own the means of production, so don’t say
That I have to let the rabble have their way
If I’ve a mind, I can always cut their pay
I’ll keep giving kids the business every day!
[Still working hard, the kids chime in after Hardstubble slams his door. They sing the first verse in unison.]
THE KIDS
He’s giving us the business
Our lives are on the brink
If T.B. doesn’t get us
We might succumb to drink
[A young boy sings this next part. He jeers as he sings.]
Our parents aren’t much better
My dad is locked away
In prison as a debtor
That’s prob’ly where he’ll stay
[A girl of about twelve sings this part. She seems resigned to her fate, more tired than sad.]
Me mum is a streetwalker
To pay for drink and board
But I try not to fault her
Soon I’ll be on that road
[The kids in unison again.]
Don’t look for silver linings
We faithfully report
No hope is out there shining
For people of our sort
‘Cause life is nasty, brutish, and it’s short!
[A very small and dirty child pops out of a pile of coal.]
RUNT
Like me!
Thursday, August 11, 2005
The Brnwgthldinn’n’th Saga
Toth was a giant of a man. Standing astride his domain, a yards-tall heap of steaming, decaying animal dung, he prompted fear and awe from lesser men. They had to crane their necks to gaze up at his towering four-foot-eight frame on those rare occasions when they dared get close enough to do so.
As she stood atop the dung heap and watched the thin clouds slide across the cold, gray skies, his sleek, oil-soaked loincloth flapped about his stout and hairy loins. Toth had seen many a terrifying winter, months of frigid temperatures, heavy blankets of snow, and relentless freezing rain just when he had gotten used to the first two elements. For as many winters as he could remember, his only defenses against the sharp, strangling cold were his inadequate loincloth, the thick, matted hair that covered most of his body, and the heat generated by the decomposition of the dung on which he dwelled. Usually, these basic facts satisfied him. It meant he had all that he needed.
Recently, however, he had started to think something was missing. Not that he could have put his finger on it, but Toth had a new and confounding problem. Not the crunchy crust of ice that encircled his feet from where they sank into the soft peat heaped on his pile of dung. Not the vicious running sores caused by severe vitamin depletion now that most of the plant life had died off and the herds had fled south. Not the fact that he believed his whole tribe to have been whisked away many winters ago by Grntltl, the mighty winter hare with teeth sharper than splintered bone. Not even the fact that he was completely mistaken about this, as his tribe had in fact abandoned him in the night when he’d suddenly become insanely obsessed with protecting against all reason the massive heap of reindeer dung the tribe used for fertilizer and fire.
No, Toth’s problem was more elusive. And to his mounting frustration, it was approaching him now.
Out of the pass through the high, red hills came Depthana, the woman who passed this way every few weeks as she gathered things for her own tribe. Toth watched open-mouthed from where he stood. She was very small from this distance, but he enjoyed watching her small figure stride across the blasted landscape from the pass on one side of the narrow valley to the next, where she always faded from sight. To an objective eye, Depthana did not so much stride as lope awkwardly, half-bent and skittering on rickety legs. Over her thin shoulders she bore a ragged, torn pelt holding together a collection of several score pounds of dried peat. The burden accentuated Depthana’s natural shuffling gait and made her appear even more sickly and infirm than did her poor wintertime diet. As always, Toth’s heart was inflamed with love at the sight.
Toth knew he must do something, but he had a limited supply of reactions to most things. She wasn’t prey, so he couldn’t approach her that way. He had tried that once, charging down the hill of dung, waving a club over his head, and shrieking at the top of his strangely high voice. But then Depthana had fled as quickly has her spindly, calcium-deprived legs could carry her. At the time, Toth at first thought there was something promising in the fact that she left her burdens behind her, that they were gifts of some sort, but it had never happened again.
Ever since, Depthana put a much greater distance between them. She walked well out of her way to give herself plenty of time to run away. So Toth started to think maybe she had been frightened the same way prey would be. It had taken him some months to work out these details. Ever since, he had simply stood and stared. Sometimes he made involuntary noises of longing in the back of his throat, but that was it.
Toth knew he knew he needed a new approach. But that was the only one he’d ever had. It had carried him through hunts, through raids on villages, through one-on-one combat over choice hunks of meat and gourds of fermented grain and spittle. It had gotten him everything he ever wanted. But it didn’t seem to work on Depthana. This was Toth’s problem, and he had only recently begun to understand its broad outlines.
