21 Short Stories by 18-Year-Olds
And the Teacher They Inspired:
High School Alumni Reflect on the Fiction They Wrote As Seniors
Jim Zervanos
For Years I had been thinking that the stories my seniors wrote deserved a larger
audience, an audience of not only readers who wanted to read good fiction but writers
who wanted to write good fiction. In my sabbatical project I set out to compile a
collection of excellent student stories that would be the foundation for a book with a
larger, instructional purpose. First, I read through piles of class collections from my last
nine years of teaching; I selected the best stories and began tracking down one writer
after another. Once I eventually made contact with all of them, they agreed,
enthusiastically, not only to contribute their “old” short story from high school, but also
to compose a reflection on their story. Next, I read several excellent story collections—
among them The Best American Short Stories 2004 and The Story Behind the Story: 26
Stories by Contemporary Writers and How They Work—in which authors reflect on their
own fiction writing; then, considering these books, I developed a series of questions that
would stimulate interesting reflections from “my” writers. One by one their reflections
came in, and one by one I was mesmerized. The reflections are stunning not only for
their general quality but for their variety, honesty, depth of feeling, and humor. Without
question, the most gratifying aspect of working on this project was my ongoing
correspondence with these twenty-one committed writers, most of whom are in college or
graduate school, some of whom have begun careers, and at least one of whom has gotten
married and has been living outside of the country. In each and every case, these writers
recalled their stories passionately, and offered their own distinctive take on their personal
writing process. I read multiple drafts of their reflections and offered editorial advice,
pushing them to write the best, most interesting, most articulate reflection that they
could—and revise they did. As the title indicates, these students—along with their
stories and, ultimately, their reflections—inspired me; they inspired me to be a better
teacher when they were students, and they once again inspired me when they wrote their
reflections with such insight and care. As their reflections were submitted to me over the
course of several months, I proceeded to write my reflections on their stories—and on
their reflections as well. I examined each story from some distinctive critical and
pedagogical angle, highlighting, for example, the skillful use of the omniscient point of
view in one story, while admiring the brave use of a writer’s personal life (as he confides
in his reflection) in another story; subsequently, I developed a unique writing exercise to
correspond with each story and to correspond, specifically, with the distinctive quality or
technique I highlighted in my reflection of the story. All together, the result is a
panorama of neatly arranged voices, each offering up useful advice and insights, not to
mention inspiration—for both students and teachers of writing. Ultimately, I conclude
the book with a short story of my own, a story about writing stories—followed by my
reflection, which traces the story’s inspiration back to my experience as a teacher at
Penncrest High School.
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21 Short Stories by 18-Year-Olds
And the Teacher They Inspired
High School Alumni Reflect on the Fiction They Wrote as Seniors
Edited by
Jim Zervanos
Sabbatical Project
Rose Tree Media School District
2005-2006
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CONTENTS
Foreword & Introduction by Jim Zervanos  4 & 8
Stories & Writers’ Reflections
1. DEREK SCHMIDT, 1998 Rossi’s Bar  18 & 28
2. RUTH HARIU, 1999 Christmas Cards  32 & 42
3. EMERSON BRENEMAN, 2000 The Reign of the Last Caesar  46 & 61
4. JOSHUA JORDAN, 2000 Have-Nots Like Us  67 & 74
5. LAURIE RINES, 2000 Primal Scream Therapy  79 & 93
6. LEE GOLDSMITH, 2001 In True Silence  98 & 111
7. JEN MALKOUN, 2001 All That You Can’t Leave Behind  115 & 120
8. MIKE MASTROIANNI, 2001 Freehold  125 & 133
9. NOAH PAINTER-DAVIS, 2002 Pet Store Therapy  137 & 143
10. JON PITTS, 2002 Leaving Places  147& 152
11. SCOTT PRITCHARD, 2002 Stasis  155 & 167
12. PABLO SIERRA, 2002 Las Golondrinas  172 & 181
13. ANDREW CHOE, 2003 Smoke and Mist  185 & 199
14. ELENIE SOLOMOS, 2003 Trajectory, Velocity  203 & 216
15. JULIE WASSON, 2003 Megan and Michael  220 & 226
16. RACHAEL ELLIOTT, 2004 Cynical Girl  230 & 241
17. PAUL SCHERER, 2004 Breath  245 & 254
18. PAT SHUBERT, 2004 Share the Darkness  258 & 266
19. MORGAN TUOHY, 2004 Anticipating  270 & 278
20. MATT GILBRIDE, 2005 Moving Out  281 & 289
21. ANGELA ROSENBERG, 2005 Deal With It  296 & 304
O Captain! by Jim Zervanos and Reflection  308 & 316
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Teacher’s Reflections and Exercises
1. The Perfect Ending in Derek Schmidt’s Rossi’s Bar  30
2. Showing, Not Telling, in Ruth Hariu’s Christmas Cards  44
3. Pop Culture and the News as Inspiration in Emerson Breneman’s The Reign of the
Last Caesar  65
4. The Sympathetic Rant in Joshua Jordan’s Have-Nots Like Us  77
5. Narration as Story in Laurie Rines’s Primal Scream Therapy  96
6. Going to the Limit and Beyond in Lee Goldsmith’s In True Silence  113
7. Plot “Triggers” in Jen Malkoun’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind  123
8. The Road Story—Mike Mastroianni’s Freehold  135
9. The Setting As Battleground in Noah Painter-Davis’s Pet Store Therapy  145
10. The Story Arc—and Scene Arcs—in Jonathan Pitts’s Leaving Places  153
11. Verisimilitude in Scott Pritchard’s Stasis  170
12. The Magical Structure in Pablo Sierra’s Las Golondrinas  183
13. Motifs, Mood, and Pacing in Andrew Choe’s Smoke and Mist  201
14. Omniscient Point of View in Eleni Solomos’s Trajectory, Velocity  218
15. The “Simple” Style of Julie Wasson’s Megan and Michael  228
16. Romantic Comedy in Rachael Elliott’s Cynical Girl  243
17. Starting In Medias Res—In the Middle—in Paul Scherer’s Breath  256
18. The Unlikely Narrator in Patrick Shubert’s Share the Darkness  268
19. The Taboo Topic in Morgan Tuohy’s Anticipating  279
20. Fiction Inspired by “Real Life” in Matt Gilbride’s Moving Out  293
21. Seeking Closure in Angela Rosenberg’s Deal With It  306
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Foreword
In the spring of 2005 I was invited to speak at a Pennsylvania State Press
Association conference in Harrisburg, to talk about the teaching and writing process that
resulted in the short stories published annually in Penncrest High School’s literary
magazine; I had been the magazine’s faculty supervisor for nine years, and almost all of
the fiction that appeared in the Gryphon had been born out of an assignment in the
Modern Literature course I taught. My immediate—if not rude—response to the
conference organizer, Mr. Hankes, was “No.” I was eager to get off the phone. No way
was I going to stand in front of God-knew-how-many teachers and students and for an
hour presume to be an expert on “how to write a good story”—or even pretend to believe
that such an expert existed. Only a fool would attempt to boil the whole mystery down to
a one-hour lesson. Even if I took a less dogmatic approach and just reported what went
on in my classroom, I still couldn’t sum up in one hour—or ten—all that transpired in a
semester of my Modern Literature class—all the readings, the discussions, the knowledge
and understanding that, at least in this teacher’s eyes, seemed to snowball into an
unquantifiable mass—all of which led to the students’ writing of their own short stories.
Determined, Mr. Hankes asked me, rhetorically, if I realized that no other high
school literary magazine in the state published such great fiction. Flattery wasn’t going
to work, I promised myself; I considered that as a conference organizer he would say
what was necessary to fill the empty one-hour slot in the day’s schedule. He went on to
say that some of the magazines didn’t publish any fiction at all and the ones that did,
published only very short stories—a page or two long. He confessed that every year he
greedily plucked the Gryphon from the pile of contest submissions before any other judge
could get his hands on it; he had a collection of Gryphons in his classroom, he said, and,
when encouraging students to write fiction, he often directed them to the Gryphon stories
as models—“I especially love the orange issue,” he said—the 2002 issue, I thought—
“and that one—oh, man—Pet-Store Therapy, about the kid with obsessive-compulsive
disorder”—Noah’s story. “That’s one of my favorites, too,” I said. Then his tone
changed—as if what he was about to say was off the record. He admitted that it was hard
even for him—a high-school English teacher himself—to believe that the stories were
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written by eighteen year olds; they’re “so adult,” he said, in one breath asking “how do
you get them to write such powerful stuff?” and in the next daring to ask, in so many
words, if I’d ever run into trouble, you know, as their teacher…. As if I were an
encourager of criminals! The mastermind behind these beautiful crimes! No trouble, I
said, and offered some philosophical inanity about how you can’t write out of fear any
better than you can teach out of fear.
“So will you do it?” He knew he’d hooked me, but I kept my mouth shut. “I’m
telling you,” he went on, “No one in the state is doing anything even close.” I had no
idea. He taught in a school district west of Harrisburg. I sat there at my desk, in a school
district in the suburbs of Philadelphia, beaming, secretly imagining Gryphons—their
stories—littered about classrooms all over the state; and yet I felt unsettled: I wanted my
students—all of them, past and present—to be hearing this—this praise that was theirs. I
reiterated to Mr. Hankes that it would be impossible for me to stand there and, in a single
hour, teach anyone how to write a short story, let alone teach other teachers how to teach
anyone how to write a short story. I yammered on about how proud I was of my students
and how, if you really wanted to know how they wrote such great stories, you’d have to
ask them. Patiently he listened and then suggested I bring a couple of my students along
with me, to have them read their stories and discuss their writing process—I could chime
in if I wanted to, he said. I liked this idea. Suddenly I was grateful that this skilled
conference organizer had hung on the line after my ungrateful resistance. I already knew
which students I was going to ask—one of them was Angela Rosenberg, whose story,
“Deal With It,” I’d just recently fallen in love with.
I spoke for about twenty minutes that day in Harrisburg—said a few words about
my teaching philosophy, offered up a few basic story-writing strategies—and then
introduced the two student writers, who read their stories to an awestruck audience and
then gracefully fielded questions—from students and teachers alike—speaking with
confidence and a sense of authority that blew away even their teacher, who was already
gushing with admiration: they were not my students, standing there at the lectern; they
were writers, whose company I was proud to share.
As it turned out, the conference experience was inspiration for this book. And yet
nothing about this collection has anything to do with the Gryphon or literary magazines;
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it certainly has nothing to do with writing with the prospect of publication in mind—no
more than the writing of these stories had anything to do with publishing in the first
place. While many of these stories did appear in the Gryphon—and, in fact, won awards
that recognized them as among the finest works of creative writing in the state—many of
the stories, simply because their writers, by chance, were assigned to me in the spring
semester, and not the fall, of their senior years, had been written too late to be submitted
for publication. As much as I stress to my students that they must write fearlessly, not for
me or their friends or their parents, but for themselves and perhaps for some imagined
ideal audience, who might never read their stories, I am always thrilled by the prospect
that others—especially their peers—might read their work, whether through their high
school literary magazine, through the bound collections I assemble in the classroom, or
through the stapled copies they pass on to their friends. Assembling this collection has
afforded me the opportunity to follow through on the impulse I’ve experienced countless
times after reading my students’ stories: to share them, to give them an audience outside
my classroom, and to point out, still amazed after ten years of teaching, “This was written
by an eighteen year old.”
I am once again, in the context of these pages, sharing space with people who
were once my students but who are, at least herein, writers whose company I am proud to
share. Originally, I had planned to cull from old classroom collections the best eighteen
stories from my first ten years of teaching—for no other reason than to justify the title
“18 Short Stories by 18-Year-Olds.” After berating myself for not having bound and
saved the short stories written by my earliest Modern Literature students—who, of
course, being my beloved first, seem to me now the best and brightest I’ve taught—I read
through the pile, which rose up to my waist, and narrowed the best down to twenty-three.
It seemed foolish, then, to eliminate one, let alone five, stories for the sake of a title; two
of the writers bowed out of the project, leaving me with twenty-one stories.
The format of the book resembles that of the hour-long presentation my two
students and I made at the conference in Harrisburg: the stories are followed by the
writers’ own commentary—their reflections—which were written for this collection (for
most of these contributors that meant several years since reading, let alone writing, their
stories); first, in the Introduction, I try to boil down my teaching philosophy as well as
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some basic story concepts, all in an effort to stimulate creative thinking in the minds of
both high-school students and their English teachers.
None of these stories was written in a Creative Writing class, but in a Modern
Literature class, whose focus was reading and writing “critically,” not “creatively.” It has
always been my hope that the short story—the culminating assignment—would not be a
tangent for the student of literature but a natural, if not exhilarating, opportunity to
demonstrate knowledge and understanding impossible to quantify in a single analytical
paper. If nothing else, I hope this book might serve as inspiration for English teachers
who might feel ill-equipped to teach “creative writing” and who, having read these stories
as well as the writers’ reflections, might free themselves—and their students—to
incorporate fiction writing into their literature classes, to think of storytelling not only as
a form of personal expression but as an alternative means of demonstrating an
understanding and appreciation of learned material—particularly of a given body of
studied literature.
In this collection I’ve added my own brief reflection after each story, an attempt
to highlight what qualities I think are worthy of not only admiration but emulation; again,
with an audience of students and English teachers in mind, I’ve also offered writing
exercises that consider the preceding story as a model. Finally, I’ve included a story of
mine, “O Captain!” which was inspired by my students, too many of whom did not live
long enough to tell another story—all of whom—collectively—have taught me
unquantifiable things: it is just that, I think—the unquantifiable things we’ve learned—
that we try to capture in our stories.
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Introduction
I. Students and Their English Teacher
Teachers aren’t the only ones who might see fiction writing as a guilty pleasure,
as an activity that shouldn’t be indulged for too long before getting back to business as
usual, reading Shakespeare or imitating his sonnets. The students themselves often think
of fiction writing as a break long overdue, at least students like many of my seniors, who
look forward to the fiction-writing assignment almost as much as they dread it, for fear
they’ve lost a certain storytelling talent they remember having in elementary school,
before the word “practical” entered their vocabulary.
But when it comes to learning, context is everything, and even the most practical
of math lessons could end up pointless nonsense—or even pointless fun—without some
purposeful framework. I’m not proposing more “pointless fun”—certainly not through
fiction writing—in the English classroom; rather, I’m proposing more purposeful fiction
writing, specifically in standard English Literature courses—not just in Creative Writing
classes, electives whose electors tend to fall into two groups: those who are determined
to write purposefully, albeit creatively, and those who think “creative” is synonymous
with purposeless, not to mention easy. Any author worth his salt will emphasize what
hard work fiction writing is—and it is hard work, no doubt—but it is also fun; in fact, if it
weren’t so fun, maybe students would be encouraged to do more of it, because it’s good
for them, whether they know it or not.
One of the pleasant things about the typical English research or literary analysis
paper—for both teachers and students—is that the criteria for excellence can be taught,
learned, and, at least theoretically, met, and not only by the highest-achieving students.
One of the daunting things about creative writing—for both teachers and students—is
that the criteria for excellence—or at least the qualities that make up an excellent story—
are impossible to quantify. After all, the very nature of fiction is that it is an invention
born of the creator’s imagination, and so—to the frustration of teachers and students
alike—natural talent, that intangible yet identifiable thing, is often the only thing that
distinguishes the work of one student from another.
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Still, certain aspects of storytelling craft can be taught. And so it follows that
teachers—to make matters of evaluation easier and “fair”—might develop objective
criteria for a fiction writing assignment. Such a rubric might look like a checklist, which
presupposes that the student incorporate the exact components outlined for the
assignment and thereby demonstrate that he knows, for example, how to employ a firstperson, as opposed to a third-person, point-of-view narrator and how to punctuate
dialogue properly. This approach certainly isn’t a bad one, if only as a way to assess a
student’s understanding of the basic features of a story.
But we all know that a great story isn’t just a coherent one with a pre-determined
number of skillfully employed “features” incorporated into it. We have to believe—all of
us, not just teachers—that great stories are not achievements reserved for the “gifted” or
“talented.” We also have to accept that no matter how talented the writer is and no matter
how many wonderfully employed “features” he or she has managed to incorporate into it,
the final draft of a story may seem, perhaps for some inexpressible reason, not all that
great—and, as such, it may be difficult to evaluate, let alone grade.
But impersonal evaluation often yields impersonally written stories. Personal,
passionate evaluation, however, encourages personal, passionate stories. In my
experience as both teacher and writer, passionate discourse between mentor and student
has a diminishing effect on the importance of grades. That’s not to say that passionate
discourse isn’t messy or that it doesn’t require a lot of time and hard work—does it
ever!—but therein lies the stuff of real learning and even inspiration—for the teacher and
the writer.
The book in your hands is a testament to that passionate discourse, while at the
same time it represents only the tip of the iceberg. These twenty-one writers (along with
the hundreds of others not represented here), as seniors in my Modern Literature course,
read dozens of stories, poems, essays, and several novels; they discussed and wrote
critically about what they read; it was only in the final stretch of the semester that they
began to consider writing their own “modern” short stories—ones that would, in a sense,
fit right into the body of work they’d just spent months studying. By then they were
equipped with more than just a hazy sense of what “modern” meant; what’s more, they
had developed a keen eye for not only thematic tendencies but varied narrative
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approaches and writing strategies. What I hope my students come to appreciate more
than any other concept is this: that themes and meanings—those intangibles in literature
that typically inspire theories and interpretations—are inextricably linked with how the
story is written; that content and form are utterly intertwined; that if you don’t study the
“form,” you can’t fully appreciate the “content.”
Roger Ebert, the film critic, has said, “A movie is not about what it is about. It is
about how it is about it.” This point, which applies to fiction as well, might provide
relief—or added pressure—to the student who is convinced he hasn’t got an original idea;
after all, the student will argue, all the good stories have been told already. But Roger
Ebert and I would remind the student, “No one has told the story you have to tell in the
way only you can tell it.” How will you tell it?
The options are infinite, and your choices are critical. Will you tell the story in
the first-person point of view, or the close third-person point of view, or the omniscient?
If first-person, will your narrator be a wise old woman, full of insight and regret, telling
her story years after its significant events have occurred, or will your narrator be a young
man, like the protagonist in Patrick Shubert’s “Share the Darkness,” still rattled by the
events of last week, telling his story in the midst of ongoing action, lying in the cold
street, gazing at the stars, in the warm bed of his own blood?
II. The Stories
While my Modern Literature students have great freedom to tell the stories they
wish to tell how they wish to tell them, they must adhere to some basic requirements that
help link the assignment—and their stories—to the content and spirit of the course. As
such, their stories demonstrate—to their teacher, at least—some of the things they’ve
learned. Like the literature they’ve read for class, their stories must take place in the
modern-day world; they must be realistic, not, for example, science-fiction or fantasy
(though I’ve made exceptions for students who conscientiously seek to incorporate
“modern” qualities into their preferred genre). The story must delve into challenging
emotional territory, while steering clear of a “romantic” or “happy” ending, which isn’t to
say the story must be sad or tragic; rather, the ending should capture the story’s core
truth, without being sentimental or gimmicky, without resorting to conventions of soap
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opera, Hollywood blockbuster, or the after-school special, with an obvious moral or
lesson.
Robert Frost likened writing free verse—or poetry without “rules”—to playing
tennis with the net down. Of course, no rules are “absolute,” but knowing some
strategies and techniques—for example, knowing the “classic” elements (some of which
I’ve highlighted below)—can serve a writer well (even if knowing sometimes means
altering or even rejecting), as the varied stories in this collection demonstrate. The
“classic” three-act structure is the traditional story form, as ancient as the earliest
storytellers: in Act One a protagonist faces a conflict; in Act Two the protagonist’s
struggle builds to a crisis; and, in Act Three, the protagonist’s decisive action at the
climax creates irreversible change. An artist must know a tradition in order to break
from it, know the rules in order to break them—or at least to break them artfully. Pablo
Sierra turns the three-act structure upside down and inside out, moving artfully through
time and space, leaping from one narrative perspective to another, rejecting conventions
of realistic, chronological storytelling—but never haphazardly; at the core of “Las
Golondrinas” the classic elements hold the story together like an intricately designed
collage.
No matter what the author’s narrative approach—simple or complex, traditional
or avant-garde—every one of these twenty-one stories features a protagonist, who deals
with a conflict, which is the heart of the story—without conflict there is no story. In
Noah Painter-Davis’s “Pet Store Therapy” the protagonist battles a complicated
psychological disorder in a setting that serves as a battleground for his conflict, which
manifests itself in both an external conflict and an internal conflict: as he tackles his
obsession with cleanliness in the external, or physical, world of the filthy pet store, his
internal—that is, his psychological and emotional—conflict, rooted in his ambivalent
feelings toward his cat-adoring mother, festers. In Michael Mastroianni’s “Freehold” the
setting spans America’s terrain, from the Northeast to the Southwest, where the
protagonist’s journey brings him face to face with his father’s mysterious past and his
own unknowable future.
The protagonist seeks resolution—that is, he seeks to restore order in his life—
but the conflict is not necessarily resolved in the end, not in the way he seeks to resolve
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it, anyway. In Paul Scherer’s “Breath” the protagonist’s conscious desire is to discover
whether he is truly the father of his adulterous (dead) wife’s child; but his unconscious
desire, it turns out, is to devote himself as father, regardless of the biological facts. In
Jonathan Pitts’s “Leaving Places” the protagonist wants to be a musician, like his father,
who long ago went seeking glory in the city of Los Angeles; but what he really wants, he
comes to realize, is to be nothing like his father. The conscious desire is often the exact
opposite of the unconscious desire, which manifests itself in the end; human beings often
want one thing but deep down need—or just plain get—another. In Eleni Solomos’s
“Trajectory, Velocity” a wife wants the joyful news of her pregnancy to heal her
wounded relationship with her parents; instead, she endures a suffering that unites her
with her husband in a way she never expected.
A protagonist’s “failure” to get what she initially wanted does not necessarily
mean she “failed.” In Angela Rosenberg’s “Deal With It” her young protagonist has
broken up with her boyfriend in order to enjoy a carefree senior year; in the end, her
conscience is tinged with regret—far from “free,” after all, she realizes the price one must
pay for independence, and she’s wiser for it. On the other hand, a protagonist’s “success”
in getting what she wants doesn’t necessarily mean a “happy ending.” The protagonist in
Rachael Elliott’s “Cynical Girl” wants more than anything not to be pregnant, in spite of
her symptoms; though her wish comes true, she faces some unexpected grief—and, in the
end, this charming, witty, cynical girl musters up a newfound, humbled voice. Though
Angela’s and Rachael’s protagonists seem to “learn a lesson”—about themselves and
life—a good story is not about “right” and “wrong” or “winning” and “losing.”
Sometimes a story blurs the line between “right” and “wrong” in such a way that
its very ambiguity is the story’s central truth. There’s no telling who is “right” or who is
“wrong” in Lee Goldsmith’s “In True Silence,” in which a father tries unrelentingly to
keep his brave, proud son from fighting in a war; we come to understand only that
heartbreak is inevitable in a world where young men leave their families to fight for their
beliefs. In Matt Gilbride’s “Moving Out” a young man, determined to repair his
relationship with the woman he loves, as well as with their son, turns to alcohol when she
turns him away, self-destructing even as he dreams of a better future. A good story is
about being true, and the truth lies somewhere between “right” and “wrong,” between
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“winning” and “losing.” What is true is that people face adversity, and their lives change
as a result, for better and for worse.
In all of these stories the protagonists traverse an arc that starts at point A and
ends at point B; typically, the overall arc is comprised of smaller arcs, often defined by
scenes, each challenging and compelling the protagonist toward a crisis, when he or she
must face the conflict once and for all. In the journey from point A to point B, the writer
must determine whether to show or tell; the oft-quoted nineteenth-century novelist Henry
James advised, sensibly, “Show. Don’t tell”—that is, show the story through action and
dialogue, rather than tell the story through a summary of “what happened.” But to reject
telling altogether would be to deny the fact that fiction writers—and the narrators they
create—are storytellers, who use narration—summarizing sometimes-huge chunks of
time—usually throughout a series of fleshed-out scenes, in which we see action and hear
dialogue in an immediate physical setting. The first-person narrator in Jen Malkoun’s
“All That You Can’t Leave Behind” shifts seamlessly from action to memory, from
present to past, where the heart of her devastating story lies. In Scott Pritchard’s “Stasis,”
the balance between third-person narration and scene creates a lifelike rhythm, the vivid
prose bringing to life not only the action but also the thoughts of the protagonist; we are
drawn in by the story’s sense of truth and authenticity—its verisimilitude.
The twenty-three storytellers in this collection push their protagonists to a climax
that seems both surprising and inevitable, a moment when the protagonist’s decisive
action results in irreversible change. In a startling narrative twist, Morgan Tuohy’s
“Anticipating” leads us to a precipice, where the climax is suspended in the story’s final
word—as well as in the blank space that follows; the finale is devastating to the reader, as
it is to the protagonist, who faces a confrontation neither we—nor the narrator himself—
ever could have anticipated. In most of the stories in this collection, another significant
moment follows the climax, perhaps not what you’d call a resolution, but a
denouement—simply the outcome—often a quiet moment in which the core truth of the
story, as well as the heart of the character, present themselves in a kind of blooming and
bleeding at the same time—as in the seemingly simple, yet resonating, final images of the
first two stories: in Derek Schmidt’s “Rossi’s Bar,” a young guitarist, in the spotlight
that was once his mentor’s, shows a busboy a few chords, then asks for “a glass of water,
15
filled to the top with ice”; in Ruth Hariu’s “Christmas Cards” a lonely divorcée devours
“a bag of heart-shaped candy…except the green ones, which I threw out the next
morning.”
III. The Reflections
In the enthusiastic reflections that follow their stories, these twenty-one writers,
who, in most cases, have returned to their stories years after writing them, reveal their
varied approaches to their work, recalling their sources of inspiration. Seeing that
another writer’s inspiration can become our inspiration—as both teachers and writers—I,
too, reflect on each story, focusing on a single aspect of the writing that is worthy of not
only admiration but also emulation; I then offer a writing exercise, inspired by the story.
While the Teacher’s Reflections and Exercises are geared toward instruction, the writers’
reflections, also, are as instructive as they are interesting and inspiring. Their writing
strategies and creative approaches are as vast and varied as their personalities, which
emerge in their reflections. Andrew Choe is still contemplating revisions for his story
“Smoke and Mist,” particularly after studying short fiction with a college professor,
whose insights Andrew now passes on to us. Josh Jordan confesses to writing “HaveNots Like Us” in a burst of creative energy, “for ten hours, all at once, with a high
fever”—this in spite of the teacher’s rigid itinerary that included deadlines for an outline,
two, four, then six pages, before the final draft—“It was the first honest, non-sarcastic
thing I ever wrote.” The premise of Julie Wasson’s “Megan and Michael” came to her in
bed one night, when, in her words, “I heard my dad walk down the hall. The floorboards
squeaked and the door to the spare bedroom closed shut. Suddenly, a new idea popped
into my head.” That’s when she wrote the story’s first sentence in the spiral notebook
she kept in the top drawer of her nightstand: “He snored. That is why they began
sleeping in separate bedrooms.”
Emerson Breneman looked outward—less than inward—for his inspiration: to
“grindcore” and “gangsta” music; to his neighborhood, where thugs and small-time drug
dealers were “getting reputations”; and, finally, he recalls, to
a shocking story about dog-fighting rings in Philadelphia printed in The
Philadelphia Inquirer. This article laid out the way in which these dogs,
16
primarily Pit Bulls, were bred and sold secretly and trained with brutal tactics. I
used some of these training techniques—the weights and the beatings and
prodding—in the story, but others, like mixing gun powder in with the dog’s food
to make it hateful, I left out because they seemed to too cruel to be real.
Emerson’s omission of a “real-life” detail—because it counteracted the sense of truth in
his fiction—is no doubt an ironic one, but one that reveals a principle of fiction writing
modeled by these writers: no matter what their inspiration—which is often, as they
confide in their reflections, their own personal lives—they appreciate and respect their
stories as invention, as fiction, no matter how close to home, no matter how close to the
bone.
Fiction frees the writer to make something new, something separate from himself,
separate from the “what happened” and even from the what-never-was or what-willnever-be. The fiction writer might be inspired by a newspaper article or a personal
experience, but in the end he must consider his inspiration secondary to the story, just as
the teacher, too, must suspend his interest in the writer’s “real life.” It is no easier for the
student to open himself up in the classroom than it is for the teacher, especially, I believe,
when the writers are teenagers—in a public school, let’s say, where teachers are expected
to be more than proliferators of information and “skill sets.” It is not easy for a teacher to
maintain a cool, dispassionate distance, to unfailingly, religiously treat students’ fiction
as “made up.” In fact, one might say it is insensitive, irresponsible, and even
dangerous—to create an atmosphere in which students don’t feel nervous, afraid, or selfconscious, but, instead, free to create and share their creations with their teacher.
The very notion of cultivating a “free” atmosphere in a high-school classroom,
not to mention trusting relationships with students, is a daunting prospect, so daunting
that no doubt it scares teachers away, lest they fail to understand, respect, or honor their
students’ work, lest they fail to detect the “real lives” in their students’ so-called fiction
(or, worse, fail to report their troubled students to the proper authorities), lest they fail to
grade their students’ work fairly, let alone fail to express their constructive criticism
kindly. The narrative voice of the recovering heroin addict, along with the realistic
details, in Laurie Rines’s “Primal Scream Therapy” are so convincing that any teacher
would find himself dreading the possibility that the story is based on his student’s
17
personal experience—and dreading even more so the sense of responsibility that comes
with reading, let alone responding to, such a story. In her reflection Laurie charmingly
confesses: “I’ll just say it: I’ve never done heroin. I’ve never even seen it in real life;
this entire story was pure invention based only on Trainspotting and Smack by Melvin
Burgess. If I were to improve this story, I would want to do a lot more research.” But
just when you might conclude—with no small amount of relief—that the story is not “her
own,” you discover that Laurie had been inspired, in part, by a middle-school friend
who’d entered rehab for anorexia; you discover that as a seventeen year old she was, in
her own words,
an incredibly sad and angry girl who felt that she had the right to be neither sad
nor angry. I was from a solid nuclear family, was well-provided for, and on my
way to a good college and bright future. So I was constantly guilty for my
ingratitude. I think in writing this story about Marianna I was creating someone
who had the right to feel as miserable as I did at the time. And I think it did me a
lot of good because when I was finished and let other people read it, a tremendous
weight was lifted.
One day a shy student, who barely said a word in class, mustered the courage to
stop in after school to discuss her short story with me, just days after I handed back my
glowing response. She seemed sad, so I braced myself for her complaint—not about the
grade, but, I feared, about my insensitive response, my ignorant dismissal of what was
obviously—to her anyway—her life she was writing about—after all, who would imagine
such a story? As it turned out, she didn’t suggest any such insensitivity on my part; she
was pleased with my response, actually. Instead, she said she just wanted me to know it
was “all true.” I was sorry this was the case, I told her—I had honestly hoped it wasn’t—
and echoed what I’d said in my response, that she’d written a beautiful, if devastating,
story. I also said, maybe stupidly, that I hoped writing the story had somehow helped
her. When she shrugged off this consolation, it became clear to me, the point she was
trying to make, for all my praise: her short story was a short story, and the experience
that inspired it was her life; there was no point in trying to figure out how one related to
the other. She just wanted me to know that the pain was real, hers. If she could, she
would go back in time, erase the experience, and sacrifice the story.
18
It was not the first time, nor will it be the last time, that I hope what I am reading
is, for my student’s sake, not based on personal experience, but, rather, the product of a
vivid imagination, keen observation of life, mastery of storytelling technique met with
hard work, genuine originality, and revision, revision, revision—and then I must remind
myself that, regardless of the source of inspiration, a great story is the result of all of
these things.
19
Rossi’s Bar
Derek Schmidt 1998
My daydream came to a halt when I realized that Charlie was staring at me,
waiting for an answer. I couldn’t help but feel guilty; even though the basement was
cool, the summer heat had a numbing effect on my brain. What had he asked me? I had
no idea. I was dreaming of a trip to Thailand that I was about to take. Charlie sighed and
almost broke my heart when he told me that we should end the lesson early.
“No, hold on… Just let me think… Wait, what was the question… Please?” I
begged.
“You haven’t paid attention to a goddamn word I’ve said. I shouldn’t even be
here if you’re not paying attention.”
“What was the question?”
“I want the names of three substitutions for a G major seventh, flat five, sharp
nine, and two inversions for each.” He said the last part sharply, and I looked helplessly
at my guitar for an answer.
I knew this wasn’t the question he had asked me originally, but a much harder
one. Of course, I probably would have known the answer had I been paying attention.
It’s not that I was doing it out of disrespect; Charlie was almost like a paternal figure in
my life. I was just being an asshole.
Charlie had been born a while ago—how long exactly I never found out. I just
know that he had to be at least sixty, because he taught my grandfather years before I was
born, and my grandfather was about fifty when he hired Charlie. Charlie had been an
alcoholic for many years of his life; it was not uncommon for him to teach my
grandfather half-drunk. This addiction cost him one wife and two kids, and now he
always asked me for a drink of water filled with ice cubes when he came to teach. He
had gray hair, a mustache, an incredibly deep voice, glasses, and always dressed with a
tie, as he came from his day job at the courthouse. He also had eyes that were downright
distracting—they were a freakishly pale gray—it almost made him look blind. He always
had an ID card that read: “Charles Hansen—Electronic Recording.” His job was to
20
record the hearings in the different courtrooms. He was constantly complaining about the
people he worked with.
It had been a year now that I had been studying under Charlie, and I felt like I
wasn’t improving. So now it was more of a favor to him to let the lessons continue—I
knew that he needed the money. Working for the county was not a very high paying job,
and Charlie was still a few years away from retirement.
There was an awkward silence, and I felt helplessly pinned under his glare. I
wanted so much not to disappoint, but I could do nothing.
“Look, think about this for next week. You aren’t focused… It’s starting to
annoy me,” he said. I didn’t doubt this for a second. If Charlie was anything, he was
easy to annoy.
So I said all right, even though I knew I wouldn’t be working on it until a halfhour before my next lesson.
*
Before I left for my trip, I promised Charlie I would see him play at a bar he had a
regular job at. I was proud of the fact that he could play in a bar and be in control; it was
almost inspirational. The bar was in Delaware, in fact, a bad section of Delaware, but my
mom and dad were excited to go, and we packed into the car on a Saturday night, dressed
nicely, and headed to Delaware.
Now, my dad usually knows the directions to anywhere you may want to know
about. The man has been everywhere in the Tri-State area. So when he said he didn’t
need me to bring the directions Charlie had given us, I trusted him. When he got lost, we
almost got into a fistfight in the middle of a parking lot in a shady section of town. My
mom cried, her mascara was running down her face, but by the grace of God we found
Rossi’s, and made amends.
The bar was beautiful. For the area it’s in, it serves as a diamond in a coal mine
for all who know about it. The furniture was meticulously polished, the lighting was just
right, and the bartender greeted us warmly. We saw that Charlie was situated in a
21
lonesome corner of the restaurant, an almost forbidden area of the joint, but his playing
was beautiful, and it made us all forget about what had just happened, which made me
nauseous for some odd reason. He played “Satin Doll,” “Beautiful Love,” and
“Embraceable You,” which we both had sarcastically called “Abradeable You.” There
was a drunk at the table closest to Charlie who kept hassling him to play Elvis material,
which I knew Charlie hated, and he heckled him all night. But Charlie was almost
unconscious, playing as if no one else were in the room. And although his audience was
too busy eating their dinners to appreciate what he was doing, he treated it like his first
concert ever, totally enthusiastic, totally focused, determined to make every note perfect.
Even though the applause at the end of the songs was empty of meaning, he went on
playing, as if it didn’t matter to him at all.
When he took a break, he came to sit beside us, and after talking to us for a while,
he walked toward the corner as if resuming his position, but he only bent down to talk
into the microphone, saying that I would play the second half of the night.
I hadn’t practiced, so I was embarrassed. I told him this, but he only said, “These
people don’t even know if you make a mistake.” Trying my hardest to believe him, I
took his seat, embraced his guitar, and started playing.
The fact that Charlie was there was inspiring, and I played at a level I didn’t think
I could ever attain. I soared, I flew, I improvised, I revised, I almost rewrote the bridge to
“Misty,” and pulled it all off beautifully. At the end of the night, I thanked him, trying to
hide the fact that my hands were shaking out of control… It was the first time I felt
nervous, and it was because it was the first time I ever really came through for Charlie.
*
Probably the lowest point in my life came shortly after the excursion to Rossi’s.
As I had mentioned before, I was waiting to take a trip to Thailand. This was intended to
be a pilgrimage of sorts, as I had taken an interest in Buddhism not long before. I was so
enthusiastic about it; I read volumes and volumes of works of metaphysics, Buddhist
philosophy, and Tibetan death rites. I thought that the trip would serve to bring
Buddhism to the forefront of my life, permanently. Instead, upon viewing the monks and
22
how they lived, it repressed it, as I realized with a sickening sense of defeat that I could
never be the devout Buddhist I wanted to be. They were so disciplined, so devoted,
almost inhuman. This crushed my spirit in an indescribable way; I felt as though all my
hopes and dreams of living a simple, monastic life had been crushed, and I had been
embarrassed as a result. I came back to America with my tail between my legs.
So I finally got my driver’s license at seventeen, which had been a long overdue
priority, and in order to pay for car insurance, I had to stop taking lessons from Charlie.
My dad was actually the one who suggested it, and I went through with it, mostly because
I had lost interest in the guitar. I had lost interest in most of the things I was fond of
before my trip. But when he actually talked to Charlie about it, he was heartbroken. He
told my dad that I was his most promising student, and that he had noticed a change for
the worse in me lately, and I wondered cynically if it was all bullshit. Still, I felt bad,
because Charlie was a good guy, nice, and even though he always busted my balls, I
respected him.
But it was the middle of the summer, and instead of turning to my guitar, I had
turned to the bottle. I had always thought that drinking was beyond me, maybe for
practical reasons above anything else—I’m very skinny, and I had never tried alcohol
before. But my tolerance for it grew, mainly because I tried to out-drink guys twice my
weight and lost too many times, and waking up in my own vomit, or in the house of
someone I didn’t know.
I finally gave it up after I woke up next to a girl I’d never seen before.
Thankfully, I found out that she had passed out as well, and we hadn’t fucked, as I first
suspected. I was relieved, as she was not much to look at.
The beginning of my senior year marked a change in my personality. Instead of
being the nice guy I was known for, I started being an asshole. And kept acting that way
when I found out more people liked the new me. Especially women.
I also got a job that I loved. I started working at a music store near my house. I
was immediately given important responsibilities, as I had to lock up the shop at night,
take care of the bookkeeping, and teach lessons. It was only my first week.
Of course, as I would be reassured later, all good things come to an end. And for
me, that end is usually quick in coming. I was accused of stealing (no, I didn’t do
23
anything—honest) and my employment was terminated. Several phone conversations
and nasty letters later, I received compensation in full, forty dollars. Two months later, I
was to be fired from another job for stealing, and this time, I did do it.
Although at the time I had friends, I felt very alone. It had very recently become
apparent to me that there was something about my life that was very unsatisfying, and I
realized I could turn to no one for help about this one; it was something I had to figure
out for myself.
But I did make one friend that I felt I could rely on. Sophie, who I had known for
the last six years, and who I had developed an undeniable crush on, had become one of
my closest friends at this time. This friendship started, oddly enough, after I had told her
about the feelings I had for her, which were embarrassing to me. My senior year, I
thought, should be a girl-of-the-month deal, but all I wanted was her.
It was hard to describe what it was about her that made me want her so badly.
First of all, she had dark hair, which was a must for me, and she was pretty attractive.
Secondly, she had an attitude. It was more than a purely flirtatious attitude: she was
bombastic, yet humble, frank, yet elusive, sexy, but prudent.
Like an idiot, I tell just about everyone but her about these feelings. Nobody
could really give me any positive advice; most of them told me to stay away from her. I
got a similar response from her best friend, who somehow felt that it was now her
business to tell Sophie about it.
So we were at a ska concert, the same night that I had gotten fired from my
second job in a row, and I was trying my best to enjoy it; I thought it would be my last for
a long time. So right in the middle of the concert, Sophie comes up to me and asks me if
I want to talk. This is a day after I talked to her friend about it and she tells me forget it,
you’re barking up the wrong tree, so naturally I’m kind of pissed. I tell her no, wait till
later, and she gets annoyed.
So I ignore her for the rest of the concert and a little bit afterwards, until we get in
an argument in front of some bums and she runs into the train station. Feeling like an
asshole, I run after her, and we finally talk alone.
She tells me she wants to be friends, and I agree, because even though it’s not
what I want, I want her to stop hounding and embarrassing me. I had heard the line so
24
many times before, I had a calculated response ready for it, and I delivered a
performance, acting as though I meant it, and she bought it.
So I felt guilty when we started doing things together: fun things (hanging out in
general), not so fun things (schoolwork), and everything else. But this only reinforced
my feelings for her, and I felt as though I had to do something.
*
But I was too uptight to do it. And every time I planned to talk to her about it, I
froze. There were so many reasons why we shouldn’t do it. For one, a friend of mine
had a mild crush on her as well. Secondly, her ex was eyeing me every time I glanced at
him, and I think he was starting to scare both of us. And, of course, who could forget that
shit about “Ruining The Friendship.” So I went back to the bottle, knowing that I
couldn’t care less about all of it after I had a couple in me, and it would make talking to
her easier. Of course, sometimes I planned to talk to her during school, so I had to drink
before school, and then I started drinking just so I could look her in the face. I realized I
was just making excuses and stopped again when she smelled it on me and chewed me
out for it.
So I started working at a pizza joint, as I was sick of being unemployed, and the
hours are crap, the pay is crap, and it makes me feel like my life is crap. But it makes me
enjoy the time off, and I sit and lounge around the house, doing little projects, picking up
my guitar to glare at it.
One of these days when I had time off I got a phone call. It was Charlie, who I
hadn’t seen now for almost half a year. I was happy to hear from him, but I also felt a
little awkward.
Former guitar teachers are almost as bad to talk to as ex-girlfriends are, but
Charlie spared the awkward small talk and was painfully to the point.
He told me that he went for a checkup at the doctor’s. He said the doctor found
cancer in his liver and prostate, and that he had less than a month to live.
*
25
About a month after our conversation at the concert, I finally talked to her (sober,
too!). We were parked in her car, across the street from my friend Stan’s house. By this
time, I felt as though things had changed for the better. I was almost positive. So, I
asked her why she wouldn’t want to start dating. Now, you have to realize, she’s not a
very straightforward person, and her answers always led to more questions, and she
ended up confusing the hell out of me. At one point, she even admitted (rather
reluctantly) that we would work, and I knew that some part of her wanted what I wanted.
I realized that if this was the case, there had to be something she wasn’t telling me.
Eventually she told me that one of the reasons that she felt uncomfortable with
dating me was that I had already had sex. Well, I said, that shouldn’t matter, because
you’ve done just about everything but that, so you can only say you’re a virgin because
of a technicality. She’d been going out with the same guy, off and on, for the last two
years, and they obviously had engaged in some sexual acts. They would have had to,
because Sophie had one of the dirtiest mouths I had ever heard on a girl. Of course, I was
only trying to play it off as something trivial because I had never actually had sex.
Now, understand, I actually cared about her. I was not trying to do this one. For
once, I felt comfortable around a girl, felt like I could relate, like I belonged with her. To
find out that she wouldn’t go out with me because of this reason was messed up. She
thought I was experienced, but I wasn’t. It was, of course, my own fault, and I know I
get a “10” on the asshole scale for lying about it to everyone. I should’ve taken notes
when I watched the “Wonder Years” episode where Kevin makes a jackass of himself
after telling everyone he did the deed with his girl when he didn’t.
So when I told her the truth, she bolted out of the car, yelling and screaming at
me, “You’re lying! I’m sick of everyone telling me what I want to hear!” and ran into
Stan’s house. So again, I go running after her, and because it’s dark, I trip and fall and
almost break something, but I get up and run into the house. She’s standing there, telling
Stan to give her the “grand tour” like everything’s all right, and I yell at her, saying I
want to talk to her outside, and when she refuses, I resort to yelling at her, which caused
sense of alarm in Stan, probably because I looked violent. So I told her that I was telling
26
the truth, and that she had to believe me. She says that if I’m telling the truth, then I’ll
tell Stan. Now, I am constantly giving advice to Stan about girls, as he goes to an allboys school, and he takes it all in good faith based on his perception that I’ve done the
deed before. He’s my best friend, and I don’t want to crush him. But I did it anyway.
I ran down the stairs, into the basement, arms flailing, and I point a finger at Stan.
“Listen to me. I lied about doing that chick. I lied, and I feel bad that it takes this
to make me admit it, but I lied. I’m sorry. I’m not kidding. You better take me
seriously.” Stan’s jaw dropped, and he slowly nodded, and I realized that I scared him. I
turn to Sophie, out of breath, and ask her if she’s happy, and she walks away, shaking her
head.
So now there’s this awkward pause between me and Stan. He walks up to me,
and hugs me, telling me that he doesn’t care. I cried, right then, and I didn’t even mind
doing it, even though I was in another man’s arms.
Well, weeks later, she still didn’t believe me. What the hell else could I do?
*
While this was happening, Charlie came over every day for weeks. And every
day I had a different project to complete for him. Even though I had been an asshole
before, and I had taken him for granted, this time I paid attention.
He taught me everything he felt I needed to know to be a complete musician.
And even though he complained sometimes about his health, he stayed for hours at a
time, handing over pages and pages and books of manuscripts he had written. I knew I
had to study it, live it, breathe it. I picked up the damn guitar, the thing that I had avoided
like a disease for the past six months. I picked it up and liked it.
*
27
On Sunday, a day I have off, Sophie calls and asks if she can come over. I ask her
why, and she won’t give me a reason, but I tell her she can, even though I know I’m in
trouble.
I fell asleep working on one of my projects for Charlie, and I had just woken
when she came over. I was dazed for the first half-hour, and she seemed nice, but I still
had no idea what the hell she was doing being at my house, and, frankly, I was expecting
some kind of argument.
“I just wanted to hang out,” she managed between bites of a salad she had bought
on the way over. I put on a Ken Ishii CD and decided to relax. “This room’s giving me a
headache,” she eventually said, after almost a half-hour of painfully awkward small talk.
I was using the basement as a studio, and I had a ridiculously low amount of lighting in
the place, to present a good environment for the band I was recording, and thought it
fairly reasonable for it to be annoying. “Let’s go up to your room instead.”
And we went up, and I was an ass, as usual. I don’t think it takes a damn mind
reader to understand that when a girl lies down next to you on your own damn bed that
she at least wants a kiss. Of course, I wasn’t even thinking about that—I didn’t want to
screw anything up. If we were going to have a relationship, we were going to do it right.
One hour later she left my house disappointed and I cursed myself for not trying
anything, even though I knew that it was best to take things slow.
The next day was Charlie’s last at my house. He barely had enough strength to
endure the drive over, and he was short of breath during the lesson. He cursed his
radiation treatments, saying that they made him sicker than he would be without them. I
had never seen Charlie look so bad in my life. But at the end of the lesson, when the
guitars were put away, he told me that he wanted me to take his place at Rossi’s.
“Me? I can’t do that. You’re practically a legend there.”
“But you can handle it. We’ve been over the damn stuff a million times. If you
don’t take it, we’ve just been wasting our time.”
What could I say?
28
*
Charlie was to spend the last few days of his life in the hospital. I visited him a
few times, and, when he died, I felt an even bigger emptiness than before. How could I
deal with this? I told my friends nothing of it, which, for some reason, helped me
maintain my composure. I looked at my guitar with disgust, but I knew I had to take
Charlie’s job.
I asked Sophie to keep that Friday night free, and she agreed absent-mindedly.
The next day, I asked her again about the date, being pessimistic. She said it would be a
bad idea, and I almost lost it. This was too much bullshit for me to handle.
Of course, I care enough about her to want her to be happy, even if it isn’t with
me, but I’m still too immature not to be jealous as all hell when I see her talking to any
guy for more than five minutes. I thought it would be impossible for me to get through
the next few months sober.
But instead of turning to the bottle, I turned to my guitar (for once), and I took the
job at Rossi’s. It feels unnerving to be sitting in that same forbidden corner Charlie had
garnered his for the last five years, but it also feels, somehow, right. The audience is still
unappreciative at best, but a busboy there, Marcus, also plays guitar. Just the other night,
while I was showing him a few chords, I could feel my voice getting a little deeper, and
my hair getting a little grayer. I asked him if he would get me a glass of water, filled to
the top with ice.
29
DEREK SCHMIDT
I was born in Media, PA, in October of 1980. Since graduating from Penncrest High
School in 1998, I’ve split my time between working and pursuing my undergraduate
degree. Most recently, I worked for three years as a GED teacher in Philadelphia. In the
summer of 2005, I decided to study full-time at Temple University. My latest work,
FAFSA Renewal Application, is forthcoming.
Reflection on Rossi’s Bar
When I read “Rossi’s Bar,” I can’t help focusing on the motley nature of the
narrator’s personality: there’s the romanticism that has him dabbling in Orientalism, the
willful disregard for consistency in verb tense, and the cynicism he wears as a three-yearold would a size-ten shoe.