He needed a new tactic. Something that would get Depthana’s attention without sending her screaming over the horizon. Toth reluctantly put down the club he had absent-mindedly been gripping. He picked it up again. Then he thought very carefully and very deliberately put it down. A weapon might frighten her. He would simply call out to her.
“Aaaaaggghhh!” Toth shouted cheerfully, waving his heavily-muscled arms over his slope-browed head. Depthana didn’t appear to react. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t flee either. Toth considered it a minor success. But then he noticed that she gained speed as she passed the closest approach to his mound of dung. He wanted her to stop. “Uragh!” he ventured. Still she kept her eyes on the pass and hurried along. “Uragha ah!” Toth elaborated, trying to make his point clearer.
His beloved, the long strands of her greasy, sulfur-colored hair obscuring her fearful, wide-set eyes, still seemed to be in a hurry. She had just passed as close as necessary to him as she traversed the valley. Soon, Toth worried, she might not be able to hear him at all. How could he make himself clear? He had to get her attention.
Rooting around in the icy clods of dung surrounding his feet, Toth selected a hefty chunk of frozen feces and tested its weight. If his voice wouldn’t reach Depthana, maybe he something else would. He gauged the distance to her shrinking figure through squinting, watery eyes, then spun around a few times to build up some power and finally let fly with the missile in his adored’s general direction.
It soared through the crisp air, trailing a cloud of debris, and struck heavily on the hard, bare ground over which she was making her trembling way. The icy clod shattered only a few dozen feet in front of her. She tried to jump back at the impact, but her burden still weighed her down. A small avalanche of dried peat spilled from her pack. But rather than looking Toth’s way to witness the wild, over-the-head waves with which he greeted her, she shifted her sack and pressed on even more quickly.
Toth was dumbfounded. He was, however, generally pretty close to being dumbfounded on any average day, so he soon looked to further refine his courtship of the fair Depthana. He stooped to select a particularly round, hefty, and solid piece of dung, then steeled himself for a better throw. She would be impressed with his strength. She would see that he was presenting her with these gifts. She might realize that instead of walking to further valleys for dried peat, she could come to him for all the dung she could carry. Toth took four full spins, then sent the brown, crumbly sphere into the sky with all the might his mighty but malnourished body could muster.
The dung ball traced a gentle arc across the slowly darkening sky, seeming to defy the relentless pull of gravity. Toth followed its path with his whole body, bending himself to aid in its journey to the one who unknowingly held a fierce grip on his heart. Depthana trudged along as fast as she could, thankfully putting distance between herself and the fetid, steaming mound and its hairy, horrible protector. From his vantage point, Toth quietly grunted and tried to nudge the dung ball on its way with jerking movements of his head. Finally the clod reached its apex and began its rapid descent toward the point where Depthana picked her way across the blasted ground.
When it at last came into contact with her unshielded skull, it struck her instantly to the ground. Her massive bag of dried peat landed on her like a massive earthen pillow.
“Ooohhaalaa!” Toth shouted joyfully. He could not have been happier if a mastodon had wandered into the valley on the coldest day of winter and died of a brain hemorrhage at his feet. His heart spilled over with endless waves of excitement, love, and victory. He picked up his club and scrambled down toward the ground so he could rush out and introduce himself to the woman destined to be his bride.
As she stood atop the dung heap and watched the thin clouds slide across the cold, gray skies, his sleek, oil-soaked loincloth flapped about his stout and hairy loins. Toth had seen many a terrifying winter, months of frigid temperatures, heavy blankets of snow, and relentless freezing rain just when he had gotten used to the first two elements. For as many winters as he could remember, his only defenses against the sharp, strangling cold were his inadequate loincloth, the thick, matted hair that covered most of his body, and the heat generated by the decomposition of the dung on which he dwelled. Usually, these basic facts satisfied him. It meant he had all that he needed.
Recently, however, he had started to think something was missing. Not that he could have put his finger on it, but Toth had a new and confounding problem. Not the crunchy crust of ice that encircled his feet from where they sank into the soft peat heaped on his pile of dung. Not the vicious running sores caused by severe vitamin depletion now that most of the plant life had died off and the herds had fled south. Not the fact that he believed his whole tribe to have been whisked away many winters ago by Grntltl, the mighty winter hare with teeth sharper than splintered bone. Not even the fact that he was completely mistaken about this, as his tribe had in fact abandoned him in the night when he’d suddenly become insanely obsessed with protecting against all reason the massive heap of reindeer dung the tribe used for fertilizer and fire.
No, Toth’s problem was more elusive. And to his mounting frustration, it was approaching him now.
Out of the pass through the high, red hills came Depthana, the woman who passed this way every few weeks as she gathered things for her own tribe. Toth watched open-mouthed from where he stood. She was very small from this distance, but he enjoyed watching her small figure stride across the blasted landscape from the pass on one side of the narrow valley to the next, where she always faded from sight. To an objective eye, Depthana did not so much stride as lope awkwardly, half-bent and skittering on rickety legs. Over her thin shoulders she bore a ragged, torn pelt holding together a collection of several score pounds of dried peat. The burden accentuated Depthana’s natural shuffling gait and made her appear even more sickly and infirm than did her poor wintertime diet. As always, Toth’s heart was inflamed with love at the sight.
Toth knew he must do something, but he had a limited supply of reactions to most things. She wasn’t prey, so he couldn’t approach her that way. He had tried that once, charging down the hill of dung, waving a club over his head, and shrieking at the top of his strangely high voice. But then Depthana had fled as quickly has her spindly, calcium-deprived legs could carry her. At the time, Toth at first thought there was something promising in the fact that she left her burdens behind her, that they were gifts of some sort, but it had never happened again.
Ever since, Depthana put a much greater distance between them. She walked well out of her way to give herself plenty of time to run away. So Toth started to think maybe she had been frightened the same way prey would be. It had taken him some months to work out these details. Ever since, he had simply stood and stared. Sometimes he made involuntary noises of longing in the back of his throat, but that was it.
Toth knew he knew he needed a new approach. But that was the only one he’d ever had. It had carried him through hunts, through raids on villages, through one-on-one combat over choice hunks of meat and gourds of fermented grain and spittle. It had gotten him everything he ever wanted. But it didn’t seem to work on Depthana. This was Toth’s problem, and he had only recently begun to understand its broad outlines.
He needed a new tactic. Something that would get Depthana’s attention without sending her screaming over the horizon. Toth reluctantly put down the club he had absent-mindedly been gripping. He picked it up again. Then he thought very carefully and very deliberately put it down. A weapon might frighten her. He would simply call out to her.
“Aaaaaggghhh!” Toth shouted cheerfully, waving his heavily-muscled arms over his slope-browed head. Depthana didn’t appear to react. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t flee either. Toth considered it a minor success. But then he noticed that she gained speed as she passed the closest approach to his mound of dung. He wanted her to stop. “Uragh!” he ventured. Still she kept her eyes on the pass and hurried along. “Uragha ah!” Toth elaborated, trying to make his point clearer.
His beloved, the long strands of her greasy, sulfur-colored hair obscuring her fearful, wide-set eyes, still seemed to be in a hurry. She had just passed as close as necessary to him as she traversed the valley. Soon, Toth worried, she might not be able to hear him at all. How could he make himself clear? He had to get her attention.
Rooting around in the icy clods of dung surrounding his feet, Toth selected a hefty chunk of frozen feces and tested its weight. If his voice wouldn’t reach Depthana, maybe he something else would. He gauged the distance to her shrinking figure through squinting, watery eyes, then spun around a few times to build up some power and finally let fly with the missile in his adored’s general direction.
It soared through the crisp air, trailing a cloud of debris, and struck heavily on the hard, bare ground over which she was making her trembling way. The icy clod shattered only a few dozen feet in front of her. She tried to jump back at the impact, but her burden still weighed her down. A small avalanche of dried peat spilled from her pack. But rather than looking Toth’s way to witness the wild, over-the-head waves with which he greeted her, she shifted her sack and pressed on even more quickly.
Toth was dumbfounded. He was, however, generally pretty close to being dumbfounded on any average day, so he soon looked to further refine his courtship of the fair Depthana. He stooped to select a particularly round, hefty, and solid piece of dung, then steeled himself for a better throw. She would be impressed with his strength. She would see that he was presenting her with these gifts. She might realize that instead of walking to further valleys for dried peat, she could come to him for all the dung she could carry. Toth took four full spins, then sent the brown, crumbly sphere into the sky with all the might his mighty but malnourished body could muster.
The dung ball traced a gentle arc across the slowly darkening sky, seeming to defy the relentless pull of gravity. Toth followed its path with his whole body, bending himself to aid in its journey to the one who unknowingly held a fierce grip on his heart. Depthana trudged along as fast as she could, thankfully putting distance between herself and the fetid, steaming mound and its hairy, horrible protector. From his vantage point, Toth quietly grunted and tried to nudge the dung ball on its way with jerking movements of his head. Finally the clod reached its apex and began its rapid descent toward the point where Depthana picked her way across the blasted ground.