“Rossi’s Bar” was incredibly easy to write, since it was mostly a personal
narrative. Reflecting on it now, I would call it an embarrassingly personal narrative, but
this is the trade-off you accept when you write about your life: If this story paints a
vibrant and detailed picture, it’s more likely an X-ray than a work of art.
But the events of my life were incredibly interesting to me then, and I thought
they’d make for a good story. I’ve started to develop my own theory about this in the
few years I’ve had to think about it: the younger we are, the fewer things we’ve
experienced, so each thing takes up a greater percentage of the sum of experiences, and is
therefore worthy of examination and extrapolation. I don’t yet have a mathematical
model to describe this, but, since I’m going for my undergraduate degree in Mathematics,
I think I know a lot about Math, and I have plenty of free time over the summer.
One theme that wraps up nicely is the narrator’s search for himself. As with
many people, this search almost ends in a relationship. This would have been sentimental
but laudable: thinking mostly of someone else is better than obsessing over our own
desires, faults, and neuroses, which, as the protagonist learns in the beginning, are the
same no matter how exotic the environment. But things turn out differently, and he ends
up where he began, appreciating his position a bit more. I’m a bit more cynical now
about the prospect of “finding yourself” (please excuse the scare quotes), but I think this
modest conclusion is realistic.
30
Stories usually require a bit more yarn than that, though, and the narrator
imagines his “hair getting a little grayer” and his “voice getting a little deeper.”
Hopefully the impression here is one of self-awareness and irony, that the narrator is
letting his imagination write a bit of history. For anyone privy to a few big-fish stories
from his grandfather, there’s just no other way to end a personal narrative.
31
Teacher Reflection
The Perfect Ending in Derek Schmidt’s Rossi’s Bar
A writer wants his readers to get the point of the story, so where better than at the
end to make sure they “get it,” right? What if the writer arrives at the end and isn’t sure
if the point of the story is clear—or if the story has a point? One solution the writer
might resort to is simply to explain the point, right there in the narration—“…and so in
the end he understood that…” or (worse) “…and so the moral of the story is that…” or
the author might let the character himself explain, perhaps through dialogue—“you know
what I realized on my way over here today…?” But these are the most dreadful sorts of
endings, when the author must explain, or sum up, the point to make the story seem
complete. The perfect ending seems to arise naturally, its “meaning” revealed through
action, through imagery, which has already been made significant earlier in the story—
like, for example, the image of Derek Schmidt’s protagonist, sitting on a stool in Rossi’s
Bar, feeling a little older, teaching the bus boy some chords, and asking for a tall glass of
water, filled to the top with ice.
Every detail of the final image in “Rossi’s Bar” capitalizes on some idea already
developed earlier in the story, so the author need not explain a thing in the end. For
example, we already know that the protagonist was reluctant to take over the job at the
bar after Charlie died, so now his gearing up to play, sitting in “that same forbidden
corner Charlie had garnered his for the last five years,” reveals his true character, his
maturation, which is also captured beautifully when he feels his “voice getting a little
deeper, and my hair getting a little grayer”—like Charlie’s. We know, too, that in the
past, after suffering some hardship, the protagonist has turned to alcohol (as Charlie once
did), so now his requesting “a glass of water, filled to the top with ice” shows his
determination to start anew (again, as Charlie once did).
Derek Schmidt—or his narrator—need not explain what any of these details
means. We get the point, the significance, of the action, of every lovely detail, in the
final scene, because of what has already been developed earlier in the story. The narrator
does not sum up what he learned; he does not offer the reader a moral to the story; he
32
doesn’t even explain how his experiences have influenced his life. He shows us, through
action and imagery that have been “set up” throughout the story; the final details are, in a
sense, the “payoffs” of earlier “setups.”
Often, as in “Rossi’s Bar,” the perfect ending capitalizes on some earlier image or
idea, transforming it in the end in some new context. A writer might discover the perfect
ending—the perfect final action or image—arising, naturally, out of the story. On the
other hand, a writer might feel stumped, at a loss, for the perfect final action or image;
upon re-reading the story, however, he might discover “setups” already built in to the
story he has written, and now it is only a matter of making them “pay off” in an
interesting way.
Alas, a writer might feel stumped for the perfect ending even after re-reading the
story, even after combing the story for some interesting action or image that he might
“return” to, or recall, in the end; in this case the work remaining for the writer may not be
only at the end of the story but also, even more so, earlier in the story—or even
throughout the story. The writer might seek opportunities to “set up” the ending he
envisions; he might, for example, go back and recast his protagonist as a drinker of
alcohol—as his now-deceased mentor had once been—so that, in the end, his requesting
a glass of water—such a simple act—takes on profound meaning, the kind of meaning
that can be captured only through action and imagery, not through explanation.
Exercise
Consider a draft of a story you’ve already written—whether you’re happy with it or not—
and comb it for potential “setups” for the final “payoff” that will capture the core idea of
your story, the heart of your protagonist’s experience. If you find your story devoid of
such “setups,” develop some new idea or motif that you can then capitalize on in the end,
creating a sense of both surprise and inevitability.
33
Christmas Cards
Ruth A. Hariu 1999
I received three Christmas cards this year, cards undoubtedly belonging to cheap
packs of mass-produced holiday cheer purchased as an afterthought from drug stores not
too far out of the way. From the feel of the thin paper after I expectantly opened them, I
didn’t even bother turning the cards over to check for that all-important Hallmark logo. I
was sure my name didn’t make anyone’s “nice card” list.
The most painful card I received—and each of the cards was a painful reminder of
some lost connection—was the stiff and formal card from my recent-ex-husband. On the
front there was a snowman trying to smile despite the fact that he was weighed down by
heavy winter attire and was supporting a broom and Christmas wreath while several little
rabbits played freely and gleefully in the snow beside him. It was signed simply, “Merry
Xmas. Jim.” Neurotically, I thought the card was a low-handed ploy on Jim’s part to
once again remind me of his unhappiness in our marriage. I couldn’t put it past him.
I deliberated over whether or not to display the cards on the window sill next to
the plastic Christmas tree, but I decided that the card from my mother, for example, that
was filled inside top to bottom with descriptions of stiff joints and maladies would
probably be counterproductive in my mission to somehow liven an empty apartment.
Instead, I put them away in the box with the couple of cards left in the expensive twentyfive-pack of Hallmark Crown Christmas Cards that I had sent to nearly two dozen friends
and family members.
*
The Monday morning after New Year's, there was a backup down Main Street for
almost half a mile, unusual for such a small town, and somehow I got stuck in it on my
way to work. The source of the problem, about ten cars in front of me, was the elastic
collision of two Toyotas whose bodies were now crumpled in metal messes by the
unexpected exchange (I knew the details—after ten minutes of the standstill, I got out of
my car and went to inspect the situation). My ‘98 Mercedes was disgusted by this
34
unsophisticated deviance from order and even more uncomfortable, I suppose, by the pair
of impatient palms that pounded into the steering wheel every twenty seconds or so.
Like a carrot dangling infuriatingly in front of immobilized-me, the office supply
store that I owned was in sight; the sign I hand-painted was visible through a group of
trees planted unnaturally in the cobblestone sidewalk. I would have driven down the
sidewalk if it weren’t for those damn trees. I was sufficiently pissed when I pulled into
the side parking lot of my store thirty-three minutes later.
My rage was instantly cooled by the smell of closed quietness in my store. Being
surrounded by bins of precisely measured mailing envelopes and sorted felt-tip markers
gave me such a feeling of completeness and organization, I could unbutton the collar of
my shirt. Running a strictly efficient business was definitely a lost art. There was a
silent sanctity preserved in my little office supply store that tight-lipped businessmen and
wide-eyed children unquestionably respected. I liked it.
*
The short day of winter had already rapidly pulled the sun out of the sky when I
flipped over the “Open” sign and locked up. Dusk had settled so thickly that I almost
tripped over a bothersome little pest sitting on the curb in front of my store. It was a
small boy, perhaps ten years old, wrapped up in a winter jacket and scarf, his mittened
thumb extended streetward at the passing cars.
“What do you think you’re doing there, huh?” I demanded of the bundled-up boy,
my hands instinctively finding their places on my hips.
“Whadduzzit look like I’m doing?” he answered smartly with a high voice that
hinted of an imminent cold, “I’m trying to thumb a ride home!”
Appalled by his tone and manners, I verbally pounced on him. “Not in front of
my store you aren’t. Move along, or I’ll call your mother!” With that I turned from the
scamp and walked toward the side lot and my car.
I heard him call after me.
“Go ahead an’ try—I’ll give you the number! She wouldn’t care, anyway!”
35
I threw a threatening look back over my shoulder, but it was never intercepted. It
seemed the boy had forgotten me completely as he stuck his thumb bravely back out into
the night.
*
It rained the next day. I used to love rain when I was little. On warm, wet days I
would lie on my back in the driveway and follow the rain drops as they filtered through
the leaves of the overhanging maple tree. Or, usually after being pelted in the eye, I lay
silently on the pavement and waited for the drops to surprise me, imagining that each pinsized explosion of wetness was an invisible, sloppy kiss from my guardian angel. Now,
as I flipped the sign and locked up the store, I carried an umbrella. It was pouring, and
the sound of the heavy drops on my umbrella was deafening. When I saw the same boy
once again on the curb, trying to seek shelter from the rain under one of the misplaced
trees, I had to shout at him to be heard over the pounding.
“Hey, kid—it’s pouring! Why are you sitting out here in the rain?” I asked him,
more bewildered than angry.
“I’m doin’ the same thing I was yesterday: trying to find a ride. What else would
I be doing?” he retorted. He wasn’t actively trying, though. His lucky thumb was buried
deep into the pockets of his waterlogged jacket. It seemed as though he were waiting for
a ride to come to him. It seemed as though he were waiting for me.
“Yeah, but… So why doesn’t your mom come and pick you up? You’re getting
soaked. Does she even know where you are?”
“Fine! I’ll move if ya really want me to, okay?” he answered randomly, leaving
the makeshift haven of the tree and starting to walk farther down the street. At the sight
of the freezing rain rolling off his drenched blond hair, a wave of pity washed over me,
and I went after the departing boy, stopping him in mid-stride.
“Hey, wait. Do you need a ride home?” I asked him, trying to cut the edge from
my voice. He crept closer to me, stepping under the dry realm of my umbrella. Looking
up at me with the eyes of a pathetic, drenched cat, he nodded. “All right,” I sighed,
“Come with me.”
36
The cars that passed us on the street could have mistaken us for mother and son,
walking down the cobblestone sidewalk like a close-hugging, water-fearing unit. I
wasn’t exactly sure how I felt about that assumption, though I forced a frown the whole
way to my car.
*
Every corner of the apartment that Jim and I used to share held some cobwebconcealed memory that stuck out like a sore thumb each time I entered. I really should
have moved out of the apartment after the divorce, but every time I picked up the phone
to contact a realtor, something held me back. Besides, there was a nice view of the town
park from the picture window.
Flipping on the TV in our—my—bedroom, I peeled off the layers of business suit
and climbed into bed to the melodious sound of Dan Rather’s late-January report of
blizzards up north and scandals in the White House. I watched news constantly. Tucked
securely under the wings of my down comforter I absorbed the details of each story as if
I hadn’t watched the same report half an hour earlier. Suddenly the ghost images of
candle-lit dinners in the kitchen and couch-potato evenings in the den vaporized. I could
watch the weather forecasts with a blank mind. But tonight I couldn’t get one thought
out of my head: the boy.
He hugged me today. For the two weeks that I had been driving him home, we
had stuck to a set of unspoken rules. No unnecessary chatter, no frivolous contact. No
friendship. But this evening when I pulled up to the weed-infested curb introducing his
apartment complex, something unexpected happened.
“Wait. I almost forgot. I have somethin’ for you,” he’d said, recoiling from the
door handle and diving into his school bag. From an accumulation of what I imagined to
be dirt and rocks and toads he pulled out a neatly rubber-banded pile of precisely
trimmed photographs. “I got my school pictures back today. I saved one for you.” He
ruffled through the stack until he found the right one. He leaned over, the leatherprotecting plastic bag that I made him sit on crinkling, and pressed the glossy photo into
my palm. When I automatically glanced down to inspect the picture, he lurched forward
37
and wrapped his arms around my neck. I was stunned. He held on like a baby koala for a
couple speechless seconds, and then he was out the door. Slipping the photo into my coat
pocket, I watched him disappear into the building, trying to find a sensible place for this
moment in my day’s itinerary. Surprisingly, I sensed that it fit.
Now in the TV-illuminated darkness, I could still feel the imprints that his puffy
coat had made on my shoulders, the steam that his miniature nose had breathed on my
neck. For a split second there in my Mercedes, I had imagined I was someone else living
an oppositely charted life. What would it be like if he were my child? I rolled back over
to a shooting in the city and dispelled the idea.
Halfway through Internight on MSNBC, the telephone rang. Answering it, I
heard a quavering and watery version of my older sister Robin’s voice.
“Lauren, it’s—it’s Mom,” she began, sharp intakes of breath stealing her
continuity. “She’s gone. This afternoon. We, we tried to call you earlier, but—God,
Lauren, it was so sudden. So sudden.” I was having a hard time understanding the
impact of her words.
“Oh my God…Robin, what are you saying!” I didn’t really want to ask, but
disbelief flew out of me.
“The funeral’s in two days, Lauren. Me and J-Joey made all the arrangements.”
She started to whimper softly with her mouth away from the phone. “I know we haven’t
talked for a long time, Lauren, but Joey and I really want you to be here…Lauren?”
For the second time that day, I was uncharacteristically and utterly speechless.
*
The funeral was on Thursday. As I drove back home, I could barely remember
the service. I recalled sitting in the front pew of my childhood church with my older
siblings, Robin and Joey, huddled together beside me. Jim was on my other side. When
I had phoned him two evenings ago to tell him the sad news, he insisted on
accompanying me to the funeral. My mother always liked him.
To keep my composure for the subsequent hour, I diverted my attention from the
minister’s voice and kept my eyes lowered and resting on the wooden pew. I
38
concentrated on keeping at least a six-inch margin between me and the estranged parties
to my right and left. When I accidentally let out a choked sob during the valley-of-theshadow-of-death passage, however, my personal space was interrupted by Jim’s
consoling hand resting lightly on my knee. The gentle pressure of his touch felt like an
old friend, so I let it rest there for a moment before brushing it off. I just wanted to go
home.
Now I kept my eyes steadily focused on the suddenly-interesting asphalt being
swallowed by my speeding car. I was positive that this ride home with Jim would be
among the most uncomfortable two hours of my life. At least I was driving.
The unstable silence that hung between us felt nervous, forced, full of hot,
unspoken accusations. Out of the comer of my eye I was watching him pick the lint off
his overcoat and flick it onto the floor mats that I just had vacuumed a week ago. I felt
myself slowly losing it. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Jim leaned over and turned
on the radio to an oldies station. He began to sing along in a thin, off-key shower voice
that I used to giggle to outside the bathroom door. Now it wore down the last of my
restraint.
“Goddamnit, Jim!” I burst out cuttingly. “Turn off that radio! You were always
so damn inconsiderate, you know that? Could you just try to show a little respect for my
mother and, heaven forbid, me? I just came from my mother’s funeral—I am not in the
mood to be entertained!” He murmured some kind of vague apology, aware that he was
trapped with me in confined quarters for another hour, and he turned off the radio. We
rode the rest of the way home in our unstable silence.
*
On Friday I followed my routine back to work, the daze and dizziness of grief still
lingering over my head like a rain cloud. The foggy confusion began to dissipate,
however, once I found my place behind the register answering mundane questions about
types of paper and push-pins. Although there in the store I felt far away from the
calamities of the past two days, I was still relieved when the clock hands flirted with five.
39
For some reason I was surprised that the boy was waiting for me on the sidewalk
when I closed up. I saw him before he realized I was there, so I studied him for a
moment. His red and yellow school bag leaned up against one of his legs where his blue
jeans had wet puddle-spots around the ankles. He had pulled the mitten off his right hand
and was absorbed in chewing the thumbnail, his eyes closed in acute concentration. That
was a bad habit.
“That’s a bad habit,” I called over to him. Surprised by my voice, he whirled
around. He pulled the thumb from his lips.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, stressing a fabricated tone of nonchalance. “Where’ve
you been these last two days? I came an’ waited for you every day.” I noticed the
burning concern in his blue eyes.
“Forget it,” I replied, dismissing his question. “If you want a ride today, I’m
leaving now.”
He nodded, and as I turned and started walking to my car, he jumped up and ran
to my side, matching his steps to mine. The pace was too hurried and haggard for that of
a little boy, but he struggled to keep up with me. He started to chatter about something
funny that happened during science that day, but I tried not to listen, just mmm-hmm’ed
every so often.
Once I unlocked the car doors with my remote control from the edge of the
parking lot, he scampered ahead of me and jumped in the car, bouncing on the seat
insistently to signal impatience. I wasn’t too old that I couldn’t remember the fun of carseat upholstery bouncing against your bottom, but I was too old to admit it was cute.
“Stop that,” I snapped as I climbed in the car. “Why are you so wound up today,
huh?”
“It’s T.G.I.F., and I have no homework this weekend!” he proclaimed proudly,
dancing around in his seat to orally-synthesized beats. Feeling unordinarily at home in
my car today, he started to explore all of the various compartments and gadgets that a ’98
Mercedes had to offer. I tried to curb my lips. After opening and closing, flipping and
turning, he opted for the radio. Jim’s oldies station was still set on the tuner. The boy,
pleased with the Beach Boys, started to sing along.
40
Annoyed, I turned the radio off with a sharp flick of the wrist. The singing
stopped.
“Hey, what’s wrong with you? You’re so grouchy today,” the boy remarked, his
eyebrows contoured by puzzlement and hurt. I felt sheepish for a second but didn’t reply.
We drove the rest of the way to his apartment complex listening to the bumps in the road.
I left the car in drive when I stopped in front of his building, and waited for him to
get out of the car. When I didn’t hear the door handle being pulled, I glanced over at
him. He smiled at me and leaned over to hug me again. The restraining hand I placed on
his shoulder cut him off mid-embrace. As he leaned away from me, his face frozen in a
withered smile, the plastic bag sighed under his shifting weight. The boy just kept
looking at me, and looking at me, and looking at me. I cleared my throat.
“C’mon, I’m in a hurry, okay?” I said to him, not able to look directly in his eyes.
I was watching my fingers tap the steering wheel when he finally got out of the car, so I
wouldn’t have to see the tears that I had smeared over his childish cheeks. When I heard
the door shut gently with the strength of a broken heart, I drove home.
*
God, I felt like a horrible person. That weekend, a plaguing guilt was building
and building in my chest with the urgency of a suppressed scream. I imagined the boy
crying. I remembered his furrowed eyebrows, his deflated smile. I had been so cold, so
heartless. That wasn’t the way I normally was!
By Monday, I had formulated a plan to apologize to the boy. On my lunch break
I ventured down Main Street to the candy store and bought a king size bag of the seasonal
Valentine’s Day heart candies with the words printed on them. Once I was back at the
office supply store, I spent the remainder of my day writing a mental excuse, an
explanation of the horrible week I had. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry. I wanted to
tell him that my mother had just died. I wanted to tell him how I lost my husband. I tried
to think of a short way to say it all to make him understand. I wasn’t a bad person.
I would walk out of the store quietly so that he wouldn’t see me, and I would sit
down beside him and take his mittened hand and squeeze his lucky thumb and apologize,
41
explain, give him candy. We would still be holding hands on the way to my car. I
wouldn’t make him sit on that damn plastic bag. People would think he was my son.
By five o’clock there were stampeding butterflies coursing throughout my
nervous system. I decided to stall for five more minutes before closing up, so that I could
be certain that he would already be sitting there waiting for me when I sneaked up behind
him. But after three minutes I realized that he might think I wasn’t coming at all and just
leave. So I went to the closet and put on my coat—it felt a little tighter than usual—and I
rehearsed the effective apology I had memorized, twice.
“This is silly,” I muttered to myself, picking up the bow-tied bag of candy. “He’s
just a little boy. He’ll forgive me.” But the pound of my heart knew that I had injured a
place in him that had already been trampled on too many times for a boy so young. My
heart realized that there was a world’s worth of healing to make up for. I headed for the
door. I stepped out, forgetting to flip over the “Open” sign.
The boy wasn’t there.
I nearly ran to the place on the pavement where he normally waited, bent over and
put my hand on the spot, but it was cold. It didn’t seem as though he were ever there. I
straightened myself out and looked down the street both ways. About seven stores away
on the opposite side of the Main Street, I saw a bundled-up scamp sitting on the curb in
front of the grocery store, his arm extended streetward. I started to walk in his direction,
then stopped. That boy looked too old to be my boy.
I sat on the curb for five more minutes, but the boy never appeared. Sighing, I
stood up, went back into the store to flip over the sign, and headed for the parking lot.
My car was waiting there for me, formidable as ever. All I could smell when I got into
the car was the scent of well-cared-for leather, the aroma of an expensive and revered car.
I ignored the plastic bag on the seat beside me and drove back to my apartment building.
It was indisputably night when I got to my apartment; the sprawling picture
window showed nothing but a reflection of myself as I entered my living room. As I
went to put my keys away in my coat pocket, my fingers fell upon something thin and
smooth already nested there. It was the photograph that the boy had given me, and when
I pulled it out of my pocket face-down, I saw the message written on the back in childish
hand: “To Mrs. ?, Love, Thomas.” Without turning it over to look at the picture on the
42
opposite side, I rummaged through a drawer next to my TV and found the Hallmark box.
I tucked the photo into my mother’s Christmas card.
Without bothering to remove my suit, I crawled under my down comforter and
flipped on the TV, irritated that I’d missed the first half-hour of my succession of news
shows. I ripped open the bag of heart-shaped candy and gradually devoured all of
them—except the green ones, which I threw out the next morning.
43
RUTH HARIU
Since the writing of Christmas Cards, I completed college and followed its sweeping
motion through to its natural end: a static hoarding of momentum at the university
library, where I have worked two years among the noblest humans in creation, librarians.
Having a space in the library lineup, in which those unselfish hands pass from palm to
palm more literature than my friends and I together could ever afford, I have felt, finally,
enough flick in the wrist to expend my potential energy. In August 2006 I will begin a
Ph.D. program.
Reflection on Christmas Cards
I started here with a very impersonal reference to “the writing” of Christmas
Cards. This is my unpresumptuous way of courting the past, coaxing into collaboration
that work which I may have no right anymore to claim. I expect that many writers faced
with the task of reanimating the birth of an old story feel the same timidity; so then, I
begin by extending an invitation to a houseguest, the girl who wrote the story. This girl
kept copious journals from the age of seven years that stretch seamlessly into the one I
keep today, and her writing, in the way a photograph never could, brings the smart, coltlegged girl whispering to me over the manuscript.
What I hear is richer than I expect—“I wrote this story, you see, in the same
bedroom in which I sat thinking, staring at the walls. Where first those flags of color
snapped inside my conscious mind and made their way into words in these journals. That
past tense, the self-unnamed narrator, the staid yet desperately introspective journeys into
love, desertion, family, self-isolation—if we lay these side by side, you will see they are
from the same hand. Lauren is, in many ways, my compatriot, and what exhilaration it is
at this young age to flee from the deathbed of my childhood and find Lauren outside her
office supply store waiting to pick up that child so different from herself.” I ask her if
she knew she was saving herself in the writing of this story. “Yes, in a way, but no.”
These last words ring long after the communion has ended. And perhaps they
mean more to the process of writing than I understand even now. From years of careful
narrative crafting, through the splintering of line into poetry and beyond, into an
acceptance of their inherent mutual playfulness, what my writing shows me is that all
44
along, what I have been doing is unknowingly saving myself, taking from the present to
unselfishly pass palm to palm that which will make me whole, help me survive. Then, of
course, the thought dawns on me that after all, this is the aim: what great writing does is
save us all.
45
Teacher Reflection
Showing, Not Telling, in Ruth Hariu’s Christmas Cards
The nineteenth-century novelist Henry James famously advised fiction writers,
“Show. Don’t tell.” Show what you mean through action, dialogue, and imagery; don’t
just tell what you mean through explanation and summary. In “Christmas Cards” Ruth
Hariu vividly portrays the protagonist not through explicit analysis, or self-analysis (after
all, the protagonist is the narrator, telling her own story), but through actions that reveal
her complicated character. The author’s portrayal of the main character is all the more
brilliant because the story is written in the first-person point of view; that is, what the
protagonist-narrator tells us—and doesn’t tell us—is itself a form of showing.
Of course, “telling” is not something we should altogether avoid—after all, we are
“telling stories”—but we might, as writers, ask ourselves continually, “How might I
show, rather than tell…?” We might ask ourselves, for example, “How might I show that
my character is lonely?” rather than just write “she is lonely”? Ruth Hariu captures this
very aspect of her character’s life in the story’s opening lines, describing the three
Christmas cards she received this year, “cards undoubtedly belonging to cheap packs of
mass-produced holiday cheer purchased as an afterthought from drug stores not too far
out of the way.” The cards are not only few, but cheap and carelessly purchased—or so
the narrator thinks.
By telling the story from the first-person point of view, the author shows us also
how the protagonist thinks. First, the three Christmas cards show that the protagonist
doesn’t have a lot of close human connections; but then the assumptions she makes about
the cards—“undoubtedly belonging to cheap packs…purchased as an afterthought”—
reveal even more about her, and not just the fact that she is thoughtful about her
insubstantial relationships. The physical details of the cards, not to mention her specific
thoughts about them, are deeply revealing: the card from her ex-husband reads only
“Merry Xmas. Jim” and depicts a grimacing snowman weighed down by clothing—this
prompts her to think “the card was a low-handed ploy on Jim’s part to once again remind
me of his unhappiness in our marriage”; the card from her mother “was filled inside top
46
to bottom with descriptions of stiff joints and maladies”—this prompts her, after some
deliberation, not to display the depressing cards but to store them away in the Hallmark
box left over from the Christmas cards she herself had sent out. Even this detail of the
Hallmark box is revealing—showing, not telling—that deep down she wants to make
connections with people, having sent out the kind of “nice” cards she didn’t receive in
return.
Throughout the story the narrator reveals herself through her actions, ignoring her
mother’s illness, savoring the peace and quiet of her store, straining to be patient with the
people who invade her space, and making a last-ditch effort to make up for her
insensitivity: she boxes up her mother’s Christmas card, she snaps at her ex-husband,
who turns on the radio on the drive back from her mother’s funeral; she rejects the boy’s
hug after driving him home; and she seeks the boy out so that she can apologize. In the
end we understand that she has learned from her experience, that she appreciates how her
own behavior has contributed to her isolation, but she stops short of telling us this herself,
just as she has stopped short of making explicit her feelings about her ex-husband or her
mother. She does not offer up a moral to the story or even confess her regrets, even as
she expresses longing for the boy, even as she imagines him her own son. Instead, once
again we are shown: after failing to find the boy, she is alone, under covers, still in her
suit, flipping through channels while devouring a bag of heart-shaped candy. The truth is
that it would be difficult for her—and even for us—to explain exactly how she feels, or
exactly what she is thinking. And yet the “picture” tells the story.
Exercise
Write a paragraph that reveals a character solely through vivid action, avoiding
psychological descriptions or explanations. You might also return to a story you’ve
already written and comb it for opportunities to show where you have told, seeking out
even simple descriptors like “sad” or “angry” and considering how you might illustrate
such states of mind through interesting action and imagery.
47
The Reign of the Last Caesar
Emerson Breneman 2000
An old man was drinking an early-morning beer outside of a darkened
Laundromat as Miguel walked by. Three doors up, next to a Chinese food restaurant,
which was blasting the smell of hot grease from a noisy fan vent above its front door, was
a large window showcase with the words PET EMPORIUM block-lettered in red and
gold across the middle. Miguel pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped inside.
The bell above the door’s chime sent a row of cages to Miguel’s left shaking violently as
the birds inside cackled and flapped. The air inside was sick with the smell of animals
and sawdust. A woman, Indian and fat, looked up from a small black-and-white
television, which was playing a soap opera, and looked at Miguel, as if waiting for some
kind of explanation.
“I’m here for a dog… I called…”
“Yes, you go through this door for see my husband.” She pointed to the back of
the shop.
Miguel started, heading past a row of fish tanks, which shimmered green light
through a layer of algae onto his white T-shirt, to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
As he reached out for the handle, the door opened slightly and a short Indian man’s face
appeared. His eyes made dark circles and his mouth bent into a maniacal grin; the man
seemed overwhelmingly happy.
“Hello, sir! You are here for Bull, yes?”
“Yeah”
“Very good! You come with me.”
He led Miguel through a small office area, where a tape deck was playing Indian
pop music. Through another door, they walked past a row of dog pens, Plexiglas on the
front and back. There was a Labrador puppy circling in the second pen and an olderlooking German Shepherd lying half asleep in the fifth. Through the front of the pen,
Miguel could see the rest of the shop, the woman behind the counter staring intently at
her television. “You have come at good time, my friend. We have many Bulls to choose
from.” The man chattered as they headed down a flight of wooden stairs lit from
48
overhead with a dangling light bulb. “These bastards they tell me I cannot sell these
dogs, that I need license from Kennel Association and this bullshit. They tell me that
only I can order one or two Pit Bulls at a time, and that I must register with the police
before I can sell them. Do you know what I say, my friend? I say ‘Bullshit!’ To these
police!” The man laughed and gave Miguel a look of criminal confederacy. Miguel
chuckled and looked away.
The basement had a poured-concrete floor and no furnishings. A young Indian
man in tight jeans was sitting on a milk crate and smoking. Against the far wall were ten
small cages. Inside each one was a small Pit Bull. The shopkeeper led Miguel closer to
the cages and shouted a command in Hindi to the young man who slowly got up and
walked up the stairs, still smoking. The man crouched and pointed to the nearest cage.
Inside, the dog was all black, with pale blue eyes. “This is good dog. This will be very
good fighter. See? The paws, they are big and good claws. This dog will be very
tough,” the man smiled. Miguel glanced across at the other cages. Catching this, the
man continued, “These are all good dogs. All the best trainers in Los Angeles, if they
want a dog that will last in the pit, and can fight again and again, they come to me. These
dogs are bred in a mill special for to fight. They can take other dog’s head off.”
“No,” Miguel spoke softly, looking down the line, “it ain’t for fighting.”
“Well, for what then?” the shopkeeper asked, confused.
“For protection.”
“Ah, yes,” the man said, looking over Miguel’s small frame. “Well, you will
want a big dog.” He walked to the second-to-last cage from the wall. Inside was a lightbrown Bull, looking up alertly. His paws were thick and wide, legs and chest rippled
with white. He was not quite still a puppy, and he was larger than the other dogs. As he
moved, his hide slid over taut, rolling muscle. “This dog will be very big. Good strong
bite,” the man said softly, looking at Miguel, but Miguel’s eyes were fixed on the dog.
“Yeah,” Miguel nodded. “This is my nigga right here.”
*
49
The training began on that same day. In his backyard, Miguel had constructed a
small pen from a roll of chicken wire that he had found in a pile of trash that sat just
beyond his back fence. Enclosed in the wire cage was a rusty metal fence post embedded
in a submerged pile of concrete left over from some unfinished building project of a
former tenant. The dog looked vaguely frightened as Miguel chained him to the post and
entrapped him in the wire frame. He watched as Miguel’s form disappeared into the
basement of the house and then returned a moment later, carrying something with him.
Miguel strapped a collar weighted down with a sandbag around the dog’s neck and
watched as he slumped forward, off balance. He struggled with the collar and then
scratched at the strap on the back of his neck. From the ground he saw Miguel descend
into the house and then return once more, this time carrying a length of rope and a piece
of meat, which he could smell before he could see. Miguel tied a knot around the chunk
of beef, which had been left over from dinner the night before, and laughed to see the
dog’s eye lock on the meat with a clear intention. “Caesar.” Miguel spoke to the dog as
he set the meat to dangle from the top of the cage. “Lil’ Caese. Crazy little bastard.
Fuck anybody up.” The dog struggled to rise, then began to heave his neck towards the
meat, which swung above him at the highest point in his sphere of vision. Miguel
watched the dog for a moment, then spun around and stepped across the lawn and back
down into the basement. He closed the shutter doors behind himself and made his way
through the small, cluttered basement past a broken yellow washing machine and boxes
of Christmas decorations to the bottom of the stairs. He flicked off the light switch
before he ascended, knowing the length of each step in the dark.
Emerging into the kitchen, smoky and flooded with sunlight, Miguel saw his
father sitting at the table, holding forth, “…now these Taiwanese weren’t like those other
Koreans I told you about. These were nice guys. They loved Americans, and the girls
especially loved our American money.” He was in a bathrobe, sipping Seagram’s and
orange juice from a Styrofoam cup. “At this time there weren’t many Puerto Ricans in
my barracks, and I was liable to catch shit even from my own company for being a Puerto
Rican, but I never got any trouble from these Taiwanese while we were there on leave.
They were nice people, just real poor, but they would bring nice clean girls down to the
bar and that good weed from the country. One time one of my buddies, a black guy
50
named—” His girlfriend was partly listening, smoking a Newport and shaking salt into a
pan of simmering ground beef. “—Otis, he was a funny guy, he got all drunk one night
and went back to some girl’s shack or something and her boyfriend showed up with a
knife, trying to shake him down for his money, see. Well, Otis got away and then after
he sobered up, a bunch of us guys went downtown and we found this girl working in a
park and we scared her pretty good into telling us where to find her boyfriend.” He took
a drink and looked toward Miguel, now speaking directly to him, “So, she says this guy’s
shooting pool in another bar, an all-Taiwanese bar where no servicemen went in, but we
went down and we gave some kid on the street a quarter to go in and bring him out into
the street. He came out and then we beat him real good. You see? I was never a big
guy, but I can hold my own. I’ve never been afraid to scrap.” A week before, Miguel
had come home bloodied from a beat-down he had received in the park. “Sure, maybe I
got punked off a little, but I did my share of whipping ass too. You know, you can’t go
around with a reputation as a punk. That’s when you get it bad.” His tone had begun to
turn into that of a lecture.
“Whatever, man.” Miguel mumbled, aware that half of his father’s stories were
bullshit anyway.
“Now how is that dog doing out there?” His father kept his tone hostile.
“Look at this shit!” Miguel laughed, pointing out the back window to where the
dog was straining to jump, snapping his jaw just below where the beef hung.
His father stood up and stooped slightly to see the dog. He smiled.
Not looking up from the pan, his girlfriend, Carla, rasped to Miguel, “Go tell your
sister to come eat some of this.”
Already walking past the wooden-paneled living room walls and smoked-out
couch and chairs to the front hallway, Miguel heard the command and stopped in front of
his little sister’s door. He kicked at the bottom of the door and pushed it open with his
foot. “Hey, hoochie. Your mother says to go eat.”
His sister was lying in bed but jumped out right away in Winnie-the-Poo pajamas
and yelled, “Oh-kaaaay.” She was small for five. She had very dark hair and big dark
eyes. “Miguel, is the puppy here yet?”
51
“Yeah, he’s in the back, but he’s not a puppy. He’s a big fucker already. His
name is Caesar.”
“I like puppies better,” she said to her pajama-bottomed feet. “I think you should
call it…Tigger…or Pongo.”
He was closing the door to his room behind him, walking across the throw rug
toward the CD-player boom box that sat on top of his dresser, CD’s lying out of their
cases face up around it. He unloaded the items from his pockets and carefully lined them
up on top of the TV: his wallet, a pair of house keys, a pack of Newport menthols, five
vials of crystal meth, and a mix tape. Then he was sitting at his weight bench, curling a
thirty-pound dumbbell with his left arm as Tupac was playing in the background. And he
was looking at himself in a full-length mirror, posing and lip-synching to the rhymes. He
scowled at his skinny arms and chicken-chest and then turned to the window, watching
Caesar rip apart the bit of flesh and choke it down. After it was gone, the dog searched
the ground for any morsel that might have dropped from its jaw and, not finding any,
licked the dirt in front of him just to be sure. Then he rolled onto his side, exhausted.
“Yeah, bro!” Miguel called to his dog.
Later, he was asleep, all concept of himself forgotten. Then the phone rang and
he was dragged from what felt like a lifetime of dreams back to his bed. The room was
ominous-gray and could have been dusk or just before dawn. His digital alarm clock said
that it was 6:30 with one red dot next to it to indicate p.m., but Miguel couldn’t remember
falling asleep and had lost his sense of continuity. He picked up the phone: “Hello?” his
voice cracked.
“Yo, holmes, what’s up?” the voice called against background hum.
“Yo…Chino?”
“No, man, this is Ricky.”
“Oh, yeah, bro, I just…”
“What’s up?”
“I was sleeping.”
“Yeah, man? Yo, what are you doing? Do you have any more of that shit?”
“Yeah, I got that.”
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“I wanted to get some of that. I got some friends who want some too. Me and
Little D are gonna roll up to this party. You should come up with us to talk to these
guys.”
“Uh…I…yeah, I guess, man.”
“Yeah, we’ll be there in a little while to pick you up.”
“All right, man.” Miguel hung up.
Ricky pressed “end” and the face of his cell phone went blank. Dashes of orange
sunlight reflected through his windshield were rolling across his jaw. Little D braked
into a clump of red-light traffic. At the comer, an old woman was selling oranges. “Who
is this kid Miguel? Miguel DeSanto?” Little D was turning up the AC.
“No, man, Miguel De Santo lives in Oaktown now. This is Miguel Garcia.”
Ricky spoke as he looked into the sunshade mirror, adjusting his hat brim.
“That kid we went to school with?”
“Yeah.”
“That kid’s a little puta bitch!” Little D swerved across the turning lane and took
a left onto Columbus Boulevard.
“Yeah, but he gets good shit now. I don’t know. He’s okay… We chilled a
couple times. He just kind of goofy. Yo, remember when Jamal and them used to mess
with him hard?” Ricky asked, not sure if Little D was even in school at the time he was
recalling.
“Yeah, that punk used to catch wreck like every day from somebody. Niggas
would be like stealing his money or his walkman or something. That was some funny
shit! He’d get all pissed, but then he’d just back down because he knew anybody could
stomp him.” Little D smiled, looking down at a tattoo of Jesus on his bicep.
“Yeah, and I heard he got beat—” Little D looked over his shoulder, waiting for
an opening to run onto the freeway on-ramp. “No, man, get on Southbound! The ramp’s
on the other side.” Little D looked up at the big green sign that hung on the overpass and
nodded, swinging the car back into traffic towards the Southbound ramp. Ricky waited
for him to hit the run and continued. “I heard he got beat in the park last week by some
heads from North. I asked him about it and he was, like, ‘Nah, man, nah.’ But then I
asked Monique ‘cause she live in his neighborhood and she said it was true.” On the top
53
of the freeway, the setting sun was an orange vapor made vague by smog. Ricky watched
as the last of it slipped beneath the rim of the city. He turned up the stereo. Four exits
south, the Acura darted across two lanes to roll down the off ramp and into Miguel’s
neighborhood.
Minutes later, putting on a gold chain in the bathroom mirror, Miguel heard a
horn bleat and hurried into his room. He grabbed three vials of meth, his wallet, keys and
cigarettes. He put on a white Polo button-up and a baseball hat. He walked to the living
room, where his sister was watching the Disney Channel. She looked up. “I met your
doggie. He’s funny looking and he has a bag on his neck.”
“Where’s Dad, Rosy?”
“He went to Uncle Carlos’s house.”
Miguel looked at her for a second, worried. “I have to go out. What are you
going to do?”
“I’m going to watch TV, and I won’t answer the phone unless it’s Daddy or
Mommy on the answering machine and I won’t leave the house. Can I go out back to see
the dog?”
“No. Don’t leave at all. I bet Dad will be back soon, so just chill out, all right?”
She said yes and refocused her eyes on the TV.
Out front, Little D and Ricky were smoking a blunt in Little D’s blue customized
Acura. The car’s system was rattling house windows on the block with bass hits. Miguel
locked the door and went out to the curb. Ricky rolled down the window, spilling a ganja
cloud into the street. Miguel had to yell over the music, “Yo, you want to come see my
new Pit Bull? He’s a killer.”
“No, we got to get over to this party, man. Get in.”
In the back seat the woofers sent blows of vibration through Miguel’s skinny
chest. Ricky passed him the blunt as they cruised off his block and Miguel took a long
hit and coughed painfully. The other two laughed at him. They rode out across neonbleached avenues in the silence of the bass track.
They ended up in Long Beach. After getting lost for fifteen minutes, Ricky
recognized the block where J.C. lived. As usual, some guys had left J.C.’s house to play
basketball on the courts that sat directly across from his house. Little D found a spot for
54
his car in the court parking lot. Across the street, the front yard of the house was partially
lit by a yellow floodlight. On the lawn, two Latino girls were laughing as a black kid
with a beer in his hand told them a story. On the front stoop, a girl sat partially in
darkness talking seriously into her cell phone. Miguel watched the kids shooting hoops.
Most of them were shirtless and sweaty, playing seriously. Ricky and Little D were
already walking across the street, so Miguel jogged a few paces, not wanting to enter the
house alone. The two Latino girls turned and looked as Ricky unhooked the gate and
they crossed the short lawn, but the girl on her cell phone looked more intently into space
as they walked past. Ricky led them through the front like it was his own house.
There was a group of kids hanging out in the kitchen and a few more in the living room
on the right. The house was bright, with white walls and light carpets. They stepped into
the front hall, and the kids in the kitchen turned and watched them. The kids were mostly
white and looked like surfers. Ricky was looking around. “Yo, where’s J.C.?” he called
into the kitchen.
A kid with light-brown dreadlocks spoke up, “He’s in the basement.”
Miguel was nervous as he followed the other two into the living room. Above his
head, a few girls were standing on the second-floor landing, overlooking the party. He
pitched his head up and caught sight of a pretty chicana, maybe seventeen or eighteen
years old. She was hanging over the railing, her arms dangling at the top of his vision.
He cleared his throat and stepped along behind the other two as they made their way
down the back hall way to the basement stairs. J.C. was sitting behind a screen of weed
smoke on his couch in the dank basement. A couple kids were playing Playstation on an
old television, cursing each other out between levels and mouthfuls of beer. J.C. stood up
and came towards Little D and Ricky as they walked in. “Ricky, what’s up, man?” he
said through a smile. J.C. was big, with blond, close-cropped hair and blue eyes. Miguel
was standing behind the other two, scanning the room with his eyes. J.C. looked Miguel
over and said, “This is the kid you were telling me about?”
Miguel felt pinned down by J.C.’s eyes. To Miguel, this guy seemed to radiate an
air of mindless cruelty. At first, this vibration he was feeling made no sense to Miguel
and he tried to ignore it. Then, as he looked into J.C.’s icy blue eyes, a layer of time
55
seemed to fall away in Miguel’s mind and he was overcome with a barrage of longforgotten memories.
You know this kid, Miguel’s mind raced. At the YMCA when you were thirteen
and he was older and his friends watched and laughed when he kicked your ass in the
parking lot and stole your basketball. The image of J.C. standing over him, dropping the
basketball on his face, sprang to mind.
“Let’s go sit down,” J.C. said, and led them over to the couch.
The coffee table in front of it was strewn with loose tobacco from cleaned-out
blunts, empty keg cups, porn magazines, and cigarette butts. J.C., Little D and Ricky sat
down on the couch, but there wasn’t a spot for Miguel. He kept standing as the others
packed a pipe and passed it around, talking boastfully. Miguel took a hit from the
colorful blown-glass pipe and held it in. Miguel watched J.C. closely as he spoke. No,
that’s not the same kid, Miguel rationalized. There’s no way. Why would this kid who
lives in Long Beach go to the L.A. YMCA? As Miguel studied his face, his certainty
faltered. After a moment, he decided for sure that he had been mistaken, but Miguel
couldn’t overcome the feelings that the memory had dragged up. When J.C. looked to
him and spoke, Miguel was thirteen years old again.
“So, let’s see these vials, man,” J.C. said with a surfer twang.
Miguel locked eyes with him, and for a second saw in them a hint of recognition.
He knows, Miguel’s mind told him. It’s him. He remembers who you really are. Miguel
clumsily brought out a few small containers of crystal meth. J.C. took them and looked
them over with the consideration of an expert.
“You wanted, what, twenty a piece for these?” he said with a trace of incredulity.
“Uh,” Miguel’s voice cracked. “Well, I was…I was getting twenty-five.” He sounded
uncertain.
“No, man. These are no good.” J.C. looked around, smiling at the others in the
room, who were watching. “These don’t look any good. They are too small. You want
fifty for all three,” he told Miguel.
“Well, that would be, like, I would be losing—”
“So, fifty for all three?” J.C. smirked. Ricky and Little D were smirking, too.
56
Miguel remembered the basketball dropping on his face. He felt trapped in this
basement, surrounded by people that he couldn’t trust, with the threat of violence in the
air. “Uh…yeah, man. That’s okay.”
Later that night, Ricky and Little D dropped Miguel off early, somewhat drunk, at
his house. Everyone inside was asleep. Miguel went around back and woke up his dog
with a kick. Miguel thought that it was time for a training session. He was preparing the
dog for a hard life.
*
Six and a half months later Miguel was walking his dog through the neighborhood
on a sunny afternoon. He took a right at the end of his block and the dog went left.
Miguel had to stop as the dog’s bulk twisted the leather strap around his hand. He
thought about how solid the dog had become since he had begun training it. Sunlight was
pressing down on the street, but eddies of cooling breeze were struggling to rise from
ankle level. Across the street, from behind a layer of haze, a woman in her twenties
pushing a stroller was waving and smiling to Miguel. He waved back and thought about
the woman, who was a neighbor. A slut, yes, he thought, but not bad.
A block farther up, a couple kids standing around outside of the liquor store were
talking about cars when they saw Miguel and Caesar rolling up. One kid, who had been
leaning on the white brick wall against a Colt 45 poster, stepped forward and called out,
“Yo, Miguel!”
Miguel changed his course slightly and stepped up to the group of kids, who were
a few years younger than he. One kid dropped down on a knee and started to pet the dog.
“What’s up, man?” another asked.
“Nothing. You know.” Miguel scanned the street in front of the store, as if
looking for someone else to talk to.
“Yo, we’re gonna go up Hector’s to go shoot some dice, man. You should come
up! Get a little buzz on and lose some money to me.” The kid held up a paper bag full of
forty-ounce bottles.
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“No, dude, I can’t. I got some plans. Anyway, you wouldn’t want me to come up
there because I’d break every single one of you bastards. You’d have to be cashing in
your mother’s food stamps to pay me.” Miguel watched all the kids smile. He said,
“Later,” and pulled Caesar along.
The park up the block was carpeted with dead yellow grass and dog shit. As he
cut through back up to his house, Miguel was thinking about how much his life had
changed since he had bought his dog. Lately, on the block, word must have been getting
around about the money he was making. Maybe, he thought, it was just from having the
freshest Nautica and Polo gear and the most evil-looking Pit Bull in his neighborhood.
He sensed that he was getting more respect now than he ever had, and the thought made
him straighten his shoulders under his T-shirt and step with authority across the street.
He led his dog though the front gate and up into the house. His father was sitting in the
dark, watching TV from the plaid couch. “What’s up, Dad.” He walked by.
“Hey, Miguel.”
He led his dog though the kitchen and out the back door. A few months ago,
Miguel had put a piece of corrugated steel across the top of Caesar’s cage to keep the
L.A. sunshine off the dog’s back. Once the dog was chained in, Miguel brought it a dish
of cool water. The dog lapped at the water violently and sent it splashing. He swallowed
a dead fly that had been in the bottom of the dish for a day or more and looked up at
Miguel, who was standing in front of the cage with the stick. The dog lowered itself into
a defensive position, setting its teeth, ready to attack. Caesar knew what the stick meant.
His hot breath began to roll a faint growl. Miguel came into the cage and lowered
himself down to the dog’s level. His words were just above a whisper. “It’s okay, Caese.
I know you don’t like this, but this is what we have to do.” He could smell the dog’s spit.
“We got to be hard, Caese. These niggas on the street, they all think that they’re harder
than you. They’re waiting for you to be soft for one second. We got to stay fierce. And
crazy.”
The dog watched his master’s eyes. They were familiar and nice, and so was his
smell. Caesar was afraid of the stick, which Miguel had leaned up against the outside of
the cage, but he knew that his master would protect him from it the best he could. Caesar
hated the stick. He hated the chains and the weights, the sticks, the wire hangers, the
58
rope, and all his other tormentors. He loved Miguel, though. He would protect Miguel
from any one. A few months before, longer ago than the dog could remember, he had
protected Miguel from a gang of kids who had tried to roll on them while they were
walking home late one night. Miguel was drunk, coming back from his father’s friend
Louis’s house. Caesar had growled and thrashed around and the kids had gotten scared
and run off. For a week after that, Caesar hadn’t seen the stick or the weights. He
thought that Miguel must have been trying very hard to keep his tormentors away, to
keep him protected even better than usual. Now the stick was back, and he wished that
Miguel could do something to stop it, but he knew that he couldn’t. Miguel’s soft words
stroked the dog’s ear, and he relaxed and braced himself. Miguel stepped back outside of
the cage and took up the sharpened broom handle. He shoved it through the wire and
started to prod the dog’s side. The animal snarled and snapped at the stick.