When it at last came into contact with her unshielded skull, it struck her instantly to the ground. Her massive bag of dried peat landed on her like a massive earthen pillow.
“Ooohhaalaa!” Toth shouted joyfully. He could not have been happier if a mastodon had wandered into the valley on the coldest day of winter and died of a brain hemorrhage at his feet. His heart spilled over with endless waves of excitement, love, and victory. He picked up his club and scrambled down toward the ground so he could rush out and introduce himself to the woman destined to be his bride.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
The Morally Ambiguous Boyhood Adventures of Me and My Evil Twin
I didn’t want to get a cat, but Abel did. We convinced our parents, and they said, Okay, but you have to take care of it. Meaning me. And then I realized that he was the one who convinced me about getting the cat, but now I’d have to be responsible for it.
“Let’s go to the movies,” Abel suggested. We couldn’t. We had to stay and make sure the cat was okay. It had been sick.
“It’ll be fine,” he said. But he couldn’t know that for sure. At least one of us had to stay home.
“But either way is bad,” he argued. “If you go, you’ll worry about the cat. If you stay, you’ll know you’re missing the movie.” But if that was the case, then how come he could go?
“Because I know the cat will be fine,” he said, putting on his jacket. “I’ll bring you back some Raisinets.” But the cat wasn’t fine, and the leftover Raisinets melted in Abel’s pocket before I got any.
When the camp counselor took me aside and threatened to send me home, I couldn’t understand what I’d done.
“What you’ve done?” he asked me. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done. You scared that whole cabin of girls when you snuck into their showers this morning.” I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I knew someone who probably did know.
“And don’t accuse your brother again,” the counselor warned me. “I’m onto you. Every time you get caught, you pretend it was his fault.” I wanted to say no, it wasn’t me, but what was the point? If I didn’t give in, I probably would have been in more trouble.
Later I told Abel about it, and about how I was put on kitchen duty for the rest of the time at camp. “They can’t do that to you,” he said. “I’m going to straighten this out.”
After supper, Abel took me to the counselor. He told him it wasn’t fair. There was no way to be sure I had done anything.
“The girls know who they saw,” the counselor said. “They pointed him out. Unless it was you.”
“Memories are tricky,” Abel said. “Like, I’m not sure which counselor goes to meet the arts-and-crafts lady by the docks every night after lights out. Even though I've seen it myself.”
“Which lady? Miss Deery?” the counselor asked.
Abel nodded. “If everyone trusted their memories, people might start thinking that guy looked like you,” he said. “Which would be a bad thing for them to say, because what they do out there is against camp code.”
I asked if someone should tell anyway, if it was against camp code. If it was wrong, we should stop it. Abel looked at me. I shut up.
The counselor nodded. “I see your point,” he told my brother. He looked at me. “You’re lucky to have a brother to look out for you. Why don’t we all just forget this ever happened?”
Abel nodded. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said. I wasn’t so sure, but it meant that I didn’t have to have kitchen duty.
Two days later, another counselor said I’d broken into the mess hall and stolen some of the chocolate we used to make s’mores. “If we’d put you on kitchen duty the first time,” he told me, “I bet we wouldn’t be having these problems anymore.”
I agreed that was probably true.
Our glee club won the all-district competition on a technicality. The other group had to forfeit. They couldn’t get their uniforms out of their dressing room in time to perform.
“They lost the keys,” our director told us. “So they have to award us the prize.”
“But that’s good if we win,” Abel said. “It will be the first championship for our school.” It didn’t seem totally fair to me.
“It’s still fair,” Abel said. “That’s why there’s the rule. And no one’s going to remember later if we had to sing or not. When they see our trophy at school, they’re just going to know that we won.”
“So it’s good for the whole school,” another kid agreed. Everyone liked the idea.
Later they engraved all of our names on the trophy. It didn’t say anything about the forfeit or about how the keys got lost. It just said that we came in first. Our parents took a picture of me and Abel in front of the trophy case when they came to open house.
“Let’s go to the movies,” Abel suggested. We couldn’t. We had to stay and make sure the cat was okay. It had been sick.
“It’ll be fine,” he said. But he couldn’t know that for sure. At least one of us had to stay home.
“But either way is bad,” he argued. “If you go, you’ll worry about the cat. If you stay, you’ll know you’re missing the movie.” But if that was the case, then how come he could go?
“Because I know the cat will be fine,” he said, putting on his jacket. “I’ll bring you back some Raisinets.” But the cat wasn’t fine, and the leftover Raisinets melted in Abel’s pocket before I got any.
+ + +
When the camp counselor took me aside and threatened to send me home, I couldn’t understand what I’d done.
“What you’ve done?” he asked me. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done. You scared that whole cabin of girls when you snuck into their showers this morning.” I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I knew someone who probably did know.
“And don’t accuse your brother again,” the counselor warned me. “I’m onto you. Every time you get caught, you pretend it was his fault.” I wanted to say no, it wasn’t me, but what was the point? If I didn’t give in, I probably would have been in more trouble.
Later I told Abel about it, and about how I was put on kitchen duty for the rest of the time at camp. “They can’t do that to you,” he said. “I’m going to straighten this out.”
After supper, Abel took me to the counselor. He told him it wasn’t fair. There was no way to be sure I had done anything.
“The girls know who they saw,” the counselor said. “They pointed him out. Unless it was you.”
“Memories are tricky,” Abel said. “Like, I’m not sure which counselor goes to meet the arts-and-crafts lady by the docks every night after lights out. Even though I've seen it myself.”
“Which lady? Miss Deery?” the counselor asked.
Abel nodded. “If everyone trusted their memories, people might start thinking that guy looked like you,” he said. “Which would be a bad thing for them to say, because what they do out there is against camp code.”
I asked if someone should tell anyway, if it was against camp code. If it was wrong, we should stop it. Abel looked at me. I shut up.
The counselor nodded. “I see your point,” he told my brother. He looked at me. “You’re lucky to have a brother to look out for you. Why don’t we all just forget this ever happened?”
Abel nodded. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said. I wasn’t so sure, but it meant that I didn’t have to have kitchen duty.
Two days later, another counselor said I’d broken into the mess hall and stolen some of the chocolate we used to make s’mores. “If we’d put you on kitchen duty the first time,” he told me, “I bet we wouldn’t be having these problems anymore.”
I agreed that was probably true.
+ + +
Our glee club won the all-district competition on a technicality. The other group had to forfeit. They couldn’t get their uniforms out of their dressing room in time to perform.
“They lost the keys,” our director told us. “So they have to award us the prize.”
“But that’s good if we win,” Abel said. “It will be the first championship for our school.” It didn’t seem totally fair to me.
“It’s still fair,” Abel said. “That’s why there’s the rule. And no one’s going to remember later if we had to sing or not. When they see our trophy at school, they’re just going to know that we won.”
“So it’s good for the whole school,” another kid agreed. Everyone liked the idea.
Later they engraved all of our names on the trophy. It didn’t say anything about the forfeit or about how the keys got lost. It just said that we came in first. Our parents took a picture of me and Abel in front of the trophy case when they came to open house.
+ + +
Abel threw some of his macaroni and cheese with hot dogs in the trash when our mother wasn’t around to see. I told him he shouldn’t. Mom always said there were kids who were starving in other countries.
“That’s the narrow view,” Abel said. “That’s just our species. The food won’t go to waste.” Unless someone got it from our trash to get it, I didn’t see how it was going to get eaten.
“Nothing is wasted,” he said. “Bugs will eat it. Or mold or something. It’s the cycle of life.” I didn’t know what he meant.
“Food is matter, and matter is energy,” he said. “And energy can’t be created or destroyed. Everything’s becoming. So the macaroni is just becoming something else. Just like you will one day.” I didn’t like the way that sounded, but I knew Mom still wouldn’t like it.
“Then don’t tell her,” Abel said. “Why does she have to know about things that would just upset her? It seems wrong to tell her.”
So we didn’t. When Mom came back to the kitchen, she saw that my plate was still full. She told me to eat up, to be more like my brother. I ate.
Abel threw some of his macaroni and cheese with hot dogs in the trash when our mother wasn’t around to see. I told him he shouldn’t. Mom always said there were kids who were starving in other countries.
“That’s the narrow view,” Abel said. “That’s just our species. The food won’t go to waste.” Unless someone got it from our trash to get it, I didn’t see how it was going to get eaten.
“Nothing is wasted,” he said. “Bugs will eat it. Or mold or something. It’s the cycle of life.” I didn’t know what he meant.