When he came back inside, his sister was coming out of the bathroom. She was
wiping her hands on her acid-washed overalls and singing to herself. “Hey, Miguel. Did
you already take Caesar for his walk?”
“Yeah, we just got back a little while ago.”
“But I wanted to go, too.”
“You should have been awake early, like us.”
“Miguel, when can I take Caesar out for walks all by myself?”
“When you gain about a hundred pounds. You remember when I let you hold his
leash that time? Remember how he dragged you up the street to go see Mrs. Jones’s little
rat dog? Why are you still so small?” He palmed her head like a basketball.
Rosie was getting a carton of orange juice out from the refrigerator. “But he likes
me. I go out and play with him when he’s lonely. I give him food and he licks my face.”
Miguel wasn’t fully listening, sifting through a stack of junk mail on the kitchen table.
Standing on a chair, pulling a glass down from the cabinet, Rosie turned to her halfbrother. “How can I get muscles like you did?”
“Well, do you want to drink those protein shakes like I do everyday?”
“Ewwwww.”
“And lift weights all the time?”
59
“I lifted them before. Three times.” She stared off into space as she overfilled a
glass with orange juice.
“Clean that shit up before your mother sees it. You don’t want muscles, anyway.
Little hoochies aren’t supposed to have muscles. Then boys don’t want to get with
them.” He strolled lazily through the house. He heard the TV on and peeked his head
into the living room, but the couch was empty. Carla and his father were arguing as
Miguel walked by their bedroom toward his own. Inside his room, Miguel took his shirt
off and turned on the TV. In front of the mirror, he hooked a couple times like a
prizefighter and then crossed his arms over his chest and regarded himself. Not big
enough, he thought, not hard enough. There was a light knock at the door. “What’s up?”
He turned away from the mirror. It was Carla, looking tired.
“Miguel, someone called here last night looking for you.”
“Who? Was it—?”
“Listen. I said you weren’t home, and he asked if I knew where else he could get
some speed.”
“Oh, man! Fucking asshole. I bet it was one of those little freaks from—”
“Now, Miguel, I’m really sick of this shit. You know your father doesn’t care,
but I do. This is my damn house, too. I will not have drug people calling here talking
about illegal shit on my phone!” She took out a pack of cigarettes. “No… No, I won’t
have it. I’m not going to have goddamn cruisers watching my house.” She took a long
drag.
“Carla, you know nobody comes here. Hardly no one even knows where I live.”
He was calm, staring away, looking annoyed.
“Whatever. Whatever! Forget about the cops. What about these people you are
dealing with? Killers. You don’t even know.”
“I know, Carla, and I can take care of myself.”
“What about your sister? You want to have people like that around her?”
He sat down on the weight bench in a beam of smoky sunlight coming through
the window. He paused for a moment then faced her and said, “Nothing is gonna happen.
You guys are safe. Anyway, that’s what I bought Caesar for! To protect the family.”
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“Oh, you didn’t get that dog so you could walk around the neighborhood and look
tough?” she asked with venomous cheer.
“What?! I’m representing.”
“So, what, you’re hardcore now? My brother is dead from thinking he was
hardcore, running around with guns, you know that. Miguel, you are not one of these
thugs. That’s not you. I remember when I first came here. You used to tell me how
much you hated those guys, how you would never try to be like that.”
He was glaring at her, enraged. “Fuck that! All I’ve done is take shit from
everybody!” He had both arms up in a “what’s up?!” gesture. “All I’ve done is take shit
my whole life. Ask my father. He used to have to protect me from kids in this
neighborhood. From now on I’m not taking shit from anybody.”
“That’s not how it works, Miguel. A dog and some gold don’t make—”
“Whatever, Carla. I don’t want to talk about this dumb shit.” He turned up the
volume on the TV and lay down on the weight bench. Carla took another drag, then
walked out, closing the door carefully behind her. A moment later Miguel heard the faint
sound of more arguing coming from the direction of his father’s room.
Miguel went out that night with Kim, a high school girl he had met a few weeks
before at the swap meet. Down at the park there had been a barbeque earlier in the day,
and when Miguel and Kim showed up there were still people hanging around fires and
drinking beers. Miguel was greeted with shakes and snaps from ten different kids and a
few beers were cracked and presented to him. He watched as some of his friends’ Pit
Bulls chased each other around the picnic area. “Damn, man, I should have brought
Caesar,” he said aloud.
“If it was here, your dog would be scaring my dog shitless,” laughed a baldheaded
black kid from Compton.
Reggae was coming from someone’s boom box. Miguel felt at ease. Kim was
looking fine, drinking a beer, leaning up against him. He was surrounded by people that
respected him. That’s all I wanted, he thought, just some respect. Later that night he
went back to Kim’s and they made love on the couch while her parents were sleeping
upstairs. He left feeling happy and slightly buzzed. He unlocked the front door and
stepped into the living room. His father and Carla were passed out on the couch, holding
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each other. There was a mostly empty bottle of gin and some cups on the coffee table in
front of them. The TV was still on, loud. Miguel took up the bottle of gin and swallowed
the last of it, then stole a couple Newports from Carla’s pack. Then he picked up the
remote and turned off the TV. Miguel’s father woke up. “Hey, you cigarette-thief,” he
whispered.
“Hey, Pops.”
“Did you have a good time with that girl?”
“Oh, man, yeah. That girl is sweet.”
“There’s nothing like a little pussy,” his father said, even more quiet, doing his
best not to wake up Carla.
“Did y’all do anything tonight?”
“No, your sister went to bed early and me and Carla just drank a little and talked
for a while.”
“Did Caesar bark at all?”
“No, he was very well behaved,” his father laughed. “Miguel, there’s some things
we need to talk about in the morning. About what you’ve been getting into. Carla really
does not like how you’ve been acting lately. But we just need to talk to her, okay?”
“Well, whatever…in the morning.”
“Yeah, goodnight, Miguel.”
He headed towards the kitchen. He opened the fridge and looked around for a
second, found nothing of interest, and closed the door. As he started across the lawn, he
saw that something was not right. Caesar had gotten into something. Miguel could hear
the dog gnawing at a piece of meat, but he didn’t stop cold until he saw his Bull cracking
through the leg bone of his little sister’s half-eaten body.
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EMERSON BRENEMAN
I was born on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, where I grew up until my parents were divorced.
I moved with my mother to Rhode Island, where I attended elementary and middle
school. After my freshman year of high school we moved to Media, PA, where I
attended Penncrest High School. After graduation I started traveling every winter season.
Since then I’ve traveled around the country several times, into Mexico, to Puerto Rico,
Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Australia, Laos, Cambodia, Viet Nam, India, and around
Europe. I spend my summers in Provincetown on Cape Cod, where I’ve worked in
restaurants, bars, on a clam and oyster farm, in the cranberry bogs, for a concrete
foundation building crew, and as the first mate on a whale-watch boat. In 2002 I selfpublished the first issue of WHITE ANIMAL, a D.I.Y. zine about my travels in Southeast
Asia. Since then I’ve been working on WHITE ANIMAL as a music and culture
webzine (http://www.whiteanimal.blogspot.com). Last year my girlfriend, Genevieve,
and I did a round-the-world trip, which we documented with an extensive weblog
(http://www.gneexcellentadventure.blogspot.com). This year the adventure will take us
to Argentina and around South America.
Reflection on The Reign of the Last Caesar
I don’t remember much about the actual writing of “The Reign of the Last
Caesar,” except that it happened quickly, over the course of a couple nights. I felt that
the story could have been longer and I would have liked to expand it, though when I
turned it in I found out it was twice as long as it was required to be: I thought the
requirement was a minimum of ten pages, and it was. But double spaced, not single
spaced as I had written.
Basically “Caesar” was my attempt to sledgehammer home a very simple moral,
but I don’t exactly remember what that was. I think it had to do with the inherent danger
in pursuing personal power at the expense of others. It also had to do with what I saw as
a vicious cycle in society: those that are mocked, stepped on, and oppressed all too often
come to believe that they really are inferior and go on to try to become like their
tormentors, venting their rage at anyone—or thing—weaker than they are. This
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transgression usually goes unpunished and the cycle continues, but I wanted to portray a
worst-case scenario.
In high school I was really into John Steinbeck, especially the early novels that
most people think are oversimplified, or preachy, or too political. I liked the simple,
moral stories, which highlighted different aspects of Steinbeck’s socialist political ideals.
At the time, these black-and-white portraits appealed to my own fledgling political
consciousness and the view I had of the world around me.
I was influenced by the music I was listening to as well. It was a lot of grindcore
and “power violence” hardcore. This is music characterized by sheer brutality and speed.
The record sleeves would always have the same aesthetic—stark black-and-white, just
like the moral message the music preached: the government is evil, religion is evil, cops
are sadists and bullies, all authority is bad, the force of resistance is always good, and
above all that power corrupts. I’m sure this message affected mine, as their brief and
devastating songwriting affected my writing style.
One band in particular called “Man is the Bastard” was especially influential on
me with their messages. Most of their songs dwelt on similar themes. “Idjit Child” was
one about parents who project their self-hate on their children; the song ended with a call
for the “idjit child” thereby created to “rise above.” Another song called “Tyke” was
based on a true story of an abused and neglected circus elephant who ran amok and killed
his masters. These secular, moral messages resonated with me.
I decided to write a kind of “gangsta” story so that it would be widely accessible.
I knew it would be available to be read by all the English classes in the grade, so I wanted
to make something that would get the attention of even the street-minded kids who might
not usually care about literature.
My family lived in what passed for the “bad” neighborhood of Media, and there
were a lot of wannabe thugs and smalltime drug dealers there. At the time, some
cartoonish rappers like DMX had made having vicious Pit Bulls as pets popular. Some of
the kids in the neighborhood had gotten them to show that they were hard. I latched onto
that as a good symbol.
I was also seeing the usual high-school transformations and changes in the kids
around me. Uncool kids were becoming cool, popular kids were falling out of favor,
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awkward nerdy girls were becoming pretty and sought-after. Some of my friends were
making money by selling drugs, making connections in Philly, getting reputations. I was
fascinated by how quickly people can change, and how easy it is to forget your old self in
order to live up to that new persona.
Around this time there was a shocking story about dog-fighting rings in
Philadelphia printed in The Philadelphia Inquirer. This article laid out the way in which
these dogs, primarily Pit Bulls, were bred and sold secretly and trained with brutal tactics.
I used some of these training techniques—the weights and the beatings and prodding—in
the story, but others, like mixing gun powder in with the dog’s food to make it hateful, I
left out because they seemed to too cruel to be real. There were also occasional scaretactic stories in the press about “killer” Pit Bulls that mauled babies and children, though
I don't think I ever heard of anyone being killed by one.
I sat down and wrote the story pretty quickly and then reworked it over the next
few weeks. The dialogue came pretty naturally, as did the “cinematic” point-of-view. I
think I was trying to rip off J.D. Salinger’s style. The way everything is described like
it’s on a screen, and the camera pans and zooms and cuts to different scenes is an
imitation of the prose he used in some of his short fiction.
The setting of Long Beach, which I’ve never been to, was stitched together from
gangsta movies like Boys N the Hood, Menace II Society, as well as a documentary I saw
on the band Sublime, Lowrider, car magazines, and the music and videos from gangsta
rap artists like N.W.A. Some of the scenes in the story were directly inspired by images
from videos like “Ain’t Nuthin but a G Thang” by Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg.
I had to write the shocking “twist” ending because those were always the short
stories I loved the most—the devastating ending that makes you rethink everything that
came before. “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” by J.D. Salinger is still one of my
favorites.
On reading the story now, I guess I can’t fault it for being bleak or mean-spirited,
because that was my own choice and I suppose that’s what I wanted to say at the time. I
think that we had spoken about expanding the second half of the story, to better illustrate
how Miguel’s life had changed and how having a Pit Bull was somehow tied into all that.
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I never got around to writing those new scenes, and on this reading I feel like the story
needs it.
My worry is that people will read it as a simple “being-involved-with-drugs-andgangs-is-dangerous” type story. That was not my intention at all. I think if you don’t try
to read into it, the story might come off as an after-school special. If there was some
social problem I was addressing it wasn’t “gangsta” culture, but plain old abuse and
neglect, especially that of animals.
Aside from a few cringe-worthy lines, I still like the story, though I guess if I
featured it in an anthology I’d put it next to something a little more lighthearted.
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Teacher Reflection
Pop Culture and the News as Inspiration in Emerson Breneman’s
The Reign of the Last Caesar
It might take more than imagination, but empathy—and sometimes a little
research—to write a story about a character living in circumstances that are utterly
foreign, not to mention upsetting, to the author.
Emerson Breneman creates an utterly convincing protagonist in Miguel, a
thoroughly likeable and sympathetic character, who, charmingly, is a victim of his own
physical slightness—nothing he can help, of course. Even after Miguel buys a Pit Bull
and puts on some muscle, he’s still no big shot—in fact, he’s still the butt of ridicule, and
we sympathize with his struggle. From the story’s opening details Emerson creates a
sense of freedom and unpredictability that is both exhilarating and unnerving, at least to
the reader who isn’t familiar with such a setting, let alone with young boys like Miguel,
who talks openly—even with his father—about doing drugs, fending for oneself, and
getting women; his world is alive with energy, and the dog tearing at meat in the back
yard isn’t shocking to Miguel’s family, only to the squeamish reader. That’s why it’s all
the more shocking when it’s the sister, not leftover steak, being mauled in the end.
This final twist seems beyond reality—“too cruel to be real,” to quote Emerson,
who, in his reflection, admits to avoiding some other “real-life” detail for this very
reason. But one need only read the newspapers or watch the nightly news to be reminded
that “these things happen.” The reader need not open his mind to the possibilities of
fiction in order to be convinced of such a story, but rather to open his mind to the
actualities of reality.
Emerson could have softened the blow of the shocking ending, by
foreshadowing—or even spelling out—if not the sister’s doom, specifically, then at least
some dreadful turn of events. But the truth is that there are clues; after all, this was a dog
bred for fighting, a dog that should have been sold by a seller with a license. More
important, the jolting finale better reflects reality and, as such, is more true. In the “real
world” the story’s ending would inspire the beginning of the news story—perhaps with
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the headline, “Girl Mauled by Pit Bull,” and the facts would follow. In fiction—at least
in Emerson’s story—the author takes us behind—or before—the shocking “headline” and
gives life to the story.
As in many of T.C. Boyle’s short stories—one is called “The Love of My Life,”
whose basic plot calls to mind the real-life news story of a teenage couple who disposed
of their newborn baby in a garbage dump—what seems amazing often reflects popular
culture and current events. Of course, whether inspiration comes from real-world
observation, from personal experience, or from the outer reaches of one’s imagination,
the writer must make it his job to make the fictional story feel true. These authors create
not only convincing stories—out of seemingly outrageous or unspeakable acts—but even
likeable, empathetic characters—out of people we might otherwise assume, too
conveniently, to be plain psychotic or evil—that is, if we only got the story from the
news.
Exercise
Scan newspaper headlines for stories that seem so horrible, upsetting, or outrageous that
the stories seem hard to believe— “too cruel to be real,” too outrageous even for fiction.
Reserve your judgment, and write a short story—or even just a character sketch—in
which you empathize with—seeking to understand—the main character, for whom,
ordinarily, you might not be able to summon patience, let alone compassion.
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Have-Nots Like Us
Joshua Jordan 2000
I can’t say why, exactly, but I wanted to erase my foster parents. I’d lead them
into a field of high grass or something and watch them wander right off a cliff. And I
wouldn’t miss them. But then I realize they’ve never really done anything to me. They
just kinda, well, annoy me. Them and their “ideals,” the way everything has to be
backwards. They’re not mean or anything. In fact, they’re pretty nice to me—I can’t
imagine anyone’s parents ever being more lenient to their kids than mine. I can’t imagine
what their parents were like, or imagine they even had parents for that matter. I say this
because I think about this a lot—in a world where it’s a wonder that I give half a damn
about anything.
My real parents used to take us out to the gas station on 252 to get our tree at
Christmas. I remember walking around the rows of trees, all leaning up against each
other, still with bunches of ice in the middle, holding the thick limbs to the trunk. My kid
brother, Ben, would be running around, shaking them and getting ice all down his neck;
he’d start crying and I’d laugh at him. Anyway, we’d get the biggest, bushiest doug-fir
and have them stick it in that great big machine that wrapped it up. I’d always tell Ben
he’s next in the tree wrapper and he’d start crying again. Mom would yell at me and dad
would laugh. We strapped that big green shrub of ours to the top of our electric blue ‘90
Subaru that my old man had taken the liberty of souping up himself, with some shiny
rims and a big ol’ spoiler. He spent an entire summer once grinding the cylinders,
polishing ports, and carefully reassembling the engine. He thinks it went faster because
of that. If it did or didn’t, it was his claim to fame. Anyway, there we are, tearing over
the reservoir on 252 in our electric-blue suburbia terror, nine-foot doug-fir on top,
blasting Elton John. This is freedom. Chrome-wheeled, fuel-injected freedom.
Now Bob and Joan take us out a million miles into nowhere, PA, with a hacksaw
and some thick-ass gloves that still do nothing for your hands. We scour around like
freakin’ lunatics looking for the always-inconspicuous trophy of our hunt, which usually
turns out to be some scraggly, shameful little wretch of a tree. Meanwhile, you’re
fighting the battle of your life against frostbite while Bob keeps yelling, “Now! Ain’t this
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livin’?” Benny and I used to go sledding in the quarry in our old hometown. This
monument of man-made fun, every kid and his mom was there on a toboggan taking the
“suicide splurge” over near the granite cliffs. Nowadays, we got the “backwoods
delight,” where if you don’t get lost in the forest, you freeze your ass off and die. Ain’t
this livin’?
I hate living in the woods. Well, it ain’t exactly deep forest, but it might as well
be. For the ten neighbors we might have had in this zip code (if they even deliver mail
here), only one of them’s my age. We don’t have TV. We don’t have a computer. I
have to steal a newspaper from school to find out what’s going on in this damn country.
One advantage—I’m seventeen and have been driving for over five years now on my
own; like I said, if my foster parents are anything, it’s lenient—or just don’t care at all.
But they talk a lot, especially at dinnertime, about this crazy stuff like political freedom
and why God might not exist. They always agree with each other, but it always seems
like they argue, so then I take a side and then things go crazy. They can’t seem to deal
with the fact that, yes, I think there is a God (and, no, not because my parents dragged me
to church every week), and that I’m satisfied with the way the country is run and the way
people live. All they wanna do is up and “run away” from whatever it is they think is
driving this world down the tubes. They wanna fly away and settle down in some big ol’
house in the woods, with no TV and no computer, and chop their damn tree down in
nowhere, PA, and take us sledding down freeze-your-ass-off-mountain. And look where
it got them. Look where it got me. This ain’t living. This is bullshit.
My foster parents are all about attaching meaning to everything I say and do.
Maybe that’s what makes me want them out of the picture. They catch me this one time
with an eighth and this piece I made from blown glass—and instead of the furious
lecture, I get this explanation from Joan of why she completely understands. The “desire
to escape” and all this shit. She says she went through the same thing. Sure…went
through. I do it because it’s something to do. Same reason I go hit pinecones at the
house with a bat or see how long it takes spit to fall off the quarry cliffs. I’m just bored
as all hell, that’s all.
I’m really starting to like Ben a lot. He used to be a pain in my ass, but he’s
learning to take advantage of Bob and Joan. I guess it’s because he was four when they
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took us in. What I’m liking is the way he’s taking after me and saying stuff that I’d
normally say. Get this—he’s got the flu the other week and she’s all pampering to his
every need. Yeah, you know, maybe they can still keep lil’ Benny the model flower
child. Anyway, he was almost better and still bossing her around. The damn kid milked
a common cold for a week.
She leaves the room and he’s all, “Yeah, know your place.” I looked at that boy
and laughed my ass off for about ten minutes. We both did. What a riot. The kid’s
learning well. He knows he can use them for just about anything he wants. Well, except
anything invented in the last fifty years. I overheard my fosters talking about us the other
day—if there’s an advantage to this old house, it’s the way you can hear stuff through the
vents.
She says, “Hun, what is it with Tyler? I don’t know if he takes in a word we’ve
said in the past six years.”
And Bob, the Freudian wonder, says, “Well, the boy had an obvious connection to
his parents, especially his mother.”
“Yeah, but it’s like he started growing up way too fast when he started over.”
Leave it to Joan to say something like that
“Well, what do you think we can do, or should do?”
“I guess nothing. It’s just… I don’t know. I’d like to see Benjamin turn out
different than his brother. I mean, I do think he’s on his way.”
Shows how much they know. It really surprised me they actually cared this
much.
“You don’t think he’s into drugs, too, do you?” Bob said.
“Now, dear, he’s ten years old.”
“Well, I guess he can tell right from wrong.”
That sparked Joan’s attention. What a damn idiot.
So then she goes off, asking, “Who are we to tell him right from wrong?”
You complete human wasteland. You are everyone to tell him that.
Bob concedes, “Well you’re right. We can show him the door…”
“…but not open it,” she finishes for him.
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This conversation pissed the hell outta me. I don’t really give a rat’s ass what
they have to say about me. It kinda bothered me they’d let my kid brother smoke pot. It
was like they’re taking the wheel of our old Subaru, like we’re going right past the gas
station on 252 out into the woods. It pissed me off that they had actually thought about
this stuff. And what pissed me off the most is how Benny was turning out like some
damn science experiment of these washed-out hippies.
So I do have people I talk to back in the real world. My friend Jesse lives in my
old town and we talk every once in a blue moon. He tells me about his car and this
computer, the “new-fangled” things I’d kill to get my earth-worn hands on. With 600
MHz processors and 2.8-liter straight-six engines, and a shit-toad of other “worldly”
wonders. And I’m so damn Jealous. I tell him about what? Evergreen? Hey, Jesse, I
saw eight squirrels yesterday! Bullshit. I have nothing. I remember Jesse has this
concrete drain chute running through his back yard that drains the whole neighborhood’s
runoff water. So every time we get some rain, the chute becomes this raging torrent that
we used to play in. One time, Jesse, probably nine at the time, stuck his arm in and got
sucked down the chute, laughing his ass off the whole way. I was worried at first, but
then I was half tempted to do it myself, seeing how much fun this kid was having. He
made his way out the creek it dumped into about a hundred yards or so down, knees
bloody and all, laughing with hysterical excitement, half in shock and pain, half in joy.
That’s what life is all about—when you’re having too much fun to notice the blood
drizzling from your scraped-up knees. I haven’t so much as broken a single bone since
I’ve been out in the boonies. I’m wasting the damn best years of my life.
Well, I haven’t been totally honest so far. There’s a reason I wanted to stay. And
of course, it’s a girl. I mean, they’re already 99% of the problem. Sure, I’ll probably
sound like every other sad sap in the world saying that I’m never gonna find anyone like
her again…but I’m not. Her family’s real rich and moved about five miles away from
me, in this development, in some wildly conspicuous mowed-down square of former
forest. See, that’s where I wanna live. Some artificial villa of former rain-forest that’s
becoming a bustling suburb of some high-tech new city, where the moon looks pink from
all the pollution we’re putting out, powering our coin sorters and Cuisinarts. Well, this
girl lived in a white house with white walls and had a white dog. She’s two years
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younger than me, and drop-dead gorgeous, in this weird cute way. She had a cute little
foul mouth, like she felt all big using the nasty ol’ “F-word.” We’d watch movies at her
house and play some lame-ass video games and all the things I missed dearly from the
real world. She probably thinks I fell in love with her. There was something in the way
she talked, acted, complained, about everything. I wanted to change the world so it
didn’t hurt her anymore, even though it probably didn’t even hurt her at all. I didn’t need
her to love me. I didn’t need to love her. I just needed her to keep me from going
completely crazy. That’s just what she did. C’mon, she was my best friend and that’s
just what I needed her to be. And it was all my fault. My entire damn fault. For the
longest time, I blamed her for everything, how we were best friends and gradually faded
until I couldn’t even bring myself to try to win her over anymore. So, then, I kept telling
myself, well, don’t be mad, think how good it’ll feel to forgive her. It didn’t feel good. It
was like the worst thing I’ve ever felt. Walking away from her was the hardest thing I’ve
ever done.
But, whatever, you move on. Well, until life throws you an awkward curve, at
least. Turns out I didn’t have to get rid of my fosters. I was taking Ben home from
school one day and instead of the formidable fortress of limestone and wood, it’s an even
more imposing tower of flame and thick white smoke. That’s the first time I’ve ever
been in complete awe—before this cliff of fire. Benny lost his shit and started screaming
his little head off, “My stuff! My stuff.” I don’t know what the hell he was talking about;
all we got are some clothes and books. He kept trying to get near the house, and I
watched his little body drop to its back, overcome by thick waves of white heat. I
squinted my eyes, my head throbbing with bright pain and flames.
I dropped to my knees and cried. Now do not take this in stride, for I did not cry
when my parents died six years ago. But I cried now, not for my clothes or books, but for
some weird reason I imagined my real parents being in that house. That I’d finally been
there when they died, the exact moment my life turned into the dead-end quest for
nothing. There were times I truly hated them for dying. I thought of my parents; I
thought of my little brother and the girl down the street. Just as though I were under a
blanket that didn’t reach my toes, I curled up into a ball on the grass. I waited for either
some sign from God or just Mother Earth to swallow me right there.
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As for my fosters, something tells me they weren’t in the house when it went up.
Maybe they’d caught on to us, me and Ben, who we were gonna be. Maybe they’re on
their way to freakin’ Canada, to get even farther away from the hustle and bustle of the
world that disgusts them so much. All I know is they didn’t die that day. I don’t know
how I know it, probably the same way I know God is up there on some cloud, laughing
his ass off at all this.
Things are looking a lot different to me now. I feel like maybe Joan was right
when she was saying that stuff about me growing up all of a sudden. It’s like, I feel like
I’m back in the past, but as a different person. I get this same feeling all the time
anymore. It’s nothing in particular, just something like that feeling you get breathing
through your nose on a real cold day. Reminds you of last winter, right? Well, that’s it.
Everything that happens reminds me of the last time it happened. We were leaving the
other day, me behind the wheel of the ‘78 Jeep Wrangler Bob must have found under
some rock somewhere, Ben asleep next to me, following the police into town. It was sort
of ironic that every time I wanted to go anywhere around here I had to pass the girl’s
house twice—going out and coming back. So we passed her house for the millionth
time—but for the first time probably ever, I didn’t look over. Didn’t even occur to me till
about ten more miles down the road.
Anyway, I got plans now for me and Ben. I see us finding our way back to our
hometown. I wanna get a computer and a cable TV, tons of loud electronic equipment,
enough inane gizmos that I’m only gonna have to get off my lazy ass twice a day. I’ve
quit smoking—not really a decision, but I just got more stuff to do now. Ben and I have
always been a work-in-progress, and I have this feeling we won’t have too much trouble
getting off the ground here. I love my brother as much as I ever loved anything, so I’m
not letting it happen any other way. I mean, the system has the greatest remorse for havenots like us.
For the first time in six years, I’m starting to notice how clear the sky is at night
out here, and how many stars there really are out there. It’s a wonder how many things
you miss when you’re too distracted. I’m sure ol’ Bob and Joan would be proud of me,
all making it on my own, looking after my kid brother. But, they’re long gone—they’re
as lost as their cause. I’ve been right here knee-deep in it since day one. Sometimes I
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have to step back and relax for a minute, because these days I feel like I’m seeing
everything I missed all at once. So right here and now we got a ‘78 Wrangler, some cash
in hand, and the sky’s the limit.
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JOSHUA JORDAN
My drawings and prose first appeared on café napkins and collection envelopes in
Catholic churches in the late 1980s. I have since been a nomadic public school student,
and a writer—for hire, in spirit, and by addiction, receiving scattered and polarized praise
from the professional, religious, and academic communities on much of the eastern U.S.
coast. I am enrolled in colleges every other year; I am currently a high school track
coach in the afternoons and truck driver and fix-it man for a glass company in the
mornings. I live in central Philadelphia with three friends from high school and a cat. I
drive a 1990 Subaru.
Reflection on Have-Nots Like Us
I wrote “Have-Nots Like Us” in the spring of 2000—for ten hours, all at once,
with a high fever. It was the first honest, non-sarcastic thing I ever wrote. I would not
feel the desire (or, really, even learn how) to read or write honestly and non-sarcastically
until at least a full year later; still, my high school set and setting are important when I
consider why and how I write what I write today.
I was seventeen and had just begun to realize how optional going to school, or
doing anything, really was. I hated reading—I skimmed maybe half of the literature
assigned in school and read almost nothing else apart from brightly illustrated books on
modern physics, Matt Groening’s comic collections, and a page here and there from
uplifting New Age booklets my mother had bought on impulse at Borders and piled next
to our toilet. The day I spent writing this story was fueled by a specific, precious
presence of mind and heart that had been buried since I was about six years old.
This story is probably three separate autobiographical and biographical memories,
with names barely changed. There is a Jesse, and he still lives in Media, PA. There is a
girl that lived in a mowed-down forest square, and I was very upset over her. Her name
was Alexa. I was driven and eager to write like the ghost of Holden Caulfield, as I
imagine many resentful teenagers are—but I hadn’t even read The Catcher in the Rye,
only acted like I had, to be convincing in my cynicism in front of high school teachers.
My desire (or Tyler’s desire) for mental freedom was a caricature inspired by the popular
intellectual works of the Other Side of human experience, the side of thoughts I have
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since decided to call “more lucid” than others. I had recently been exposed to movies
like American Beauty and Fight Club, clanky and ethereal music from the Talking Heads
and the Beatles, the accessible literary edges of Existentialism, and many other things
that I decided were all knowledge-I-had-been-born-knowing. Now, as a twenty-three
year old, explaining my story—which was a tribute to my personal muses as much as it
was a real moment of joyful storytelling—I can’t claim to be any more accomplished at
explaining the importance of things I find important. I can claim, however, that, since
twelfth grade, making my poetic points less transparent has become my struggle
whenever I try to be a writer. Since high school I’ve cared enough about passing along
insight to get very concerned with my discipline and delivery, thinking that my goal
should be to illuminate the subtlety and nakedness of personal secrets and to classify the
smells of being in love, and so I’ve often been frustrated hard and heavy over how
fleeting and volatile the glimpses of that goal always are.
Have-Nots Like Us is filled with lifted song lyrics and someone else’s thoughts,
but the confidence written in it is what redeems it to me now. I think it’s amateur but
valuable, one of the more clear, direct discussions I’ve had internally about certain
struggles: to try to pass something on to your parents once they’ve decided that they’re
your parents; to discuss what does and doesn’t help when one struggles to love a boy or
girl romantically; to struggle for freedom and still admit the need for things; and to face
the frightening realization of one’s freedom and find decisive confidence in using it
wisely. These themes certainly don’t matter, even if they apply—I’ve thought about
them all since then (in different contexts), but I wrote about them most successfully when
I had no agenda, and in that specific twelfth-grade moment, I was wholly ignorant to
themes, or even to the actual story I might have been telling.
One year later, I was unwelcome at home, unwelcome at Penn State University,
and unwelcome at several drug stores from which I was chased by police for shoplifting
cough syrup. I read Kerouac, Burroughs, Ginsberg, Kesey, Blake, and I lived in a
hammock by a lake on a lost little piece of land in suburban Philly. I learned a lot from
those few writers, how to capture in prose the urge to make love or the urge to throw up,
how silly even the smartest Buddhas are, and the value of pseudonyms in writing one’s
own non-fiction. I also lived in Vermont, Japan, hitchhiked through California with
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enough money to make the trip on my own, all the while writing in small notebooks. I
wrote volumes, a life’s worth, up all night on Benzedrine, Dexedrine, Methyl-this-or-that,
just like my heroes—proclaiming the sudden completeness and heartbreaking happiness
of normal people and normal life, and I eventually had a full manifesto for the fall and
rise of the human experiment. My writing was my behavior: lustful, loving, erratic,
schizophrenic, serendipitous, and arrogant. Many quasi-friends I lost, from singing too
loudly at night, or from telling their parents how much they could be better parents, but
with a few friends I became permanently paired—and together in Portland, Vancouver,
Tokyo, New York City, we are still integrating, writing, studying the sciences, getting
resourceful, and scraping the bottom of the river we found as writers in 2001.
A friend told me: in order to live in a world filled with people, one must project
outwards the parts of people she truly admires. I think that in order to write for a world
filled with people, one must do almost exactly the same—but, in writing, one has the
freedom to be self-conscious, bitter, horny, amnesic, dirty, paranoid, or just lost and
miserable; what’s more, one can learn to love people for being equally pitiful when he’s
not writing. I have no explanation for why I have found this sort of empathy most in
writing, rather than through sex or drugs or family vacations; writing always connects,
and that's why I write when I write rather than do something else. Writing is the only
absolute way I’ve found to speak with any single person and be able to say “this fellow is
one of my lot,” no matter how much I might (in weaker moments, of much less calm and
human clarity) stay away from potheads, republicans, or college students.
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Teacher Reflection
The Sympathetic Rant in Joshua Jordan’s Have-Nots Like Us
Nobody wants to listen to someone whining and complaining all the time; and yet
Holden Caulfield, the narrator of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, is a complainer
of the first order, as well as one of our most beloved literary characters—and most
imitated, as Josh Jordan confesses. Why do we love Holden, and even seek to imitate his
voice, in spite of his disagreeable disposition? One reason may be that for all of his
complaining—not to mention hypocrisy—he is, perhaps unwittingly, funny, as he points
out the shortcomings of those around him. He is also a romantic, who fantasizes about
living simply, away from the cruelty of modern life—or away from the lifestyle
embodied in the adults surrounding him; he goes to great lengths to preserve and hold on
to innocent, beautiful things—and people—as they are. We recognize his fantasies as the
mark of immaturity even as we root for him, not for him to achieve his fantasies, but to
survive reality once he accepts it.
Like Holden Caulfield, Josh Jordan’s protagonist, Tyler, rails against phonies,
many of whom are adults, and, in effect, cries out for more “conservative values”—not
what we’d expect from the typical “angry young man,” a dismissive label too easily
attached to the Holden Caulfields (and Tylers) of the world. These boys aren’t avoiding
their parents because they want to live recklessly, without supervision; quite to the
contrary: they’re avoiding their parents—and adults in general—because, in their eyes,
their parents are living recklessly and failing to provide the necessary supervision for
their children. Driving this point home in “Have-Nots Like Us” is the wonderfully ironic
twist when it is the stepparents who run away from the kids, not the kids from their
parents.
“Have-Nots Like Us” is funny, in a dark way, just as The Catcher in the Rye is—
even if their narrators don’t intend to be funny, even if we aren’t laughing out loud. In a
way, the narrative approach of both Salinger’s oft-imitated novel and Josh’s story, is a
rant—or a story in the form of a rant; not coincidentally, the approach of standup
comedians is often a rant—that is, they complain about the failures of society in such a
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way that draws us into their worldview. Often our laughter depends on a familiarity with
the subject matter. A comedian can earn the audience’s sympathy merely by asking,
“Have you ever noticed…?” winning nods of approval, and even laughter, before coming
out with the punch line. If we shake our heads no—we haven’t ever noticed…—we
probably won’t laugh, no matter what punch line follows. The truth is that listening to a
complainer can be a joy, especially when the complainer has a vision of the world that we
identify with—and it’s all the more a joy when the complainer makes us laugh, whether
he intends to be funny or not.
Exercise
Write a short story—or a monologue—in the form of a rant, from the point of view of a
character whose worldview is complicated yet sympathetic. Give him a specific
complaint, rooted in a personal experience that inspires the telling of the story.
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Primal Scream Therapy
Laurie Beth Rines 2000
I used to talk the way everyone wanted me to.
They would say, “Mari, hey, how’re you doing?”
I would smile my saccharine-sweet smile and I would reply, “I’m doing really
well,” “Pretty good,” “I’m hanging in there,” “Good, and yourself?”
I wouldn’t say what I was really feeling. I would answer, they would answer,
we’d pretend like we just shared a moment or something, when really we were just
repeating verbatim the litany we had been taught off of television.
One of the days before I ended up here, I started being honest.
“I’m lonely as hell,” “Oh, I stopped sleeping. I just stare at the walls now.”
And they would stop and smile, their equilibrium disrupted, and go on their way.
I would see one lean over to the other and hiss, “Man, she’s cracking.”
“Can you blame her? I’d be fucked up too.”
*
Marjorie, this other girl in here, is recovering from a coke habit that she inherited
off of her mother. Daddy got her a Volvo instead of a BMW. She’s one of those
annoying pristine types who took a linguistics class once and feels the need to always
correct your fucking grammar when you’re talking to her.
“Actually, it’s not pronounced sherbert. It’s just sherbet. There’s no extra “r.”
People just throw it in there.”
I listen to her preach to me about how English is being corrupted and changed,
and I want to scream at her as loud as I can: “It’s evolution, you stupid bitch, why are
you fucking with evolution!”
But I don’t.
Recovering junkies are fairly lethargic in comparison to recovering coke fiends.
This place is a fairly crunchy sort of place. My grandmother didn’t want me to go
to some bullshit detox where they would get me off of heroin by hooking me up to
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methadone, creating an even nastier habit. I had two weeks in almost solitary while the
junk was cleaned out of my body. The nurses would come into my narrow little cell and
hand me little brown herbal pills and then leave me. I was allowed one five-minute
phone call a day. I was allowed one visitor a day. Not that I did either of those things in
the first few days of cold turkey. I mostly foamed at the mouth.
Now I’m here. In group therapy with all my fellow fuck-ups. The recovering
addicts. The anorexics and bulimics, all together to examine our problems. Most of us
are trying to recover from the fact that we won’t ever reach perfection. That it’s all
fucking bullshit. That I can take speed so that I’ll never have to sleep again but I’ll still
never get all my shit done. That I cannot eat for three years and I’ll still look like a short,
Irish Catholic girl who doesn’t get enough sun.
Most of the girls sit around between group therapy sessions and have giant pissing
contests about whose daddy is richer and whose summer cottage has more bathrooms. I
mostly keep to myself. I could buy and sell each of them eleven times over but I keep
silent.
“I hear you were a junkie,” one nondescript blonde said to me once. “Do you
have AIDS?”
“Unfortunately, no,” is usually my response to this question.
*
One of the great things they have here is this exercise that I can only compare to
those primal scream therapies that John Lennon was into in the seventies. When it’s your
turn you choose girls from the group to stand up and play characters from your life. And
they just stand there while you say to them everything you were always too chicken-shit
to say to your real family. This one girl, Jessica, chooses me to be her mother.
“You stood there! You stood there while he did that to me…”
That’s another standard line.
Most people hate their mothers.
I hate my father. My mother is dead.
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*
When I was little I used to imagine that I was just a figment of my twin sister
Julia’s imagination. I had the bottom bunk of one of those red metal bunk bed sets and I
would lie awake and listen to her breathe while I wondered if I was really real at all. She
just invented me one day because she was bored of being an only child. It was a
comforting thought to a four-year-old who had just been introduced to the concept of
death.
If I weren’t real then I would never die. Ideas don’t die, people do.
Then Julia died.
*
“How are you doing, dear?” My grandmother kisses me on the cheek and hands
me daisies, thirteen daisies, wrapped in clear cellophane spruced up with sprigs of baby’s
breath. I’m sitting Indian-style in a pair of plaid pajama pants and an old Gin Blossoms
T-shirt in a red vinyl armchair. She keeps staring at the red track marks scabbed over on
my arms. The nurse told me they were going to scar. At the time I didn’t care. Now that
I see my grandmother staring at them the way she is, I’m terrified.
“I’m not sleeping very well. It’s noisy here. My stomach hurts.” That’s the
thing. In here they teach you to be assertive. When people ask a question from here on
in, they’re getting a fucking honest answer.
“Your older brother, Bryan, is flying in in two weeks to come visit you.”
“That’s cool.”
My older brother is twenty-nine. He’s the by-product of my immigrant father’s
wild teen years. Julia and I were byproducts of his yuppie Miami Vice years. I see
Bryan about once a year. He lives in Ireland. It’s bizarre to have someone so closely
related to you speak so differently.
“I saw Penny Hunter today at the florist, she was asking about you.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“I told her you were on the road to recovery.”
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I have to smile at that.
It’s next to impossible to communicate with my grandmother, a woman who spent
her life on the outskirts of Syracuse, a woman who hasn’t experienced in sixty-two years
what I’ve experienced in sixteen. She’s telling me about how she saw the greatest old
movie on Turner Classics last night and I want to scream at her that the only movies I
saw in the past two years were watched off of a stolen TV and VCR. That I don’t give a
fuck about Katherine Hepbum or Gary Grant or what a sin it is that River Phoenix died so
young.
I held my fourteen-year-old sister’s head while she died.
That’s a sin. It’s a sin when someone you love dies, not when a fucking movie
star dies.
My grandmother keeps talking, and I start to cry.
“Marianna, Marianna, oh, baby…shhh…”
Next thing I know I’m a wet shaking mess in her arms while she hums that song
she used to sing to me whenever I cried when I was younger.
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word…”
That’s all I really wanted. For her to shut her mouth and really take care of me.
People keep talking at me, but no one is listening.
*
It’s my sixth Tuesday in this place and now it’s my turn for primal scream. I
choose this red-haired girl, Sophie, to be my sister. Sarah is my father, Rebecca my
mother, Marjorie is Bryan. They stand there, completely emotionless and motionless
while I scream. I get inches from their faces and scream that they never loved me, if they
cared they would never have left me. That I’m a junkie because of them. That I’m an
alcoholic because of them. That I’m destined to a lifetime of AA and NA meetings
because of their negligence.
They tell me I have a fear of abandonment and a tendency to project my problems
onto others.
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I tell them I already know that. They sent me here for a cure, not for redundant
diagnosis.
That’s probably the one thing I truly hate about this place with its pink linoleum
floors and white walls with Mary Cassat prints. The fucking psychobabble. This, this
primal scream stuff, this is what they should devote all of their time to.
But when it’s over and I’m crying on the floor and everyone else is either
watching horrified or standing in their stoic poses, all I can think about is how nice it
would be to shoot up and pretend like this was all a bad dream or something.
*
It’s my eighth Wednesday here. The flowers from my grandmother are dying.
The nurse told me that I should hang them upside down in front of my window so they’ll
dry out. Then I’ll be able to keep them around.
I tell her I have enough corpses following me around without adding daisies to the
roster. She smiles and tells me that if I dry them out they’ll be fragrant and beautiful for
years.
The flowers are dying in the vase when I leave my room to catch a smoke in the
smoking lounge before my afternoon private conference with my shrink. The one
addiction that’s allowed in here. Everyone crowds into the little smoking room with its
Goodwill sofas and black-and-white television set. They try to make the smoking room
as unappealing as possible to keep people from really wanting to go inside. But they
don’t outlaw smoking on the premises. That would be downright inhumane.
I’m expecting to be alone in the smoking room since most of the other girls are
either in group sessions or at visiting hours with their families. But there is a single girl
there, smoking on the green plaid lazyboy with the stuffing coming out of the side.
She nods at me and smiles hello.
I nod and smile back.
I know her. She’s usually in my group, but every other night she’s with the
anorexics. I was here two days when she came in looking like the walking dead like most
of us do.
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Geraldine Grace. Ginny for short, she told us, and as she spoke at the first few
meetings where she confessed a two-and-a-half-year-long speed habit that inspired her to
start a six-month-long cocaine habit. Her mother had no idea until her chronic
nosebleeds got out of control.
Ginny was little more than a skeleton when she came in. I’d say she’s put on
about ten pounds since she’s been here.
She is puffing on Newports with her knees pulled to her chest.
“What’s up?”
“Didn’t have any visitors today.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
Ginny is one of those types that whenever they talk to you you’re shocked to see
that they’re actually paying attention to you. She stares right into your eyes with genuine
concern and the next time you see her she’s asking about how you’re doing, remembering
things you barely even remember telling her.
Today she’s staring at me with eyes that have a new emotion behind them.
I light one of my Marlboros.
She’s still staring.
“Pretty intense the other night at group.”
My lips part in surprise. She’s talking about Primal Scream. No one’s supposed
to talk about Primal Scream.
She’s breaking the rules.
“I know I’m not supposed to talk about it. I just think that’s just such a bullshit
rule, you know? I think that we all should just be able to talk about these things. It just
seems bogus to let it all explode out of you without ever talking about it again.”
I take a drag and stare at the blank television screen. I don’t want another
psychiatrist.
“That’s just what I think anyway.”
I look at Ginny, so self-assured in her little yellow tank top that reveals her
protruded shoulder blades, so willing to talk to a perfect stranger, just to avoid silence.
“You know what I hate about this place?” I ask her.
“Huh?”
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“People always feel the need to talk so fucking much.”
It’s a direct shot at her and she sees it as such. She raises an eyebrow at me. “I
have to say, I think that’s bullshit, Marianna Doyle.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Suddenly, I’m liking this whole assertive crap a whole lot less.
“It seems to me you’re afraid of talking,” she says.
I’m almost done my cigarette.
“You see, you come here, you pull this whole crap in group whenever anyone
talks to you about how worthless it is to communicate. You completely shut yourself off
from everyone in here and then you explode like you did the other night at role play.”
I have no idea why she’s saying all this. Why she seems so angry and hurt when
really I’ve barely said more than three words in a row to her.
“Like the other night when Karen asked you if you were HIV positive. Granted,
it was a rude question—”
“It was a fucking rude question.”
“I’m not denying that! But you’re in the habit of giving these cryptic answers and
then getting all bent out of shape when people don’t understand you!”
“So, what, you spend a few weeks in therapy and you feel like you’re qualified to
analyze me?”
I long for five minutes ago when all I was thinking about was my cigarette.
“No.”
There is a silence for a moment and I’m thankful for it as I take the final drag off
my cigarette.
She’s still staring at me with that look that I can’t diagnose.
“How did your sister die?”
Again, I’m startled by her tactlessness. I stare at her.
“You seem guilty, you know? Not that I’m not,” she said. “I mean, we’re all
carrying guilt around.”
“What are you guilty for?”
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“Just the hell that I’ve put my family through with all of this. The fact that I
probably fucked up my younger brothers and sisters royally from watching how
dysfunctional I am.”
“Huh.”
I reach for another cigarette. I don’t normally smoke two in a row, but seeing as
I’m being roped into conversation, I’m thinking that another cigarette could be my ally.
“And we’re all angry too.”
My eyes are burning. I’ve been crying so much lately. They keep telling me that
it’s okay to cry. I don’t cry for two years and in here I cry all day long. And this Ginny
chick keeps baiting me. I’m not about to fucking pour my heart out to someone who’s
just as screwed up as I am. But she’s waiting for an answer.
“Hit and run.”
“A car?”
“A Volkswagen.”
“Did you see it happen?”
“I was fighting with my dad. I was fucked-up. He started screaming at me. I told
him that I wanted to die, that I was going to kill myself. So I ran out of the house and
across the street. She ran after me.”
Impact. Suddenly it’s all too vivid in my memory. Her body twisted in the
middle of the road. The stunned face of the teenage driver who pauses for a minute, then
puts the car in reverse and drives around us. My sister’s blank eyes as she takes her final
shallow breaths.
I don’t know why I told her. I don’t even know why I’ve stayed this long.
Ginny says something about how sorry she is. I know she means it, but I can see
in her eyes as she puffs on her menthols that she’s trying to figure out exactly how she
wants to respond.
“Do you miss your sister?”
I don’t answer.
“When someone dies, it’s okay to keep talking about them. I mean…I’m not sure
exactly what I mean. It’s just…”
I consider slipping out of the room while she continues to stutter.
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“Everyone’s gonna die one day. You don’t have to be scared.”
I hate it when people act like they know me.
“This is just me,” she goes on. “You know, I’ve had tons of time to sit down here
and just think things through. And it’s like my entire life I’ve blamed the fact that I’m
obsessed with dieting on my mother because she stressed shit like boyfriends and pretty
dresses, and I said that the media did it to me. And I guess that’s all part of it, I mean, I
know it was. But, you know, I share some of that. I can’t blame it all off of me. I don’t
shoulder the blame. But I know that I’m the one who has to fix it.”
I stand up. “It’s been real, Ginny, but I’ve really got to be going to therapy.”
Neither of us says goodbye.
*
I was twelve when my mother killed herself. She was one of those eccentric,
free-spirited types who wore long floral-printed dresses and plastic flip-flops all year
long. I always knew she was a bit off kilter, but I loved her. She was my mother.
So there I was, twelve years old, thrust into the home of my father and his new
wife. The father who left us when Wall Street lost the glamour it once held for him.
That’s when I started drinking with the sixteen-year-old next door. That’s when I
would scream at him that he murdered my mother.
“Man, I wish you wouldn’t say that to Dad,” Julia would say to me as I lay face
down on the bathroom floor. She always defended him. She always defended me. I
often wondered how someone so mild could have shared the same womb with me.
“He’s an asshole,” I would respond. I would scream, I would stay out to all hours
of the night just to see his reaction, but I would never cry.
Then there was the time I didn’t come home for two days. The first time that I
ever shot-up. He was waiting for me when I got home. I wanted to hurt him; I wanted to
hurt myself.
But instead, I killed my sister.
Ginny is examining me with that fucking look again. I pick up an issue of Good
Housekeeping and sink farther down into my chair.
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And the next night, when I was sober and my father was towering over me, when
all I wanted to do was crawl into my sister’s bed and die, he screamed at me.