“Food is matter, and matter is energy,” he said. “And energy can’t be created or destroyed. Everything’s becoming. So the macaroni is just becoming something else. Just like you will one day.” I didn’t like the way that sounded, but I knew Mom still wouldn’t like it.
“Then don’t tell her,” Abel said. “Why does she have to know about things that would just upset her? It seems wrong to tell her.”
So we didn’t. When Mom came back to the kitchen, she saw that my plate was still full. She told me to eat up, to be more like my brother. I ate.
Friday, August 05, 2005
from The Astonishing Adventures of Pancakes Dunst
#1: Attack of the Left-Leaning Pundits
Earth is invaded by very calm and reasonable aliens bent on taking over the world in a peaceful but absolute manner. To mollify the people of Earth, the media is co-opted by a vast army of intelligent and well-spoken aliens, who try to quell all resistance with their restrained but impassioned arguments against humankind's being allowed to rule itself. Eight-year-old Pancakes Dunst realizes that she, the cleverest girl in the world, is the only thing that stands between freedom and complacent slavery of her planet.
#2: Ooze Gonna Help You Now?
Federated Fossil Fuels grounds an oil tanker off the coast of South Carolina, spilling the ship's experimental, high-performance new fuel into waters once contested by Civil War ironclads and coastal forts. Pancakes Dunst offers her assistance in planning the cleanup to minimize the danger to the ecosystem, but she never expected to have to face an army of Civil War zombies stirred up by the fuel spill. And what about that mile-long slick of ooze floating in the bay? Has it really started talking?
#3: Toeing the Maginot Line
Pancakes’s French Adventure! On a goodwill tour of the European continent, Pancakes finds herself in danger by shady men in long trenchcoats and red berets. The prophecy of the Moroccan Medium points to a family secret left over from World War II, a Swiss bank account in her grandfather’s name, and a lost cinema classic by a reclusive director. Even more baffling, the ghost of Gertrude Stein keeps leaving phone messages with the concierge at Pancakes’s hotel. Now she has no choice but to find the links between these seemingly absurd events and still clear up matters in time to attend a dinner with the President of France!
#4: Night of the Narcolator
How can the cleverest girl in the world fight a danger she can’t identify? Someone is brewing anti-espresso, a high-powered drink that puts people to sleep in seconds. And it’s so popular that entire cities are shutting down all over the world! Pancakes is on the case, but with no apparent motive and no one claiming responsibility, it’s unclear just what the case is. But maybe a new friend named Pipo has some answers. At least, he claims to be a friend….
#5: Calling All Crips!
It’s gang warfare on the airwaves, and no one knows how to stop it before it before someone gets hurt. The city erupts in chaos when citizens are taken over by rival DJs with mind control messages encoded into their music. At first they seem intent only on ridiculous pranks, but as they battle for dominance, the pranks turn more and more dangerous. Pancakes Dunst knows she has to put the scratch on their tracks, but the only people who can help are part of a hearing-impaired street gang. If they can’t hear the music, will they listen to the cleverest girl in the world?
#6: A Night in the Bunker, A Day at the Races
“Does art excuse all?” Professor Gulglitch asked Pancakes as they stood together on the train platform. The bleak, slate-gray sky met the featureless horizon almost seamlessly in the distance. The rain beat down without pity or care. “I don’t even think the train stops here anymore,” Pancakes replied. A feral cat hiding beneath the rotting wood of the platform growled its annoyance at the wet weather.
#7: The Man Who Grew Too Much
Pancakes’s science fair project gets attention from the U.S. military, so the cleverest girl in the world takes a special trip to the President’s Easter party! While talk show hosts debate the separation of church and state, Pancakes and her best friend Galen take a stroll around Camp David in search of colorful eggs and chocolate treats. That’s when Dr. Patchwork, Pancakes’s evil nemesis, decides to make a mockery of the event by scaring off the media with a monster-sized Easter Bunny. Only that bunny wasn’t a nobody. It was the Secretary of Defense in a costume, and now he’s forty feet high!
#8: (Inner) Space Is the Place!
The greatest challenge of her life faces Pancakes Dunst: the holiday play! Special guest appearance by May-tall and the Deuteronomy Crew.
Superspecial Holiday Edition!
Pancakes Dunst Doesn't Have Time to Play with Dolls!
A collection of four special stories, including
“The Last Taco Stand in Berlin”
“Why a Bowler’s Tour, Dad? Why?”
“Slow Boat to Monkey Island”
“What I Did On My Summer Vacation, by Pancakes Dunst”
Plus: Collectible Stickers!
Earth is invaded by very calm and reasonable aliens bent on taking over the world in a peaceful but absolute manner. To mollify the people of Earth, the media is co-opted by a vast army of intelligent and well-spoken aliens, who try to quell all resistance with their restrained but impassioned arguments against humankind's being allowed to rule itself. Eight-year-old Pancakes Dunst realizes that she, the cleverest girl in the world, is the only thing that stands between freedom and complacent slavery of her planet.
#2: Ooze Gonna Help You Now?
Federated Fossil Fuels grounds an oil tanker off the coast of South Carolina, spilling the ship's experimental, high-performance new fuel into waters once contested by Civil War ironclads and coastal forts. Pancakes Dunst offers her assistance in planning the cleanup to minimize the danger to the ecosystem, but she never expected to have to face an army of Civil War zombies stirred up by the fuel spill. And what about that mile-long slick of ooze floating in the bay? Has it really started talking?
#3: Toeing the Maginot Line
Pancakes’s French Adventure! On a goodwill tour of the European continent, Pancakes finds herself in danger by shady men in long trenchcoats and red berets. The prophecy of the Moroccan Medium points to a family secret left over from World War II, a Swiss bank account in her grandfather’s name, and a lost cinema classic by a reclusive director. Even more baffling, the ghost of Gertrude Stein keeps leaving phone messages with the concierge at Pancakes’s hotel. Now she has no choice but to find the links between these seemingly absurd events and still clear up matters in time to attend a dinner with the President of France!
#4: Night of the Narcolator
How can the cleverest girl in the world fight a danger she can’t identify? Someone is brewing anti-espresso, a high-powered drink that puts people to sleep in seconds. And it’s so popular that entire cities are shutting down all over the world! Pancakes is on the case, but with no apparent motive and no one claiming responsibility, it’s unclear just what the case is. But maybe a new friend named Pipo has some answers. At least, he claims to be a friend….
#5: Calling All Crips!
It’s gang warfare on the airwaves, and no one knows how to stop it before it before someone gets hurt. The city erupts in chaos when citizens are taken over by rival DJs with mind control messages encoded into their music. At first they seem intent only on ridiculous pranks, but as they battle for dominance, the pranks turn more and more dangerous. Pancakes Dunst knows she has to put the scratch on their tracks, but the only people who can help are part of a hearing-impaired street gang. If they can’t hear the music, will they listen to the cleverest girl in the world?
#6: A Night in the Bunker, A Day at the Races
“Does art excuse all?” Professor Gulglitch asked Pancakes as they stood together on the train platform. The bleak, slate-gray sky met the featureless horizon almost seamlessly in the distance. The rain beat down without pity or care. “I don’t even think the train stops here anymore,” Pancakes replied. A feral cat hiding beneath the rotting wood of the platform growled its annoyance at the wet weather.
#7: The Man Who Grew Too Much
Pancakes’s science fair project gets attention from the U.S. military, so the cleverest girl in the world takes a special trip to the President’s Easter party! While talk show hosts debate the separation of church and state, Pancakes and her best friend Galen take a stroll around Camp David in search of colorful eggs and chocolate treats. That’s when Dr. Patchwork, Pancakes’s evil nemesis, decides to make a mockery of the event by scaring off the media with a monster-sized Easter Bunny. Only that bunny wasn’t a nobody. It was the Secretary of Defense in a costume, and now he’s forty feet high!
#8: (Inner) Space Is the Place!
The greatest challenge of her life faces Pancakes Dunst: the holiday play! Special guest appearance by May-tall and the Deuteronomy Crew.
Superspecial Holiday Edition!
Pancakes Dunst Doesn't Have Time to Play with Dolls!
A collection of four special stories, including
“The Last Taco Stand in Berlin”
“Why a Bowler’s Tour, Dad? Why?”
“Slow Boat to Monkey Island”
“What I Did On My Summer Vacation, by Pancakes Dunst”
Plus: Collectible Stickers!
Monday, August 01, 2005
update: a vast wasteland of pixels and light
So my question to all of you out there is ... uh, is there anyone out there?
The blog: Yeah, it's about ego. It's about self-promotion and instant gratification and "Look at me! Whoa-ho! Look at me! Look at what I'm doing!" Thousands of individuals with the impulses of a five-year-old. We may be better at dressing ourselves, and, okay, many of us have gotten a grip on concepts like cause-and-effect and the transient nature of time. Doesn't mean we're not all twirling and jumping and hoping that Mommy looks over and sees.