“Are you happy? Are you happy!” he kept screaming.
My stepmother was pulling on his shirt, begging him, “Gregory, please, please!”
And he hit me.
And I held my bleeding nose and I screamed back, that it was him, it was him, not
me, who started all of this. That I would have been more than happy to be with my
mother in Tarrytown, but he drove her to it by leaving her alone with no money, by
cutting her off from her old friends, by spreading lies. And he told me that my mother
had been a crazy whore, and that I was exactly like her. I kept screaming that he was a
killer, that he killed my mother and then my sister.
“As God as my witness, Marianna, I would give my own life to have seen you
taken away in that body bag rather than Julia.”
I left the next day.
And now, instead of thinking that I’ll be seeing my father in two days, I’m
thinking about what Ginny said, because she’s right fucking next to me, and she keeps
staring. And every time that she lifts an arm up too high, I can see her ribs sticking out of
her belly, and I know that she’s just like me.
*
I’m sitting on my bed in my little room staring at all the get-well cards that all the
people I used to know in Tarrytown were sending me. The daisies are brown, but I still
have them in the vase. I’m waiting for my brother and I’m nearly chewing my hand off
I’m so scared.
The nurse comes in with him behind her. He’s holding half a dozen pink roses.
More flowers. I don’t know why people keep buying me flowers. Don’t they know that
what I need is some permanence, that I’m sick of all the beautiful things in my life dying?
He’s wearing a brown rugby shirt and a pair of green cargo shorts with a Mets
cap, and for the first time in months I feel a genuine rush of happiness.
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I jump up and hug him. He looks exactly the same, and I can hardly believe he’s
on the threshold of thirty.
“Ah, Marianna, girl, I missed you!” He’s laughing in his Irish way that sends me
into near hysterical tears. “Baby, why are you crying?”
“Oh, God, I missed you!”
“Well, then, don’t cry! Let’s sit down and have a proper visit!”
He’s so at ease with himself as he settles across from me on a white wicker chair.
He asks me how I’m doing, and then listens to my stories with the same wide-eyed
sincerity of Ginny and Julia.
And I’m so blown away by his sincerity that before I know it I’m hysterical again.
He rubs my shoulder.
“Shhhh…” He’s looking at me as if trying to gauge my reaction to the next bit of
information. “Dad’s coming tomorrow.”
I nod. “I know.”
“He’s devastated about all of this, you know.”
I wipe my eyes that didn’t cry for two years and now can’t seem to get enough of
this once shameful practice.
“It’s okay to express your emotions,” all the nurses and counselors always tell me.
I wonder how Bryan can sit there defending our father, the man who abandoned
both of us and our mothers, the Christmas and Easter father.
“He can go fuck himself.”
“Shhh, don’t say things like that.”
He rubs my shoulders and talks gently about how Dad’s not such a bad guy.
“I mean, it’s amazing.”
I take the bait. “What’s amazing?”
“You and Dad are practically the same person.”
“We are not!”
“You are! Same temper, same talent, same way of speaking. It’s uncanny.
That’s probably why you can’t stand each other.”
I’m staring at my lap and he kneels on the floor and looks up at me so I can’t
ignore his eyes that are so full of sympathy and teasing anymore. He looks so much like
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my father. We all look the same. Julia, Bryan and I all had the same hair and eyes and
skin.
“Now, how about I put these roses in that vase, so they don’t dry out?”
I nod and he goes about taking the roses out from their clear cellophane and trying
to arrange them amidst the dead daisies.
“You should’ve been a florist, Bry.”
He stays for another half an hour before the nurse comes in and tells him that I
have to go to counseling so they can prep me for tomorrow’s therapy session with my
father. Bryan kisses me goodbye.
I’m staring at the flowers. The pink ones that I know will be dead in a week and
the white ones that are already dead. The nurse comes in and tells me how lucky I am to
have all of these beautiful flowers. I smile.
“Well, there you go. Now, Mari, I don’t think I have ever seen you do that
before!”
The flowers have filled my whole room with odor. The sun is shining onto my
bed with the starchy white sheets. But I’m detached from all of that and I’m thinking
about my father. About how Bryan says we’re exactly the same.
It’s all seeming a little clearer. Like how Ginny says we’re all angry and we’re all
guilty.
The flowers are beautiful. I’m thinking that I should do what the nurse said, that I
should hang them upside down and keep them.
*
The next day I’m sitting in the smoking room when Ginny creeps in.
“Hey,” she greets me pleasantly.
“Hi.”
“Why so sullen?”
“I’m nervous.”
“Dad’s coming today?”
“Yeah.”
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She lights one of her menthol cigarettes. “Yeah…when?”
“An hour.”
She doesn’t say anything because we both know that she doesn’t have to.
“It’s just that I haven’t seen him since the day after Julia died.”
I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud before. Julia died.
And the guilt that I used to feel is replaced by a more stinging and acute one: the
guilt that I left my father. Not that he left me, but that I left him when what he really
needed was family. That when all either of us needed was the other, we fought like little
children whose mothers never taught them how to grieve. Who knew what death was but
never really understood what loss was until they’d lost everything. “What are you
thinking?” I remember Ginny and I smile. “I’d better go. He’ll be here soon.” She
smiles. “Good luck. You gonna be okay?” I don’t know. I go out into the hallway. I
turn the comer to my room, thinking that I just want some water before he comes. I’m so
thirsty all of a sudden.
Then I see him coming down the hall towards me.
I stop.
He hasn’t recognized me yet. It’s been two years, and girls change a lot from
fourteen to sixteen in normal circumstances, let alone the extreme one that my father and
I find ourselves in. He’s carrying more pink roses. He sees me, and for the first time in
two years I see my father’s face.
He’s aged. The wrinkles about his eyes have become more defined. He used to
have only pinches of gray hair on his temples and now there are only streaks of auburn
left.
We walk towards each other but stop before we get too close.
His lips part, and I know that he wants to greet me, but he’s choked.
I’m taken back to our last meeting and I see the rage in his eyes and feel the
sensation of blood seeping out of my nose and the taste of it on my lips.
“I brought you these flowers.”
He has the same brogue as my brother. He holds out the flowers and I accept
them with a quiet thank you.
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“I remembered that you always…that you were always partial to pink when you
were a little girl.”
He is stuttering inanities, and I don’t think either of us knows where to begin
talking. I don’t know how to tell him that I’m ready to forgive him, that I want a father
and I want to be a daughter again.
“Your brother, he told me that you were…getting better.”
He’s crying.
He tries to laugh in that ironic way that people do when they’re trying to disguise
how close to hysteria they are.
We’re silently staring at each other and there’s so much I want to say to him. I
want him to know I don’t blame him anymore. I’m so tired of being angry.
“I want to go home, Dad.”
He nods. “I want you to come home too.”
And here we are in the middle of the hall, close to each other, but not touching.
He’s wiping his eyes and clearing his throat, and I’m the calm one.
The flowers are beautiful. I wonder if he and Bryan got them at the same florist.
They’re probably sharing a hotel room, my grandmother in the next room down, waiting
for me to be discharged. Comfort rushes through my veins and I remember what it’s like
to breathe without guilt.
My therapist walks by in the hall and sees us.
“Mr. Doyle! You’re early! Why don’t we just head on in.”
My father straightens up and I keep looking into his eyes. I turn towards the door
to my counselor’s office and slip my arm through my father’s. And the two of us start to
walk with each other into therapy.
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LAURIE RINES
I was born and bred in Delaware County, living in the more humble town of Lenni. I
lived there until my graduation from high school, when I attended George Washington
University and got a degree in Women’s Studies, Creative Writing, and English. Upon
graduating I got hitched and flew the coop, and am now living in Düsseldorf, teaching
English and waiting out the remainder of George Bush’s second term, or until my
husband finishes his degree, and then I plan to move back. My stories have been
published in a (now defunct) GW magazine, and in an online student literary magazine.
Reflection on Primal Scream Therapy
I think this story grew out of my fascination with the anti-hero, and I think this is
a theme that I still really enjoy writing about. These are the stories that I enjoy reading
the most—when you’re presented with someone who has just made so many mistakes
and so many decisions that were so obviously poor ones, but you still can’t help
sympathizing with them. Even more specifically, and strangely, this story was inspired
by an obsession with John Lennon and the song “Julia,” which is such a beautiful song
about the loss of his mother. It was from reading a biography of John Lennon that I
became acquainted with the idea of Primal Scream Therapy and the idea of how much his
losses affected the rest of his life and his work. My interest in Lennon is something that
is still puzzling to me, because I am such a fan of his work, but at the same time he did so
many things that I hated; he was cruel to his first wife, abandoned his family, and really
generally tended to be a prick. So through this I fell in love with the idea of creating
talented characters who had to overcome their own losses to find their voice.
The idea for the character of Marianna began long before I finally wrote “Primal
Scream Therapy.” I actually wrote my first story about Marianna when I was in middle
school, and wrote lots of anecdotal stories throughout high school. But being the way
that I am, nothing motivates me like a deadline, and I finally put it all together in the fall
of 1999, my senior year in high school, for our assignment. The idea was planted more
firmly in my head when I had a good friend enter rehab for anorexia and she described to
me a type of group therapy that I incorporated into my story really exactly as she had
described it to me. When I heard about her attending this, I was almost jealous and
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wished that I could take a part in such an activity, sort of confronting my own demons.
The story really started from this scene and the final scene in my mind. Honestly, now
when I read the story it’s hard to remember a process of going from A to B, because once
I started writing and trying to put it into a narrative, it was such a cathartic experience.
Now, it’s hard for me to disconnect this story from what I was as a seventeen year old.
On the most basic level when I was writing this story I was an incredibly sad and angry
girl who felt that she had the right to be neither sad nor angry. I was from a solid nuclear
family, was well-provided for, and on my way to a good college and bright future. So I
was constantly guilty for my ingratitude. I think in writing this story about Marianna I
was creating someone who had the right to feel as miserable as I did at the time. And I
think it did me a lot of good because when I was finished and let other people read it, a
tremendous weight was lifted.
Now when I read it there’s quite a bit I would change, which is embarrassing after
the fact, because at the time I did not respond well to constructive criticism. What I have
really learned since is the importance of the editing process. I have since marched into
workshops cockily with stories I thought were finished only to have them ripped to
shreds. And in the end, they ended up being much better for it. Now I would lift the
dead mother right out of the story; I think Julia’s death is melodramatic enough. I would
also dedicate a lot more time to explaining her sudden change in deciding to forgive her
father, and Ginny wouldn’t be quite so direct and expository. I also might take out some
of the profanity, though I have to say I am a big fan of it. When I read the story now, I
am surprised by the violence of the emotion, and also by the immaturity of it. But I am
still proud of the honesty of it. I have decided to put this story to bed, because I’m not
that interested in revisiting it. And I’ll just say it: I’ve never done heroin. I’ve never
even seen it in real life; this entire story was pure invention based only on Trainspotting
and Smack by Melvin Burgess. If I were to improve this story, I would want to do a lot
more research.
Since writing this story I have written more short stories, but have really learned
about how lengthy the revision process is and how much a story can change during it.
The biggest mistake I made with this story was calling it finished far too soon. I minored
in creative writing in college, but have to say that by the end of it I was a bit disillusioned
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and had participated in far too many “but what is a writer?” conversations. If you want to
be a writer, write something. Then shut up. Tom Wolfe wrote an essay where he talks
about how workshops are sandpapering fiction (I’m paraphrasing) and I can’t help
agreeing. Someone brings in a story, and it is attacked from every side for not fitting into
a mold, and it is changed. I feel my participation in workshops has affected my
enjoyment of literature. In a survey course in college we read “The Waste Land” and the
whole time I was reading I thought to myself that if T.S. Eliot had brought that into our
workshop we would have sent him home crying. So I think the main thing is to take all
advice seriously, but to really discriminate as to whom you trust.
Now I don’t write as much as I used to, because, living in Germany, I’m
experiencing a bit of sensory overload. I think once I return to the States and process the
experiences I’m having now, I’ll be more active. I have some stories that I’m still
revising, but I think I understand more that I just need to give myself time to think and
allow stories to flow. Too often I’ve boxed myself into an ending, which I think is one of
the problems with “Primal Scream Therapy.” I had decided on that final scene before I
reached it, so I think when it arrives it feels inauthentic. I think that in a rough draft you
should let your writing meander as you try to figure out exactly why you’re writing what
you’re writing. When I read this story now, I definitely see it as still being a rough draft,
but I still can’t help feeling a bit proud. Especially after my little brother read it years
later and came up to me and said, “Hey, I read your story…that was interesting…” I
guess the best part of writing for me is freaking out the people who think they know you
the best.
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Teacher Reflection
Narration as Story in Laurie Rines’s Primal Scream Therapy
“Primal Scream Therapy” has a great dramatic arc, not only in the action, but also
in the narration—in the voice—which mirrors the protagonist’s change. In other words,
the story’s form reflects its content—the language and tone reflect the action. Marianna’s
voice softens, her cursing falls away, and in the end the lightness in tone reflects her
changed heart and mind—and all this goes hand in hand with the action.
In Modern Literature we read a short play, by Joyce Carol Oates, entitled “No
Next of Kin,” in which a teenage boy stands before the audience and tells a story about
journeying to a hospital to visit his father, who had left home years before and whom he
thought was dead. At first the boy is aloof and unfeeling; he turns angry and spiteful,
cursing; in the end, he is tearful, prayerful, and forgiving—all this in two short pages.
In Laurie Rines’s “Primal Scream Therapy” the first half of the story—the
“harsher” half, even with its dark tone and content—is wonderfully offset by Marianna’s
wit and humor, which not only keep the story intriguing but keep Marianna herself
likeable and sympathetic, in spite of her edge…or because of it. The story goes a long
way to arrive at the emotional ending, which offers relief, as if the story itself is taking a
deep breath after an exhausting run.
And yet, “sweet” as the ending is, it is not too sweet—that is, it is anything but a
“happy” ending, not one, anyway, that suggests that the characters will live “happilyever-after.” The final walk into therapy offsets what might otherwise be a sentimental
ending (that is, if the story ended too soon, before all of Marianna’s exhausting emotional
work that precedes it); the walk into therapy is less like a soothing salve on a wound than
it is a bitter pill that Marianna and her father must swallow together. Dramatic as the arc
is—the protagonist has gone from an angry, bitter, cursing girl to a calm, forgiving, softspoken girl—the finale is less the end of grief than it is the beginning of more, real, hard
work—work that, we are convinced, both Marianna and father are committed to doing.
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Exercise
Try writing a short story, or even just a one-page first-person narrative, in which the
protagonist’s tone, voice, and language reflect her change in character. Make your
narrator tell a story in which she had to act in the face of conflict. Imagine that some
time has passed, now, and she is, in a sense, re-living the story—and also living a new
story—as she tells it.
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In True Silence
Lee Goldsmith 2001
Flat was the land, speckled with shrubs and the dry, gray rows of olive plants
suffering the desert’s glowing sun. He walked on the baked, cracked dust laid smooth
against the earth like tightly packed gunpowder once lit, a land always smoldering but too
dense to explode with finality. Hanging off his starved, struggling body, his white robes
flashed, glowing like the sun as he approached his olives, his sustenance, his trade, his
work, with steps taken through exhaustion.
He grasped one weak, puny olive between his thumb and forefinger, silently
scolding the olive for its slow ripening and fruition with a fretful frown and worried eyes,
like a father watching his prodigal son walk away. He sighed. It rustled the branches as
they danced to the only sound heard by the olive trees all day. Every day it was his sigh,
like a paternal coo, that woke the trees, coaxing them to grow. And slowly they did.
They grew in a land fertile with blood, hatred, and war. They grew in a land as
starved as the old farmer, with a skin as brittle and weak. They grew in an old land,
weary of the life it has lived so far, drained of its youth by constant suffering under the
glowing sun. They grew in a land filled with the wisdom that comes from age, the
wisdom that allows olive trees to grow on such tortured land. They grew in a land that
refused to yield.
The farmer released the olive and sat next to the tree on the hardened ground.
Looking out to the horizon with a beaten gleam hovering in his eyes, he scanned just
above the rows of olive trees that surrounded him. He listened to the hollow winds as
they gently brushed the dust over the ground, chiming like the fall of a light rain on ice.
And while ice was foreign to him and rain almost as much so, neither was as
foreign as absolute silence. To him the chiming was silence, as silent as he had ever
known. A silence only found among the rows of olive trees, where he felt ensconced
by peace, as if he were surrounded by a dome. Back across the field stood his house.
Overflowing with seven kids, the house always rang with hungry voices, hurt voices,
scared voices, or sad voices, clamoring for an unsparable second of their parents’
attention. Small whines of taunt, accusation, or, the one that made him feel impotent,
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need, pierced any thoughts he might have in the house. So he fled to the olives,
working hard and thinking.
His eyes wandered above the trees into the sky, and he floated high over the land,
gliding on the warm caress of Allah’s hand. He felt a gentle push lining him, fingertips
pressed into his surging chest. He breathed the air, tasting the crisp wisps never breathed
before. His heart beat slower, calmly pulsing, a massage surging through his body. It
soothed, relaxed. And as the excitement built in his loins and spread, flooding his torso
and legs like water gushing through a broken levy, his heart continued to beat more
slower. Very slowly. Almost not moving at all but to sound “pip-pip” subtly, not even
disturbing the ribs standing guard over it.
Suddenly he stopped, his ascent completed. Allah held him in mid-air, above the
earth. In true silence. A silence he could feel, like Allah himself, all around him. The
silence, a kiss of summer sunlight, wrapped his skin and burrowed inside. And the
warmth radiated outward. The silence was simple, was beautiful, was honest, was love.
And though words make them different, as he hung over the trampled ground, he felt no
difference among them.
And very suddenly a voice slithered around his ankles, squeezed, and yanked
spirit, mind, and body back into one.
“Papa.” The small child tugged gently at his father’s robes. “Mama said dinner is
ready.”
Slowly, so as not to faint from dizziness, the worn-out man opened his eyes and
stood, patting the little boy on his black-haired head. “Okay.” The boy sprinted back to
the house, flailing his arms. His father followed with deliberate, sure steps that shifted
the loose dirt off the old ground into small clouds of dust.
Walking into his home, he was greeted by his wife. “Hello, Yusef.” He silently
looked at the prepared dinner table surrounded by six children, and three empty chairs.
*
“Do we have enough?”
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“We never have enough.” Hafsun was polishing a pistol while he entertained a
trio of farm boys. Mohammed sat at the table in the middle of the room, which was the
basement of one of the city houses where Palestinians sought shelter and revenge. “With
the Israeli air ships trying to bomb us out of existence, even the best American guns
would not be enough.” Mohammed stared at the center of the table and bit his nails
absently. “Hey, you, wake up.”
Mohammed’s head jumped and he blinked away his thoughts. “Sorry.”
“Anyway. That said, we still have plenty to share. The guns are always coming
in. It’s the people who use them that seem to disappear. But we can’t help that.”
Mohammed was biting his nails again. “Stop that. There’s no reason to be nervous yet.”
“Sorry.”
“Ya know even that blockade the Israelis have going out there hasn’t slowed the
guns. Our network is impenetrable. We have no worries. All the same, I can’t wait until
we take it out. It will be just one more battle won for the good guys.”
*
The city lies deep in the West Bank, resembling Stalingrad after the blitzkrieg had
been deflected. People occupy the city, as they always have, but can’t walk a straight
line for the rubble scattered on the streets. The city, like the land it’s built on, is old and
tired. It no longer cares to erode or cover with dirt the pockmarks it bears like the scars a
soldier shares with his infantry-mates on the road to the front line.
The land here sinks low beneath the hills of Judea and Samaria. Approaching the
Jordan River, it tumbles with burgeoning slopes of grass, all withered away by constant
footsteps. The grass has not appeared in decades. The people in the city haven’t noticed.
The land has.
The blockades are still standing. Soldiers in patchy shades of gray and blue
shoulder large, black rifles and stop cars as they find it necessary. Ten soldiers wait at
each site. One will lean into the car to inspect; the other nine will keep their trigger
fingers ready. There is no desire to harass. Harassment comes with the tension, a blanket
of accusations with no simple recourse.
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Mohammad was in the city many times, mostly against Yusef’s demands. Except
for the quick trips for small necessities, the city remained ignominious to Mohammad
throughout his childhood. Yusef would always tell stories of the dangerous shadows in
the city and how they could swallow men whole. Every story was the same. The city
ruined, and the country saved. Mohammed listened to these stories for as long as he ran
to his mother for a hug and kiss before going out for the day. When he began relying on
himself, the shadows lost their romantic menace.
Without fear of the city, Mohammed traveled there with his friends often. Rather
than a foreign jungle, it became a second home for him. He learned the small streets
where the armed soldiers could not follow. He discovered the secrets hidden from the
soldiers that explained their presence. He found he could be helpful to his Palestinian
brothers. The day there were only six children at the dinner table, he was trying to be
helpful again.
Mohammed stepped onto the streets with two friends. Leaving a small shop with
a well-armed basement, the trio moved down the street listening for the impending
protest. They watched the other Palestinians flow towards the new blockade checking all
outgoing traffic. As they turned a corner, the singing chants of anger lit the boys’ ears.
It was a unified pop in the air. Punching into the heat of the Israeli sun, the aural
fists sprung from a marching block of white robes. They moved toward the blue guard
who waited with their guns held loosely on their shoulders. The fists beat hard and
collected stray brothers off the streets. Mohammed and his friends joined in step; the
chant grew louder.
The soldiers stood on a hill, with rocks scattered over the dust, not higher than the
roofs of the city’s houses. Mohammed watched as the soldiers shifted and listened,
unmoved by the mob’s angry spirit. As Mohammed’s feet landed on the hill, the
soldier’s guns dropped from shoulder to hand. They remained pointed to the ground.
Again the chant grew louder. It hung on the humid air and resonated on itself.
Building like bricks, one on top of the other, the chant was a shield ensconcing the
marching mob. The shield glided over the parched land with the force of the stampeding
elephants raging behind it. And the shield kept growing, brick upon brick. The mob
could no longer see over it.
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As they marched and sang on, hands grazed the ground, bringing small rocks back
up with them. The mob looked ahead, and the soldiers’ guns did not all seem to be
pointed to the earth anymore. Suddenly, rocks were launched, and Mohammed rushed
forward with the archaic charge to take the hill.
Cries of hold fire from the soldiers gave way to the eruption of rubber bullets
hailing down on the Palestinians. The bullets landed heavy blows, knocking each target
to the loose dirt. Before the first man reached the hill’s crest, half of the Palestinians lay
flat on the ground. But the charge continued.
Then there was a gunshot. One man reached the top; he quickly grabbed his
stomach and fell. Mohammed stopped with the rest of the mob. The Israeli soldiers were
moving down the hill, attacking. The Palestinians turned and ran. Mohammed dashed
for one of his hiding spots, turning only once to see both of his friends pinned to the earth
and arrested. He hid for an hour before returning home.
*
Yusef faced Mecca in the corner of the room behind the kitchen in a reflective
silence having finished his final prayers for the day. He listened to the laughter outside
as his children played in the waning minutes of dusk. His wife sat at a small table next to
him, repairing one of his robes. Yusef turned to her as he heard the farmhouse door click
open. “Is that him, Sharia?” She nodded without removing her eyes from the needle and
thread.
Yusef stepped away from the corner. He walked to the kitchen where
Mohammed had entered, his feet patting against the creaking hardwood floor.
“Mohammed.” His voice stung the air but wasn’t loud enough for his wife to hear. His
son only lifted his head, flashing a scowl; he did not answer.
“You missed dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Were you in the city?”
“You should have been there.”
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“Don’t tell me what I should do. I wanted you home for dinner. You haven’t
been home all day. There’s work to be done in the olive field. You are neglecting your
responsibility.” There was a long pause where Mohammed’s scowl tightened against his
face, but his eyes would not lift from the floor. “Must you go to the city?”
“Yes.” Here his eyes raised and lent conviction.
“You’ve been warped. All that time in the city has ruined you. Remember what
your prophet said? He tells you today, even from his faraway grave, that they are people
of the book. Where is your tolerance? Where is your good nature? Where is your
faith?”
“I have faith! I’m fighting for it every time I go into the city. We can’t let them
dominate us like this.”
“Who is this we and us?”
“We are the Palestinians.”
“Who is that?”
“They are your brothers. We are being oppressed by the Jews, and you can’t even
raise your hand to fight. We are the rightful owners of this land. We must take it back!”
“Allah does not care about Palestine, Mohammed. This is no jihad. There are no
nations under Allah’s eyes; there are only people: those who obey him and those who
don’t.”
“I am obeying Allah. Our God would never allow the ignorant to rule his people.
God has given us the right. Now we must serve him and use it.”
“Our God would never condone what you do. Inciting riots and starting wars.
Bringing death and destruction to our Holy Land. Would Allah approve of these?”
“All in his name.”
“You smear his name.”
Listening from the other room and growing tired of the fight, Sharia put down
Yusef’s patched robe and walked into the crossfire. “That’s enough.” The two men
waited for her to continue, silent. The children’s laughter wafted back into the room
from outside. “Go to bed. You are both tired and need to work in the morning.”
“You’ll have to finish what you didn’t do today early in the morning. Be in the
olive field at sunrise,” Yusef said before walking into his bedroom for the night.
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*
He watched the sunrise alone among the rows of olive trees. The sun splashed the
ancient night sky with watercolor strokes of orange and yellow, seeping over the fading
gray remnants of night with tiny tendrils of light. Holding a woven wicker basket, Yusef
dropped ripe, well-nurtured olives one by one into the basket. He sighed at the
disappearing night, wearied by the dreams the stars had visited upon him. As the sun
vanquished the stars once more, he smiled.
Looking back to the farmhouse, Yusef hoped to see his eldest son walking out to
the olive field to help him harvest. He expected what he saw: wind grazed grass and a
still picture of his resting house. It seemed the argument of the past night had not reached
whatever soul would listen within Mohammed. Just like every other argument. Yusef
knew his words were useless. But he could not help but hope that he could somehow
bring his son back to the celestial path.
Yusef marched up and down the rows of trees as he collected his crop of olives.
And as the sun slid above the distant hills at midmorning and the sweat began to pool in
his long beard, Yusef felt a hand on his shoulder. When he stood and turned, Mohammed
stood before him.
“Go inside. Eat. I’ll finish here.”
“They need water too. It hasn’t rained for days. The ground is so dry it might
crack soon.”
“I’ll do that too.”
“Thank you.” Yusef walked to the edge of the field and stopped. “I need you
here, Mohammed. I don’t want you to go to the city.”
“Yes, Father.”
“This season has been awful. This might be the smallest harvest you’ve ever
seen. We have to work hard to get as much out of it as possible.” As Mohammed began
to work, Yusef sought refuge from the oncoming day inside, eating then lying down for a
short nap with his wife.
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*
They came. It was sudden and unannounced. From inside a cruising car four
friends called Mohammed away. Time seemed important. They did not get out. They
did not stop. Their shouts mingled and twisted together as Mohammed dropped the
basket and raced forward to catch them. All he understood was, “Allah’s will!”
The car slowed so that Mohammed could slip into the open rear door. All four
friends tried to explain the events that led to such an impulsive pick-up. Mohammed still
did not understand anyone until he reached the city.
*
Gunshots could be heard as the small troupe entered the city. They echoed
against each other, and it sounded as though there was a continuous hail of gunfire
crisscrossing the city. On the outskirts people ran in a chaotic scramble trying to either
hide or find the erupted war zone. As the five friends drew closer to the city’s heart, the
running was less; and the gunfire grew louder.
The car screeched and spun to a stop outside the house from the previous day. All
five leaped from the car and ran to the door, all the while sheltering their heads by
ducking low and keeping their hands up. They entered the house and dashed down the
stairs to the basement to find Hafsun, who sat at the table loading guns.
“Are you ready?” Hafsun asked.
“Of course,” one of Mohammed’s friends answered.
“Good. Grab whatever strikes you and be careful. Only shoot the soldiers. Take
any other Israelis prisoner. We’ll deal with them later. Be forceful.”
Mohammed hesitated as his friends each picked up small automatic handguns
and left the rifle for him. The group stood for a second, weighing the weapons in their
hands, adjusting to the grip, and testing the sights. They were ready to leave, but
Mohammed still hadn’t moved.
“We’re waiting on you, Mohammed,” Hafsun said from the middle of the
staircase.
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“What’s going on?” Mohammed finally asked.
“The Israelis fired at a group of protesters. One of them was hit in the head,”
Hafsun answered.
“Rubber bullets?”
“No. Real bullets.”
Mohammed picked up the rifle and hurried up the stairs with the rest.
*
Yusef woke from his nap at midmorning, ready to go back to work with his son.
Sharia lay next to him, still resting peacefully. He slid off the bed and onto his feet.
Walking to the kitchen door, he looked out the window for his son but did not see him
through the olive trees. He figured Mohammed was bent over at work.
Arriving in the field, Yusef saw the basket fallen and on its side, spilling olives
over the cracking ground. He still did not see his son and knew that Mohammed was not
home. Yusef walked to his car, which had not traveled to the city in nearly a month.
*
The bullets seared the air around them. Mohammed and two of his friends
crouched behind a wall that at some point rose fifty feet into the air and now just covered
their lowered heads. The three would not move from behind their barricade. Only every
once in a while would one of them raise a gun and fire it, hoping a soldier would get in
the way of the bullet.
Mohammed’s two friends who were not behind the wall had already fled. One
stepped onto the street, heard the gunfire, dropped his gun, heard it go off, and ran down
the street. The other made it into the heart of the city and the battle with the rest. But
when he saw Hafsun get shot in his leg, he could not go another step. He began throwing
up and collapsed on a rubble-cluttered sidewalk.
Hafsun lay across the street and back a short way from the three behind the
barricade. With his hands wrapped around the wound on his calf, he pulled himself hard
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against a building. He could not keep walking; and when he tried to aim his handgun, his
hands shook too much to be reliable. So he breathed deeply and hoped the bullets would
not find him again.
Meanwhile, Mohammed and his friends did not know what to do.
“We need to move,” Mohammed said.
“I can’t,” one of his friends answered.
“We’re not doing any good staying here.” Mohammed’s other friend nodded in
agreement. “Do we know where the soldiers are?” The others shook their heads. “We’ll
have to take a look then.” Their heads shook again. Mohammed lifted his head and
turned it slightly at the same time, scanning over the decimated wall for Israelis. “I don’t
see anybody.” Mohammed pointed back across the street. “Let’s head that way and
down to the next alley and cut back in. Okay?” The other two nodded, and the trio
started running with their knees bent and heads down. Once they reached the entrance to
the alley, they stopped.
“You two start down the alley and I’ll watch our backs,” Mohammed said. “Go.”
Just as the two began down the alley, a shot rang out closer than any before it. It
reverberated in Mohammed’s head as he spun with his rifle, saw the Israeli soldier, and
squeezed his trigger. The soldier’s stomach exploded and his grays and blues turned
crimson. He dropped to his knees, and then he fell face down. Mohammed froze. In the
back of his mind he heard one of his friends screaming and the other was not to be heard
at all.
*
Yusef drove faster than he had ever felt the need to before. He could hear the war
zone around him as he drove deeper into the city. It struck him that the outer limits of the
city were silent in and of themselves. The only sounds he had heard out there were the
echoes of the battle being fought within the city’s heart. But now, inside the battle’s
limits, only his strongest thought broke through the stream of noise. He had to find his
son.
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The deeper he went the slower he had to drive. While there were not many
people running through the streets, the debris was hard to avoid. And the slower Yusef
drove the more impatient he grew with his search. He felt the futility of his situation
wash over him as he conceded to himself that finding his son in such chaos would take all
of Allah’s power, yet his desperation to save his son propelled him.
Yusef strained to see through the windshield as a thick mix of dust and smoke
collected on it while he drove down the city’s main street. Clutching the steering wheel
at the top, he leaned his head forward and squinted. The dust continued to settle and the
car’s wipers could not clear it away anymore. Eventually, Yusef stepped hard on the
brake, opened the door, and stepped out of the car, leaving it running.
Exposed to the battlefield, he first noticed the pungent odor of burnt toast and
sweat that lurked in the air. Next, the bitter taste of unsweetened chocolate powder
touched the back of his tongue, followed quickly by the heat of battle causing sweat to
jump to his skin. Then his eyes adjusted to the light reflecting off the yellowed earth. All
he saw was a haze and scattered people lying along the streets. Finally, he heard the
moans of the wounded and one long scream approaching him as fast as he had been
driving.
A mass of swinging robes came straight towards his car. The man was looking
back over his shoulder every once in a while, and he had looked back just before he
slammed his right leg into the front comer of Yusef s old car. Yusef had watched the
man run the whole time, silent in wonder at his familiarity.
“Ah, shit!” the man yelled, hobbling back to his feet. “You could have warned
me.” Just then he looked up at Yusef, quieted.
“Hello, Mohammed. We need to go home.”
“Yeah. For now.”
“Help me wipe off the windshield. Use your sleeve.” The two rubbed the dust
off the windshield, spitting to lubricate the dust when it was stubborn. Then they each
got into the car. Mohammed massaged his leg. No words passed either pair of lips for
half of the ride away from the battlefield.
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Keeping his eyes on his sore leg, Mohammed spoke first, “I shot someone.”
Yusef nodded and swallowed. “He was a soldier. I don’t know if he died. I know he
wasn’t moving when I ran.”
“You killed someone?”
“I think.”
“Does his being a soldier make it any better?”
Mohammed still didn’t look up. “No.” Yusef nodded again and pursed his lips.
“But I’d do it again if I had to. He killed my friend. He would have killed me two
seconds later if I hadn’t shot him first. I can’t stop fighting.” Quiet descended upon the
car again; only the motor’s gruff rumble and the crackle of rubber on pavement filled the
car with sound.
Yusef turned onto the only road that would take him back home. With
Mohammed, he had reached the outskirts of the city again, where the crossfire faded into
an atmosphere of suspense. And just at the city limits, Yusef accelerated the car up a
slight hill. He saw the two soldiers at the top and wondered why they would waste their
time here while the battle raged at the center of the city.
As the car made its way up the hill, Yusef saw the soldiers, jaws split and taught
in shouts, cradling their guns in one arm and waving towards his oncoming car. One
soldier took the lead, approaching the car with his gun pointed at Mohammed and a free
hand held up flat against the air. Yusef ground his brakes until the car stopped; the
soldier stood outside his window.
Through the soldier’s yells in Hebrew, Yusef looked at Mohammed who was
staring at the other soldier’s gun while sweat beaded on his eyebrows. The gun was
pointed at him. Suddenly, Yusef felt the door slide away from him, and he tumbled
onto the dry dust outside. He pushed himself up on all fours.
A leather-boot and cloth-covered shin landed just below his chest. Yusef heard
his ribs crack before the pain flowed across his abdomen like a flood of lit gasoline. The
soldiers were both shouting in Hebrew; and when he looked up at the one standing over
him, Yusef saw a finger pointing at him, at his face. The finger pulled back and
gesticulated around the soldier’s own face. Then the soldier looked back at Yusef. Yusef
felt the boot kick out his legs. He collapsed face-first to the ground, lying supine. The
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soldiers continued on in Hebrew. While the one closest to him backed away towards the
other, Yusef took the time to lift himself back onto his hands and knees.
The soldiers stopped talking. And the last word Yusef heard was, “Adonai,”
uttered by one of the two soldiers. Then he heard a thudding discharge that echoed back
into the heart of the city and mingled with the rest of them. The bullet had entered
through the side of his chest and cut straight across his heart before exiting from his back.
The blood pooled in his mouth while he lay on the ground, numb to Mohammed rolling
him onto his back. Yusef looked at his son. He saw the tears dropping down his cheeks
and leaving their wet tracks. He saw Mohammed screaming with his mouth wide but
realized there was no sound accompanying the sight of the scream. There was no sound
at all. Yusef felt the silence crawl in through his ears and descend to his chest. He
smiled at Mohammed just as the silence reached his heart.
*
The soldiers had run off after Yusef fell to the ground, but Mohammed still
guarded himself with a quick scan of the area before lifting his father’s body into the
back seat of the car. He tucked his father’s robes into the car to avoid getting them
caught in the door, then took his seat behind the wheel and drove straight home.
When he arrived home, his mother was rushing from the house confused by
Yusef’s sudden departure and bewildered by Mohammed’s return without him.
Mohammed grabbed her by the shoulders and stood between her eyes and the back seat.
He wanted to tell her. He wanted to console her. He wanted to apologize. He said
nothing at first, but she began to cry as he whispered his apologies in her ear.
After some time standing in each other’s arms next to the car, they went inside the
house and called the kids together. That night Mohammed sat at the head of the table
during dinner. Afterwards, anticipating a long day’s work in the olive field, he headed to
bed.
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LEE GOLDSMITH
I was born and raised in Media, Pennsylvania, a small town that ekes toward the edge of
Philadelphia. While growing up, my proximity to the city allowed me to explore the
various museums filled with dynamic paintings, the tortured sculptures of Rodin, and
dinosaur skeletons that dwarf small children such as I was. I now imagine that these
eclectic influences form the mallet that has molded my diverse interests in everything
from the graviton to Ancient Greek tragedy. The city, however, never attracted me into
its immoderate adventures; and even when I left for college, I never desired to live in a
city. Instead I have lived these last five years in a capital that is but a large town:
Annapolis, Maryland. Here I have attended and graduated from St. John’s College, a
small, liberal-arts school, nestled under the strong left arm of the Naval Academy wall.
At St. John’s there are no majors and no electives. The curriculum is set, and every class
is a seminar. We read the classics in every category: philosophy, from Plato to
Heidegger; physics, from Aristotle to Heisenberg; mathematics, from Euclid to
Lobachevski. Once again, as an undergraduate I managed to heighten and refine every
one of my multifaceted interests. I am now working for two organizations, which help
make seminars happen in many places—Touchstones Discussion Project and Aspen
Institute. These interim jobs are keeping me reading while I try to find a fit in graduate
school.
Reflection on In True Silence
When I wrote “In True Silence,” I had spent the previous two years trying to
remold myself as a writer. My writing influences as an early adolescent were Jack
London, Stephen King, C.S. Lewis, and J.R.R. Tolkein, all of whom wrap and unwrap
good tales, but none of whom manipulate language like a great artist. In my own writing
I had figured out how to write a gripping story, but my artistry lacked anything more than
the mundane necessities that come along with transferring a story from its vague shape in
my imagination to a more or less rigid form on paper. I realized my defect when I was a
sophomore in high school, and had since let myself dwell in lengthy descriptions of
moments and natural scenery. In the case of “In True Silence,” this mediation produced
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in me the painting of the dusty dry land and the moment of transcendental ascendance,
which was the soul of the story as it occurred to me.
The story first planted itself in me one night early in my senior year. I lay in bed,
letting my thoughts unwind, but an image from earlier that evening insisted on remaining
before me. I can even now remember it: an Arab farmer, dressed in gray-colored robes,
pinches an olive, which droops down from a worn out branch, between his thumb and
fingers just enough to lift it up. The words associated with this image came in tow, “Flat
was the land, speckled with shrubs and the dry, gray rows of olive plants suffering the
desert’s glowing sun.” That is the first line of the story, whose main theme—the comfort
of true or false transcendence in the struggle to perpetuate life on earth—had been
conceived that night. I scribbled down the sentence while lying in bed and did nothing
with it for weeks, maybe months. I don’t remember how long it took me to come back to
that story.
I wrote very little at St. John’s that was not an exegetical essay, but that story
never let me go. At the time I wrote the story, I knew its greatest flaw was the plot,
which felt a bit shallow and contrived. And I have always wanted to rewrite it so that the
conflict between Yusef and his son receives greater complexity. I wanted to bring more
of their history to the present conflict and thus make the plot more than merely probable,
but necessary. When I revisited the story recently, however, I decided to steal its ideas
and use them in a treatment of Abraham and Isaac, which is an archetypal story for the
themes on which “In True Silence” expounds. I am now writing that and hope to finish
eventually. Unfortunately, at the pace I am currently writing, I will not finish it in the
next six months.
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Teacher Reflection
Going to the Limit and Beyond in Lee Goldsmith’s In True Silence
Lee Goldsmith’s use of descriptive detail captures both the political and physical
landscape in “In True Silence,” but it is the author’s skillfully designed, steadfast plot
(Lee’s own misgivings notwithstanding)—his creation of suspense—that sustains the
reader’s interest until the story’s last line. Once the action hits its stride, we keep asking
ourselves, “What will happen next?” This question is the essence of suspense.
We anxiously anticipate the next, or final, “twist” of the story. In fact, several of
the twists might work as an ending. But Lee creates several convincing “false
endings”—that is, moments in which the conflict seems resolved once and for all. But
then we realize Mohammed is not done fighting and Yusef is not done trying to stop him.
And so we ask, “Now what?” What will Yusef have to do next to stop his son from
fighting? What will Mohammed do next in spite of his father’s pleas? Will Mohammed
die before he realizes the futility of war? Will Yusef…?
With the story’s relentless action, Lee achieves a sense of inevitable tragedy. We
begin to resign ourselves to the possible consequences of the characters’ willfulness:
Yusef may die when he drives into town to save his son; he may find Mohammed dead in
the streets; perhaps both will die, and Sharia will be left alone to care for the land…
We come to recognize “false endings,” as we anticipate the next turn in the story,
even as it seems the story might be over, as if we know the characters better than they
know themselves. For example, when it seems that finally Yusef and Mohammed are
driving home safely, once and for all, a discussion ensues, and we realize that
Mohammed will go on fighting. If the story ended here—and it could, satisfactorily—we
would conclude that perhaps nothing will change in the lives of these people and that
such lack of resolution is the point of the story.
Such an ending might be perfect, in fact, to dramatize the story’s themes: the
father’s love for his son, the son’s resistance, the futility of war. But by going on, the
story dramatizes these themes further and, as a result, becomes more moving and
arguably even more true. The extended action demonstrates—as if reminding us what
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we’ve known all along—that, of course Mohammed will go on fighting and, of course
Yusef will go on trying to stop him, even if trying means dying. The ending is anything
but “happy,” though it’s worth noting that, while Yusef pays the price of his life, he gets
what he wanted: tomorrow his son will stay home to work in the fields.
Exercise
Write a story—or just an action sequence—in which you push your protagonist to the
limit and even beyond. Just when you, and your protagonist, may think you’ve had
enough, raise the stakes, by introducing more resistance, more conflict, another
challenge, testing the protagonist’s will, determining his character, until you can’t
imagine another scene worth writing—and your reader can’t imagine another scene worth
reading.
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All That You Can’t Leave Behind
Jen Malkoun 2001
Dawn breaks above the red horizon. I lift my head from the warmth and comfort
of a cotton pillow. Outside a new day approaches; the sun rises above the mist and cloud
of night evolving into early morning to create a pastel of colors and textures. But inside
it is merely the beginning of yet another passing day, in a continuing cycle, neither
anticipated nor loathed, but simply accepted.
What is it now, seven or eight? The years have been conveniently lost or
misplaced, and are seemingly uniform in their passing. We have managed to keep
ourselves occupied—busy—or attempted to do so, easing into each day and settling into
each night, and have become proficient actors, masking our emotions and entombing our
fears. But death is a fierce reality to escape. It has a looming, lingering effect, like the
skeleton of a burnt houseframe, barely intact, just waiting to collapse with the slightest
April breeze as the fire equipment is packed up and a single yellow ribbon remains to
ward off curious on-lookers.
This is apparent in everything—family gatherings, holidays, birthdays, or that one
song played on the radio that will never carry the same tune as it had once before. It is
visible on her face just the same. Bright adventurous eyes and ruddy cheeks have been
replaced with tired lines, painful arches, and sagging depressed skin, barely clinging to
feel the light of another day. The battle wounds of a mother who has lost her child—my
mother.
“Felicia. Honey, get up! You’re going to school today so don’t even try it with
me this morning!”
I refuse to gratify her with an answer, just a slight movement from underneath the
covers to illustrate my apathy.
“I said get up! Not this morning, Felicia! Not today! I have too much going on
to worry about you and your attendance! You’re eighteen now! We shouldn’t have to go
through this every morning!”
Her voice is different too—edgy, impatient exhausted. I slowly but tactfully
move one leg and hit the cold morning air of my room. Shit, I think. I left the window
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open again last night. Even though it is May, the nights manage to retain a biting chill.
She enters my room and unsympathetically replaces the darkness with the painful
brightness of synthetic light. And there she waits, over my bed. I can just imagine her
stance, not to mention her stare.
“All right! I’ll get up!” I shout unhappily.
“Right now, Felicia! While I’m standing here! Get up, now!” Instantly the
covers are strewn from my sleepy body and thrown to the foot of the bed. My skin
catches the air as I immediately follow my refuge with grabbing hands. Realizing it is
hopeless, I sit up rubbing my eyes to meet the light and place both feet on the soft carpet
below. Pleased with her triumph, my mom walks out of the room and heads downstairs
into the kitchen. I am left all alone in the coldness of the morning air, which slipped into
my sanctuary during the night.
It is the same frigid, crisp air that I felt one January night eight years before, when
I, along with my parents and two cousins, gathered around the TV to watch that lovable
saint bernard movie. I was ten, bursting with excitement, eager to live, to be alive. But
no more than twenty minutes into the movie there was a knock at the door. A knock that
would forever alter the lives of every person in that room. Things would never be the
same—ever.
The shower water is refreshing, cleansing my aching body and replenishing my
diminishing energy. I think about her, my mom, and how she used to be, how she was
“before,” and I long for those days. Those days that seemed endless and untouchable.
There is laughter now. It took some time reassuming its place in the house, but it’s not
the same. Something is missing, lacking. We have all moved on, trying to continue and
establish new routines to get us through each day. But avoidance has set in, becoming
ever so apparent throughout the house and in my relationship with my mom. It has
created a sense of uncertainty as I embark upon a new journey, approaching the threshold
of my future—college. I took a path of great indifference on my college quest,
applications and such, perhaps because of the lingering unresolved feeling that inhabits
my being, tugging and gnawing at my heart, echoing inside of my head. I didn’t care,
didn’t feel the urgency that my mom felt. And still, I ask myself, am I ready? Can I
leave, or, rather, leave it all behind?
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A knock at the bathroom door stops my analytical thought process and my
shower, calling me back to the surface of reality and the sickness of early morning.
“Felicia,” the deep tremor of my dad’s voice sounds from outside the bathroom
door. “It’s quarter of.”
I turn the water off and stand, still bearing my body and soul, as I listen to the
pattern of water droplets plunging toward the drain, gathering the dirt and sleep of night,
washing it all away. The fog is thick and moist, clouding the room as well as my
thoughts. I reach for the towel draped across the cold, heatless radiator and wrap it
around my body, capturing its cotton warmth and holding it tight, and my mind drifts
again to that unalterable January night.
Two officers dressed in midnight-blue uniforms appeared opposite the glass
screen door of winter. Something was wrong and it ignited a nauseating feeling deep in
my stomach. They solemnly entered the house and the heat encircled them, replacing the
chill of night air. Removing their hats in an unvarying manner, with sincere structure,
they gazed upon the unexpected faces, scanning the scene and preparing their words. The
police lights rabidly flashed red and blue in the driveway, and then the door was shut,
cutting off any prospect of possibility and leaving the harshness of reality to encumber
our lives forever. Silence engulfed the laughter and the smiles, and gave way to worry,
fear, and anxiousness for the unknown.
“Is it my son? Is it Brian? What happened? Is he okay?” my mom inquired
urgently. My dad’s strong hand had found its place upon her weakening shoulder, and I
watched his face, overcome with wanting and anticipation for the worst. His frame stood
tall and statuesque, conveying a sense of readiness.
“No, ma’am, it’s not your son. You may want to take a seat over here, please,”
the one officer suggested, carefully weighing his words.
Combing my hair, I focus on the fragrant scent of shampoo as it emanates from
each damp strand filling the moist room. I wipe away the mist from the mirror and gaze
into my reflection. Emptiness lives inside, but a burning desire represses and overpowers
its force. It is a desire to live and to experience. One which pulls me to leave, to move
on, and most of all to let go—to let go of the pain and the sadness which reverberates
deep within the walls of this house.
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The next moments of that night are not clear—erased, rather—from my memory.
But what is kept, kept at bay behind the dam of my emotions, is the sound of a mother’s
cry, a mother’s unforgettable, intense cry of disbelief and horror. It had not been my
brother, indeed, but rather my older sister. A car accident had relinquished the powerful,
the beautiful, the rare life from her body. Screaming, I ran out onto the porch, crying out
for the world to know—know that one of its angels had died. My tears burned the skin of
my cheeks as the bitter air flooded to fill my soul. My sister had died. And as the world
came rushing around me, enclosing, surrounding, and suffocating, I looked upward,
looked into the blackness of the night sky. Penetrating its boundless darkness, I tried to
pull myself away, tried to purge the pain which had invaded my heart.
Inside, my mom had stationed herself in a chair, grasping its arms, her knuckles
turning a fierce white. Soon people, faces, arms, and hands all came running. She began
to scream, a scream unlike any I had ever heard. Her feet pounded upon the hard wooden
floor and her face, crimson with anguish, had attained an animalistic character. The
moments and seconds that followed blurred, space soon closed in, and limits were set.
Life no longer seemed infinite.
“Let’s go, Felicia!” her voice shouts from downstairs, signaling that my time is
up. Dressing in a hurry as I continue my daily game to beat the clock, I run down the
steps and grab a yogurt for lunch from the refrigerator. Passing my dad at the table as he
reads the news for the day, I manage to utter a quick bye.
“Bye. Do you have your key?” he answers.
“Yeah.”
“Have a nice day. Be nice to your mom in the car,” he warns.
Right, I think, and shut the door behind me. The sun’s rays break through patches
of green leaves and hit the sidewalk and my mom as she waits in the car out front. I take
a deep breath, filling my lungs with the freshness of a new day, and get in, placing my
bag on the floor. I turn on the radio as an excuse to break the awkward silence. The car
rides vary from morning to morning; today it is calm and quiet, neither one of us looking
forward to the day ahead. I try to think of something to say, some topic to discuss—
nothing. As my mind races, I change the station, desperately trying to find a good song.
Was it always like this? I can’t seem to remember. I can still talk to her, can’t I?
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We pull up to the school and I gather my things in a rush, now attempting to beat
the sound of the morning bell.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome. Have a nice day,” she replies.
I look back before I close the car door. “I love you.”
She looks straight into my eyes and answers back, “I love you too. Have a nice
day. I’ll see you later.”
Carrying my load, I enter the gray institution that has been kindly bestowed the
name “school.” Now I must clear my mind and forget everything I thought of earlier this
morning in the bathroom. Mustering up enough strength to fake my emotions, I feel dead
inside, and walk through the halls feeling not only alone, but lonely. What do I have
today? A chemistry test?
Back home, sitting outside on my front porch after another seven hours of school,
I think, delving into areas I ordinarily choose to avoid. The thought of next year pierces
my subconscious, needling to get out and be recognized. I light a cigarette, a filthy habit
I picked up last summer, and sit back, staring up into the endless green of the maple trees
and dream. I dream of what life will be like for me, not in ten or even five years, but
simply in the one that swiftly approaches now. I picture myself free—liberated from all
the grief, the guilt, the sorrow of yesterday—uninhibited by the unspoken misery that
found its way into our hearts—free from her death. I see myself on a college campus
with the sun dancing upon my browning skin. The thought brings a smile to my face. I
realize that these experiences merely await my consent, and the heavy feeling of
emptiness is quelled.
A car pulls into the driveway and once again I am drawn back down to the
surface, but this time I know what must be done. I sit on the front step as my mom
appears before me. She stands there, still, her eyes meeting mine. As she climbs the
steps slowly, I make room for her next to me, and, releasing her fear, surrendering her
pain, she sits down next to me.
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JEN MALKOUN
For me writing has always acted as a vehicle for both exploration and expression.
Common throughout all of my writing (poetry, prose, academic research, as well as this
short story) is my fascination with identity. My studies in college led me to research and
explore identity within a Western structural-political framework as an attempt to
understand the fluid, ever-changing, and sometimes amorphous nature of identity. Yet,
critical to my understanding of this notion of identity is another concept: power. Having
graduated from college recently, with a B.A. in Sociology and Peace Studies, I am
currently living, working—and continuing to actively examine concepts of power—in
Baltimore, Maryland.
Reflection on All That You Can’t Leave Behind
When I refer to power, I don’t mean conventionally misappropriated use of
power—that is, the capability to use force unevenly—but power in a relational sense—
that is, the ability to enact change. It is this kind of power that my short story’s
protagonist, Felicia, discovers.
At the time of writing this story (in the spring of 2001), I found myself in an
environment that was based upon and revolved around identity—high school—a time
replete with questions about “who” one is and “what” one stands for, when everything is
in flux, from bodies and emotions to relationships and understandings; it was a time when
little made sense and even less felt as though it “fit.” High school is a time of perpetual
change, and yet it retained, for me, a daunting and encumbering feeling of limitation—
simultaneous feelings of wanting so much more and being trapped within the concrete
walls of a disconnected education.
Writing this short story (the first I had ever written) was my own way of
grappling with identity; the creative act of storytelling turned out to be an experiment
with the notion of power as the ability to enact change. Yet in order for change to occur I
realized the necessary precondition of letting go, of releasing, and relinquishing all that
impeded healthful growth. Writing this story was my method of struggling and working
through this realization. It is the story of a young woman (Felicia), faltering, as she tries,
headstrong, to move rashly past her pain rather than through it. It is through Felicia—the
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visceral senses and raw emotions she experiences throughout the day, her unsettling and
stinging interactions with her parents, and her struggle to find her way “back” to her
self—that I tried to express the complexity, the “messiness,” of human relations. Using
the triad of Felicia, her mother, and her father, I hoped to impart upon the reader a sense
that death, and the effects it undoubtedly unleashes, is not only a chaotic disruption to the
status quo of their relationships, but also a rupture that brings forth an opportunity to
connect in new and unfamiliar ways, thus altering not only the nature and fabric of their
relationships, but of the individuals themselves.
While the story was an experiment with the concept of personal power, it was also
a reflection on what we as humans can and can’t leave behind, and how we struggle to
find the ever-delicate balance between the two ends of one continuum. During periods of
deep and immense change—such as leaving high school, entering college, or suffering
the aftershocks of death—we are, in some ways, sojourners, leaving all that is familiar,
sensible and comfortable, and entering the unknowable, and the unforeseen, full of
contingencies, full of new and different regulations. And the question soon arises: how
do we negotiate what to leave, what to cede, and what to adopt, in order to adapt, in order
to survive?
This story was a meditation on the relationship between identity and power, an
exploration of the dialectic between the notions of individual choice and the force and
influence of context. Although burdened with the death of her sister, Felicia has a
choice: she can choose to grapple with the pain, to feel uncomfortable, and to feel the
sharpness of the change; or she can choose to be tormented—like the story’s image of the
“burnt-down house,” haunting and inescapable—by the piercing silence that continues to
separate her from her parents as well as her potential future.
In asking the question, what can we leave behind? I was exploring how we grow,
how we make decisions, and how we let go in order to move forward. At the time of
writing the story, I was listening to the newly released U2 album, All That You Can’t
Leave Behind, a journey through the challenges and triumphs of transition; it made an
impact on my consciousness and thus the title of the album appeared as the title of my
story. Stylistically I attempted to use sensations—like the coldness of morning air, or the
anxiousness of trying to find a radio station—to connect and transition from the
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protagonist’s present circumstances to the past, and back again. These transitions were
critical to the story, for they not only provided context for the reader, but also created a
kind of textured, woven quality, drawing the characters toward one another, reflecting the
interconnectivity of their lives.
Since high school my writing has transformed into what I would like to call prose,
sometimes poetry, mainly attacking and engaging with issues of race, the consequences
and nature of economic inequality, and, of late, exploring my own identity as an ArabAmerican. I enjoy attending open-mic readings, and have even tried my hand at
performing some of my work, but for the most part my writing remains an intimate part
of me, and I share sparingly. “All That You Can’t Leave Behind” remains the only short
story I have ever written.
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Teacher Reflection
Plot “Triggers” in Jen Malkoun’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind
Indeed, as Jen Malkoun herself reflects, transitions are critical to her story,
“creating a textured, woven quality…drawing the characters toward one another,
reflecting the interconnectivity of their lives.” Jen’s use of “triggers”—that is, action,
dialogue, and imagery that stimulate flashbacks and reflection—is especially admirable
because the whole story is written without a single line break; memories and thoughts
arise out of the current action, where the story remains rooted, from the moment Felicia
awakes to the moment she makes room for her mother on the steps leading into their
house.
Often flashbacks are offset from a story’s current action with a break, or a space,
in the text, or at least with an explicit leap in time, in the narration, but not in Jen’s story.
Instead, physical details seamlessly give rise to reflections and flashbacks: the sunrise in
the first paragraph triggers Felicia’s question about what time it is, a thought that expands
into the second, lovely paragraph about the years her family has lived in the shadow of
death; this thought of death triggers the thought of her mother, wounded as if from
battle…and the thought of her mother triggers her mother’s routine wakeup call; once
she’s in the shower, her father’s knock at the bathroom door triggers the memory of
police officers at the front door… And so the story goes, transitioning back and forth
between the present and the past, between action and reflection.
Jen’s technical handling of “triggers” is all the more admirable because the
structure does not feel contrived—or even arranged—by the author; rather, the
movement of the story reflects, naturally, the mindset of the protagonist. After all, nearly
everything in Felicia’s world—the sunrise, her mother’s voice, her father’s knocking, her
day in school—is a convincing catalyst for thoughts of her sister’s death, whose shadow
Felicia and her family live in.
The fluidity of the transitions, ironically, reflects Felicia’s emotional conflict,
because the grief is ever-present, like the air she breathes. It’s no surprise, then, when the
story culminates in Felicia’s fantasy of being “liberated from all the grief, the guilt, the
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sorrow of yesterday—uninhibited by the unspoken misery that found its way into our
hearts—free from her death…on a college campus with the sun dancing upon my
browning skin.” In a sense, Felicia longs to be in an environment devoid of triggers…
But we, as well as Felicia, know all too well, by the time we reach this last scene of the
story, that freedom can’t be won by faking her emotions, nor by avoiding her parents.
Put another way: she can’t get free by avoiding the triggers that make her think of her
sister. To heal, Felicia knows deep down, her family will need one another, painful as it
might be in one another’s presence. New life “awaits my consent,” she realizes. The
same goes for her mother, of course; and all Felicia can do, for now, is make room on the
steps and hope her mother is ready to join her.
Exercise
Write a scene in which the physical action and/or observations of the character trigger
reflections, memories, thoughts, and/or a flashback. As in Jen’s story, the present action
might be less “action-packed” than the recalled action of the past; or, the inverse might be
true: the current action of the scene might be intense and suspenseful, while the triggered
reflections and/or past action might be relatively subdued.
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Freehold
Michael Mastroianni 2001
The year off…
Nothing is a better testament to personal failure than taking “the year off.” It is a
sad and strained declaration to your family and friends, a pitch-black mark in the middle
of glorious white announcements of success.
Where are you headed? Johns Hopkins University. Well done! What about you,
son? University of Pittsburgh. Oh. That’s good. And you? Yale. Very nice! Ah yes,
and you? I’m taking a year off first, but—
There is no point in saying anymore. I have already testified that the stress of
high school has exhausted me enough to hold my entire life back a year, while my peers
race to their promising futures, for which they have worked so hard. I had been lost in
the mix somewhere, a deformed student who may make something of himself later on,
but I was now characterized by the year off. All the others would be majoring in English
or Pre-Med Studies or Accounting, while I would be majoring in laziness.
Of course, my mother and stepfather managed to mask their disappointment and
respect my decision. I think they decided that arguing with me would be a waste of their
time and therefore chose to ignore me. I wished that everyone would ignore me, but I
was not so lucky. I was stigmatized by long stares of disgust and even a curious
fascination; it seemed that people were disbelieving that such a person as me could even
exist. They did not realize that I was still human, I was still intelligent. High
expectations had driven me to the edge and back.
But I refused to give up. I refused to show an outburst, or lose my mind. I
refused to show any emotion at all. I worked harder than I had ever worked before. At
graduation, I was in the top twenty percent of my class. I did not attend the ceremony.
On that day, I finished fixing up the 1979 Ford F-100 that I had bought from my
neighbor for a hundred and fifty dollars. It was a classic piece of junk: no right rearview
mirror, a healthy-sized dent in the front fender, a meandering crack in the right window,
one filthy hubcap and the others missing, and the dark-blue paint tinged with rust at all
corners and points.
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Taped onto the dashboard was a picture of my father as I remember him. He
stood smiling in front of a battered 1958 Studebaker Avante, wearing his tan Army
uniform, with the great stones of Monument Valley miles behind him. His right arm held
his massive hand over the ancient rocks, making him taller than the giants. He stood in
the dirt path of a road soon to be laid, and his expression was triumphant and superior.
That was my dad. Captain John Walter Freehold, late of the Army Corps of
Engineers, who was sent out to build roads through the Navajo Indian Reservation of
Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico. I hardly ever saw him in the seven years when both of
us were alive, but I remember a new parcel arriving almost every week at times, bringing
a new piece of Navajo craftsmanship to my eager hands. There were bracelets, trinkets,
claywares, and the occasional necklace for my mother. She had quite a collection by the
time he died.
In his last letter, he told me he left a few things with a woman in Kayenta,
Arizona, named Colleen Begay. My mother promised every year that we would drive out
there in the summer and look at all the places my father had written to us about, but every
year the promise grew weaker. By the time she remarried, she had forgotten completely.
It hardly mattered then; we weren’t the Freeholds anymore. She wasn’t my father’s
widow; she was someone’s wife. I wasn’t sure whose son I was anymore, or what my
name should be. All I had of my father was a photograph and a box of artifacts from
places I could only look up in books.
I found Kayenta on the wall atlas of the United States when I was ten. It was
jammed into the center of the Navajo Reservation, just a few miles south of Monument
Valley. I followed US Route 163 up into Utah with my finger, proud that my father had
built it.
I started the Ford up and hit the gas a few times. The engine protested at first,
then snapped into use. I had told my mother that I was “just driving around” for senior
week. I hoped to go to Arizona and find the Begay woman. I didn’t want my mother to
know. She wasn’t a Freehold anymore.
After four days clunking down the Interstates, I stopped for gas right outside the
reservation somewhere in the middle of New Mexico. A giant rain cloud appeared from
nowhere over me, and a half of a rainbow was cast down over the sunburnt landscape.
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As I marveled at the sight, a man and a woman stood next to their sport utility,
ambivalent to the natural beauty. They were arguing about the directions with New York
City accents.
You had the map! You were the one driving. Now here we are in West Jabip and
you don’t have the first damn clue, do you? Excuse me, which way to the Grand
Canyon? Which rim, north or south? Uh, which is prettier? Hell to beauty, which is
cheaper? I’d say the south rim is nicer, but it’s more crowded, isn’t it? Brian, why don’t
you ever plan ahead?
Three Navajo men sat next to the office, rolling with laughter. I smiled slightly
and got back on my westbound path.
After a road dotted with Navajo jewelry stands and signs for tourist attractions, I
barreled into Kayenta with barely enough fuel to smell. My mind had been numbed by
constant country music over the last fifteen hundred miles. As I entered the dusty town, a
Chevrolet El Camino, older than my truck, yet somehow untouched by the rust, clanked
by me on the left. My first clue was the hot dry air that cannonaded in my face when I
opened the door at the gas station at the corner of US 160 and US 163. Looking up to the
north, I could see the shadows of the monoliths at Monument Valley, that I had seen so
many times in my father’s pictures. US 163 was a spear straight through the Navajo land,
visibly straight for ten miles at least.
“My father built this road,” I said to the attendant, with a certain measure of pride.
“Yeah? What do you want, a medal?” the scrawny, toothless man spat towards
me.
I sighed noticeably. “I’m looking for a woman called Begay.”
He snorted down a raspy laugh, “You’re kidding, right?” I looked at him straightfaced to answer him. “Sheila Begay? Mary Begay? Maggie Begay? Hortense Begay?
The older Jane Begay? The younger Jane Begay? The middle Jane Begay? Which
one?” He gave me a gummy grin that was painful to look at.
“Colleen Begay?” I answered, somewhat ruffled by his appearance and his
rambling. It occurred to me later that Begay was a name more common on the
reservation than Smith was in the rest of the country. He stuck his bony finger away
from the giants to the north, “South on 591, two miles or so. Be careful.”
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“Why’s that?”
“It’s a dirt road. I bet your father didn’t build that one, belagana.” He turned
away and hobbled back to his tiny office.
I surveyed the small town with a morbid fascination. Cars and car parts, as well
as other appliances, were scattered in the red dirt in various conditions of disrepair. A
small dog, too mix-bred to identify, scampered across the road on its three legs. As the
driver of a great black Range Rover with California license plates stopped and accosted
two small boys in ragged clothes and baseball caps for directions, one of the boys gave a
wicked laugh as he relieved himself on the back tire.
I shook my head in disgust and slammed my creaky door shut.
My truck tumbled down the bumpy road towards Colleen’s abode. The house
was little more than a tumble-down shack hovering in the center of the Chinle Valley,
clinging desperately onto State Road 591. Behind it was a small circular building with a
hole in the center of the roof. I knew this to be a hogan, a Navajo home like many
distributed in plenty across the Southwest. The unique circular structure was designed on
the basis that sharp corners in a building is where evil hides. I found the idea silly and
superstitious, but no more so than the medieval Christian tradition of melting the devil
out of a person by setting him afire.
I walked up and knocked lightly on the screen door, half-afraid that the vibration
would bring the house clattering to the ground. After a few moments, an old man with a
mousy moustache opened the door and stared silently at my face through the screen for
an uneasy minute.
“What do you want?” he snapped at me.
“I’m looking for Colleen Begay,” I said, as respectfully as I could without
sounding patronizing.
“She’s inside. Wait.” He vanished into the house, but reappeared a second later.
“If that truck’s a junker, you get the damn thing off my road. I’ve had enough of those
dumped here.” He ventured back into the darkness, leaving me rattled. My eyes
wandered over the landscape and the junk in the yard, giving the appearance of a
battlefield laid to waste long ago. I glanced behind the house to see a familiar specter,
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the shell of a 1958 Studebaker Avante, torn from glory by rust and wear, baking in the
Arizona sun and harassed by the sands.
“Yeah?” A woman with long black hair stepped to the screen, frowning and
studying my face.
“You’re Colleen Begay?”
“If you’re selling something, shove off.”
“No, I just needed some information.”
She scoffed as she pushed open the screen and stormed passed me into the yard.
“Why couldn’t you stop at the visitors’ center? It’s only the next town over.” She
pushed her hand into the sky, pointing across the arid plain to the next town.
“I wanted to know about John Freehold.”
“You took your time, pal,” she said with a biting resentment as she beat the dusty
laundry drying on the clothesline with her hand. “He’s been dead ten years.”
“I was his son.”
She stopped suddenly in surprise, or perhaps in confirmation of what she had
already suspected, “You were his son, or you are his son? There’s a difference.”
“I am his son.”
“Well, John Freehold’s son, what do you want?”
“He said he left some things with you,” I said, looking around the yard
expectantly, afraid that his great heirlooms may be in this abandoned wreckage.
“Well, I’d need to look around a little. It’s around somewhere.” She threw a gaze
into the sun. “What else? I have a feeling you didn’t drive out here to pick up his old
junk.”
“I didn’t know him very well. What can you tell me about him?” It sounded
stupid as it left my lips, but I didn’t know where to begin, for a man so unknown to me.
“Ha!” She yanked a few things off of the clothesline and threw them towards the
porch. “You know what he looked like, so what else do you want to know? He built
roads, he bought trinkets, he ate at the Golden Sands Cafe back in Kayenta every
Saturday, and when he got drunk he used to sing Elvis songs.” I saw her smile for the
first time. “He made us all laugh. He made everybody laugh.” She looked at my sullen
face. “You drove a couple thousand miles to frown at an old woman?”
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“Sorry,” I said as I turned my head down. “I’m just a little…”
“Tense?”
“Sort of. Not about this, though.”
“What would you have to be tense about? You must be what, sixteen or so.”
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen, then. You just got yourself started, right?”
“Not yet. I’m…” I was embarrassed to say it, even to a stranger. “I decided to
take a year before college. I feel like everyone thinks I’m some sort of a freak.”
She gave me a calculating stare that made me flinch from the privacy of her gaze.
As she looked away, her face broke out in a grin. I touched her arm to find out why she
had suddenly begun to laugh at me, but she brushed me aside and walked towards the
house.
“You goddamn belaganas,” she muttered to herself. “You think the whole world
is in a building, and either someone’s talking at you, or you’re talking at them. You
know how many people out here have been to college? It’s a different world here. What
did your father say about us that makes you so shocked that we’re not like you?”
I looked back in my mind to all the letters from him, addressed to his “good old
sport” or his “chief.” He never talked about the people, only the work, which I found so
fascinating. He always told me about the big trucks and the loud noises, never the
battered families that stood back and watched.
“We never wanted them here. Those roads weren’t for us. They were for the
belaganas to get from here to there or the Army to get to the missile sites. My people
were only in the way.” She gave me the look of a moral victor, triumphant over an
ignorant and unarmed victim.
“We’re supposed to be lazy drunks and layabouts out here, and selling jewelry on
the side of the road is supposed to be a career highlight. We’re the real Americans here,
Freehold. You’re just Columbus’s children.” She stomped into the house, and noises of
dishevelment and frantic searching were thrown out into the quiet air.
“What does the kid want, Colleen?” I heard the old man say.
“He’s Freehold’s son, Dad. He came to find his things.”
“Freehold? You get him the hell out of here.”
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“He’s not the Military Police. Just let me find the box with his Army things in it.”
“I should have burnt that ten years ago! That guy wore a uniform in this town for
years when he never fought a day in his life. I should have worn my damn uniform!”
“Quiet, Dad!”
“I should have beat that man after what he did to…”
“Quiet!” she shrieked. Three crows fled the roof in terror, leaving nothing but
silence and the desert wind. I turned away from the house as she emerged from the
house, feigning ignorance of the scene, although we’d both heard it all clearly, and we
knew that the other had too.
“This is for you.” She handed me a cardboard box tied with twine. The word
“Freehold” was scribbled across the top in black marker.
“Your father,” I began, doubting myself. “Was he—?”
“He fought in World War II,” she said solemnly. Brightening a little, she said,
“He doesn’t like foreigners like your father.”
“Thank you,” I said softly. I took the box from her and placed it in the bed of the
truck.
“Hey, Freehold!” she hollered to me. “I forgot something.” She ran up and
placed a pair of captain’s insignia in the palm of my hand. “Success isn’t in your damn
books. A desert pearl, your father called me. I was his desert pearl for years, and I was
happy. Sometimes that’s enough. It’s not your American way, pal, but it can be for the
rest of us.”
I nodded, and handed her one of the insignias in return. Colleen smiled at the
ground, then walked back into the house, majestically, invulnerably, like a queen.
I peeked into the box. There was a dusty tan uniform, a pair of government
license plates, a few old trinkets, and a few photographs of Colleen and my father. As I
closed the box, I saw Colleen’s father send me a hateful stare through the screen, then
vanish into the shadows of the house.
I pulled myself into the truck, reeling from the words that were now lost into the
desert wind. I do not know which direction to go. To the north is my father’s highway,
and to the south lies nothing but the interminable sky and the untouched sands. There is
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nothing else to do except start up the truck, run the American flag up the radio antenna,
and find out where the road goes.
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MICHAEL MASTROIANNI
After graduating from Penncrest High School in 2001, my parents moved to
upstate Pennsylvania and I left for the University of Pittsburgh. I worked a strange
assortment of jobs in many different places for the four years it took to complete my B.A.
in English writing. One of my favorites was working for The Pitt News, the student
newspaper, where I achieved national honors in writing and photojournalism. I am
pursuing a Ph. B. in journalism while continuing to freelance in different fields and
working on a collection of short stories.
Reflection on Freehold
I loved driving. My father and I took a trip around the country in 1999, and I
drove thousands of miles between my old hometown and my new hometown, bringing
my family’s possessions to its new house in 2001. I liked the miles ticking away, I liked
the speed, and I liked being able to stop and start whenever I wished. A quest would
often end the same day it began, but it would be no less important than a knight’s errand
or a mission of mercy.
It was in that spirit that Freehold was born. I never had a quest like his, a search
for a tangible past; in fact, he is not like me in several ways. But his story was cobbled
together from many things in my life. My best friend owned a 1979 Ford F-100 that
always seemed on the verge of self-destruction. My great uncle was in the Corps of
Engineers laying roads in Navajo country. My father and I spent time in Kayenta during
our venture across the nation. Friends of mine were taking a year off before college.
Combining all that with my love of a purposeful trip, I wrote “Freehold” over four days.
Being a journalist, I appreciate now more than ever that a story can be told with
the facts alone, but holding interest lies in the details. I loved how one segment of what I
wanted to put in “Freehold” blended into the next: my frustration with conventional
views of education, my desire to illustrate the Navajo as no more and no less than normal
people in their own surroundings, and even my exchanges with lost, blind tourists in a
land they didn’t care to understand.
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Colleen was the queen of that story. She has a quiet dignity, insisting she have
her say while holding back the belligerence hidden in the darkness of the house. Like
many people I know and respect, Colleen doesn’t fight, but doesn’t surrender either.
“Freehold” spawned several themes that I went back to in college. “The Red
Earth” involved two Navajo code talkers who were separated back home by different
versions of a battle they fought together in. “Adventures at the Eighteenth Parallel” was
about a Puerto Rican woman who went back to her father’s home to discover who he was
and what he stood for. But none of my later short stories seemed as smooth or deep as
“Freehold.” After three semesters in the fiction track at college, I switched to journalism,
where my tendency to write quickly with minimal editing came in very useful.
In time, my memories of Kayenta and Monument Valley became overshadowed
by travels to faraway places and intense experiences. My love for the road became muted
by living in a city, where walking was easier and driving became nothing more than
aggravation. But when I am at my parents’ house in the mountains, I still find myself
looking at State Route 254 late at night, seeing the lights of cars and trucks fly past my
window as I wonder who they are, where they’re going and what their quest is.
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Teacher’s Reflection
The Road Story—Mike Mastroianni’s Freehold
“Road,” or “journey,” stories—stories in which a protagonist, perhaps along with
a “road partner,” or a likeable, wild group, travels an unknown world—can tend to
wander aimlessly, for better and for worse. Michael Mastroianni’s “Freehold” is an
unusual “road,” or “journey,” story because it actually ends with the beginning of the
“real” journey—the “aimless” one, that is. In fact, there’s not much, if any, aimless
wandering in “Freehold”; rather, it is quite specific in its narrative arc.
At the outset, Freehold resists the convention of going to college, and instead
heads west, but with a very specific mission in mind; still, Mike Mastroianni captures the
free-spirited sense of the open road, as well as a sense of the unpredictable, unplanned
story. Specific as the protagonist’s mission is, he is in for some surprises; what he finds
sets him on a path he never expected, a path even more wide open than the one he set out
on in the first place. Having completed his quest to discover his father’s past, he’s no
longer ashamed to admit he’s a man without a plan. Only now does the “real” wandering
begin…as he heads “home,” having discovered some new truth.
In what is perhaps the most famous “road” story of the modern era—On the Road,
by Jack Kerouac—the protagonist’s mission is much less specific than Freehold’s,
though, like Freehold, he seeks to escape the conventions of the east. And so Sal
Paradise, on the road, hitchhikes west—first to Denver, then to California—to meet up
with friends. It is anything but hardboiled suspense that sustains the interest of Kerouac’s
readers; quite to the contrary, it is the ruthless promise of episodic consistency, brought to
vivid life by the open-minded narrator-protagonist, whose only real “goal” is to resist
having one—certainly not the kind of “goal” that drives conventional stories. For
Kerouac—and his writer-cronies, the Beatniks—that was the point: to resist convention,
in both life and art, to embrace the next event and cast of characters that life may bring.
The reader of On the Road might wonder, how long can Sal Paradise go on like this, just
hitchhiking around, seeing new sights and encountering interesting people…but without
some greater purpose in mind? The reader might also wonder, how long can the novel go
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on like this? Can the novel go on until the end like this and then just fade out or stop
abruptly…or will something “dramatic” happen, forcing Sal Paradise to act decisively, to
change his route—perhaps to head back east—rather than to continue to drift westward.
It can be invigorating and thrilling to read Kerouac; and it can be tempting to
want to imitate him—that freewheeling prose, that unplanned plot unfolding like the open
road…. Well, why not? Go for it. See what you, and your characters, discover. But be
wary of the fact that what might be fun for the writer—the sprawling, unplanned plot; the
wild, untamed prose—might not be so interesting to the reader. A good story can’t just
be about aimless wandering—or even just about well-written prose.
Exercise
Write a journey story in which the protagonist seeks something. He may seek something
specific, only to discover something else entirely. Consider that your protagonist need
not set out “on the road,” nor must he travel by car. One need not “travel” far at all, to
take a journey, to alter one’s view, to enter new terrain, to move from one unknown
world to another.
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Pet Store Therapy
Noah Painter-Davis 2002
My life is a zoo. My house is the cage I live in. There are many animals in this
cage. There are the damn cats: George, Chloe, Sammy, Scampers, Has No Leg, Punky,
Sylvester, Mookie, Kitchee, Idgee, and Bo Bo. There are the family members: Ma,
Prinsiss, and me. My ma, she’s had a hard life. Death, divorce, obnoxious kids, death,
divorce, obnoxious kids; it seems to be the trend. She substituted all this tragedy and
heartache with the company of cats, one cat per tragedy. She loves them; hell, she talks
to them more than her kids. She sings to them, feeds them smoked turkey, whipped
cream, and Ben and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream. She provides them with many
lavatories; there is a litter box next to the kitchen table. Try to take a bite of sauerkraut
while George is doing his business. My sis, she has got that permanent PMS. She’s an
actress type, and she expects the royal treatment. But instead of walking on the red
carpet to the sound of trumpets to sit in her throne, she’s jumping over grass-induced
vomit, piles of spent Friskies, lazy cats, and litter boxes. The trumpets are a mixture of
my mom serenading the cats, my mom’s persistent bleeding cough, and my sister’s
throne sits with Has No Leg in it. Me, well I’m a zoo in my own right. I’m a ball of
sweating nerves. My day is composed of washing my hands with soap and peroxide until
they bleed, jumping over cracks in the floor so I won’t catch AIDS, and avoiding my
mom and her diseased, choking-on-sandpaper cough.
When I was diagnosed with OCD, my sister became Sigmund Freud. Talking
about penis envy and anger displacement. Anything I did was a symptom of OCD. If I
pissed more than once an hour, she would say I was pissing with passion to release
anxiety. My ma, she wasn’t much better; now that I avoided her because of my OCD,
she would need to pick up another stray cat to offset the trauma. My ma picks up
crippled kitties in West Philadelphia where she uses her heart’s endless compassion by
working with Special Ed children. In my suburban neighborhood of Media, my mom
began getting all the neighborhood cats neutered, causing all the male cats to avoid my
house like I avoid doorknobs. Because of my OCD my ma wanted to baby me and
coddle me, but I avoided her and anything she touched, because I thought she had some
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contagious disease. I wouldn’t touch her famous brown-sugar curry chicken or even give
my mom a hug or a kiss. Hell, if one of her blouses touched one of my socks, I’d put a
Ziploc bag on my hand, pick up the sock, throw it down the sewer with the Ziploc bog,
come inside and wash my hands for an hour, then pour hydrogen peroxide on my hands.
Follow the maze of bloody cracks in my hands to find the path to my pain. Imagine
fearing the person you used to love the most. She thought this OCD would go away like
a cold, and we would become the happy family again. When it didn’t, she got vexed with
the empty bottles of Dove soap, the hours of my sobbing and cussing, and the triple-digit
water bill. My banging blonde psychiatrist recommended I get a job to distract my mind
from OCD. She also prescribed a job in which I would have to confront my fear of
germs. I took her advice. Hell, she was so hot I’d stick one of Iggy Pop’s worn needles
into my arm for her warm kiss. Ah, maybe not. Well anyway, I took her advice and
reluctantly I got a job at a pet store called the Ark. I would expose my hands to shit, piss,
dirty money, and dirty animals in order to conquer my demon, end get back to living.
When I began working at the pet store it seemed like my own private hell. Piles
of shit, puddles of piss, decapitated cricket heads, customers with unwashed hands
holding dirty money, twelve-by-twelve poop-stained tiles, which meant a lot of jumping
over cracks, and lazy co-workers. By taking this job, I dove into a cesspool of all my
fears, hit my unbalanced-serotonin head on the concrete wall of my life, shattered my
backbone, ripped out my guts, and was made a paraplegic coward. But to defeat OCD, I
understood that I had to expose myself to my demon, and I knew the Ark was a house of
my demons.
It’s my third week at this store. In the past week I’ve already gone through five
Imodium A-D boxes to prevent the runs, thirteen squirt bottles of God’s Gift to Man—
antibacterial soap—and ten Clonopins, pills that are supposed to stop my germ-induced
breakdowns. I’m beginning to learn the ropes. As a pet-store worker one must first
smoke pot in the bathroom ten minutes before work. After that, one must take a bong hit
every hour on the hour during work, plus snort a pixie stick of a variety of any other
powders up your nose. To maintain energy throughout a strenuous work day of pot
smoking and nose banging, one must steel ten dollars out of the register to purchase a
dill-pickle-looking, worty hotdog, and a Mountain Dew energy drink. Intermittently
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throughout the festive workday an employee must granny his way over to the register in a
scoliosis posture end sell some Catnip Bubbles or Doggy Manicure paint. I bypass the
drugs and stick to avoiding as many germs and piles of poop as possible. I also enjoy
running back and forth down aisle one with the gumball machine on my shoulders. I
depend on my Anaphranil, a serotonin-balancing drug that combats OCD, to get me
through my nerve-racking day.
Work at the pet store has been hell today. It seems as though someone fed the
dogs chili con carne and milk stained with five-days expiration and laxatives. Dave, my
coworker, won’t help in the marathon of crap, for he is with his dime bag in the
bathroom, where aim is bad, toilet-seat piss is plenty, and bathroom hot boxing is the
rage. Besides murdering his brain cells, Dave enjoys decapitating our ten-cents-apiece
crickets with an expert rubber-band shot, rapping about the tortures of parvo and bowling
with a rawhide ball and dented Alpo can for pins. As for me, I’m picking up shit, doing
frantic circles around the dog cubicles, with doubled-up rubber gloves, and tears
hammering their way to my eyelids.
As my body trembled with germ epilepsy, Dave approached with blazed pupils,
which were crying for Sore Eyes Solution. Dave stood there astonished, looking at me
with my doubled-up gloves, which were covered with Ziploc bags. He gave me his
expert advice, “Damn, man, shit can’t hurt you. You don’t need all the protective gear.
All you need is some hands. Watch.” He nonchalantly picked up Pug-shit paper and
threw it in the trash can. My jaw dropped when Dave, without cleansing his hands,
ripped open a bag of Doritos, and started chomping. “Hey, you want one? It’s on the
house.”
“No thanks.” I took off my gloves and threw away the Ziploc bag. Once Dave
went to bowl in aisle three, I look our my antibacterial lotion and washed my hands.
The phone rang under the barks of dogs, so I tore a piece of paper towel from a
roll and picked it up. Careful not to touch the receiver, I said, “The Ark, how may I help
you?” The lady asked about some kittens, prices, breeds, and color. To her questions I
crumpled my face into an I-don’t-know expression. What? I didn’t know there were
breeds of cats. Well, sure you got your lions and tigers, but when it comes to cats I
thought the color and size separated them. Damn, I have ten cats, but I don’t know a lick
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about ‘em. “Well, Miss, we have one kitten in right now. I don’t know much about him.
I’m more of a fish expert, so I don’t know the breed. But I can tell you it’s damn cute. If
my mom didn’t have ten cats I’d be itching to take it home.”
“Phhhh…thanks very little,” she said.
Her bitchy tone gave my humor an itch and I just had to scratch it, “By Sir.” I
hung up the phone. I glanced upward at the cracked clock that had barely avoided the
rawhide Dave threw yesterday with me as the target. Hell, it was only six o’clock. I was
stuck between two hells—the hell of germs here and the hell of my mom’s cough and my
sister’s eyes. The only bright side in this dark day was that my mom was coming home
late tonight because she had some meeting. The less time I have to submit to that cough
the better. Hell, I used to look forward to my ma coming home early. It meant celery
with peanut butter, root-beer floats, conversations about Philadelphia sports and future
plans. It meant the occasional free-throw shooting contest or a Flyers game. I think of
the good times and I cry because the only obstacle between them is some non-sensible
bullshit rambling in my head. I thought of how my ma and I used to surprise each other
with gifts. She’d give me Cadbury milk chocolate bars or a Michael Jordan trading card.
I’d give a flower or a little poem in return. Damn, those were good times. Well, she
replaced my gifts and love with those kittens.
Thinking of Ma, I went back to look at the kitten. I was looking through the
glass, admiring the beauty of a kitty. She had some unique colors, like taking some
melted orange sherbet and dripping it on a furry white carpet. She was pawing at the
glass with them sweet sherbet paws. Irresistible enough, so I took her out of the cage. I
petted her soft fur as it licked my hand with a sweet purr. It curled up in my arms and
started sucking on my shirt. Searching for her mother’s milk that she was robbed of too
early in the stages of life. I thought of how my mom would love to have this kitten
sleeping above her head. How she would love to sing this kitten a song and feed it
barbecued smoked turkey. I thought of how this kitten had strayed away from her loving
mother and was now searching for her in my shirt. My mom and I were close before
OCD separated us. We’d go to Eagles games, root for Jerome Brown, sit in awe as
Randall left the pocket. We’d throw the pigskin on the freshly mowed grass. My mom
took on fatherly duties, after she composed herself from the pain of my vacant Dad’s
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abusive departure. He threw scalding hot Alphabet Soup on her face, which spelled out
words of degradation that burned her heart. As the kitten continued to wet my shirt, I felt
a sudden urge to hug my mom and take her to a ball game. But then I thought of that
cough I feared. An OCD fear is like poison ivy: you itch it with compulsive rituals like
washing, but it’s harder for it to heal. I itched my fear of that cough with avoidance and
denial of loving contact.
My thoughts were interrupted by Dave yelling to me that a man needed help at the
register. I was surprised that a customer was in the store because of the hurricane
downpour of rain that had been pounding the area all day. You’d have to be crazy to
drive or even walk in that rain. I took the kitty from the artificial nipple of my shirt; I
patted its head and put it back in its cage.
I drudged my way to the register, seeing that a dirty biker was waiting to buy two
rats for some snake. The register is a dimension of my hell, dirty money taken from dirty
hands. As the toothless biker’s money touched my hand, the anxiety crept up into my
body. My heartbeat thumped louder, as my glue-stick fingers hit the germ-infected keys.
My pedigree muscles from benching IAMS dog bags tightened like the American Boa
around a sacrificial mouse. In the back of the store I could hear the sherbet kitty
meowing. It longed for its mother’s nipple. Meanwhile the germs on my hands caused a
nervous rat to scratch its way from my heart, tearing through my esophagus, dying in my
dry throat. Tears seemed to seep from my turbulent mind, crying down my face, dying in
a pool of sweat on my shirt. When the biker was cared for, my OCD breathed a sigh of
relief. I could squirt my hands with anti-bacterial lotion. I went for my secret nook
where I hid my lotion, but it was gone. I searched frantically for the lotion, feeling the
germs devouring my hands and nerves. I screamed to Dave, asking where is that lotion I
bring? Dave hollered back that he was cleaning up and threw it out. My mind circled.
The rat appeared in my throat again and I choked on its sweaty fur. I hurdled the cracks
in the tiles, running for the bathroom I have tried to avoid. I kicked open the bathroom
door with my shoe, and was punched in the gut by the sight of stale piss, mucus in the
sink, and a worn ashtray next to the faucet. I felt the germs slicing off oxygen to my
throat. I felt like a heroin addict craving a fix. I craved soap. I sat in the stock room and
cried, denied of my savior of soap. My tears mingled with the sound of Sherbet’s
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meowing. I staggered to her cage, searching for solace. I took Sherbet in my arms and
melted into a corner. She kissed and licked my salty tears, and then again went for my
shirt’s artificial mother’s nipple. Her licks, kisses, and soft fur slowly sedated my
anxiety. As the anxiety subsided, pride filled my heart because for this instant my hands
did not crave the soap, only this kitten’s fur. It was an exposure battle victory in the war
against OCD. I had touched stained money and I had not washed my hands. It was a
step. My heart and legs felt the sudden urge to run to my mother, to dominate my fear of
her dirty cough and give her a hug, and tell her about my step. I followed the urge. I
exited the store, with Sherbet under my shirt. The summer rain pounded my bare arms,
but Sherbet was safe under my shirt. I ran through the dark, soaking wet, I jumped over
sidewalk cracks, I ran past stop signs, block after block to the light of my house.
I approached my lighted doorway, a safe haven from the violent rain. I went to
open the doorknob with my sleeve covering my coward hand. But I said, today will be a
day of redemptive pride, and I defied OCD once again and opened the knob with one of
my blood-cracked hands. I entered my house that suddenly felt like home again. I sat on
a chair at the dining room table, below a wooden kitten sign that I bought my mom two
Christmases ago. The sign was engraved, “Strays Welcome.” I took Sherbet from under
my shirt. She once again found comfort in the artificial milk of my shirt. The milk dried
and died, as I waited, for my mom never made it home.
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NOAH PAINTER-DAVIS
After graduating from Penncrest in 2002, I attended Susquehanna University. I wanted to
be a psychiatrist, but biology is too complicated. I wanted to be a therapist, but I can’t
stay in an office all day—besides some of my patients might be hot and vulnerable,
which would be a conflict of interest. So, I think I’m going to be a lawyer, a heavy-metal
singer, an ultimate fighter, or an actor, or a combination of these. I may try to get into
politics. Dubya inspires me in only one way: he was (and is) a screw-up, but still
became the president, not once but twice. So maybe I can. If everything goes bad, I’m
excited that my favorite psychology teacher told me that “if I got to prison I’d run it.”
Reflection on Pet Shop Therapy
My story was inspired by my experience with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I
find the disorder very painful, but also very hilarious because of some of the lunacy and
creativity it creates. I melded this experience with my family life and the zoo that still
exists here. Only nine cats now—George was hit by a truck a couple weeks ago, but an
“unnamed kitty,” who has a mysterious bump on its back that oozes, replaced it. As for
the story, I think the story was therapeutic; it seemed interesting and was easy to write
because I was living it. I would change much of my story. Rereading it for the first time
after three-plus years, I found that there were way too many adjectives, metaphors,
similes, and other literary words that evade me at the moment. It was so cute that it
seemed a little ugly. I would also change the vague ending—“my mother never came
home.” That was a little abrupt. I didn’t know how to end the story, so I just killed off
my mom. Some other possible endings could include: her coming home and showing
more love to the cat than me, me killing the cats so she would pay more attention to me,
suicide, murder, a love fling with one of the cats, or end it how it began—with stagnant
confusion.
I’m pleased at the honesty of my story. Most of the story is based off truth: the
rituals, my co-worker, the work environment, my mother, the cats as mechanisms for
coping with tragedy.
Today I write only poetry. I write when I’m pissed off, sad, or in love, which is
about every other day. A lot of inspiration for my writing has come from the band Tool,
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NIN, the writer Jonathon Saffron Foer, my continuing experience with Obsessive
Compulsive Disorder, and my hate of the Republican Party and the religious zealots.
Anyway, I may write another story, some memoirs under an alias, because the stories
would be ridiculous and embarrassing even to a corpse.
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Teacher Reflection
The Setting As Battleground in Noah Painter-Davis’s Pet Store Therapy
In “Pet Store Therapy” Noah Painter-Davis captures the protagonist’s inner
conflict through his engagement with his external surroundings—not only the pet store
but also his home. Two opposing ideas make up the protagonist’s inner conflict: his
conscious desire to conquer Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and his unconscious desire
to reconnect with his mother, who is, like her home, anything but clean. The tension
between these two opposing forces—the conscious versus the unconscious desire—is the
driving force of the story. What Noah does so well is to make physical—or external—
that which is internal. That is, he creates the perfect setting for the protagonist to tackle
his problem, forcing him to act, or, more to the point, to interact with the setting.
What’s more, Noah establishes the unlikely setting of the pet store in a convincing
way, by having the therapist challenge the protagonist to seek work that would most
challenge him to overcome his neuroses. In the beginning, the protagonist avoids home
and dreads the pet store. Then, heroically, he takes on his OCD, eventually realizing his
inner desire to reunite with his mother. In the end, he races home with a pet-store cat of
his own. The bittersweet ending is thrilling and moving, especially when, it turns out, his
mother is gone—for good. We are left celebrating the protagonist’s triumph, while
sympathizing with his loss. The setting, in the end, once again reflects the protagonist’s
inner life, as he sits alone at home, longing for the embrace of his mother, while
embracing his newly beloved pet-store cat.
Exercise
Write a story, or a long scene, in which the setting serves as an arena for the protagonist
to tackle his inner conflict. Ask yourself: what setting would be most challenging to my
character? Immerse your character in this setting, pushing him to the limit and beyond,
to the “other side” of the experience, where he faces his inner conflict once and for all.
Perhaps consider a setting first and then imagine a character that would be challenged by
this setting. For example, who would dread working in a Styrofoam cup factory? Why?
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Who would fear getting locked inside the public library overnight? Why? Who would
hate to be a passenger on a bus? Why? Who would rather do anything else in the world
than work in a pet store? Why?
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Leaving Places
Jon Pitts 2002
If was mid-June end the last day of my junior year at Upper Oakland Heights
Senior High School. Pushing open the double doors I was met with the towering sun that
seemed to shine an incandescent bronze on the concrete. My blue Converse All-Stars
strode through the asphalt-gravel mixture of my school’s parking lot as I reminded
myself that with each crunchy footstep I would be farther and farther from a place I had
no wish to return to. Across the bay they had abandoned Haight-Ashbury and went south
for the bright lights and disco balls of the “City of Angels.” Meanwhile, alcohol had
gotten the best of Berkley Village’s hero, Sal Paradise, and forced him to go to a place far
north. After winning three World Series with the A’s and capturing the hearts of
thousands of kids across Northern California, Reggie Jackson went east for the fat
salaries and glamour of New York City.
Walking to my 52nd Street apartment I wondered to myself, as I did many times
during that age of my life, why everyone felt the need to leave places. Continuing to
walk up the crooked steps of the complex I reached for my keys as I unlocked the thirdfloor apartment that Mom and I shared for as long as I could remember. Pushing open
the paint-chipped door and flicking on the light switch, I gave out my usual “hello” that
never seemed to get returned. Dad, too, was someone who had left us. It had been
thirteen years before. “There are better opportunities for an aspiring musician like me in
Los Angeles,” was what he’d told my mom. “I’m not ready for a family,” was what
she’d heard. Walking across the thick carpet that disguised the discolored floor beams, I
turned the knob on our 18-inch JVC as images of Jimmy Carter panned across the
television set. Grabbing a bottle of pop from the kitchen and cracking the window, I
situated myself down on the green couch that seemed to sink deeper with every nightly
sitting it endured during Barnie Miller re-runs. The clock red 1:27, and before I could
help it I quickly dozed off.
“Peter! Are you home? It’s me.” I was awakened by my mom’s voice coming
from across the hall through the front door. With her face hidden behind overflowing
brown bags that read “Jewel-T Groceries,” my mom returned from one of her two jobs.
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She worked at an insurance agency and her brother’s car agency where she did billing on
the side.
“Yeah, Mom, you don’t need to yell. I’m right here on the couch,” I said, still
half asleep and unsure of where time had gone.
“I’m sorry. But listen, Pete, I’m going to put the food in the oven for you. I need
to take a shower. It just needs to be heated for ten or fifteen minutes. I’m really in a
hurry. I’m meeting a man for dinner in about on hour. Okay?”
“It’s 6:00 already! Mom, I have to go to Darryl’s,” I exclaimed, thumping onto
the carpet, still dizzy from sleep. “We’re having a rehearsal tonight. We have a gig at
some VFW next week.”
“That’s fine, Peter, but I don’t want you coming home smelling like that reefer.
Mrs. Harkins suspects some of the kids on the block have been selling marijuana.” I
appreciated the concern my mom gave me as she tried to play the role of double-parent,
but I couldn’t help but laugh inside at the way she shot me those naive statements.
Returning in the role of the teenage son, I responded with an innocent chuckle.
“Mom, Mrs. Harkins also still thinks Castro paid Johnson to invade Vietnam…
Listen, I won’t be late. Just have a good time on your date.”
“It’s not a date, stop saying that. It’s dinner…with a co-worker who happens to
be a friend of mine. And that’s why I have to go now,” she said with a firm and
defensive look.
“Okay, Mom. It’s dinner.”
Hustling up the stairs, she yelled down, “Don’t forget to take your food out of the
oven.” Turning to the guest room, I began to gather my items, which sat in the corner of
the room. Sitting on the far left was my beige Danalectro transistor amplifier that was
stained with a brown hue due to the influx of cigarette smoke it withheld while sitting in
the back rehearsal room of Buddy’s Music Shop, the place where I had purchased it
several years back. Leaning up next to it was its partner in crime, hidden within a brown
leather case with twangy wires peaking out the top zipper. It was a 1957 white fender
telecaster that had turned cream. I remembered vividly the day it was given to me for my
13th birthday. My grandfather handed it to me with a big smile as he continued to tell me
how it was a gift from my father.
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“You know, I think it was one of his own,” he’d tell me with that long smile that
pierced his dry and wrinkled skin. I could only smile back. Deep down inside we both
knew that my grandfather had bought it for me. But years had gone by since those days
in which I was the little kid who ran around the house by himself pretending to be the
latest childhood sensation on American Bandstand. Holidays would be a time when I’d
get the family around the couch and do my Buddy Holly impersonations. They’d all give
me compliments and it seemed that the only thing they were holding back was the “your
father would be proud” comment. Dad was more than a musician, or so my aunt would
tell me before Mom would interrupt.
“Don’t tell the boy fairy tales,” she’d tell her sisters. I learned from these
accounts that growing up he played the piano, bass, guitar, cello, a few wind instruments,
and he could even keep a beat on the drum set. It was where I inherited musical intuition.
I had a gift, was what my mom told me. I told myself it came from him. I guess it was
the one gift a father could give a son without ever being around him. Suddenly smoke
started to rise from the kitchen counter as my mom stormed down the stairs.