A simplistic critique? Hey, I'm not exempting myself. And I'm not even using it as a means to head off the essential message of this post: Look at me!
I know it's a silly request. I mean, if you're reading this (or even if you just stopped because you realized I was just going to keep going and you were wondering what happened to the little tennis girl), then you're looking. If you're not, well, my drawing your attention to a forum you're ignoring by communicating over a forum you're ignoring isn't likely to meet with massive waves of success.
This is simply the first time I'm breaking from my pattern of posting bits of fiction on here for you. Whoever you are. You know who you are. At least I hope you do. And since I'm breaking the pattern, I'll just clarify what I've been doing, in case it wasn't obvious. I'm ... oh, gosh, I gave it away just now, didn't I? I'm posting bits of fiction on here for you. Bits of fiction I wrote. Bits of fiction you may or may not have seen before. Bits of fiction you may or may not ever see again.
This isn't a testing ground, exactly. Most of what I'm putting here is in a state that's close to finished. Or I mean to say that it's finished for now, but if were called on to repurpose it for something or have it printed elsewhere, I wouldn't be able to resist giving it a touch-up. But this stuff was put down much as I intended to put it down, and only the passage of time and my own glacial learning process will give me the insight to do much better than I've done here. Also maybe some effort and encouragement. A promise of wine. A breezy tennis date ...
Uh ... oh, so there it is. I'm putting the stuff out there. If you read it, tell me something about it. That is, if you have any thoughts at all. If not, then maybe your communiques wouldn't be of much use to either of us. Too bad, because you seemed so nice at first.
In any event, I'll continue putting stuff here as long as I'm able to cull it, draft it, or crib it from someone else. Shout-outs to CO, Lil' Biscuit, and JR Guttertype. Peace out, ya'll. As my great-grandfather used to say, "Be yourself and you free yourself." We kids never really got what he meant, but when he said it, we knew he was finally tipsy enough not to watch the beer cooler too closely. That's all we'd been waiting for.
We learned so much from that old man.
The blog: Yeah, it's about ego. It's about self-promotion and instant gratification and "Look at me! Whoa-ho! Look at me! Look at what I'm doing!" Thousands of individuals with the impulses of a five-year-old. We may be better at dressing ourselves, and, okay, many of us have gotten a grip on concepts like cause-and-effect and the transient nature of time. Doesn't mean we're not all twirling and jumping and hoping that Mommy looks over and sees.
A simplistic critique? Hey, I'm not exempting myself. And I'm not even using it as a means to head off the essential message of this post: Look at me!
I know it's a silly request. I mean, if you're reading this (or even if you just stopped because you realized I was just going to keep going and you were wondering what happened to the little tennis girl), then you're looking. If you're not, well, my drawing your attention to a forum you're ignoring by communicating over a forum you're ignoring isn't likely to meet with massive waves of success.
This is simply the first time I'm breaking from my pattern of posting bits of fiction on here for you. Whoever you are. You know who you are. At least I hope you do. And since I'm breaking the pattern, I'll just clarify what I've been doing, in case it wasn't obvious. I'm ... oh, gosh, I gave it away just now, didn't I? I'm posting bits of fiction on here for you. Bits of fiction I wrote. Bits of fiction you may or may not have seen before. Bits of fiction you may or may not ever see again.
This isn't a testing ground, exactly. Most of what I'm putting here is in a state that's close to finished. Or I mean to say that it's finished for now, but if were called on to repurpose it for something or have it printed elsewhere, I wouldn't be able to resist giving it a touch-up. But this stuff was put down much as I intended to put it down, and only the passage of time and my own glacial learning process will give me the insight to do much better than I've done here. Also maybe some effort and encouragement. A promise of wine. A breezy tennis date ...
Uh ... oh, so there it is. I'm putting the stuff out there. If you read it, tell me something about it. That is, if you have any thoughts at all. If not, then maybe your communiques wouldn't be of much use to either of us. Too bad, because you seemed so nice at first.
In any event, I'll continue putting stuff here as long as I'm able to cull it, draft it, or crib it from someone else. Shout-outs to CO, Lil' Biscuit, and JR Guttertype. Peace out, ya'll. As my great-grandfather used to say, "Be yourself and you free yourself." We kids never really got what he meant, but when he said it, we knew he was finally tipsy enough not to watch the beer cooler too closely. That's all we'd been waiting for.
We learned so much from that old man.
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