“God damn it, Peter, don’t you smell that?” With her hair still wet and only
guarded by a towel, my mom dashed past me to turn the oven off, almost knocking the
speaker out of my hand. Still spaced out and storing, I continued to peer out of the aged
and foggy windows that looked down upon the concrete maze that was Packson Avenue.
I finally gathered myself. Picking up my amplifier, I began to drag it across the room
with my guitar strapped around my back, ignoring the sounds of my confused mother. I
mumbled something, in regards to not being hungry, and ducked out the front door. As I
walked down the steps, my senses were flooded, the fusion of burnt grilled cheese and
the summer night.
*
It was about 11:30 and the third time during the long night that we had done
Boston’s “Foreplay—Long Time.” My eyes burned from the cigarette smoke that
seemed to swirl about Darryl McMahon’s basement like sand on a windy desert. With
my eyes closed as my fingers jumped around the fret board, I got lost in the moment.
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Pretending to be Jerry Garcia, I took a solo with my eyes closed. Suddenly the moment
of ecstasy came to a halt with the blinking of fluorescent ceiling lights.
“What the hell! You have got to be kidding me,” yelled Tim Lewis from his seat
behind the drum set he could barely see over. Interrupted in the moment by Darryl’s
mom, a 1970’s version of June Cleaver, the perplexed and frustrated group one by one
stopped playing their instruments as she yelled from the top of the stairwell of their twofloor home in the nicer part of Oakland.
“Boys… It’s getting kind of late. And, Darryl, you need to get up early
tomorrow. I think it’s time you should pack up.” Mrs. McMahon yelled from the top of
the stairs in an innocent voice. Tim, the wise-ass of the group, got up from his stool.
“Darryl, man, your mom has to be stopped. I was feeling something there, man. I
mean, I really was. We’re gonna have to find a new place to rehearse.” The band
continued to argue, while I kept quiet and began to wrap my torn wire around the back
holster of the amplifier. Filing out we all smoked one last cigarette, realizing that much
hadn’t been accomplished in the two-and-a-half-hour practice. But every night that
seemed to be okay. We would dance around a few tunes for over twenty minutes apiece
and live things up for the moment. And that, with the help of Darryl’s older sister’s
secret brownies, was enough to get us all high.
As I made my way home, lights from the city’s transit bus up ahead at the edge of
Packson and 49th Streets served as a beacon. It was after twelve and I was still exhausted
from the long night. I followed my tall shadow down the empty street, wondering if my
mom had been let down by another man who was not worthy of her. The sounds of
clashing loose chain nets and bouncing basketballs resonated as white kids were
challenging black kids in a pickup game under the yellow-orange lights that hovered over
the courts. Taking old-man steps, I carted my equipment up the stairs and pushed open
the door that was suspiciously left open. One small lamp was enough to show my
mother’s aged face that leaned up against the couch. She was both motionless and still,
her cheeks still red, as dried-up tears could be seen on her face from the doorway. On the
floor lay stacks of picture albums covered in dust and faded labels and emblems. She
didn’t say anything, trading looks between me and the unoccupied space that lay behind
the half-open door. Before I could make it to the top of the steps my mom stopped me.
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“Peter,” she said softly. “Peter, your other grandmother called. She wanted to let
us know that we wouldn’t be getting a check in the mail.” She choked on her tears as she
continued to give me the message. It was all because of a phone call she had gotten that
night. My grandmother on my father’s side, whom I rarely saw, had called in a casual
fashion, like a distant cousin checking in to say hello, or a librarian to remind you a book
was overdue. It was a simple message: her son had died two nights prior. He had been
killed in a fight outside a jazz club in San Francisco. He had been right next-door all
these years. My rationalization had come to a halt. There had been no exciting music
ventures in Los Angeles that I had dreamt of, and no spreading of his compositions in the
coffee houses of Greenwich Village. He had never truly left us.
*
Labor Day block party flyers and back-to-school advertisements layered the
telephone poles outside the Greyhound station. Along with an ambitious wad of cash,
packs of D’Addario guitar strings stuffed my pockets. Mom had left forty minutes ago
and the only words she left me with were to call every day. Across the terminal a boy
about my age, with a sweatshirt that said the words, “Go Ducks,” kissed his mom and dad
as he boarded a bus headed for Eugene. I lifted up my guitar before the light drizzle
could stain its brown leather case. Clutched tightly in my hands were two items: a damp
sheet covered with phone numbers and addresses my mom’s sister had given me, and a
bus ticket that read “Terminal 4—Departure: 4:50.” Out of nowhere the sound of a bus
engine wailed as it pulled under the overhang and came to a stop. People made their way
off the bus. A man from inside the station came outside. Along with a ladder, he had in
his hand a bucketful of large cardboard letters that would replace the word “Oakland” on
the front of the bus. My watch read 4:17, and when I looked back up the letters “L,” “O,”
and “S” were already stuck to the front of the bus. It was brisk out and summer was
almost over.
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JONATHAN PITTS
I am a senior at Providence College in Rhode Island, currently student-teaching
American Government at North Providence High School.
Reflection on Leaving Places
Aside from a couple hours at the Los Angeles International Airport, I’ve yet to
reach America’s last frontier, and the dream of doing so served as inspiration for the
setting of “Leaving Places.” In terms of making the story into a timepiece, I was
intrigued with the idea of setting it in a period just after one of contemporary intrigue.
After interviewing my European History teacher, Rob Simpson, for a length of time, I
came up with a list of pop-culture references—sports, music, TV—that I felt would help
detail and support my conceptualization of the broken neighborhoods of Oakland,
California, in the mid-1970’s.
As I wrote, attempting to capture the feeling of a foreign era was as important as
developing a strong plot, which I knew would come naturally. I was reading a lot of John
Updike at the time, and I wanted to give my story a similar kind of broken-hearted
middle-class Americana, which I felt the audience could sympathize with. I wanted to
write a story about youth, coming of age, family, and music, set in a place that was
dichotomous to the conception of the free-spirit one imagines at the corner of HaightAsbury in 1969, long before this sort of idealized counter-culture fizzled and American
youth left Golden Gate Park for Studio 54. My goal was to remind the reader of the
unique power that is the passion of youth.
Playing and listening to music my entire life, I wanted to highlight the unique
power of musical expression and how this creative art, examined at a modest and
individual level, can help humanity endure and drive to meet their passion. I tried to
write “Leaving Places” while using selective and concise wording, to leave much to the
reader’s imagination. As the story closes, the last location where I leave the protagonist
is at an Oakland bus terminal. Here the character is en route to Los Angeles, a place
saturated with ambitious and naïve musical aspirations. The reader sees only the letters
“L-O-S” appear on the bus marquee—this is as much a reference to the city Peter is
destined for as it is to the idea of his being “lost” in his dreams and passion.
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Teacher Reflection
The Story Arc—and Scene Arcs—in Jonathan Pitts’s Leaving Places
A story in which nothing changes is probably not much of story. In Jonathan
Pitts’s Leaving Places, Peter, the protagonist, changes dramatically: in the opening scene
he starts out wondering, sadly, it seems, why “everyone felt the need to leave places,”
and by the last scene he himself is leaving Oakland for Los Angeles. Peter demonstrates
an emotional change as well as a physical one: he has matured, realizing the truth of his
father; in the end he is beginning a journey. This change—or change in value—is the
overall arc of the story, which itself is made up of individual scenes that have their own
arcs—that is, every scene is marked by some change in value.
Not coincidentally, given the story’s theme—and title—every scene’s arc
revolves around the notion of “leaving places.” In the first scene Peter has just left high
school, thinking of his father, who left Oakland for Los Angeles, and of Reggie Jackson,
who left Oakland for New York; the scene ends with Peter arriving home, where life is
secure and predictable. There is a physical arc and an emotional arc: he leaves school,
and then he arrives home; he is pensive about “leaving places,” particularly about his
father having left years ago, and then he escapes his thoughts by watching TV and dozing
off.
The second scene begins where the first left off: he awakes on the couch when
his mother arrives home; by the end of the scene he leaves to go to Daryl’s. In addition
to this physical arc, there is an emotional arc as well: tension rises progressively from the
moment his mother sets foot in the house, rushing to get ready for a date, instructing
Peter about his dinner in the oven, and warning him about smoking marijuana.
In the beginning of the third scene Peter and his pals are jamming in the
basement, smoking cigarettes, just before Daryl’s mother interrupts; by the end of the
scene he is, once again, leaving. There is also an emotional arc, if a subtle one: first
Peter’s mother, having warned him about marijuana, and now Daryl’s mother, seem to be
effectively hindering the boys’ freedom; but by the end of the scene Peter admits that the
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band’s practices, “with the help of Darryl’s older sister’s secret brownies, was enough to
get us all high.”
Arriving home again in scene four, Peter learns of the death of his father, who
never lived out his dreams and “never truly left us.” The final scene completes the
story’s overall arc, revealing Peter as a changed “man,” poised to leave home, to pursue
his own dreams in Los Angeles, the letters “L,” “O,” “S” replacing “Oakland” on the
front of the bus.
Exercise
Write a scene containing both a physical and emotional arc. First, outline your plan for
the scene. For example, before writing “Leaving Places,” Jonathan Pitts might have
written in his outline: “Scene One. Physical arc: Peter leaves high school on last day of
school…and then he goes home. Emotional arc: He’s thoughtful about leaving places,
especially about his dad…and then he escapes his thoughts by watching TV and dozing
off.”
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Stasis
Scott Pritchard 2002
Glasses clinked loudly as guests made their rounds. There was a sweet holiday
reverie in the air as people mingled, supplanting worries and obligations with mistletoe
and eggnog. The Christmas tree stood alight in the vast hallway as a beacon drawing
people together. Martin Forester looked around nostalgically, watching his mother.
Sweeping through the house, her face gushing with charm, she catered to people with the
reassurance and poise of a time-tested flight attendant in a plane that was spiraling toward
the ground. She carried herself with practical elegance and an understated aura of selfimportance while she happily received her guests. The house filled every year with a
family that was still growing in spades. Hugs were exchanged, kisses were distributed,
and then after crème brulee they were shuffled out the door until next Christmas.
Walls vibrated with distant memories embodied in kitschy knickknacks and tired
platitudes. Plaques hovered everywhere on well-lit walls declaring such things as “Home
is where the heart is,” and Martin studied them with pointed concentration, hoping to find
a truism that could help him get through the night (this was a brilliant conversationavoidance tactic, as well). He felt self-conscious around his family, thinking about the
plaques. Life came conveniently packaged in these gift-card aphorisms for the Foresters.
It was their creed, and, to his mother, the final word in all affairs. Both parents had
countless siblings, so they felt it was necessary to preen and indulge their only son. They
shoved the idea of family down his throat, coddling Martin while balancing the worldly
life. Hers was a variety of suburban sophistication—grace without the jaded cynicism, in
the end, always willing to make punch and lemonade and live in a house that placed
comfort over fashion. He watched her fondly with a smile.
With drink in hand Martin walked around the house trying to keep a low profile.
Between sips of scotch he noticed the dim outline of his father, huddled into the corner
like a frightened deer. Martin gazed into the fray with a thoughtful stare, catching his
father’s eye. The man walked slowly, carefully plotting every step, limping with the gait
of an aged prizefighter. His barrel chest and huge muscles that Martin remembered as a
child had been whisked away on the wings of old age; in their place, a more delicate,
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refined frame remained. The man behind it wandered towards him. His father’s
demeanor suggested a well of infinite patience and reserve, undaunted by the continual
passage of time. It wasn’t far from the truth, and it never failed to unnerve his only son.
“So how have you been, son? It’s been a while.” Martin noticed his eyes dart
around as he spoke, probably contemplating a quick escape, but ever wary of the threat of
his wife, the omniscient hostess. Martin waited for a while to feel him out. He knew that
his father hated parties, due to an unconscious aversion to small talk. Knocking around
sports scores and the status of the market was unfathomable to a man who measured his
words in spoonfuls as if too much would poison him.
“Well, there’s really no reason to complain.” Martin spoke softly, looking down
into the bottom of his glass, trying to penetrate through the brown liquid to the floor. He
was unable to think clearly and wanted to disappear among the decorations. Either the
drinks, the heat, or the people placed him into a vague lull of complacency. They walked
on, taking in the scene without a word between them. Martin’s feet became heavy,
lethargically navigating the tiles that felt like quicksand. A measured yet enviable
continuum among these circles of happy nuclear families had once again gotten the better
of him. A heavy blanket of guilt descended. He felt anxious, desiring continuity and, at
the very least, some semblance of normality. Life had been turning in reckless circles
recently, and family get-togethers were too strong a reminder that he was still alone.
As Martin looked into the face of this man riding on the coattails of a ripened
American dream, he realized that, for his father, everything had been leading to these last
couple years that his son had frittered away like dust to the wind—he was just an old,
eager man inviting his child to harvest the fields he had sown, and preserve his legacy.
There Martin stood, thirty-six years old, the only remaining bachelor in the entire house,
relegated to the position of suspiciously single, and, to a group of concerned parents and
family, a bit flaky.
“Really, your mother is going to explode at this pace. She makes a run around the
house every two minutes. I don’t know how she does it.”
“You know how she lives for this kind of thing. She’s a special person…”
“Speaking of which, how is that lovely girlfriend of yours? Where is she
anyway?” He was using his shrewdest conversational technique: redirecting everything
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back to his son’s inadequacies. Martin spoke quickly, “Not now, Dad. Let me just enjoy
this. It really is nice to be around normal people every once in a while.” He was from
New York. That seemed to explain a lot.
“Well, it seems everyone’s had just about enough anyway. They’re all heading
home. Why don’t you stay for a while?”
“We’re on a break, okay? There. Things just haven’t felt right lately. Cara’s just
so…so demanding. Sometimes I think I just don’t have the energy for her.” Martin
automatically jumped on the defensive. Between her and the family, he never felt like he
was doing the right thing. There was always a division, and Martin was walking a thin
line between fantasy and reality.
His father nodded gravely as if someone had died. It was a genuine,
discomforting look of concern. He couldn’t understand how anyone could be happy
alone. Martin had fought him for years, but now as he stood under the grand inquisition,
he was starting to think his father might be right. He had been with this girl for over a
year now, and there was not one single reason that he didn’t just take the plunge; there
was not one single reason why she couldn’t be “the one.” It was perfectly sensible. Of
course he couldn’t concede this to his father, however, because he knew the path that this
conversation was heading. He had taken it many times before. It happened every year.
Visiting this huge family was a perfect way to undergo the irony of feeling lonely and
dejected among the people he loved. He eyed the door, knowing it was time to go.
Martin patted his father on the back and let out a quick stab at assurance, “It’s
only a temporary thing, don’t worry, we’ll be fine.” He said this regardless of how he
felt. Things might not be quite so temporary. Grabbing his coat off the hook by the door,
Martin took a deep breath and prepared to placate his mother, and tell her about all the
grandchildren that she could expect soon enough. With hugs and kisses dispensed and
energy reserves depleted, life could resume as usual.
They would be out on the town by now on a normal night. Martin pictured her in
that slinky green dress, attending a debutante ball where she could spread her wings as
the social butterfly that she was, unhindered by the practical boyfriend resigned to
following her around like a well-trained and devoted puppy nipping at her heels, waiting
for a sign of affection. Tonight, Martin had startled himself with the idea that maybe she
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was it. A week earlier he had been skirting around the idea of moving in together and
now marriage was in the picture? His stomach turned over in knots. It didn’t seem to
matter all that much anyway, because she was sick and tired of a man who couldn’t share
the same apartment with her, no matter how much she loved him. And rightfully so.
He felt detachment again, an unanchored sensation of not knowing what was
twenty-five years ahead of him or even behind, clinging to his job as if it was the last
bastion of reliability in his life. It centered him. Martin was the owner of one of the
endless line of chic city restaurants with a big name, a big price tag, a big following, and
mediocre food. As he passed it on the way back to Bleaker Street and his apartment in
between honks and stop-and-go traffic, he glanced inside the restaurant, bustling as usual
with the never-ending supply of hipsters and suits that streamed through the wide double
doors and into his wallet. The place ran itself. Martin was essentially an intermediary
who merely had to sit back and keep the machine running. He had put every waking
minute into that restaurant, and, even now, he really wanted to be in there making sure
everything was all right. Now there was a full-time manager. He was passing the reigns
a little bit, reluctantly (at the request of Cara), and although Martin still had total control,
it seemed to him that even the restaurant was slipping away. It still took a lot out of him
not to be there tonight, even for one night of the year; conceding a Saturday to a green
manager was appalling. The restaurant was where he met Cara for the first time. She
was an odd beauty—dark eyes and hair, lips that were a little too wide and a chin that
almost receded, yet somehow it all came together into a sultry, mesmerizing face of
caramel skin that could make a man scream inside.
He finally pulled into the garage, a subterranean palace for car owners in New
York City, unrestricted parking, an unnecessary convenience (the car was an unnecessary
convenience as well) in the ballpark of $700 a month. Martin pulled in carefully, stepped
out and pushed his remote. The car beeped smugly to let the world know it was
expensive, and now impregnable. As Martin approached the elevator, Cara wouldn’t
leave his mind for a second. She hung there, a selfish specter creating a tiresome ache
that seeped throughout his body and sweat out his pores. His father’s few words, echoed
around her image, stood resolutely above her head as Martin shrugged involuntarily,
placed the key into the lock and turned it slowly as if the right timing might bring her
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back. He imagined walking into his apartment, hanging up his coat and having a nice
dinner waiting for him from a smiling, doting wife. Maybe he could even say, “Honey,
I’m home!” Those greeting-card aphorisms seemed utterly inspired right now. He
opened the door, half expecting it to be true, but instead was greeted by a dark apartment
with the hominess of a museum and a barren Christmas tree. Life could resume as usual.
He turned the light on, walked over to the couch and collapsed. Not knowing
what to do with himself, he turned on the TV and absentmindedly clicked through the
channels. The screen flared obnoxiously with advertisements in the guise of holiday
cheer. Smiling faces and happy kids opening presents that turned out to be a new DVD
player or a powerful vacuum cleaner placed their insidious hooks in Martin’s mind.
Click. It’s a Wonderful Life. Click. Here comes Santa Claus. Click. The Family Man.
Click. The screen went blank. Holiday spirit had infiltrated the Forester home.
Martin headed directly for the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a stiff drink and
went to his room. On his way down the ornate, spacious hallway he stopped at an end
table and picked up the phone. He stared at it for a second, visualizing the numbers he
wanted to press so desperately. She was out now, though. It was supposedly better this
way; she would stay with her family and Martin with his, and that would give them both
time to reflect on where their relationship was going. For some reason, Martin didn’t
even know what to reflect on.
He entered his room and took out a photo album. It was from their time together
in Paris, the romance capital of the world. They drank wine, talked about their lives, felt
even more sophisticated than being in New York, and walked the streets hand in hand.
To Martin, that trip just felt right. It looked right. He ran his fingers slowly over the
glossy image while closing his eyes. During a walk through the arch of the Arc de
Triumphe, Martin felt as if it were the gateway to a new world, and the beginning of a
long stretch of time where everything would just be all right. That’s all he really wanted.
Now Martin looked at it differently. Instead the Arc fell in on them, crumbling over their
heads, leaving their hopes buried on the Champs Elysee one summer night. It was a
moment forever frozen in time, and now as Martin sat alone on Christmas Eve, it marked
something else, not the beginning, but rather the beginning of the end. If she’d only call,
he thought maybe they could get that back, rewind to the hot streets of Paris. Not only
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was Martin ready to commit, at this point, he was desperate to. He looked at them
standing there under that massive structure of permanence, and started to cry.
*
She didn’t call. Martin, slowly but surely—with the aid of busy holiday crowds
and the passing of routine-filled days—began to create a soft shell of resiliency that
covered the hole Christmas Eve had created. It was a tenuous and shaky resiliency, one
that could be easily penetrated with something as mundane as sudden change in the
temperature or shift in the wind, but nonetheless a start. Strolling through his empire,
checking the counters and food stock, grilling the waiters on procedure, and filling the
restaurant with a sense of urgency and purpose, Martin focused on the biggest night of
the year: the last. The week had slipped by into a succession of forgettable days, days in
which the telephone lay silent as death, mocking him with its refusal to ring. Despite
Martin’s gloomy disposition a week ago, in the back of his mind he really thought she
would call. It forced him to consider something else, something in their relationship that
shook its very core, something that was much more important than Martin’s refusal to
share an apartment. But he had no idea what it could be.
Whatever it was, he decided that it was her decision to call, he would hold
steadfast, and tonight, December 31st, he was not going to sit in his apartment and brood,
but participate in the end of a very, very long year. Satisfied that the restaurant was
prepared for its influx of customers tonight, Martin once again conceded control to his
manager, who had showed competence lately in Martin’s absence.
There was a party tonight that one of Martin’s friends had decided to have. After
much internal debate, Martin decided that he was going to go. He was not going to put
his life on hold for her. She could wait for him for a change. Confident and excited
about his tentative decision to resume life as it should be lived, Martin made one last
sweep of the restaurant, chatting up the guests and making sure every last utensil was in
place. He wanted tonight to go without a hitch.
The party was in full swing by the time he arrived. Champagne and conversation
were flowing freely, and Steve Mason’s massive apartment was bursting at the seams.
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Most people were well on their way to bringing in the New Year in time-honored
tradition: inebriated. As Martin stepped through the door, he smiled. Cara was not here,
she was not with him, and yet right now he wasn’t thinking about her at all. Steve looked
up from the full bar where he was sitting, and noticed Martin. He quickly ran over to
greet his friend.
“Hey, I’m really glad you could make it. Things are really getting going here.
It’s great.” His face was beaming, obviously ecstatic that so many people wanted to
spend the final hours of the year in his apartment, and in his company. Some people are
just natural-born hosts. Steve was a man who affected sincerity in every possible
situation because it benefited him. He wrote about people, studied their quirks and
motivations. He took stories from the very kinds of people who were attending his party
tonight. Being a good listener got him to the top of the bestseller lists and a never-ending
stream of critics’ support that he downplayed whenever possible. He needed people to
believe that he really cared about them, which made Martin uneasy and persistently selfconscious. Martin tended to withhold judgment on the man, and, although friends, he
was someone that he never really felt he knew.
“Yeah, it seems like it.”
“Listen, Martin, you have a good time, all right. Let me grab your coat. Don’t
worry about Cara. I’m sure you two will be fine. But in the meantime grab a drink and
forget about her.” He slapped Martin on the back and with a quick wink he was off to
revel in the company of friends, and people who were there for free drinks.
Overwhelmed, Martin just stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight.
People were everywhere. Martin weaved his way through bodies, and made his way to
the bar. On his way he caught bits of conversation about such things as the “erudite yet
pedantic nature” of Foucault and similar topics of interest at upscale Manhattan parties.
He sat down—not planning to move until the night was over and quickly beginning to
regret coming—and ordered a drink. All around him the pleasant hum of conversation
was filling his ears. He let himself fade out and get lost in the steady rhythm of the
people with their metallic, tinny voices. It only took a few minutes for Martin to fade
away. Then something broke the trance.
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“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but don’t you work at the Russian Tea
Room? I could have sworn I’d seen you there before.” Martin glanced over in the
direction of this voice, and felt as though he’d been hit by a bus. It was a visible
straightening of his body and crinkling of the nose. He was about to fall off the stool.
The girl was attractive, to say the very least. She had everything Cara didn’t: a
wonderful, well-proportioned body (not too thin), short brunette hair that was tousled in
the way that said I just woke up but I’m still gorgeous, and full, pouty lips. Martin
wanted to sleep with her. Immediately. It wasn’t even a conscious decision, but rather
something that just came up—especially with a girl like this. Martin shifted in his seat
nervously, having no idea what to say. Despite his experience and success in the city in
situations such as these, his confidence left him and he became small and totally
impotent. During the past year he had not had to worry about the dating game, and, now,
as he sat there horrified, he realized that he had forgotten the basics. He thought about
running home, getting a camera and taking a picture of her, and then leaving immediately
as if he were a perverted high school student. It seemed the best thing to do in the
situation—at least something to remember her by if she slapped him in the face and
walked away. He was in no position to act confident around her or even talk to her. He
racked his brain for something witty to say, but instead sat there awkwardly with a
toothy, billboard grin that affected all the sincerity of a used car salesman. Finally Martin
managed to sputter a few words in her direction.
“Um…yes. I’m the owner actually.”
“Really? Well, it is an absolutely wonderful place. I try and go there as often as I
can.”
“I’m glad you like it. My name is Martin Forester.” He was regaining
composure. Every second she deigned to continue speaking to him was a step in the right
direction.
“I’m Kristen Valdez.”
Martin breathed slowly, settling into normality. Her words were soothing and left
him satisfied. After the initial moment of focusing on her beauty, he began to realize that
she was much more than something to look at, or take a snapshot of and put on your wall.
They talked into the night, Martin becoming more and more comfortable and engaged,
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and she seemingly absorbed in what he had to say. As they sat and talked, the rest of the
party funneled away; they sat together without receiving or wanting distraction. They
connected in a wispy, fleeting way, comfortable as only tipsy people in the throes of total
anonymity can be, and Martin felt renewed. She was pleasant, interesting, and Martin
was easily able to run the entire gamut of conversation with her. They touched on
politics, New York parties, her job, his business. She asked him about his life, and their
conversation took a somewhat pleasantly serious and intimate turn. He felt connected,
ready to open up to her, to let everything come pouring out in a tidal wave of
exasperation and regret that had built up inside him for the past couple weeks. But then
he stopped himself. He looked into her face as the light glinted off her eyes, and realized
that wasn’t what he wanted to do. He didn’t care. He wasn’t here to bitch about his
problems; for the moment he was completely and utterly engaged in life, and perceptions
and responsibilities were quickly pushed out of his mind. Martin told her about Cara, but
almost as an afterthought, a relationship on the rocks, with him having no idea of its
status. He knew this was not a smart thing to do. He never saw himself as the type of
person who cheated on a girlfriend, but were they even together? She nodded in
complete understanding, confiding in him that she was in the same situation. They
commiserated for a while, lightly and playfully, and then she shrugged and said, “Oh
well. Life goes on.” She was absolutely right. He knew that the real world would
eventually come crashing back, and they would go their separate ways, but, for now, he
was satisfied.
Meanwhile, all around them the party was reaching its apex, and party favors
were being passed around like bullets, arming the guests for their valiant expedition into
a new year. Dick Clark commanded the attention of the room, and Martin turned in
respect. On the screen, the silver ball had begun to drop, weighted with the baggage of
the entire city. As it descended, it seemed to expand, taking on all the tribulations of the
previous year, and, above it, 2002 levitated in neon brilliance, gleaming against the vast,
starry night with the annual promise of renewal for all those who desperately needed it.
The city’s heart beat as one, while they stood focused on the ball, letting it purify them
and fall away, seeping into the cracks of the broken sidewalks. Hope rose up steadily to
meet the sign in the sky from heating vents in forgotten alleys. They clenched their party
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favors with nerve-biting anticipation and held breath. Then it hit. The crowd exploded.
It was time to move on. Martin savored the moment. Kristen turned around to face him,
and he calmly put his hand behind her head and kissed her. She returned it passionately
while they closed their eyes fulfilling promises made, connected, yet at the same time,
lost in the ecstasy of millions starting again.
The party was still going strong, and Martin had been mulling something over.
He wanted to say something so she wouldn’t just walk off into the night alone. He
wanted to take her back to his apartment, knowing that it was a bad idea that would
probably leave him twisted up in knots with guilt when he woke up, but, again, he didn’t
care. He knew that nothing was going to come of this; either tonight or tomorrow, life
was going to resume independently of both of them, and they would go their separate
ways, caught up again in its rapid stream. They had tonight. Martin was feeling brave,
and a little giddy behind the alcohol, so against his better judgment he asked her, “Do you
want to go back to my apartment where it’s quieter? It’s only a couple of blocks.” He
didn’t think that it would work. She didn’t seem like the type of person who would go
back to the apartment of a person whom she’d randomly met at a party. For some reason
though, she agreed, Martin hoping it was that she felt the same way about him, or it could
just be that she wanted closure from the other man in her life. If mutual exploitation was
all he could get right now, Martin still did not feel in a position to object. Cara had never
called.
The walk was long and suspenseful, as Martin tingled with anticipation. They
walked down the street, the air sharp, pricking at their necks. The city was alive, with
remnants from Times Square spreading out to engulf Manhattan in chaos. Streamers
hung from buildings, and people raised their fists to heaven, screaming on the violent
fringe of insanity into endless midnight. The city was excising its demons. The
purifying ritual had begun. He looked at Kristen intently as they walked up the stairs to
his apartment. This was the instant that it was all about, surrounded by madness, looking
into the unknown recesses of each other’s eyes—a tantalizing couple of seconds before
life went as it would. It was pure potential, unmarred by post-coital bliss, regret,
complacency, or even satisfaction. This was excitement. Standing with her on that
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doorstep was the purest moment they would ever have together, and it felt amazingly
good. Martin opened the door and led her up the stairs. It was enough to last a lifetime.
*
The next morning Kristen and Martin awoke side by side. Martin reached over
and touched her, eyes groggy, still encumbered by lingering sleep. His hand traced the
smooth contours of her skin, and, startled, he realized that this wasn’t Cara. She felt
different, but her skin was soft against his body and alluring, and Martin sunk into the
sheets and wrapped them around his body. The warm sheets held him softly, and aside
from a pounding headache, he was fine. As he lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling, the
whiteness seemed to stretch on forever. Everything was there, it existed, blank, and
looked exactly the same as it had with Cara. Light shined through the window, drowning
the bed in a comfortable glow. The night seemed to have gone on forever, spent in
complete rapture, replaced by a lovely, sun-drenched morning. She was amazing.
Over in the comer, a clock chimed 10:00. Every single beat led him further and
further into the moment. There was no guilt. Martin felt a quick pang of sadness as soon
as he looked over at the phone on the bedside. He picked it up and stared at it,
envisioning the numbers that he had wanted to push for so long, but then he turned back
to Kristen, looked at her long, flowing hair, felt the warmth of her body, and was
suddenly convinced that here on this bed, in this apartment, that one night had meant just
as much to him as the past year with Cara. It was strangely liberating. This morning,
nothing was missing.
Kristen stretched, rolled out of bed and put on her clothes. She smiled, kissed
Martin on the cheek and headed for the door, while Martin lay there. He jumped out of
bed to follow her, if nothing else than to say goodbye. He assured her that he would call
her, but she shook her head and put her finger against his lips to keep him silent. There
was no reason to ruin the moment. She smiled and turned away, melting into the
anonymity from whence she came.
Martin walked over to the message machine and saw a blinking red light. He
stared at it for a while, but decided not to push the button. He really didn’t want to know
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what was on the other end. Martin felt light yet strangely anchored, inhabited by a
presence. He no longer felt like he was living for the future. They had made a mark on
each other. He went to the window of his apartment and looked out at the sun reflecting
off the glass buildings under a brilliant blue sky. Kristen was out there somewhere,
walking the streets, waking up for each new day, engaging in life, just like millions of
others. Just like Cara. Both of them stood together, side by side in his mind. He thought
of them approaching each other on the street someday and bumping into one another, and
it made him smile. The city looked beautiful and dense, vibrating with energy, eight
million stories weaving together in a wonderful, citywide tapestry. He pictured the sea of
bodies making their way along the sidewalks, ants piling over each other, marching with
purpose and pride. The phone hung in his hand like a weight. Martin glanced at it and
put it down. He put his clothes on and prepared to head out into the city. Life resumed
as usual. For now, that was enough.
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SCOTT PRITCHARD
I am currently a senior at Oberlin College, finishing up my last semester. Initially, I was
planning on being a double major in both English and Politics, as I felt that they
complemented each other, while reflecting my different interests. It seemed to me that
Politics was a more viable major, in terms of exposing myself to a practical and realitybased avenue of learning, that the concepts within this sphere would be applicable to the
work I intend to do in the future, which remains, for now, to attend law school. However,
throughout the years, I found that my passion continued to lie in the world of literature,
while my commitment to political debate waned and that the ideas offered through being
an English major were ultimately more immediate and fulfilling in my intellectual life.
For my personality, literature was a more important avenue of exploration. Still, I had
the opportunity to study abroad in Ireland in a veritable nexus of interest as an English
and Politics major; the conflict between North Ireland and the Republic and the rich
canon of Irish literature made for a wonderful semester. Ultimately, I decided to drop the
Politics major to a minor so I could devote myself more to other pursuits, such as
philosophy, that I denied myself under the rigor of a double major. Although I am still
firmly committed to an interest in law and politics, I feel as though I made the right
decision in deciding to focus more deeply on English throughout my undergraduate
years.
Reflection on Stasis
When the opportunity to write a short story for class presented itself to me in
2002, I remember being very excited, as I had not written much prose on my own,
preferring to casually dabble in fragments of poetry. I knew that I loved to write words,
they came quickly and easily to me, but my biggest obstacle to the project was feeling as
though I did not have a deep enough understanding of the structure and mechanics of plot
that a short story entailed. I just liked to write, and I had a strong tendency to include as
many stylistic flourishes as I could think up. I knew that I wanted a simple foundation
for the characters I had been toying with, one that allowed me to put the interior
monologue and prose at the center of the story. So it started with an idea that I had been
grappling with at the time and extended itself from there.
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Basically, I remember thinking a lot about what it means to be an individual and
how personal identity is shaped in an increasingly sterile world. I felt that I was uncentered, that my life was the embodiment of a postmodern lack of meaning. I felt
alienated from my community yet simultaneously defined by the people I surrounded
myself with. I wanted to write about starting over and the importance of happiness
outside of the context of others. I hoped to discover a spiritual locus within man that is
untouchable and irrefutably his own, by exploring the idea that dependence on another
does not have to shape who one is—that man is separate, distinct in his own right. In this
sense the story was an exorcism of demons, a need to break from the belief that living to
appease others shaped an identity. In writing it, I remember distinctly a feeling of
catharsis, trying to write my own insecurities into the character of Martin, while at the
same time knowing that I wanted something more for him—I wanted to write a story that
would affirm his humanity in an untraditional way, an ending in which he did not live
happily ever after with the woman he loved.
Reading through it again I do feel as though I was able to present some of these
ideas in a context that did end up amounting to being a real story, not just a series of
ideas. I tried to emphasize Martin’s insecurity in living for others, while at the same time
having him not understand why he was unhappy. I didn’t want the reader to think that he
was unhappy because of a woman—rather, that the cause of his unhappiness was
something much deeper and harder to pin down. That period for me in high school was
significantly geared toward immersing myself in darker, angst-filled literature, a typical
adolescent unidentifiable malaise. I was reading a lot of Kafka, Nietzsche, Sylvia Plath
and other dark writers. Ultimately this story needed to reflect these feelings of alienation
that were heightened by constantly exposing myself to these kinds of thinkers. I think
some of these feelings were given a voice throughout the story, but as I look back on it
now, some of it makes me cringe.
Since sophomore year in college I have all but given up on writing creatively. I
had a serious crisis of confidence, and while I have always been unbelievably selfcritical, I had never had the experience of receiving serious criticism from those around
me—that is, until I started taking creative writing workshops and began to share my
writing with people in this new, more intellectually rigorous environment. I had not even
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wanted to participate in this anthology because I had lost all respect for my work and
couldn’t bring myself to look at it again. After showing “Stasis” to some of my peers at
Oberlin I was embarrassed at my lack of understanding of what New York life is really
like because many people who go to this school grew up in The City. They even made
me aware that one of the few streets I knew, Bleeker, was spelled wrong in the story
(much to my embarrassment I instinctively spelled it Bleaker). Some of the writing is
undeniably heavy-handed and awkward.
Despite these problems of overdoing it in places, I do still believe that my major
success was to maintain a consistency of tone in dealing with the intellectual and
emotional issues that I was trying to address. One of my favorite parts, during Martin’s
initial encounter with Kristen, when he believes that he wants to open up the floodgates
and push everything out into her, was probably the defining moment in the story. That he
cannot realize a healthy balance between lightness and heaviness, reflection and
immediacy, is the main thrust skewering his own sense of balance and identity. I then
tried to expand that idea—out of his own personal problems and into the city, where
everyone is struggling with what it means to be happy—ultimately offering the
conclusion that life is no more than a series of memories and moments, but hopefully
enough. The traditional feelings of emptiness that would come with a one-night stand are
not there; it was a moment of peace inhabited with the purity of unabashed hedonism.
I still struggle to write, and it angers me deeply. Looking back at this story, I
remember mainly its importance as an outlet for the frenzy of over-analysis that I put
myself through constantly. I no longer have that outlet because I don’t have confidence
in myself to articulate these ideas in a way that I’m happy with. In some ways, this story
never really ended for me; it is just constantly growing and evolving as I subject myself
to more and more ideas to explain who I am. It was difficult for me to even write this
response, but I’m glad I did. Maybe it will inspire me to try to write again.
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Teacher Reflection
Verisimilitude in Scott Pritchard’s Stasis
Throughout “Stasis,” Scott Prichard achieves verisimilitude—the sense that what
we are reading is true and real—by capturing Martin’s keen observations of people and
things, through precise details that reflect his unique emotional life.
In the descriptions of his parents, for example, we learn not only about his
parents, but also about Martin. He observes his mother: “Sweeping through the house,
her face gushing with charm, she catered to people with the reassurance and poise of a
time-tested flight attendant in a plane that was spiraling toward the ground.” He observes
his father:
Between sips of scotch he noticed the dim outline of his father, huddled into the
comer like a frightened deer…. The man walked slowly, carefully plotting every
step, limping with the gait of an aged prizefighter. His barrel chest and huge
muscles that Martin remembered as a child had been whisked away on the wings
of old age; in their place, a more delicate, refined frame remained.
While his mother rigorously upholds the traditions of suburban merrymaking, his father
has been beaten down by years of it; what’s more, Martin can hardly bare such parties
himself, let alone witness his father’s sad decline, and so he hides behind his glass of
scotch and loses himself in “distant memories embodied in kitschy knickknacks and tired
platitudes. Plaques hovered everywhere on well-lit walls declaring such things as ‘Home
is where the heart is,’ and Martin studied them with pointed concentration, hoping to find
a truism that could help him get through the night.”
We get to know Martin—his desires and fears—not through technical,
psychological explanations, but through carefully wrought, precise physical
descriptions—not to mention effective metaphors, such as “time-tested flight attendant”
(his mother) and “aged prizefighter” (his father). When he meets Kristen, “He racked his
brain for something witty to say, but instead sat there awkwardly with a toothy, billboard
grin that affected all the sincerity of a used car salesman.” Such precise physical
description not only creates a vivid picture of the scene but captures Martin’s emotional
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state; rich with association, the metaphors—“toothy, billboard grin” and “used car
salesman”—instantly conjure the sense of forced sincerity, with no need for further
explanation.
Exercise
Write a paragraph in which you strive for verisimilitude—that is, for precise descriptions
that seem true and real, like life. Try to reflect your character’s perspective—his or her
emotional state—through vivid physical descriptions, as well as through metaphors,
which are interesting comparisons of seemingly unlike things (like Martin’s mother and a
flight attendant) that, nonetheless, seem true.
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Las Golondrinas
Pablo Sierra 2002
“La Migra! La Migra!” was the Coyote’s shout.
They were coming, “they,” the Americans. Clubs, guns, and dogs. The
Americans. The river, wrathful and violent, roared below. Stroke, kick, breathe, swim.
Stroke…kick… breathe…swim. Swim, a little slower though. No! Don’t stop, not now.
The frigid water shocked the lungs, the river’s rocky bottom piercing the feet. She felt
herself gasping for oxygen, gasping for life. One last effort was made to fight the
indifferent current. But no, the indifferent current would not give, certainly not for one
more, just another immigrant. Unable to reach land, she looked up, still floating in the
chilling waters, and placed her life at the mercy of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the protector
of the people of the Americas. The cruel light of the stars faded.
*
“May-ree-soul, are you still on the phone? Who was that anyway?”
“No, Misses Johnson. I finish. Nothing importante.”
*
The leader of a women’s activist organization, Regina Johnson was a busy
woman, preoccupied with the recent strides of the pro-choice supporters. Frequently
hosting banquets and other social events for The Woman’s Right (as she called her
group), Johnson had been looking for a housemaid, another housemaid, rather.
Housemaid, she liked the sound of the word—it possessed a dignity of some sort. A
quiet, don’t-speak-unless-spoken-to dignity, that is. Anyway, her former trusty
housemaid, Chencha, had run off to Los Angeles with the love of her life, marrying him
in the process.
“Imagine that! More Mexicans in East L.A.! Perfect, just what the world needs
more of! You know they just multiply like rats and before you know they’re all over the
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neighborhood!” were the kind of comments heard at the La Jolla country club, where
Regina would converse with her similarly well-bred and well-cultured friends.
At any rate, the five bathrooms in her San Diego suburb residence needed
cleaning. The San Diego high society waited for no one, certainly not for Chencha’s
efforts. A couple of phone calls to the right “people” was all it took. It never ceased to
amaze Johnson how easy it was to find an immigrant to do some sort of manual job. If
Johnson ever needed to hire someone through her organization, she had to consult with
work agencies, headhunters, and community programs. But for cheap, backbreaking
labor, the response time was essentially nonexistent. Regina, once a psychology major,
marveled at how a bit of immigrant work ethic, a lack of official documents, and an
innate fear of persecution could force people into the most underpaid, arduous labor.
In any case, the following day, Ricardo Sanchez and Marisol Lopez showed up at
the backdoor of the Johnson residence. Scraped, bruised, and filthy, they had the
appearance of yet another couple of troubled outsiders trying to make it in a new land.
Johnson had seen their type, scuttling across the highway, flannel shirts ripped, small
knapsacks of food on their backs. “They,” these inhabitants of the Third World, were
nothing more than parasitic leeches, sucking off the hard-earned money of the American
people. Still, when Johnson addressed Marisol, she’d answered politely with a gentle,
“Si, Senora, I need work. Ricardo, too.” Johnson hired her on the spot; she’d make a
good housemaid, the subservient type. As for Ricardo, he didn’t matter much. He could
prune the bushes and gather the grass clippings that no one else would bother to clean up.
Regina didn’t really care either way; it wasn’t like hiring Ricardo would exactly hurt her
pocketbook.
*
“Marisol, this is Don Ramon. Hello, Marisol?”
“Si, si, Don Ramon. I'm here.”
A pale Marisol clutched the phone, her brown hands gripping the cord as if there
were no tomorrow. She hadn’t heard from Don Ramon in a long, long time.
“Marisol, I'm afraid there’s something you need to know.”
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*
Home. Rio Azul. The scents and the sounds of the land tantalized her. She
reminisced of how, in her teenage years, the sensual rhythms of the salsa sounds would
penetrate her body, filling her with life and movement. She remembered the smell of
deep-fried churros covered with what seemed like endless coats of sugar. She
remembered the taste of coconut milk, sweet like an infant’s touch. She remembered the
hearty crunch of the greasy chicharrones, and the salty aftertaste that they left in her
mouth.
She’d been a masterful chef once, creating exquisite dishes with what little she
could afford to buy at the market. Mama Elena would prepare the orchata drink,
Emanuelito helping his mami flatten the maize tortillas. Those were the best memories
she had of home. Occasionally, Marisol told herself that she was just romanticizing; life
had never really been that good. Years came and went, and whenever the homesickness
just got to be too much, Marisol would submerge herself into the story of her past and
live out her life in memories.
There was one moment she particularly cherished. It served Marisol as her
bastion of freedom, her last line of defense in a war against forgetting her roots. Her
favorite image was that of her last Christmas at home. All packed up and ready to go,
Marisol had sat down with the family one last time before her voyage. At the Christmas
table, the three of them, Marisol, Mama Elena, and Emanuelito were having dinner.
Emanuelito, Marisol’s child, kept trying to swat a nagging fly with his bib, giving little
cries of excitement every time he came close to doing so. All of a sudden, a little
golondrina, a tree swallow, flew in through the window, filling the house with its lovely
song. The little golondrina sang an entrancing tune, sending Marisol off with an angelic
goodbye.
*
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The golondrina is the Latin American pilgrim. She flies from land to land,
looking for the perfect place to build her nest and raise her family. Since she’s very
rarely successful, her song is often mournful and sad. In what seems to be a timeless
tradition, the mariachi sing the song Las Golondrinas whenever a good friend or relative
leaves his native land for another country. It’s a very sad song, one of a sorrowful
farewell.
A donde ira? Veloz y fatigada,
Where will it go? Swift yet tired
la golondrina, que de aqui se va,
the swallow that parts away from here
o si en el viento se hallara extraviada,
or if in the wind she’ll find herself lost,
buscando abrigo y no lo encontrara.
looking for shelter that she will never find.
*
She had just finished mopping the bathroom floor. The party the night before had
left the house in a state of complete disarray. Johnson’s friends would be coming over
soon for their usual Thursday games of croquet and backgammon. Unpolished
bathrooms simply would not do. Marisol sat down on the floor, taking a break from her
monotonous duties. She didn’t mind cleaning the bathroom, especially the master
bathroom. It had a view of the bay, and a warm breeze always managed to slip in
through the huge glass panes that made the window. Tired after a long day of work, she
stared at her black Air Force Nikes. A sinister grin crept onto her face. She had more
money now than she would have ever dreamt of having in her native Rio Azul. Snapping
back into reality, she got on her knees and started scrubbing the toilet. Then Ricardo
rushed in. His typical confident stance was replaced by something she’d never seen
before. The self-assured poise, the trusting smile, were gone. His hands fidgeted,
unnervingly. “Marisol, telefono.”
*
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Two years ago, Ricardo’s calloused hands had pulled Marisol out of the river.
She was dehydrated, on the verge of hypothermia. The desert sun had scorched her skin,
while the desert night had chilled her into unconsciousness. Ricardo had seen her only
once before. She was the girl that made the deal with the same Coyote that he’d paid off.
She was pretty at twenty, looking for a job in the States to provide for the family at home.
He overheard her telling another woman of a sick son, whose medical bills she couldn’t
pay. Hers was a common story along the border. Ricardo himself was trying to escape
the corruption and violence of his native land. He had family in the States to help him
get started. Ricardo remembered thinking that Marisol seemed like a nice girl, and that
he’d try to get to know her better once they got across.
When he saw her body being dragged down the river, he ran back along the shore.
Lifting her from the water, he noticed how her once beautiful, lively lips were now an
ashen blue. He carried her for miles. The Coyote, having received his fee for getting
them across the border, had abandoned them the past night. Ricardo knew their type, the
Coyotes, that is. They were the Charons of the modern world, leading the soon-to-bedead into the Hades of California, a land obeying the law of the survival-of-the-fittest. A
weak mind or body would never prevail the lifestyle. And yet, when Ricardo saw
Marisol’s motionless body floating down the Rio Grande, he knew he had to save her.
It’s a good thing he did, for, unbeknownst to him, Marisol was leaving not only life, but
also a desperate family with no hope, an innocent child without a mother, and a village
with another reason to mourn.
It was Ricardo that had taken Marisol, still unconscious, to his cousin’s house
outside San Diego. He took care of her for days, until she came back to her senses. Later
on, when he went out to look for work, he took her with him. Those were trying times
for both of them. They both found work in the fields, picking oranges and strawberries
from dawn till dusk. Some mornings Marisol couldn’t make it out of bed, such was the
physical strain on her body. Ricardo would then work the weekends, in order to have
bread on the table for two. Marisol would never find out, but her dependence on Ricardo
was reciprocal. He lived for her, and when he came home from the fields, it was to her
embrace that he struggled home every night.
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But life in the field was too strenuous, twenty-first century enslavement at best.
When word got out that a rich lady was looking for a housemaid, Marisol took it upon
herself to take herself. And Ricardo. Marisol figured that whoever this woman was, she
could use a handyman around the house, too. She was right. Mrs. Regina Johnson hired
them both, Ricardo as a gardener, Marisol as a maid. Since Marisol would be living at
the Johnsons’ with Ricardo coming in every other day, they’d still see each other, but not
as much as before. It didn’t matter. Together, they’d started a new life in a new country.
But as far as Marisol knew, Ricardo had always been the leader, the voice of reason and
security in her treacherous existence. He’d saved her from the heat of the desert, from
the clubs and dogs of the Migra, and from the exasperating apathy of the Immigration and
Naturalization Services. He’d never steered her wrong. Yet on the fateful afternoon,
when Marisol looked up and saw worry in Ricardo’s eyes, she feared the worst.
Ay Virgencita, this is bad. Please don’t let this be the INS. I just want to get
ahead in life, I just a want a chance to live. I just want to work so that Emanuelito can
go see the doctor. Ay, Dios mio, take pity of me. Marisol prayed and prayed as she
walked up the hard marble steps to the phone.
“Mayreesoul! There’s a call for you, hurry, come get it!” was Johnson’s screech.
Marisol didn’t even hear it. She was somewhere else, gone.
*
“Marisol, are you there?”
“Si, Don Ramon, si.”
“Marisol, I hate to be the one to bring you these news. Last night an earthquake
hit Rio Azul. The house started swaying, beams fell. Emanuelito’s dead, Marisol.
Emanuelito, he, he didn’t make it. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say, except that
you should come back. Marisol, your departure was a temporary thing. Remember?
Come home. Regresa, Marisol. Acaso nos has olvidado? Have you forgotten Rio Azul?
She put the phone back on its base without responding. Emanuelito, her reason
for living, was dead. Marisol raised her gaze and saw the support of Ricardo’s eyes. He
didn’t know what Don Ramon had said, and yet his eyes were warm and supportive, not
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like those of the boy who had impregnated her. That, that had been a mistake. But
Emanuelito wasn’t; he had been someone, a person, made of real flesh and blood, not
vague memories. He had needed his mother, and she hadn’t been there for him. Instead,
she had been here, buying sneakers, scrubbing toilets on her knees.
As Marisol put the phone back on the base, Johnson walked past, catching
Marisol’s eyes. For the first time, Johnson felt uneasy before her maid. There was a
flash of disgust, of repulsion, of loathing in the eyes of her servant. Years or repressed
anger, pain, and hurt emerged in one instant, unnerving Johnson. Marisol had said it was
nothing important. Marisol had lied.
*
The only other time that Johnson ever recalled Marisol making her feel
uncomfortable took place right after hiring her. As Johnson showed Marisol around the
mansion, explaining what she could and couldn’t touch, would and wouldn’t clean, she
informed Marisol of the policy for the maids’ day off.
“Naturally, you’ll be living here with the other maid, in her quarters. You should
be able to accommodate yourself just fine, though. You’ll be paid fifty dollars every two
weeks, mucho dinero, right? Ha ha. And of course you’ll have every other Tuesday off.
Okay?”
Marisol didn’t answer with her obedient “Si, Misses Johnson” after that inquiry.
“Is there a problem, Marisol?”
“No, Misses Johnson. But, Sunday…can I go to the iglesia?”
“Now, listen here, Mayreesoul. You’re a very polite, young girl living in a very
cold, mean world. There are very mean people after you. Remember the Immigration
folks? They don’t want you here, but I do, Mayreesoul. I really do. I want to help you
out, but for that to happen we’ll all have to make sacrifices. All right? So, as I said,
Thursday’s your off day. You should be grateful for that. Grateful, Marisol,
comprainday?”
Si, comprendo. I understand I’ve lost my culture, my family, my religion. In
gaining wealth I could’ve never had at home, I’ve lost my son. What for? What good
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was it? Forgive me, Emanuelito, perdoname, porfavor. Forgive me, Virgencita, I’ve lost
the faith that saved me from death in the river.
*
Weeks passed. Marisol never told anyone of Emanuelito’s death. At night, she
cried desperate, rabid tears into her miniscule cot. Pain, she’d never felt this pain before.
It wasn’t like the childhood lashes from her abusive father, or like the demoralizing
insults from the other maid. No, this was much worse. She felt a piece of herself dying,
being absorbed by the material of the stained, filthy mattress.
When Ricardo heard Johnson’s scream, he ran up the stairs, finding his employer
at the door of the master bedroom. She was pale, hands trembling. Unable to express her
emotions, she had to be carried out. She kept saying, “Mayreesoul, Mayreesoul,”
pointing to the bathtub. He saw her out of the corner of his eye.
As he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, Ricardo noticed that the
window was open, a draft breezing through the curtains. He found her floating, as he
once had. The river was red this time, but placid and calm. He saw her beautiful strands
of black hair drifting harmoniously on the surface of the tainted water. In her ebony eyes,
he saw the reflection of the Rio Azul sun, radiant and true. As he caressed her lifeless
face, he felt the humid breeze of the tropics on his skin. Suspended in this surreal
apparition, Marisol resembled a Mayan princess, peacefully dreaming through an eternal
sleep. Picking up the razor from the floor, he remembered all the nights of passion, of
pleasure and tenderness he’d spend with her in this house. He remembered how they’d
made love in the master bedroom, when the Johnsons had left on vacation. Looking out
the window, he saw Mama Elena, Emanuelito, and Marisol at the Christmas table inviting
him to join them. He grimaced, the veins of his arms bidding the razor to sweetly slice.
A certain lightheadedness came over him at first, only to be followed by an absolute
peace and tranquility. Soon, he’d be with them, sitting at a vast table, eating Marisol’s
exquisite churros and chicharrones. Soon, they’d all sit at this table, saying grace,
thanking the Virgin for the gift of life. Yes, soon, soon, but not now. There was still life
in his life, a little brother in Mexico. A life away from home who needed him, and he
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needed it. As he walked out the door, a little golondrina came to the windowsill, her
bittersweet song filling his soul.
A donde ira? Veloz y fatigada,
Where will it go? swift yet tired
la golondrina, que de aqui se va,
The swallow that parts away from here
o si en el viento se hallara extraviada,
Or if in the wind she’ll find herself lost
buscando abrigo y no lo encontrara.
Looking for shelter that she will never find.
Ave querida, amada peregrina,
Dearest bird, beloved pilgrim,
Mi corazon al tuyo acercare,
My heart to yours, I will bring close,
Oire tu canto tierna golondrina,
I’ll hear your song, sweet swallow,
Recordare mi patria y llorare,
I will remember my fatherland and I will cry,
Recordare mi patria y llorare.
I will remember my fatherland and I will cry.
- Las Golondrinas, Latin American farewell song
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PABLO SIERRA
I wrote “Las Golondrinas” in 2002, during the spring semester of my senior year.
Nowadays, I am finishing my studies in World History and Latin American Studies at the
University of Pennsylvania. Next fall (2006) I will be attending UCLA to commence the
Ph.D. track in Latin American History.
Reflection on Las Golondrinas
A well-known farewell song in Mexican culture, “Las Golondrinas” recounts the
sadness of departing, of leaving one’s family for an uncertain future in a foreign land.
When I initially wrote the story I intended it to capture the struggle of adapting to life
away from home from the perspective of a poor Latin American woman. This involved
not only expressing the nostalgia found in every immigrant story, but also in exposing the
peril that immigrants crossing the Rio Grande face on a day-to-day basis. Writing the
story forced me to realize how privileged a life I’d led as a Mexican in the United States,
especially when compared to my compatriots’ struggles throughout the nation.
Rereading the story four years later, I couldn’t help chuckling and grimacing at
the text before me. I feel particularly bad about Mrs. Johnson, intended to caricature
upper-class white society, although not in the flat, racist tone that I now find in her
character. With the exception of Marisol, I find the characters in the story rather onedimensional, more façades than characters.
I feel that the story’s lack of character development is compensated by the
complex, unorthodox structuring of the narrative. A telephone conversation, the
protagonist’s memories, and the lyrics to “Las Golondrinas” intentionally disrupt the
narrative’s flow. Marisol’s conversation with Don Ramon could make sense only if it
paralleled the former’s life story in American society. An initial preoccupation with the
“migra” and the INS is followed by a period of adjustment and homesickness, finally
leading up to the news of the baby’s death, which of course foreshadows the
protagonist’s own failure and demise. In retrospect, I do not remember plotting out such
a complex succession of events or severing the phone call to fit such a pattern. On the
contrary, “Las Golondrinas” seemed to weave itself. Whenever I felt I’d exhausted the
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possible solutions to a scene, I simply moved on to the next incomplete memory,
conversation, or song lyric.
Although there are a number of changes I’d make to the story, I would not change
that first scene on the Rio Grande. I remember taking a particularly long time writing
that first paragraph, trying to capture the desperation and sheer physicality of the
crossing. Short sentences, short breaths and an almost instinctual thought process gave
way to the passage. In essence, I wanted to create a scene that would defy the pejorative
connation of being a “wetback” by revealing the courage necessary to confront such
adversity. Ultimately, I wrote the story for my American friends, teachers, and fellow
students, with hopes that they might understand the humanity of a struggle that cannot be
contained by rivers, militarized borders, or economic exploitation.
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Teacher Reflection
The Magical Structure in Pablo Sierra’s Las Golondrinas
Whether Pablo Sierra realized it or not as a senior in high school, he wrote a story
in the tradition of “Magical Realism,” which is, perhaps not coincidentally, a product of
his own Latino culture, made famous in the modern era by Gabriel Garcia Marquez,
whose fiction is deeply rooted in both history and lore, both grounded in realistic detail
and elevated by glimpses of the supernatural. Pablo’s story transforms as it progresses,
beginning in the gritty setting of the dangerous Rio Grande and ending up in a place that
only the lyrics of a poem, or a song, can begin to describe. The story’s structure—
“complex, unorthodox,” as Pablo himself describes it—is integral in achieving this
lovely, mystical effect. The structure is constantly shifting—in time, place, point of
view, tone—not so much, however, that we become disoriented or confused; rather, there
is a natural flow from one section to the next, as a relay team hands off the baton from
one runner to the next.
Remember the film critic Roger Ebert’s quotation from the Introduction: “A
movie is not what it’s about. It’s about how it’s about it.” The same is true in fiction.
You may feel your story idea is unoriginal—just another love story or just another
murder mystery—but it’s how you tell the story that will distinguish it, that will make it
yours, something nobody else could possibly have written. No “summary” could do
Pablo’s story justice: “It’s about a Mexican immigrant woman who swims to America,
gets a job as a maid, and then her son dies—and there’s this song…” You have to read
the story to appreciate it—it’s how it’s told that makes the story.
Exercise
When you’ve got a draft of a story—or when you’ve got an outline for one—reconsider
the structure. Are you telling the story chronologically? Is there a different arrangement
of the content that might serve your story better? Is every scene necessary? Or might the
story benefit from some major “reduction”? You need not “fill in all the blanks,” any
more than you need to tell the story in the order of the events as they occurred. For the
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sake of the exercise—even if you end up preferring the original form—try rearranging
the story’s content in a way that might yield some interesting result (flip-flopping the last
two scenes, for example); also, try eliminating some portion, or portions, the absence of
which might yield some interesting effect. You’re not trying to create some cheaply
earned sense of mystery, certainly not by eliminating crucial information; rather, you’re
trying to stimulate the reader’s imagination, recognizing the magical power of
suggestion, putting some faith into the old adage that sometimes “less is more.”
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Smoke and Mist
Andrew Choe 2003
Rain was falling. It was November rain, a cold, wet rain that could have been
pure white snow. The big, fat droplets fell and burst into oblivion on the black pavement
of the airport. The mist created a cold, gray halo around the buildings. Scott had always
hated this kind of weather. The cold rains of fall. They were completely different from
the warm showers of summer. Sometimes it rained for weeks, and then came the
devastating late-season hurricanes.
As he stared out his window on the 747, he wondered if it was an omen of some
kind, this weather. It could be a warning to stay away. Well, the gloominess fit the
occasion just right. His flight had arrived an hour late because of the weather conditions.
Switching discs from David Bowie to Yes, he prepared to get off the plane by gathering
his stuff. He had sat listening to his mini-disc player the entire fourteen-hour flight
across the Pacific Ocean and the continental United States. His seatmate, a Buddhist
monk, had been silent the entire trip also. Aside from his prayers and periods of
meditation, the orange-robed man had slept for most of the trip. With his only bag slung
over his shoulder, Scott walked up the aisle and out of the plane. As he moved through
baggage claim and customs, he looked through the windows and saw the dark gray sky.
The rain enveloped the world in a morbid blanket of mist. He wondered if Paul had come
safely.
As if he had been summoned, Paul’s head popped up above the crowd of people
at the end of the gate. He was waving, and a smile split his face.
“Scott! Over here!” Paul shouted, waving his arms more frantically. Paul ran up
and bear-hugged Scott hard enough to crack his back.
“God, Paul, let me go already!” Scott hissed into his brother’s ear.
“Oh, sorry,” said Paul as he released him. He smiled sheepishly and stuck his
hands into his pants in embarrassment, a childhood habit yet to be broken.
Paul had changed. His hair was now a series of raked-back spikes, and he had
grown taller, much taller. He towered over Scott’s own five feet ten inches by at least a
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hand-span. His smile was wide and cheery, yet his dark sunken eyes revealed that he had
been sleeping very little and that his soul was burdened.
They weaved their way together through the masses and finally made it outside.
The rain had lessened somewhat to droplets of water falling from the heavens. Finally,
he could have a smoke. As he lit one, Paul’s eyebrows went up, looking askance.
“I’ve been waiting the entire trip. Don’t say anything.”
Paul just turned around and led him to his car, a red coupe, at the bottom floor of
the multi-storied packing garage. Before getting into the car, Scott dropped the stub and
ground it into the pavement as his little brother turned the ignition. Paul moved deftly
through the traffic until they had gotten out of the airport and onto the freeway, where his
hands turned jittery on the wheel. Scott couldn’t bear to see the kid so pained.
“So, how’s college life?” he asked.
Paul’s eyes lit up as he began to regale Scott with tales of youth and innocence.
Scott dozed off in the middle of a story in which Paul and his friends had been chucking
pizza from the top of their dorm. “It was so hilarious! People would walk by and be
splattered by the stuff! The dean was so…”
*
It was his reentrance into the U.S. for the first time in three years. He consulted
for a biotech company based in North Carolina. It was for the eastern branch of the
company that he worked the most, and so he had been living in Kyoto, Japan.
However, he had not left with the blessings of all. On the contrary, when he left
the country, it was made clear by his parents that he was severing all his ties. But he left
anyway.
He remembered the fiery and teary parting of the first-born with the parents.
They had called it abandonment, rejection, and stupidity. He had called it freedom,
liberty, and individuality. They had tried every tactic to keep him from going: guilt,
anger, rejection, and even money. His mother, whose heart had broken every summer
when she sent him to camp, could not bear to let him go thousands of miles across the
world. She had stood weeping at the end of the gate while he passed through and out
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onto the plane. He remembered thinking that his mother would probably go home and
cry for days.
His father was different. His father had stood stoically behind his mother without
any emotion visible upon his face. But Scott had known then, and knew even better now,
that his father’s eyes had been full of rage, grief, and pain. He had not forgiven Scott,
and Scott had expected he never would.
So when Scott stood with his bags and said farewell, it was the last thing he ever
said to his father.
Two days ago, Monday, he had woken up to the sound of the telephone ringing at
four in the morning. He had ignored it for quite a while, until he couldn’t take it any
longer. He had jerked up from his sheets and snatched up the phone. The voice at the
other end made his anger dissipate with a few key words. His father had passed away.
Lung cancer. Forty years of hard smoking had done him in. His father had not lingered.
He died one month after he had been diagnosed.
Scott had immediately booked his tickets and packed his things. He had left only
a sketchy voicemail for his boss before he boarded the plane. He had said only that he
would be back in a few days.
The funeral was Friday.
*
They pulled into the driveway in the late afternoon, finally home. The rain had
stopped completely, and the sky was beginning to clear up. As they drove up to the
house, Scott commented on how much had changed. Paul pointed out the new paint job,
the new roof, the various new trees, and the addition to the house.
As they stepped out of the car, Scott took one last pull from his cigarette and
ground the stub into the concrete. Leaving Paul to take his bag, he slowly walked up to
the front door. He opened the door and stepped in, leaving the door open behind him.
He took off his shoes and walked towards the kitchen. He saw the back of his mom, as
she stood bent over the counter, making something.
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“Mom, I’m home,” he said quietly, standing in the foyer. She slowly turned
around to face him. She moved as if every bone in her body were made of glass. She
had aged. He saw more folds and wrinkles. When he had left, her hair had been jetblack. Her hair was now mostly gray, streaked with white. He realized now that she had
been using dye for years. She had stopped bothering. However, most changed were her
eyes. They had sunken into deep craters, and their luster had faded from them. He
remembered being scolded by her many times during his childhood. Her eyes had been
fierce then. Their blackness had contained a fire and shine that they now lacked.
“I’m back, Mom,” he said as he came up and hugged her. She had been making
dinner, vegetable dumplings. “Smells good.” He popped one into his mouth. As he
chewed the lump of homemade food, he felt at home. He felt her tears seeping through
his shirt. “It’s all right now, Mom. I’m here now.”
*
He woke to the sound of rain falling on the roof. It was a quiet steady kind of
sound that could have lulled him back to sleep. However, he noticed that the rain was the
only thing making a sound in the house.
The house was devoid of all life. His mother and his brother had left to do their
own business. Flipping the covers off and climbing down the stairs, he found a note
saying that both of them were out and would be back sometime during the afternoon. His
mother had gone to church. Paul told him last night that their mother actually went to
church every day now. He had said that she sometimes went twice a day.
While trying to blink the blurriness from his eyes, Scott opened the fridge and
poured himself a glass of orange juice. As he sipped, he gave himself a grand tour of the
house. After his long talk with his mother during the night, Scott had collapsed into bed,
so he had not had a chance to look around. He had slept in the guest room because his
old room had been renovated into a second-floor sunroom.
As he gazed at the walls of the house, he noticed that there were many new
pictures hanging. They were pictures of his father and mother at various locations.
Many were pictures of them in the gazebo.
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Their gazebo. His parents had spent two years working up to that gazebo. First,
the brush in the back yard had to be cleared. Then, the various trees and saplings had to
be cut down and uprooted. Next, the grass was planted and nurtured until it was well
rooted. Building the gazebo came next. The hexagonal wooden structure was the
pinnacle of their co-endeavor. It spanned eighteen feet across and was ten feet high.
Elegant tracery made up the panels, and the cedar wood was shined to a gleam. It could
fit up to ten people, but in the pictures, the two of them seemed to fit the gazebo
perfectly. As he picked one up to examine it closely, he saw both of their smiling faces,
grinning intently at the camera.
However, as he looked around once more, he realized that those pictures had
taken the place of others, of pictures of him. No faces of Scott were visible on the ivory
walls of the house. Scott only shook his head and walked outside.
The wind was not blowing hard enough for the rain to make it onto the inner deck
yet, so he sat on a chair and looked out into the woods behind the house. Most of it had
been cut back by his father and was held back by the picket fence. Although it was
November, the grass was green, and it seemed as if the yard, especially the gazebo, were
an oasis in a dark wilderness. As raindrops pattered on its tiered roof, the gazebo was a
sanctuary from the rain.
Scott tapped a cigarette from the pack and lit it. Just the smell of it comforted
him. The smoke made his eyes water and his throat sting. Yet the smell had comforted
Scott ever since he was a child. It was the smell of his dad. Marlboros.
The pack of Marlboros had always been in his jacket pocket. He’d send Scott or
Paul to get them, while he sat in front of the TV or went for a walk. He was never
without the cigarettes, especially while driving. When he started the car, he needed one.
When he got out of the car, he needed one. No matter what the weather or the situation
was, he had to have a smoke. Be there rain, snow, or tornado winds, his father would
always need his smoke before going inside a building.
Scott remembered a time his father stood, smoking, outside the entrance of the
church during a torrential downpour. While other parishioners came through the door
with umbrellas, his father had stood in the rain, sheltering the cigarette with his own
body.
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Scott had started smoking over ten years ago. Now he found that he could not
stop, and lately he was going through several packs a week. Actually, it was more like
half a carton. He didn’t try to fight it anymore. The patches hadn’t worked. Neither had
the gum. Nor had the simpleminded tricks that people suggested. Yet he knew it wasn’t
due to a defect in the products or a lack of brainpower. It was his lack of drive, his lack
of willpower.
Starting had been easy. His own father had started at the age of fourteen. Though
admittedly it had been a different time period when his father was a teenager—not to
mention it was another country, Korea—Scott started smoking with the neighborhood
kids around tenth grade. It was illegal to buy them, of course. So he’d get an older kid to
buy them for him, or, in extreme instances, he’d steal them from his father. His father
never noticed; there were cartons all over the house.
Eventually his father found out. To say the least, he was upset. Not upset that he
was smoking, but that his own son would hide the habit from him.
Scott had been out the entire night and had come home late. He came in through
the back door and, making sure to skip the third and sixth steps, snuck up the stairs. He
dropped into his bed as soon as he walked into his room and pried his shoes off. He
didn’t bother to change his clothes, as he usually did. So the smell of smoke radiated off
his body, but, more important, the pack of cigarettes was still in his pocket.
The next morning, he woke up to the sunlight straining through the blinds on his
window. Stretching and yawning, he staggered down the stairs to find his father already
up and about.
“Morning,” he said through a half-yawn.
“Good morning. Sleep well?” His dad poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Eh, only so-so.” Scott poured himself a glass of orange juice.
“Didn’t bother to change, eh?”
“Oh…I guess I didn’t. I was pretty tired when I came in.”
Between gulps of O.J. Scott checked for the pack and the lighter in his pocket.
They weren’t there. The cold, acidic taste of the O.J. was now bitter and unwelcome.
“Looking for these?” His father pulled the pack and the lighter from his own
pocket. “I found them on the floor of your room this morning. No need to trouble
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yourself by making up lies.” He put them down on the counter behind him. “How many
a week, son? How many packs?”
“One. Maybe two sometimes.” The O.J. had spilled over the top and was
dripping onto his foot.
“I won’t say anything else. I just don’t want to see anything of the sort again. I
don’t need you making the same mistakes that I’ve made. You know how I can’t quit.
So I don’t want to know you’re doing anything of the sort. Understand?” The O.J. was
soaking into his socks. “Do you understand? Answer me!”
“Yeah, I got it.” What a mess to clean up.
Taking the pack and the lighter, his father brushed past him and went up the
stairs.
*
After making a sandwich for himself during lunch, Scott called around to see if
any of his old friends were around. He got in touch with Nick and Clara. They told him
they’d pick him up later that night.
He hadn’t talked to them for years now, but they acted as though nothing had
changed. Maybe nothing had.
The rain had let up a bit when they came at about six o’clock in Nick’s car. They
pulled up the long driveway as they always used to. Late-night jaunts used to take them
everywhere.
“Hey, kid. It’s been a while.” Nick came up the front steps.
“Too long, man, too long. I’ve missed you, old man.” Scott ushered the two of
them inside.
Nick and Scott shook hands at first, but then hugged, and all the awkward years
between them disappeared. Nick had been his best friend since grade school, preschool
even. He had lived just down the street until Scott’s family moved to another
neighborhood. They had been like brothers. Either was always welcome in the other’s
house.
Nick smiled once more and stepped aside for Clara.
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She demurely stepped up and gave Scott a shy smile. “Hey, you…”
At one point, Clara had been his “one-and-only.” Somewhere along the line,
however, he didn’t feel satisfied being with her. At that time, she had seemed too plain,
too reserved. She never seemed to care and appeared withdrawn—one point his mother
had always nagged him about. She had not been an outgoing person. Anyway, it had
been over.
However, at this moment, it seemed to start all over again within Scott. Clara
refused to make eye contact, and Scott immediately knew something was up. Maybe
they could start over.
He awkwardly stuck out his hand and looked into her eyes. Smiling, she stepped
up and gave him a hug.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she whispered into his ear. “I’ve missed you.”
Her “I’ve” might have been a “We’ve,” and it froze Scott for a moment.
“So where we going?” Scott picked up his coat and looked for his shoes.
“Well, just into town. The rest of the crew is going to meet us at the bar.”
On the drive over, the three of them discussed what was going on in their
respective lives. Nick worked at his dad’s firm now, and Clara did freelance artwork and
some publishing. When Scott asked about the rest of their friends, he was surprised to
hear that some of them were married.
All the old couples that had made up their group had gotten married. Strange.
Frank, now an architect, had married Diane and fathered a son already.
The three of them walked into the bar to find that their friends had taken a table
and saved seats for them.
Nick, Clara, Frank, Diane, Steve, Les, Pete, and Kristen. They all welcomed him
with a loud shout and many handshakes and hugs. Someone handed him a beer, which he
took and downed. Stories were told, and everyone wanted to know what Scott did these
days, all the way across the world.
While he was nursing his fourth beer, he felt warmth in his chest. He had truly
missed his friends. The runny stories and jokes that Pete told had not gotten old through
the years, and Steve was still as goofy as he had ever been. Clara was as charming as
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ever. As the festivities grew merrier, the drinks were consumed faster, and not long after
the twelfth round of drinks, the guys had begun to sing.
When the entire group was politely asked to leave, they all made a grand exit in
style with much singing and spilling of drinks. The singing was taken into the streets,
and until a local cop asked them to disperse, they rambled along the main street of the
town. Afterwards, they all split up and went home, except for Nick, Clara, and Scott,
who remained.
As Nick and Scott walked and sang arm-over-shoulders, Clara shook her head,
following.
“Man, Scott, you still are an insane man,” Nick said. “You drink alcohol as if it’s
water, but in the end, you’re more drunk than anyone else!” He laughed and slapped
Scott on the back. “We have to get you home. Your mother would be disappointed in
me if you came home late, you know?”
“Aw, come on! Just one song, eh? Then a drink. One more for the night, eh?”
Scott staggered beside Nick. “Clara, don’t you want a drink too?”
“Scott, I think you should go home. Your mother is going to be worried.”
“Ahhh, don’t worry about it. It’ll just be ten minutes. For old time’s sake. Just
the three of us.”
“Scott, we’re serious here. You have to go home.” Nick grabbed Scott’s
shoulder.
“You go home, man. Clara and I still want to be out.” Scott shook the hand off.
“It’s my car, remember, Scott? Anyway, I have to take Clara home.”
“Don’t worry about it, man. Just go on.”
He started to walk off down the street, but Nick turned him around by the
shoulder to face him.
“Scott…Clara and I are living together. We’re engaged.”
“Oh, well, then…I understand. I’ll just go by myself. Go on then.”
Clara refused to make eye contact and hung her head in a slightly apologetic
manner.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, Scott. I didn’t know how you’d react.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid. Go on.” He staggered down the street.
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“Promise me you’ll go home, Scott,” shouted Nick.
“Scott, don’t wander around. And don’t drink anymore,” shouted Clara.
“All right, all right. I’ll go home. Don’t worry about it. You two just go on.”
It was twelve o’clock.
*
It was raining again. Scott arrived home in a taxi at about four A.M. He fell out
of the cab, at which point the cab driver picked him up and took him to the front door.
The driver rang the doorbell and left. Scott was dead weight in Paul’s arms as he was
dragged inside. He reeked of alcohol and cigarettes and was soaked to the skin. Paul
dragged him up the stairs and into the guest room, where he struggled forever to lift him
onto the bed. In the meantime, their mother woke up, saw Scott, and went back to bed.
All this information came later from his brother. Scott actually had no
recollection of the night after he separated from his friends. Of course, he assumed he’d
gone drinking somewhere. That was a safe assumption.
*
The memorial service was at noon and the burial ceremony was at two on that
rainy, dreary day. His plane left at six. When he woke up to a blinding hangover and
what looked like bar-fight bruises, Scott gathered his belongings in his bag and put on his
suit. He didn’t have to make any arrangements for the service. Paul had taken care of
everything. Still, Scott was expected to speak at the funeral.
What was he to say?
The limo pulled up to the house at ten o’clock and took them to the church. It
was his father’s beloved church, where he had volunteered countless hours of his life. He
had organized social activities, fundraising events, and even the weekly masses. Scott
had always thought that such commitment to the church was strange coming from a man
who had admitted to being a skeptic.
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Its high-vaulted ceilings and burnished brass light fixtures caught the eye as soon
as one walked into the nave. They made Scott suddenly nauseous and dizzy. The
hangover must not have worn away. It was his first entrance into a church in more than
three years. Maybe the nausea was a reprimand from God. A divine reprimand. Not as
good as a divine mandate, he supposed, but good enough.
His mother had ignored him the entire car ride and continued to do so in the
church. She went about her business of making sure everything was in place before
sitting on the other side of Paul. She went directly to her knees and started praying.
What was there to pray about?
For some reason that had not been mentioned to him—the casket with the body
was not borne into the church. It already stood in front of the altar. Strange. The man
did have two full-grown sons and many friends to entrust his body to.
As the service progressed, various people stepped up to say a short eulogy for
him. First the reverend spoke of how his father had been a servant of God, who had
committed so much to the church. Then came an employee of his who talked of how
Scott’s father had taken care of him during bad times. Next were various family friends
who spoke of his father’s sense of humor and his steadfastness.
Then it was Paul. His brother spoke of their father’s patience, diligence, and
bulldog stubbornness. Various outdoor projects and family anecdotes were used to
release some tension in the crowd.
“…So he spent day after day trying to pull this one root out. He had cut the tree
down and pulled up the stump, but this root refused to move. So in end, he took out the
flamethrower and torched the ground all around it. To say the least, we were
surprised…” He had paused to wipe tears from his eyes.
Nice touch. Scott’s stomach rumbled ominously, yet soon settled down to minor
convulsions. He felt acidic buildup at the back of his throat.
“Now, I step down to allow my brother, Scott, to say a few words in honor of our
father.” Paul turned to face where Scott should have been sitting.
Gagging, Scott was dashing up the aisle as fast as possible toward a pair of doors
that led outside. He fell to the grass where he proceeded to regurgitate his breakfast. He
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had to wonder, was it the beer? Was it being in the church? Was it the thought of
speaking about his father in front of those people? Maybe it was just the bagel.
Couldn’t he at least have stayed in there and spit up some bullshit for the old
man? It could have just been some of the old-school-professional bullshit. It was his
father, after all.
Scott wiped his mouth and sat up. Lifting his face to feel the cool rain, Scott let
the water run down his face. If only the water could cleanse him. He crossed his arms
over his knees and rested his head. The water ran in rivulets from his hair down to his
chin.
He waited for the rest of the service by the alcove of the doors and met his brother
afterwards. He explained what had happened, and Paul said that he understood. Paul
was curt, though, almost brusque. They made their way to the cemetery in the limo with
the hearse and various cars with the ridiculous flags following. It was a cemetery near
the church that seemed to lack the usual decorations. There was no fog, no crypts, no
crumbling statues of half-nude angels, no weeping willows. Other than the tombstones,
only the gloomy clouds and the rain made the cemetery seem like a morbid place. It was
strange how the rain hadn’t let up much for days. The muddy hole was pre-dug when
they arrived, and after a prayer from the reverend, the coffin was lowered into the sixfoot watery ditch. Scott’s mother was surprisingly calm. There were no mad jumps into
the grave, and burly men did not have to hold her back from jumping in. Scott had
always believed such antics were obligatory or at least customary. He was slightly
disappointed.
Under a canopy of black umbrellas, the black mass of mourners backed away
from the grave and piled into cars. The limo was going home, and a few of the closer
family friends followed. They were to comfort the widow.
The urge was strong now inside the limo. He needed a smoke. His hands
trembled. He watched beads of rain sticking to the window. As soon as the limo arrived
at the base of their driveway at home, Scott stepped out and lit one.
His mother took one look at him, covered her mouth with a handkerchief, and ran
inside the house, weeping. Family friends shot piercing glares at him and waved away
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the smoke as they walked by. A look from his brother said, “What the hell do you think
you’re doing, asshole?”
He ground the cigarette into the pavement and rushed inside to find his mother
crying on her bed.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I completely forgot.” Scott stood in the doorway.
She turned to face him. The tears had left trails in her makeup, and her hair was a
disheveled mess. Her body seemed diminutive in the black dress. The once
overwhelming presence of his mother had faded to leave only a shell.
“I’m all right now.” She stood up and wiped her face with a tissue.
“Mom…I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
“I understand. You never think of others. You never did. You only think of
yourself. You never show consideration for anyone else.”
“Mom—”
“You know your father would have killed you for smoking. He told you to stop.
I can just see him now scolding you. He stood over you even though you had inches on
him. He couldn’t stand the thought of you smoking, making the same mistake he made.
He meant it, Scott, but if he couldn’t stop you, I don’t think I can.” She brushed past him
and, wiping her face with her handkerchief, she went down the stairs to meet her friends.
Staring at the rain outside, Scott stood in the room for a while. He went
downstairs and asked Paul if he could borrow the car.
*
At the cemetery he walked through the grass in the rain. Of course, he had
forgotten an umbrella. The water ran down his collar and chilled his spine. He’d
probably get pneumonia from this. Yet another stupid idea. Sure could use a smoke.
The rain fell in sheets of icy water from the gloomy sky. Morbid halos formed on
the tombstones as the water pelted the marble slabs. Soft and slippery from weeks of
constant downpour, the grass glistened softly as it waved back and forth with the wind.
He walked up the brick walkway toward his father’s grave. Each gray stone he
passed seemed to glare at him. It was as if each inhabitant was offended by his presence.
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The newly turned earth of his father’s grave was still soft and already beginning to show
signs of erosion from the rain. As he knelt in front of the mound, Scott read the
inscription on the stone. “Francis Yoon, Husband to Suzanne and Father to Paul and
Scott. May he rest in peace.”
May he rest in peace. Funny words. No connotation of God or the afterlife. The
phrase didn’t fit a man who had been so committed to his religion and church.
He couldn’t pray for him. It didn’t feel right. Instead, he stood up and reached
into his pocket. He picked one out of the pack and lit it. Taking long, deep pulls, he
savored the taste. He blew blue-gray smoke into the cold air. As he prepared to take
another deep pull, he hesitated, then bent down and stuck the half-smoked cigarette into
the still-soft earth by the grave.
“For you, old man.”
He left the pack and the lighter by his father’s stone. As he walked to the car, a
gentle mist fell across the cemetery. The rain was letting up.
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ANDREW CHOE
I was born in 1984 in Seoul, Korea. I graduated from Penncrest in 2003, and currently I
am in my third year, as an English concentrator, at the University of Chicago. I am
interested in the publishing industry, specifically in the field of acquisitions. My favorite
authors at the moment are Borges, Eugenides, Nabokov, Poe, and DFW.
Reflection on Smoke and Mist
One of the most admirable professors I’ve had since coming to the University of
Chicago is an old literary critic by the name of Veeder. In every one of his classes,
Veeder begins his first lecture with Henry James’s dictum, “In the arts, feeling is
meaning.” Then he rattles out a progression of how a reader should “work” his way to
the meaning of a story or novel. First comes the context of the work, which, in turn, is
created by the content. This content is constructed from form or formal innovations
within the text. From these formal innovations comes feeling, or, rather, these formal
innovations must give rise to feeling within the reader. In the end, this feeling or feelings
give rise to the “so what” or the meaning and purpose of a work.
When I first listened to my professor rattle on about this, I had no conceptual
grasp of what he was referring to. However, after taking two of his courses, I profess to
be able to, at least to some degree, see what he means. A true masterpiece exists without
any frills, without bells or whistles, and every single word in a given text is specifically
chosen with a purpose in mind. In addition, Veeder says, no word other than the one
used in a given context is permissible because in the arts, such a thing as “a synonym
does not exist.” In other words, when analytic pressure is applied to a masterpiece, the
masterpiece never fails to respond by revealing the rich nature of its origins or purpose.
Though I cannot wholeheartedly swallow Veeder’s theory of the arts, as I am inclined to
believe that art does not need an explicit purpose, I believe that his conceptions of art are
useful in analyzing fiction. And so I can’t help reconsidering my own story according to
his criteria.
Now I cringe every time I read even one line of “Smoke and Mist.” Though
certain aspects of the story are good, there are too many glaring flaws to simply let pass
by. Following my method of madness at the time, I wrote the story without any idea of
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how I would structure it, nor did I have even a simple purpose in mind. I simply sat
down, imagined a picturesque backdrop for the opening scene, and started typing away.
It is not surprising, then, that the piece is filled with frivolous details.
When “Smoke and Mist” is boiled down to what could be called its “essence,”
though the word seems pompous in this case, it is merely a story of a boy trying to
normalize relations with his father, who at the time happens to be a corpse. Considering
this initial premise, I would rework the story so that all the incidents and flashbacks that
occur are attempts and failures on the protagonist’s part to execute a normalizing of
relations by various means, such as asking for forgiveness from various other characters,
such as his friends, his brother, his mother, and even God. All would become attempts
and failures until he could actually come to confront his father “face-to-face.” In this
manner, the story would be a “high comedy” in the dramatic sense, as the story would
end on a positive note. I guess this was what I was intuitively reaching for three years
ago when I wrote the story, but without a conception of the bigger picture or even a goal,
I had no means of actualizing the true story.
Along with restructuring the plot, I would also eliminate many superfluous details
and even whole aspects of the story so that the story would better cohere. This process, if
executed according to Veeder’s criteria, would make the story whole and complete
without any extraneous details. Anton Chekhov’s dictum captures the spirit of this storywriting principle well: “If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the
wall, in the second or third chapter, it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired,
it shouldn’t be hanging there.”
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Teacher Reflection
Motifs, Mood, and Pacing in Andrew Choe’s Smoke and Mist
This long story’s pace is slow and steady, like the falling rain that drenches the
landscape in the protagonist’s hometown, stopping occasionally, but never long enough
for the sun to come out and clear the air; the atmosphere, filled with “smoke” and “mist,”
complements the mood of the story, as well as the pacing of it.
In the opening scene, Scott considers the rain an omen, a sign to stay away. Why?
we wonder, but, for now, the author conceals the truth, which reveals itself only as Scott
faces it. In every scene, a new revelation propels the story forward, sustaining its pace.
For example, when Scott smokes his first cigarette, his brother is mortified, and, again,
we wonder, Why? We soon discover that their father died of cancer, brought on by
smoking. By mid-story Scott stumbles through misty streets in a boozy glaze, dismissing
the news that his ex-girlfriend, Cara, now lives with his old best friend. Then, hung over,
he manages to skirt even his duty to eulogize his father, ending up drenched, outside the
church, in a scene that echoes an earlier flashback in which the old man stood smoking in
the rain while his fellow congregants rushed inside under umbrellas. If only Scott could
forget the past and avoid the present entirely!
Meanwhile, smoke and mist—motifs worthy of the title—seem to cloud our
vision, or at least Scott’s, as the truth works its way into his consciousness; we begin to
realize—perhaps before Scott himself does—that he is avoiding the unpleasant truth,
avoiding any sense of his own responsibility, not to mention his own pain and loss.
Cigarettes and alcohol, along with the persistent rain, create a smoky, boozy glaze,
separating Scott from the inevitable truth, which finally comes from his mother, who tells
him he is selfish and cruel, her makeup smeared with rain and tears. At last, in the
appropriate rain, Scott confronts his father, with whom he shares one last cigarette, which
he plants in the wet soil of the dead man’s grave.
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Exercise
Write a story—or even just a scene—in which the atmosphere plays a predominant role,
complementing the mood and pacing. Develop motifs—recurring images and ideas—
that weave their way into your descriptions. Be sensitive to mood and tone—feelings,
colors, sounds—and discover patterns of language and imagery that seem to present
themselves as you are writing, or even after you have written a draft.
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Trajectory, Velocity
Eleni Solomos 2003
The car rolls steadily along the endless stretch of highway, smothered by the slate
gray of the sky. The prosaic plane of Interstate 71 is pockmarked by a barn, a silo, a farm
every few miles, a rash of abandoned trucks parked haphazardly and left to rust in the
expanses of hilly green.
His wife sleeps in the passenger seat, her knees facing front, her body turned
sideways at the hips so that her weight lies on her shoulder. In quick, sharp glances out
of the comer of his eye, momentarily taking his gaze away from the uninterrupted straight
of the road, he sees her in fragments: her mouth slightly parted, her nose pink from cold,
eyelashes resting against her cheek. The swell of her breasts. The slight rounded bulge
of her stomach, the baby just beginning to show.
They have just passed the billboard welcoming them to the state of Indiana, then
the subsequent sign announcing their entry into the city of Lawrenceville. The handpainted sign has been so ravaged by age that the paint has cracked and faded into the
grain of the wood, giving the background a gray tinge. A wreath with a red ribbon has
been hung from the bottom of the sign and it smacks against the board with each gust of
wind. Paul takes his foot off the accelerator. There are no cars behind him, no cars in
front of him, for miles. The slight decrease in speed awakens his wife, and she opens her
eyes, drifting for a moment in and out of sleep. He cannot bear to take his eyes off of her
as she brushes a tangle of hair out of her eyes with one sluggish hand.
She raises her head abruptly, looks at him a moment, her eyes glassy and bright,
and shivers. The knitted blanket she had covered herself with earlier has fallen to her feet
and she picks it up and covers herself with it.
“It’s cold,” is the first thing she says, baring her teeth at the steam clouding the
windows. Her voice is ragged from cold and exhaustion. They have been driving for
twelve hours now. One hand peeks out of the blanket and she rubs her left eye with her
knuckles.
“Where are we?” his wife asks, yawning.
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“We just got into Indiana,” Paul says. She can see that his jaw is clenched by the
tautness of his cheek. He does not take his eyes off the road, although there are no cars to
be seen around him.
“Don’t you think,” she says after a quiet moment, shifting her weight to her other
shoulder so that she can face Paul, “that we should just find a hotel and sleep the rest of
the afternoon, stay overnight? We’ve been driving forever. You’re exhausted, I can tell.
We left the house at four-thirty this morning. At least let’s stop someplace to eat. It’s so
gray out and it’s so cold and it’s going to be dark soon. Please.”
Paul shrugs limply at his wife, lifting his hands from the steering wheel,
uncharacteristically smacking them back down in frustration with a soft slapping noise,
looking at her twice, quickly, his face blank save for the barely perceptible, bitter
downturn of his mouth. Upon their weary entrance into Indiana the enormity of this
awful trip has struck him, a violent realization that he is propelling their car forward into
an ugly and desperate situation that he has little desire to get involved in. In his profound
exhaustion he has become genuinely impatient with her for the first time in his life, rather
than trace the fault in such a delicate matter back to himself, as he typically did.
Suddenly he has little patience left for her meticulous planning, her trying to make
everything right, her tragically optimistic rationalizations, though he knows that at the
root of such behavior lies a staggering grief, everything in her life done so as to avoid
treading over such fragile ground. Not that he is any stranger to it himself.
*
Fifteen minutes later Elizabeth and Paul park in the lot behind TOM’S DINER of
Lawrenceville, Indiana, and get out of the car, the cold stinging their cheeks as the frigid
air hits them for the first time in hours. The reek of stale cigarette smoke and rancid
coffee is stifling as they walk together into the diner. Elizabeth stifles a gag the second
the smell hits her. Christmas lights have been strung over the lighted case displaying
desserts. The two stand in line by the door, waiting to be seated.
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Paul looks at his wife. She has taken off her gloves and is staring down at her
hands. The glare of the fluorescent light makes the gold band of her wedding ring look
fuzzy.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” she says, tracing her fingers over the wood paneling on the diner
wall. “Do you ever walk into a place and it reminds you of stuff? Like it just makes you
think of certain people? Places you’ve been before?”
“Like?” he says.
“Oh, I don’t: know,” she says absentmindedly, gazing at her slender fingers
against the dark wood, the harsh light glinting off clear nail polish, her small hands
chapped from the cold. She takes her pinky finger and links it around Paul’s. “Do you
remember Mikey Jones? He always smelled like cigarette smoke. And he always wore
that cowboy hat.” Mikey Jones, a young man they’d gone to school with. Paul looks
around for a moment. A man sits in the comer of the waiting booths, a cowboy hat pulled
completely over his face and eyes, his hands in his pockets, slouching. His wife is seated
next to him, bloated, nondescript. A group of teenaged thugs laughs in the corner, also
waiting for a table. The picture of the grimacing MANAGER ON DUTY of the diner
hangs above the cash register. Tired, stooped waitresses plod around in blocky
orthopedic shoes, refilling coffee.
“Do you ever wonder about him?” she asks Paul. “That pretty girlfriend he had,
the one with the long red hair? He drove that stupid jalopy truck that leaked oil and
coolant all over the place. And then one day he just up and left, remember? And the
redhead cried all the time because she thought it was her fault that he’d left, she thought
he’d gone crazy because she’d been cheating on him? And he’d written her all those
pretty songs on his guitar.”
Paul nods to her, half listening, half remembering. “I do remember that,” he says.
“I don’t know,” she says. “He was so serious, so old-fashioned. It makes me
think of him in here. The country music. People outdated by twenty years. I forgot how
much I hated this state.” She shrugs.
An ancient waitress walks up to seat them, holding two menus.
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Paul and Elizabeth sit at a booth by the foggy window. The wrinkled, stooped
waitress brings them each a cup of coffee and a small pitcher of cream.
Paul pours the liquid into his mug and stirs it with his spoon. He puts one menu
between him and Elizabeth. Her hand strays into his lap, eerily reminiscent of one awful
late-summer afternoon, many years ago, in the aftermath of a terrible event: Elizabeth’s
father had come home early one afternoon from work, finding the two of them, sixteen,
seventeen years old, naked, upstairs, bodies intertwined, quite enjoying what they were in
the middle of, and he, on the spot, cursing them both, refusing to speak to his daughter
ever again. The next time they saw each other was when school started again in the fall,
seated beside each other on a park bench, their meeting place at the end of each day. And
in the midst of her anguish that her family was being outright hostile to her and Paul’s
own crushing guilt, blaming the trouble on himself as he always did, for, in his eyes,
anything wrong in this relationship was his fault, for she was too perfect to be to blame
for any pain brought to their union—she had put her hand in his lap and her fingers had
wandered and he had been disgusted with himself that he had enjoyed it, in spite of the
fact that he was well aware that his enjoyment of this (not thinking, for a moment, that
hers as well) had caused them trouble almost more than it was worth.
*
Back in the car, he consults the map for the nearest hotel. He finds one that,
according to his travel book, is decent, about twenty minutes away.
The thought of a hotel excites him. Something about the many-times-over
disinfected history of the rooms does it for him, not only the myriad of dirty things that
have taken place but the fact that both those madly in love and those utterly despondent
have conspired in the same room over time, passing sleepless hours gazing at the same
exact ceiling, watching the grainy darkness engulf the stucco if they stare hard enough.
He also knows that his wife is more wild than usual between the chlorinesmelling sheets of a foreign room, and he is suddenly rendered restless and fidgety by a
detached sense of desire, lust that, from the beginning, never failed to carry the burden of
you have no idea how lucky you are, you don’t even deserve this. She is devastatingly
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beautiful, shamefacedly aware of her startling loveliness in spite of her self-deprecating
manner, those green-brown eyes, the long, sharp nose, the plump lips and the long
strawberry hair, so lovely and efficient in manner, so well-spoken and intelligent and
humorous that, for the life of him, he knows that he would never be able to explain what,
exactly, she sees in him.
*
He remembers in college there not being enough money between the both of them
to afford a hotel to stay for a night. They would, instead, whenever possible, which was
rare, cram into each other’s twin beds in their respective dormitory rooms, for a
weekend’s worth of desperate groping. Faces buried in each other’s shoulders, the sweet
smell of her long hair, words uttered while clinging to each other, like I don’t know what
to do, I’m empty without you, I need you to fill me up, and then, at last, a guilty sense of
finally having privacy: that this time no one would walk in and catch them, true love
found out and condemned.
Out of that sense of privacy grew a certain defiance, and they were meeting each
other whenever possible, in the city, at college, staying at each other’s place for weeks at
a time, until the ultimate cockiness: he finally proposed, this novel idea he’d toyed with
in fantasies since he was seventeen years old. Later she whispered into his ear, Perhaps
this time they’ll listen, they’ll see that we’ve gone through everything together, I would
have been so miserable if I’d never met you, we’ve been together for years now, they’ll
see this isn’t an irrational thing, which it might have been years ago. But making known
the secret that they had still been seeing each other all these years, against her parents’
will, reopened wounds long ago healed, making fresh blood all the more a shock, and the
two were cast out, her parents saying to hell with you both, we will have nothing to do
with either of you.
And here they were four years later, Elizabeth so full of optimism that if it had
taken only six months for her family to resume a sense of normalcy the first time things
fell apart, then four years would surely have given them the time open their hearts again.
And a baby on the way would surely bring them all back together.
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“Paul,” she had said to him a few weeks before Christmas, sitting together sipping
tea in front of their decorated tree, fully aware of the fact that she had sounded entirely
too rehearsed, “you know Katharine’s mother? Her father didn’t speak to her over some
family thing until she had Katharine, did I ever tell you that? Did you know that?” The
holidays had made her think that it was time to try to patch things up again, that she
would be able to rest easy at least knowing that she had made the effort to bring her
family back together again. She was a grown woman and her life had fallen perfectly
into place, he a wildly successful lawyer and she an editor at an offshoot of a major
publishing house. They kept a beautiful apartment and they made elaborate meals and
they lived by such embarrassingly maudlin, they knew it, rules of their love: never go to
bed mad; never leave the house without saying goodbye first; don’t be apart for more
than five days if one of us has to travel without the other.
The first time everything had gone to pieces, she remembered eating dinner,
trying to keep a stone face down into her plate as her father told her family how much of
a disgrace she was. Six months later the family had somehow forged a relationship with
all of that smoothed over, and she had never complained about the circumstances of the
peace. Her mother had told her that if she found that there was any further contact
between her and Paul, she would put a restraining order on him—a ridiculous, harsh thing
to say, but she said it like she meant it, and that hurt enough—and Elizabeth had curled
up into herself on her bed, late at night, crying so hard that she would retch over and over
again, making a ball out of the sheets and biting down on it to keep from making noise,
ending up gasping for air as she eventually quieted down between the damp sheets. So
they lived the next few years without phone calls, without letters, without seeing each
other, knowing that the stability of Elizabeth’s family depended on their virtual
separation, somehow still remaining in love: the inexplicable, uncommunicated trust that
somewhere the other person still whispers I love you I love you I love you each night with
their face buried into the pillow before they fall asleep, that they cry at grotesquely
sentimental commercials and revel in the glory of the season changing simply because
they have been put in touch with this ethereal gift that makes them sensitive enough to
realize, in startling clarity, the severe magnitude of certain things, like love, for one; their
own mortality, perhaps; and, always, the magnitude of memory: either a punch in the gut
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reminding them of a time or a place, or the graceful reminders of those who have passed
quietly in and out of their lives.
*
Back in the car Elizabeth decides that there is no reason for Paul to be quite so
upset about all of this. If anything, he should have realized that her efforts to reunite the
family was in part to absolve him from the guilt he had unnecessarily placed on himself.
It was his habit, she knew, but it was ridiculous nonetheless. She could not understand
why he put her on such a pedestal, why he was so convinced that she was perfect. Many
times she would start an argument on purpose, simply to sling insults back and forth,
perhaps so that he might see her, for a moment, as cruel.
Lying on the couch together in front of the fireplace, after an offhand comment
about how young they were when they got married: “You probably only proposed to me
because you couldn’t concentrate on your work because you couldn’t stand the thought of
me running around with somebody else.”
“No, I told you that my life and my work are two separate things, and that the one
doesn’t influence the other, because even if we were to split up, we’d said, we were
always going to be happy and do our best at everything only because we’d taught each
other that. I proposed to you because we loved each other.”
“Is that why you were so obsessed with asking me if I ‘still loved you’ every few
minutes?”
“You were always starting arguments! Every time we had a chance to really talk
to each other, it was only because you were furious about something. You were too
apathetic to talk to me just to say hello.”
“That’s because I couldn’t even talk to you whenever I wanted to, unless I was at
college.”
“Obviously it ended up working out,” was his stock response.
Working out, she thought to herself, irritated slightly as she tapped her fingers
against the car door handle. We are driving to Indiana on the day after Christmas to see
people I haven’t seen in ten years because we left so that I could marry you because I
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couldn’t get married to you anywhere that my parents might stop by and shoot you. And
yet she was far from bitter: this was as perfect a relationship as anyone could ever
conceive, no worries of ever being misunderstood on either of their parts, so she had
learned to keep her mouth shut, for the most part. What kept her unhappy was the years
of animosity her parents had for Paul, a guilt of her own that their intrinsically
unforgiving nature was the source of his own guilt. She had been making designs to
solve this for years now, well before they got married: that perhaps one day, driving in
the car with her father, she would explain to him that she had never been too young to
understand what a serious and complex love was like, she had understood it well,
obviously, considering that the relationship was still just as strong as ever. Or someday
her parents would simply come to her and tell her that they had decided to let bygones be
bygones, and that her life would benefit from the presence of that boy Paul. Or perhaps
Paul would someday show up at the house, carrying flowers, maybe? a bottle of wine?
and together Elizabeth and Paul would describe their ambitions, ambitions they would
have never pursued so enthusiastically had they never met, never filled each other’s life
with such a purpose. And her family would embrace with open arms this man who had
changed their daughter’s life so profoundly, smile in awe of their respect and affection
for each other, and maintain their relationship with pleasant get-togethers: a dinner here,
a visit there.
But such things never happened out of the blue. When, suddenly, surprisingly,
she was pregnant—something they had not counted on for a few years more, but
something they welcomed nonetheless—the first thing she had thought was how this
baby might be the reason that they all get back together, a catalyst for forgiveness, a
blameless and beautiful thing on which they could all find a common denominator. The
holidays had rolled around this year and Elizabeth decided that, with this baby on the
way, there was no reason for them to remain separated with her family any longer, first
dropping hints, then outright pleading with Paul, describing her plans of bringing peace
to the family, and so they drove on, the day after Christmas, the roads empty, the air
crisp, into the stagnant blackness of the Indiana night.
*
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Inside the hotel bathroom Elizabeth bends at the waist so that she is nearly noseto-nose with the mirror, careful so as not to bump or press the barely perceptible
protrusion of her belly against the hard marble of the sink. She squints and plucks her
eyebrows in the yellow-gray of the buzzing overhead light. Paul comes up behind her,
vaguely afraid, and places his hand on the small of her back. She looks up at his face and
not his reflection in the mirror. She puts down the metal tweezers and, reaching up, puts
her arms around his neck. He relaxes for the first time in hours and wraps his hands
around her body. They hang on each other and sway back and forth to the staticky blare
of the television Paul has turned on in the other room.
*
Paul rubs Elizabeth’s feet as they watch a movie on the television. The sheets
have been turned down; they are dressed in pajamas. Despite his fatigue, Elizabeth’s
nervous machinations on the next day’s events keep him lucid in his conversation and his
listening. Should she call first? He doesn’t know. Should they just stop by and walk in?
He doesn’t know. She is almost excited about the entire situation, as if she is making
decisions for a puppet she merely operates, a character she has created, a game in which
she moves the pieces. In her years of stifled sorrow she has become quite fond of
imagining what would happen if, what would you do if, what would you say if. And the
baby, the baby, they’ll go nuts about the baby. That’ll be the thing, you know. They
can’t resist. It’s perfect, it’ll all work out, it’s just the thing.
It is not that late. It is not even nine o’clock yet. Hands trembling, she mutes the
television during the commercial and picks up the phone the second that the digital clock,
bolted into the hotel night cable to prevent its theft, turns to nine o’clock.
It is an answering machine. Her voice is trembling as she explains who, exactly,
is calling, and why, and why she and Paul are in Indiana, and why, exactly, she felt
compelled to venture out to see her family, and how they will be stopping by tomorrow
morning.
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When Elizabeth hangs up the phone, in order to negate the immense gravity of
what she has just done, she turns to Paul, who had been gritting his teeth again, and says,
Paul, we’re going to have such a beautiful baby. He’ll have my eyes and your sweet little
nose and your little pout. She kisses him lightly on the lips and a genuine smile spreads
across his face.
*
The character in the television movie is a tragic young woman, she saves and
obsesses over little tangible pieces of her life that she saves in a box: letters, pictures,
jewelry, other small items. Her family thinks she is crazy. She opens the box again and
again to read and re-read these mysterious letters she keeps. We do not know who they
are from or what they contain. The letters bring the woman to tears every single time.
“That’s not that crazy,” Elizabeth says when the commercials come on. She shuts
off the television and leans over to turn off the lamp. “I mean, I do that.”
“Do what?” says Paul. He is glad she has turned off the light. He wants to go to
bed. If his wife is at all interested in any sort of lovemaking this evening, they better get
cracking. He is fading fast.
“Save letters like that.”
“From who?”
“From you, silly.”
“I save all yours too.”
“I saved other people’s too.” A hint of mockery in her voice.
“Like?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, tell me.”
“Nothing.” Teasing now.
“No, really, tell me.”
“I’m a woman of many secrets.”
“Trust me, I know.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
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“Hey, I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“A girl needs to have some secrets.”
“Keep secrets from meeee?”
“Don’t be selfish.”
Out of the darkness, in response, an exaggerated sniff of feigned sadness.
“Don’t worry, I love you the most.”
A stiff silence. “Wait. What?”
She says nothing.
“What are you talking about?” A tremor in his voice, his fierce loyalty and
devotion suddenly shaken. There is no joking on this topic for him.
“Look,” she says, her voice so tired, “in all honesty, now. You and I met for a
reason, I like to believe. Other people cross in and out of our lives. Following the same
logic, this happens for a reason. Right?”
“Right,” he says.
“A woman stays late at a meeting and meets a man. They fall in love, get
married. This happened in her life for a reason. The next week she stays late at a party
and meets another man. The man stayed late at the same party because his meeting this
woman was supposed to happen in his life. So now what? You forget,” she says, “that
we’re all intertwined. That’s all. I try to take advantage of everything that is supposed to
happen.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Paul is surprised at the edge in his
voice, as is Elizabeth, realizing that she has taken this too far.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she says, and she means it. This she means too. “No
one even comes close to you, really and truly.” She speaks some more and then, after a
few minutes, seems to talk herself into sleep. Paul has faded out, concentrating only on
her arm, which rests on his chest, a slight, warm weight. He puts together the pieces of
what he sees as infidelities and pits them against his overwhelming love for her; every
little twinge of envy he’s ever felt when she is talking to others, which is often, reminds
him of how precariously lucky he is. Of course, his love is reciprocated, but she is right:
other people cross into their lives at a million miles an hour, thousands and thousands of
people, and she is always temporarily diverted. He really doesn’t care. He needs air. He
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gets up in the bed, achingly weary, and kisses Elizabeth on the lips. For a second
Elizabeth wakes up.
“Do you still love me, though?” Elizabeth can hear his voice asking her in her
mind.
“Of course I love you, I will always love you, dufus,” she answers back to herself.
Her love is based on a series of failed secrets. They will always continue on. She has no
concerns.
*
Paul goes and stands out in the hotel hallway. His feet are bare against the closecropped, velvety carpet, the diamond pattern stretching out down the endless hall. Heavy
silence. Electric buzz. He walks toward the glaring white light in the middle of the
hallway, from where comes the comforting, warm hum of the soda machine, the low bass
rumble of the ice machine. The disinfectant smell. The periodic gray lighting of the
hallway. He stands stock-still, just staring down the hall, eyes out of focus, aware of his
stomach rising and falling with every breath underneath his striped pajamas. He curls his
toes underneath his feet and he turns around and walks back down the hall.
Back in bed Elizabeth slings her arm around his shoulder and breathes into his
neck. Despite his tiredness her touch makes him wide-eyed, uncomfortably awake—and
this worries him deeply, as he was always the one who could not sleep alone, needed
something to cling to in order to fall asleep.
“I’m thirsty,” she mumbles into his neck. For the first rime in his life he ignores
her. He pretends to be asleep. Elizabeth is not sure whether he is really asleep or not, but
the thought of him actually ignoring her for once appeals to her.
She gets up and walks out, struck by the same need for a moment of aloneness as
Paul. She walks around the floor of the hotel a few times before she goes back into their
room. She feels a bit dizzy, figuring that it is nerves and exhaustion. She lies down,
feeling off, then a few hours later goes to the bathroom, making sure to be quiet so as not
to disturb her husband, but when she sees the spotting of blood she is clumsy and
panicking and he wakes up immediately. He is more hysterical than she is and they are
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making phone calls, he running numbly down to the front desk, she sitting, shaking on
the hotel room bed, crying and crying, and he is running in and out of the room, people
coming in and out, and Elizabeth realizes that any business she had back in Indiana has
suddenly crumbled to dust.
And then, days later, well aware of their mutual loneliness, Paul is at the helm as
they are propelled into the future this time—rather than revisiting the past—and his wife
sits, broken beside him, her back turned to him and her face out the window. Her hand,
however, rests gently on top of his, and he knows that they are still safe, far from any sort
of unknown. There are no cars on the road in the early morning fog. His foot is leaden
on the gas pedal, and he is thinking to himself of their speed, their trajectory, velocity,
hurtling toward some great future faster than they can handle it, they have been planning
it since they were mere children, and here they are.
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ELENI SOLOMOS
I am currently a junior at Temple University in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, majoring in
English and minoring in art history and French. Alongside writing, I am passionate about
education; I am currently beginning graduate courses in Temple’s Masters of Education
dual-degree program, while working as a cross-curricular writing tutor in Temple’s
University Writing Center.
Reflection on Trajectory, Velocity
I wrote this story in late November of 2002, my senior year at Penncrest. I find it
interesting, exactly three years later, to find myself—usually violently critical of past
work—to still be content with a piece of high school writing. I think what allows
“Trajectory, Velocity” to hold surprisingly safe status among more recent things I’ve
written as a college student is the fact that, at heart, what it’s about—a love forbidden by
families—is a circumstance that is dependent upon the creation of fictions, of noble and
novel lies and everyday melodramatics, things that never fail to fascinate me or provide
fodder for my fiction.
What sets “Trajectory, Velocity” apart from things I’ve been writing recently is
the fact that that the story’s characters approximate full-blown adults, married and ready
to start a family. Anymore, I’m very hesitant to write stories about adult characters
because I feel as if I have little access to them. This is funny, as I had less access to
adulthood as a seventeen-year-old writer than I do at twenty, and yet I still find my access
to be nothing more than imaginary.
Elizabeth losing the baby was the suggestion of my best friend as we
“workshopped” the story in small groups, and I needed some sort of means to an end. At
first I thought inserting a miscarriage was far too easy, but I used it anyway because it
provided an actual, recognizable climax for the story’s quieter close. It ended up working
beautifully, though, as I realized, after the fact, that her miscarriage carried more weight
than just a blatant climax and a corporeal loss. Elizabeth and Paul had tacked hopes
beyond their own love for each other onto the baby; it was a steppingstone to
reconciliation with her family, to making elements of their lives approach peace, so their
child could know more than just immediate stability. Thus, it’s a twofold tragedy when
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she miscarries the baby, as its inception—a desperate grasp at Elizabeth and Paul making
some sort of physical representation of their complex love, so as to possibly legitimize it
in her parents’ eyes—was steeped in tragedy to begin with.
Unfortunately, not all easily inserted, relatively extreme climaxes work out to
such an advantageous degree. To this day, I still struggle not with endings—the final line
of a story, spontaneously conjured, is often my impetus for all of the writing I’ll do to get
up to that point—but the climactic events that precipitate that divinely inspired, concise
ending line. Life is continuous; short stories are finite. At best, they possess the potential
to contain infinite possibility and resonance in their limited length. Sometimes I get very
frustrated when I have to work towards a climax that leads to an ending, as events do not
usually lend themselves to such dynamics in real life—conflicts are drawn out to
stalemate, intuitions don’t quiet down, and stories don’t end after the last line, however
precious.
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Teacher Reflection
Omniscient Point of View in Eleni Solomos’s Trajectory, Velocity
Eleni Solomos’s narrative choices allow her full reign of her natural talents—her
sensitivity of emotion, sophistication of prose, depth of insight, uncanny psychological
understanding—all of which abound in “Trajectory, Velocity.” A teacher might resign
himself to the notion that he cannot really teach a student how to write—or at least how
to write a good short story like this one; no doubt some students, or writers, demonstrate
certain “gifts,” intangible qualities that may be “un-teachable.” But every writer has her
own distinctive voice, as well as vision of the world, and one person’s voice and vision
are not “better” than another’s. When one sets out to write a story, she must “position”
herself in such a way that will free her distinctive powers as storyteller, in order to
exercise her voice confidently and to manifest her vision as best as she can on the page.
Indeed, in “Trajectory, Velocity” Eleni demonstrates a tremendous authority, and
admirable confidence, but it is important to recognize that she has made important
choices as the writer. Teachable, learnable choices. The most important choice Eleni
makes is to tell the story from an omniscient point of view, which gives her the ideal
“angle” on the story, not to mention the broadest “lens” through which to capture her
vision. Like a movie camera that both “zooms in” and “pulls out,” this omniscient voice
provides the author “distance” from the characters, so that we can observe them
simultaneously, from outside their consciousnesses, as in the opening of the second
section, “Fifteen minutes later Elizabeth and Paul…”
In addition, the omniscient voice allows the author to inhabit the minds of both
Elizabeth’s and Paul’s points of view fully, in effect, treating each character as a
protagonist, with whom we come to empathize equally. Like a master director, Eleni
“zooms in” to capture the perspective of Elizabeth; she “zooms in” to capture Paul’s
perspective, the transitions always so smooth that the reader never senses the slightest
interruption or confusion; and she “pulls out,” reestablishing the reader’s more distant
view of both characters, reinforcing the sense that this story is about this couple, as a unit,
with a shared, complicated history, of distinct and yet overlapping worlds.
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Many, perhaps most, short stories are written from either the first-person point of
view or the close third-person point of view, each of which more or less “limits” the
author to the perspective of a single character, whose viewpoint defines the story. The
omniscient point of view might seem the more obvious narrative choice for an author,
who, after all, would not want to feel restricted—right? But, perhaps, as in life, we are
accustomed to seeing the world through one set of eyes—our own—and it is difficult
enough to make meaning out of things even within the confines of our own mind. In
fiction writing the omniscient point of view demands certain bravery, a willingness to
imagine ourselves inside the minds of multiple people and to assert our own storytelling
voices with such confidence that we expect the reader to assume our authority… That’s
the fun of it.
Exercise
Write a short story—or just a scene—in which you both “zoom in” to capture the distinct
viewpoints of two (or more?) characters and “pull out” to a more “distant” narrative
voice. Consider the movie camera analogy, and think of yourself as a master director—
and cinematographer—who, from a distance, captures the broad view of your story’s
world, and then, at closer range—after graceful transitions—captures the limited
perspectives of your main characters.
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Megan and Michael
Julie Wasson 2003
He snored. That is why George and Evelyn began sleeping in separate bedrooms.
“You’re just too loud, dear. I don’t get any sleep because I spend all night trying
to get you to stop,” Evelyn explained to her husband.
In the beginning, George slept in his son’s bedroom while he was away at college.
The room was right beside the master one. The couple had put their newborn son there
so they could hear his every cry during the night, and his room had remained there ever
since. Only a wall divided them then.
The sleeping arrangements continued, and for his next birthday, Evelyn bought
George an Aerobed.
George tore off the shiny paper and examined the revealed box. “Nice,” he said.
“It’s supposed to be therapeutic for your back. At least that’s what the
infomercial said.” Evelyn fiddled with her fingers and added, “I thought we could put it
in the kid’s old playroom. We can make it your own little bedroom.”
A few months after the birthday, the Aerobed turned into a real mattress and bed
frame. The situation was now permanent. George remained in the playroom, surrounded
by his grown children’s old toys and games. The room was down the hall from the
master bedroom, making the distance between Evelyn and George even farther.
A sense of intimacy was lost from not being in the same bed. It wasn’t just the
sex; there was something else too. They always used to have early morning
conversations, and, before, they routinely cuddled during the cold winter nights. Now,
George couldn’t even share the latest product review from Consumer Reports and Evelyn
couldn’t point out the silk blouses she liked from Eddie Bauer as they read together in
bed.
*
Evelyn hated kicking George out the way she did, but his snoring was atrocious.
About fifteen minutes after he went to sleep, George’s mouth would fall open, his tongue
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would slip to the back of his throat, and the horrible noise would begin. The nasally
gargle gradually escalated as time went on until it got so unbearable that Evelyn had to
smack George with her pillow, awaking him from his slumber. Then, within ten minutes,
the noise would be resonating through their bedroom again as if nothing had happened.
Until the snoring stopped, Evelyn had no choice but to forbid George from sleeping in the
same room.
From Breathe Right strips to The Snore Extinguisher, George had tried it all. The
contents of his medicine cabinet displayed the persistent effort to stop his horrible habit.
As a last resort, George had even visited the doctor. He suggested losing weight, but that
was the one thing George could not make himself do.
At five-feet, ten-inches, and two hundred thirty-five pounds, George was more
than slightly overweight. All that drinking in college had taken its toll on the six-pack
abs of his youth, and thanks to a love for just about any food, George now sported a
rather large, protruding stomach. The fact that exercise was a rarity in his life didn’t help
either. He owned assorted aerobic equipment, but like the anti-snore products, the
treadmill, the stationary bike, and the gazelle rider were all collecting dust. He wanted to
change, but it was just too hard. At fifty-five years old, all hopes of regaining his normal
life had diminished. Gradually, he had fallen into the monotonous routine of practically
living alone.
*
In the mornings, George awoke to a faded poster of Sesame Street and elementary
school art projects. Although his daughter was newly married and his son was rounding
out his college years, the room still looked as though five-year-olds played in it regularly.
“I just can’t bear to get rid of these things,” sighed Evelyn when she looked at the
room. “My babies loved it all so much when they were younger.”
Always careful not to trip on any toys, George stumbled out of bed and walked
down the hallway to his old bedroom. Turning the brass handle on the door, he entered
the room to find his peacefully sleeping wife. Despite his absence, she still kept her
petite frame curled up on the right side of the bed. George tried to be quiet as he slid
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open his dresser drawers, retrieving his jeans and plaid shirt for the day, but Evelyn was a
light sleeper and usually awoke at the slightest creek in the floorboards. Rubbing her
eyes, she watched as her husband prepared to go to work.
After getting dressed, George left the bedroom without even uttering a goodbye.
Downstairs, once his packet of oatmeal was mixed with water, he popped it into the
microwave. Then George poured cold milk over the concoction—a ritual Evelyn had
gotten him started on. Staring blankly at the flowered wallpaper, he slowly consumed the
breakfast.
The cuckoo clock from their honeymoon to Germany went off at seven o’clock,
signifying the time for George to rise from the table and head out the door to work.
After hearing the front door slam, Evelyn rose from her bed. Pulling on her pink
robe and terrycloth slippers, she made her way downstairs. George’s dishes were always
waiting for her on the kitchen table, and so she gathered them up and rinsed them clean.
Then, with Good Morning America buzzing in the background, Evelyn prepared her own
breakfast and planned her day.
There was always some sort of cleaning that consumed the morning, but her
afternoons were typically free. George used to call and see how her day was going, but
not anymore. In good weather, Evelyn strolled around the block or pulled some weeds in
her garden. When the rain poured down or the temperature fell below fifty, she stayed
inside, watching her favorite soap opera. Occasionally one of her church friends stopped
by and they drank coffee, chatting about the latest gossip. By far, Evelyn’s favorite way
to fill her afternoons was walking throughout the house, looking at all the pictures that
adorned each wall. She had always loved to take pictures and her passion could be seen
in every room. There were plenty of pictures of her and George, but most of the framed
memories were of her two glorious children.
Evelyn had taken such great pleasure in giving them their names. George had let
her name their firstborn whatever she pleased. After searching through various name
books, she had chosen Megan, meaning strong and able. When their son was born,
George had wanted to call him Chuck so he could grow up to be a tough football player.
Evelyn laughed when she heard this and offered another suggestion. “How about
Michael, after your father?”
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George shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Okay.”
And so it was Megan and Michael who smiled back at Evelyn when she stared at
their beautiful pictures. Sometimes their two front teeth were missing; other times their
skin radiated a deep brown tan from the family vacation. Joy filled Evelyn’s heart when
she recalled the memories of raising her children.
The sound of George’s car roaring up the driveway always interrupted Evelyn
from her afternoon routine. As George reentered the house for the evening, she headed
into the kitchen to prepare their dinner. While Evelyn chopped tomatoes and stirred the
boiling pasta, George watched television in the den, his feet propped up on an ottoman
and an unread newspaper in hand. They always spent time in separate rooms now.
Dinner was the only moment of the day in which they had to come together.
There was no escaping, and each night Evelyn made an effort to converse.
“How was your day, dear?” she questioned.
Like a child answering his mother, George said, “Fine.”
“Ruth stopped by today,” Evelyn added, trying to start some sort of
communication.
“That’s nice,” George answered, twirling his spaghetti.
The only thing that ever brought a twinkle to his eyes was discussing their
children. Evelyn knew this and so she often tried to bring up a story about them. Most
dinners were over in about fifteen minutes, but the nights when they talked about Megan
and Michael, the light above the kitchen table stayed on for a good hour.
Even after a talkative dinner, their evening rituals distanced each other. Evelyn
enjoyed watching the nightly primetime drama, while George liked to watch war
documentaries or some old movie that happened to be on. With the need for two
televisions, they were once again in separate rooms.
“Good night, dear,” Evelyn called to her husband at ten o’clock.
That was his signal to climb up the basement stairs to kiss his wife good night.
“Sleep tight, hun,” George always said.
Then Evelyn retreated to her bedroom to prepare for bed. Just as she slipped
under her new striped comforter—she’d thrown the old one away—George appeared in
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the doorway. After he used the bathroom off the master bedroom, he turned off the light
and closed the door for his sleeping wife.
Under the covers in his own bed, George kept the light on in his room. Often he
removed their old wedding album from the shelf of countless other albums, wondering
what had gone wrong. They had been so in love before. Why was it different now? But
George never pondered their relationship for long. Soon he fell asleep, and moments
later the snoring began.
As morning came the next day, their routine continued.
*
One wintry day in December, they received phone calls from their children.
Megan and Michael were coming home for the holiday. George, without being nagged,
went up into the attic and retrieved all the boxes labeled Christmas. The couple spent the
week decorating their house with holly wreathes and Santa Claus figurines. They added
little touches to every room until the entire house was filled with the Christmas spirit.
Then George strung colorful lights around the porch and bushes just like Megan loved.
While he busied himself outside, Evelyn baked her famous sugar cookies, decorating
them with the red and green sprinkles that Michael enjoyed so much.
It had been a long time since the whole family had been together, Evelyn thought
as she emptied out the last of the decoration boxes—since before the separate bedrooms.
The night before their children were to come home, Evelyn and George, together,
assembled their fake Christmas tree and delicately placed their priceless ornaments on it.
They even found the mistletoe, and George was able to sneak a kiss from his wife.
Just before noon on the next day, a gray Ford Explorer traveled down Evelyn and
George’s street. Their son-in-law carefully maneuvered the vehicle that was filled to
capacity with luggage and beautifully wrapped presents. He steered the wheel with one
hand, while his other hand rested on the stomach of his wife, Megan. They both looked
at each other and grinned. Mom and Dad were going to be so happy.
Right behind the Ford Explorer was a beat-up Toyota Camry. Michael tapped his
hands on the steering wheel to the beat of the music. The back of his car was filled with
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dirty laundry, a computer, and a small bag of unwrapped presents for his family. Michael
couldn’t wait to see his old friends, to eat home-cooked meals, and to forget everything
he’d learned all semester.
“Tonight, we will sleep in the same bed,” Evelyn stated as the cars turned into
their driveway.
“Okay,” George replied.
“We both love our children too much to do otherwise.”
“Exactly.”
As the children made their way up the freshly shoveled walkway, Evelyn and
George stood in front of the open door, his red plaid sleeve wrapped around the waist of
her green knit sweater. The lights were sparkling outside, even in the daylight. The
cookies were arranged on a plate, waiting on the kitchen table to be eaten. Everything
was perfect.
But not even Megan and Michael could perform miracles. Take away the
Christmas tree, the holly wreathes, or the Santa Claus figurines and only the bare facts
remained. He had a snoring problem, and she could not sleep at nights.
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JULIE WASSON
Since graduating from Penncrest in 2003, I have been attending the University of
Delaware, majoring in marketing with a minor in psychology. Besides missing my
creative writing days at PHS, I have been busy helping to run Delaware’s student dance
company and working part time in the on-campus housing office. Upon graduation and
entering the real world (yikes!), I hope to obtain a job in marketing/advertising and see
where life takes me.
Reflection on Megan and Michael
One night, I was trying to fall asleep without much success. Here it was, one
week before the big English assignment was due, and my short story was crap. I’m a
perfectionist when it comes to writing, and my current creation was as far from perfect as
you could get. Then, I heard my dad walk down the hall. The floorboards squeaked and
the door to the spare bedroom closed shut. Suddenly, a new idea popped into my head.
(People like to think that good writing comes from weeks of planning, but it’s the spurof-the-moment ideas that seem to be most successful for me.) Right then and there, I
reached into the top drawer of my nightstand, pulling out the green spiral-bound
notebook that is kept on hand for such occasions. From there, I wrote the first line to my
new and improved short story.
With the alarm clock set for 6:00 a.m. and the red numbers on its face already
reading far too late into the night, I closed up my notebook and went to sleep. I had no
idea where this story was going to go, but I knew that had to be the first line: “He snored.
That is why they began sleeping in separate bedrooms.”
In general, that’s how I like to begin my writing. I start with a basic concept that
I’m familiar with and let the story take off from there. The cliché line that everyone
always tells you is “write about what you know.” I hate to say it, but that is so true. It is
a lot easier to describe an apple if you’ve seen an apple, smelled one, and know what one
tastes like. However, never let the whole story be based on personal experience. After
taking a simple concept and some minor details, I always let the events and the real
meaning of the story appear on their own.
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Consistency is another quality that I always strive for. All writers have their own
unique style. Mine is definitely simplicity. The idea was not complicated, so I didn’t
want my story to be either. Man snored. Woman could not sleep. They slept in separate
bedrooms. Throughout the entire story, I kept this simple motif. Perhaps I even took it
too far. I’ll never forget the reaction I got after my friends read the story. They gave me
this look and just said, “But nothing happened.” I simply smiled at them. That was the
entire point. This story, without saying too much, says everything.
Looking back now, I am definitely proud of my work, but I can not help
wondering how my story would have turned out had I fallen asleep that one night without
hearing the floorboards squeaking and the door to the spare bedroom closing.
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Teacher Reflection
The “Simple” Style of Julie Wasson’s Megan and Michael
The “simple” style, as Julie herself describes it, enhances the sadness—or the
bittersweet-ness—of “Megan and Michael.” So much remains unexplained, unspoken,
unacknowledged—not just in the “simple” narration of the story but by the characters
themselves. The “simple” prose style reflects the content of the story. The author—and
the story itself—does not judge the characters or even explain the characters; there is
never a sense that one or the other spouse is the “good guy” or the “bad guy.” Most
important, the “simple” prose style also allows us to “judge” for ourselves.
We may wonder at times what we’re supposed to feel. One moment we might be
amused by the couple’s idiosyncrasies; the next moment we might be frustrated by their
apparent avoidance of each other, by their willing denial of some deeper problem in their
marriage; in the end, we might be both bemused and moved when they acknowledge their
“act” out loud to each other. The characters themselves, in their own quiet, understated
way, accept the changes in each other, and themselves—and so we too accept the story
and its characters without judgment. The narration never instructs us how to think, never
leads us toward a moral.
In Modern Literature class we read stories by Raymond Carver, famous especially
for his so-called “Minimalist” style; but Carver didn’t seek a “simple” style so much as
he sought—as we all should—a short story form stripped down to what was essential.
His style was the result of his vision, as it should be for any writer. He never judged his
characters, who were often “ordinary” working-class Americans, dealing with
“everyday” problems. On the surface his stories might seem “simple,” focusing on the
“what happened”—that is, on the characters’ actions—rather than on the “why” or the
“how.” As a result, the stories, especially their endings, can seem surprising in their
abruptness, stopping short of a satisfying resolution. But Carver’s understated style
contributes to a powerful sense of inevitability, a convincing sense that one action leads
to the next, which leads to the next…and that’s just the way life goes.
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As readers, we might long for a satisfying resolution that we imagine exists in the
blank space just beyond the story’s last word—if only the author would let us have it!
Stories have the power to lead us to a sense of truth, often in spite of ourselves, in spite of
our expectation or desire for more—for a more pleasing resolution or even for more
disruptive conflict. Nope, Julie Wasson’s story seems to remind us in the end, as if
reminding us of what we’ve known deep down all along: this may seem unsatisfying or
unresolved—but this is it, this is how it goes. So much of the story’s power lies in what’s
not on the page.
Exercise
Write a story, or even just a character description, in which you strive for “simplicity,”
not only of prose style but also of circumstance and conflict. Strive to focus on essential
action and physical description. Don’t insist on a “satisfying” resolution. A certain
power of your writing may arise as much out of what you exclude as out of what you
include.
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Cynical Girl
Rachael Elliott 2004
Two weeks ago, I was almost convinced I’d be watching myself on the late-night
Ricky Lake Show as one of those trashy, teenage moms that ends up being booed off stage
by the next commercial break. I kept having this horrible recurring nightmare. I walk
past a herd of Pro-Life protesters who seem to all resemble my grandma and open the
door to what will be the most painful and disturbing experience of my life. I’m thinking,
I’m lucky I turned eighteen two weeks ago or I’d be screwed. A preemptive abortion is
what I am about to have. A narrow tube called a cannula will be inserted through my
cervix into my uterus. It will be attached to a syringe where the fetus will be extracted.
Thank you Roe vs. Wade. The doctor looks at me and shakes his head in disappointment.
My other two kids are outside on the playground—I can see them from my window. I
turn to the nurse who strikingly resembles Nurse Ratched from Cuckoo’s Nest. I start
shaking and convulsing. That’s when I wake up.
*
Last Thursday I was late for school, but managed to sneak in the back of my
homeroom without the teacher seeing me. I was tired as always from staying up late
watching Conan, not that I could sleep anyway. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact
that the clinic had closed at three o’clock that afternoon. I’d gone right after school and
didn’t make it there on time. What do they expect high school females in need of
reproductive health care services to do? It’s not like I could’ve asked my dad to write me
an early dismissal note so I could go get some morning-after pills and condoms. I woke
up late and didn’t have time to put makeup on, so basically I looked like shit. As much
as I didn’t want to care what I looked like, I did. I did a lot. Unfortunately, it’s always
been hard for me not to care about those things. The day was going all right until my
classmates reminded me that I had an English paper due fifth period—an English paper I
thought was due later in the week. Luckily, I had just dropped math and had secondperiod study hall. Second-period study hall has been saving me a lot. It sucks that Mrs.
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Stern is a stickler for grammar and detail. I’ve never been too good at either one of them.
I remember this obnoxious kid next to me saying I should make up a lie to my teacher
about how I work late or a family member died and that was why I couldn’t finish the
paper. What a douche bag. I would never do that. I hate excuses and even though I
always have a good one, I never use them. And anyway I had bigger things to worry
about than a stupid English paper. I could’ve been pregnant for Chrissakes.
First period I have Earth and Space class. Since my teacher just plays filmstrips
the whole time, I snuck out of the room without him even noticing. I went to the
bathroom and sat in my favorite stall. The sentence, Tracey McGavin is a U.T.S. (USED
TAMPON SUCKER!!!), has been written in permanent marker on the door of the stall.
Ah, the creativity of my fellow female high school students. Tracey supposedly is my
friend, but she’s also a huge slut. I never minded the comment about her and actually
still find it quite humorous. As I sat in the stall, I hoped to Jesus that I’d get my period. I
sat there for a good ten minutes when I decided that, if I kept sitting there waiting for it, it
was never going to come. I went back to class and concentrated on writing my English
paper.
By the second period bell, I had finished my English paper. It was absolutely
horrible but not that bad for doing it in forty-five minutes. The day slowly dragged on
and all I could think about was that goddamn nightmare. I couldn’t even imagine having
to decide whether to have a baby or to abort it. This was a major distraction and because
of it, by last period I had failed one test, a pop quiz, and the paper. I didn’t give a shit
though. At least I wouldn’t until report cards came out. As I stood in front of my locker
packing my bag, Josh approached me. He questioned me about how everything went the
day before, and I explained to him how I was in a hurry. He was pissed but still asked to
come along for the ride.
I parked my ‘84 Volvo station wagon two blocks away from Planned Parenthood.
My mom works at a beauty salon in town, and I didn’t want her to know I was going
there. I shouldn’t have even cared. She probably wouldn’t have cared. Actually, I really
don’t know how she would have reacted. But still, I put the hood of my sweatshirt up to
stay incognito. I remember Josh gently kissed my cheek when I opened the car door to
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get out, but I resisted him and pushed my head away. I headed towards the clinic while
Josh stayed in the car.
*
Josh is my best friend. Well, basically, my boyfriend, but we decided not to call it
that so it would be easier when we break up. I always thought he was too cool for me.
When he first kissed me I thought it was a bet with his friends. It wasn’t. It turned out he
really liked me. He is not the best looker in the world but easy enough on the eyes. All
that really doesn’t matter to me. He won me over, which is not easy to do, with his
humor. He is the funniest person I ever met. Making me laugh is quite the challenge, but
it’s always easy for Josh. I was looking through his wallet once when I found my YMCA
membership card from the previous year. He must have picked it up in my room or
something. It was taken after one of my sporadic once-a-month workouts. My acne is
thriving, not to mention my hair is slicked back, sweat is dripping down my forehead, and
I am cracking up laughing in the picture; I don’t remember what at, but it must have been
pretty funny. I always tell him I hate that he keeps that picture of me, but really I love it.
For once something I can’t criticize. He doesn’t keep a senior portrait or a school picture
of me; he keeps my embarrassing YMCA membership card. Soon after the day I found
that picture we started having sex.
*
So there I was, biting my nails in this scheisty-ass waiting room of Planned
Parenthood. I would have been there the day before, but it was closed. Just my luck. It
was my first trip there and I couldn’t seem to grasp how comfortable the skanks were that
sat in the waiting room with me. They talked loud, chomped on their gum, and laughed
at each other’s lame jokes. It’s like an errand for them. Like a trip to the 7-11. I could
never imagine being like, “Pick me up some bread, milk, eggs, and, oh yeah, and some
emergency contraception pills.”
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I was embarrassed to be sitting around such trash. But still, I deserved to be
sitting with them. Meanwhile, this poor chubby redhead girl sat in the corner covering up
her freckled face with a pair of sunglasses and a bucket hat. I sympathized with her—I
automatically assumed she got raped. Then I felt bad because the only reason I thought
that is because she looked way too fat to have a guy make love to her. I’m such a bitch
sometimes. As my mind drifted away from my fellow females in need, I returned to
filling out the form. I put my real Social Security number but changed my name. I wrote
my name as Phoebe Caulfield—named after my favorite fictional character’s younger
sister. I filled out all the other pointless questions: Have you ever used a condom? How
many times have you had sex? And then I handed in the form. About fifteen minutes
later, they called my alias.
I went into an office in the back where I started talking to this enormously fat
Spanish woman. I was extremely embarrassed to have to talk about something so
intimate with a complete stranger, but I put my head up and got through it. She asked me
when I had unprotected sex, and I told her Saturday. I was almost too late to use the
emergency contraceptive pills because it was five days ago. I totally bullshitted my way
through the conversation with the lady.
“We were drunk, it was a huge mistake, never again,” I convincingly said. She
lectured me about how it’s necessary to always use a condom. I really don’t know why
he forgot, or why I forgot to remind him. It was definitely a stupid mistake. Angry with
myself, I stayed silent. Tears began to stir up in my eyes, but I held them in. She gave
me morning-after pills anyway. It cost me seven dollars. I was to take two pills that
night and then the other two twelve hours later. I left the “P-Squared,” as called by the
girls in the waiting room, with an information pamphlet about sex, a dosage of
emergency contraceptive pills, and a paper bag of condoms. Planned Parenthood helped
me out. I really like what they do there and I’m glad to know if I ever need help from
them again, they’re there.
*
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People would be surprised about how common it is for girls to take morning-after
pills and have abortions. I can understand the morning-after pills because they are taken
right away and the only effects are, well, it feels like a huge hangover—drowsiness and
the spins. But an abortion scares the living shit out of me. I can’t even imagine! It’s so
painful too. Megan Siwiki had one back in the tenth grade. She never talked about it, but
unfortunately in high school the whole school ends up knowing everything you try to
hide. I remember sympathizing for her. My friends all trashed her and said how they
would keep the baby and all this gay shit. It is so much bull. You don’t know what
you’d do until you are in the situation yourself. I always try reminding people when
debating about abortion that it’s not like getting a shot; it’s a painful, disturbing
experience. The woman goes through a lot of physical and mental baggage. I always try
to stick up for the underdog. Megan Siwiki was one of them.
*
The whole car ride home was silent. Before Josh got out of the car to go home, I
comforted him by saying, “There’s only, like, less than a one-percent chance. It’s
nothing to worry about.”
Then, I drove over to my friend Tracey’s. My friends observed my frustration
and decided that we all needed to rent a chick flick and watch it together. They rented
“Ten Ways to Dump a Guy,” or something retarded like that. All I thought of while
watching that movie was ten ways to kill myself. I could only come up with eight. I
couldn’t believe that people actually paid money to make that movie. The only good it
did was take my mind off the fact that we forgot to use a freaking condom. At the end of
the movie, there was a girl singing a song called “Feels Like Home.” My friends all
raved about it. I know this song very well; it’s written by one of my favorite musicians,
Randy Newman. My friends cut me up so much all the time for listening to Randy. I’ll
be jamming out in the car, and they’ll all be like, “Dude, this sucks. Put on Buffet!”
Jimmy Buffet and his fans would probably be rated number two and three on my
list of top ten things I hate. Right up there with hangovers, homework, and that
ridiculously stupid Kate Hudson movie. I guess that means I hate my friends too. Well,
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anyway, the mockery of my liking for Randy ended when I told my friends the song they
liked so much was his. It felt good telling them that he wrote that song. But the lame
bitches had to look it up on the credits because they didn’t believe me. I really don’t
even like my friends. They’re just kind of there.
*
I stopped at the Shelbyville Mall before I went home. A man was lying limp on
the floor. Security-type people surrounded him. They weren’t doing anything but staring
at him. If he was injured, they weren’t even helping him, and if he was dead, they were
not trying to revive him for sure. After I lost interest in what I figured to be a cry for
attention, a guy came up to me and asked, “What happened?”
“I have no idea,” I said. The guy told me they were taking him away in
handcuffs. I felt bad. No one likes to be handcuffed, not even criminals. Sometimes I
wish I had the balls to steal stuff, but I’m always stopped by the thought of being
handcuffed. I didn’t want to end up like the guy that the whole mall was staring at.
While shopping for a new CD, all that I could think about was how I wished I would get
my period. I looked through numerous CDs but couldn’t find anything I liked. That
always seems to be a problem with me. There were huge posters of different musicians
hanging up all over the Sam Goody. A huge poster of Janis Joplin was right above me.
Unfortunately, I am named after her. Joplin Breckin is my full name. Pretty much
everyone calls me Lin. I hate my name. Especially when kids would call me Joppy in
elementary school. That has to be the most not cool nickname of all time. My whole
family is named after musicians. My older brother’s name is Reinhardt and my older
sister’s name is Lennon. I would prefer either one of them to my name. Joplin is just—
it’s just not a first name. People always tell me how cool it is to be named after Janis
Joplin, but I really don’t even like her music at all. And then there is the fact that she is
one of the most famous alcoholics and people to die from a drug overdose of all time. I
guess it could be said that I was destined for greatness from my birth. Or maybe it is just
that my parents were on a sick acid trip during the birth of all of their children. I thought
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about how if I was pregnant, I’d name my kid 50 Cent or maybe J-Lo to keep the
tradition alive.
I was only in the Sam Goody for about a half an hour. I ended up getting nothing,
nothing except for more frustration from my indecisiveness about purchasing a CD. I
had to go home.
I pushed my back door open and entered my quaint row home. Surprisingly, my
sister was home. Unsurprisingly, her eyes were beat and she was smoking a clove. She
just is too damn cultured to smoke cigarettes. I was glad she was home. I thought it
could be my only hope to find some reality; she’d at least comfort me.
“Baby girrrl!” She elongated my household nickname in her scratchy voice that
fits her vagabond lifestyle perfectly. Lennon has to be one of the coolest people I know.
Carefree and optimistic, she is the complete opposite of me. The last time we’d heard
from her she was braiding hair from a street cart in Florence. That was three months ago.
I never really did get the point of her going to Europe. Lennon always talks about the
museums there. I bet she hasn’t even seen the majority of the museums in our city. Ah, I
still love her. I hugged her more tightly than I ever had; despite our six-year age
difference and the fact that she first left home when I was eleven, we are extremely close.
She offered me some weed but I refused it. Smoking weed never did much for me,
except make me paranoid about, well, paranoid about everything. Before I got two words
in, she broke out her picture book. I was flipping through her photographs of Florence,
Milan, and London, when I stopped cold. My eyes were wandering from the pages, and
my sister was well aware. She blew a ring of smoke out the kitchen window and told me
to talk to her. The thing I love most about Lennon is the way she listens. Listening is a
quality not many behold, but Lennon, she has it. I wish I had her patience. I went on and
told her everything—me failing my test, Planned Parenthood, the shitty movie, and the
guy in handcuffs. Lennon listened, but I couldn’t help thinking that all she was focusing
on was the fact that her younger sister had grown up. I wanted her to be worried for me.
“It happens to the best of us. It’s really nothing. I’ve taken plenty of morningafter pills in my day,” she said as I poured a glass of water and swallowed the pills. It
was 6:48 p.m. I shoved the other two in the pocket of my jeans. I’d take them in the
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morning. I thought her reaction was ridiculous. It shouldn’t happen to the best of us, and
I really don’t think it does.
“Don’t worry, you’re not pregnant,” she continued while blowing another ring of
smoke in the air.
The fact is, I realty didn’t think I was. That wasn’t necessarily the problem.
“I don’t know,” I abruptly responded.
I was disappointed with our conversation. It’s not like it mattered; Lennon would
be gone in a week or two anyway. She never hung around long enough to help me
through my problems. She kissed me goodbye. She put her clove out in a flowerpot on
the windowsill, slung on her tote bag, and disappeared out the back door. Goddamn
pothead.
I read a note on the fridge. My mom was bartending, so she wouldn’t be home
until three a.m. I wished she were home. I would have told her, I would. I inherited my
sarcasm from my mom, so she’d probably have just thought I was joking and told me I
needed an enema. An enema was Mom’s cure for everything. Thursday nights are
insane where she works. I knew she wouldn’t be up until the next afternoon. My dad
was down at the local dive, Finley’s Pub. That’s where he always is. I could never talk
to him about it; he’d call up Reinhardt and his buddies and they’d all beat the shit out of
Josh with their bare fists. My family’s useless in helping me cope with my problems.
The cell phone has to be the most annoying invention of all time. Josh called
three or four times, but I ignored every one of his calls. I made myself Bagel Bites for
dinner and accompanied them with a can of Pepsi and some channel surfing. Before I
could choose between criticizing Friends or Seventh Heaven, Josh knocked at my back
door. I let him in; I was going to have to face him sooner or later. He sat across the
kitchen table from me and dug in on the Bagel Bites.
“I don’t even know why I’m so worried. Think about how long it takes for some
women to get pregnant. I can’t be.”
He kept chewing and stared down at the table for a while, nodding his head like
he was really comprehending something deep. He suddenly looked up. He used his
sleeve to wipe his mouth off instead of grabbing one of the napkins two inches away
from him on the table.
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“I love you and no matter what you want to do, I’ll support you one hundred and
ten percent.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’m serious. I want you to know I’m there for you,” he continued.
I turned my eyes to the thirteen-inch television set. The pastor dad was combing
his daughter’s hair.
“Give me a break,” I muttered.
Josh was immediately offended.
“Jesus Christ, Lin. You know you’re the most pessimistic person I’ve ever met.
All I want is for you to know how much I care about you and that isn’t even good
enough. Nothing is good enough for you. I try so hard and all I get is your cynicism.”
I was so easily torn apart. I wanted to cry. I wanted to punch a wall. I wanted to
just run away. I kept my eye on the pastor dad who was now hugging his daughter.
From the corner of my eye I could see Josh’s wrists holding his tilted head up out of
distress. He lifted his head up and stared at me. I couldn’t look back. He said, “I have to
go,” and made his exit. Still staring at the television I whispered, “I’m sorry,” but just
like with everything else, I was too late.
*
Before I went to bed I climbed up on the roof of my house. It’s easily accessible
from the window of my attic bedroom. As I lay down on my rooftop I attempted to light
a Marlboro Menthol cigarette. The breeze was too rough to light the cigarette, yet it fell
so smooth when it brushed my long straight hair against my face. Finally as the breeze
calmed down I lit the cigarette, lay back on my Little Mermaid sleeping bag and gazed
into the sky. The stars and the moon all fit together perfectly like a postcard that night.
The moon reminded me of a fingernail after I would bite one off, or what I wanted it to
look like. Biting my nails was a habit I never seemed to be able to shake off. My mom
constantly attacks me for the habit, but still never enough to make me rid of it. All I
wanted in that moment was to name the constellations, but I couldn’t. It made me regret
never making it to school in time for my Earth and Space class. The sounds of cars
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speeding down the nearby highway, crickets chirping, and a backyard barbecue down the
block all harmonized into a perfect song for me on that hot and breezy evening. I blew a
ring of smoke into the sky. From where I was positioned it looked like a cloud floating
over the moon. For some reason I was quite amused by this and repeated it consistently,
until the cigarette was nothing but a bud to flick off the edge of the roof. I then thought
about how embarrassing and funny it would be if someone from school saw me right
then. With my oversized white tee shirt on that has armpit stains. Not to mention, my
large polka-dot underwear that looked like a pair my grandmother would wear. I don’t
even recall where they came from or even if they were mine, but what I do know is they
were worth looking ridiculous because they were comfortable. I began laughing out loud
at myself. I stared up at the stars and began to wonder about my life and what was to
happen in it. I began thinking about the slight chance that I could be pregnant. I
would’ve loved to receive my menstrual cramping at that time. The tears now began to
roll down my cheeks and like always I tried my best to hold them in. Of course that just
made it harder for me to breathe and made me cry even more dramatically.
Josh was right. I really can be a bitch. My own cry drowned out Josh’s voice that
had been haunting my head as well as the harmonized sound created by my surroundings.
My head began to feel heavier because I was crying so much. I could taste the salt of my
tears and the unusual comfort of warm snot on the top of my lip that I oddly enjoy so
much. The stars and moon had now flooded into one bright white light conceived by my
tears. Licking the top of my lip I thought about going back to my bedroom and calling
Josh. I’d apologize for being so pessimistic all the time. I eventually got down and went
straight to bed.
*
The next morning I woke up in a small puddle of blood. For once, I didn’t mind
washing a period stain out of my sheets. Along with them, I threw in my regular laundry.
I picked out my jeans from the day before and reached into the pocket. I went to the sink,
cupped water in my hand and swallowed the remaining pills, along with my pride. I
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wanted to let Josh know as soon as possible. It felt good to know that my biggest worry
was to admit to him that he’d been right about me.
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RACHAEL ELLIOTT
I graduated from Penncrest High School in 2004. Currently, I am a student at Temple
University studying political science. When not concentrating on schoolwork, I work as
a server in a downtown Philadelphia restaurant and take dance classes, as well. I’ve been
taking dance lessons since I was young, and it is an essential part of my life.
Reflection on Cynical Girl
I failed a test the day I began writing this story. Actually, I just made that up. I
don’t really know if it was that I failed a test, got in a fight with a friend, or didn’t get a
decent role in the school play. All I remember is that I was angry about something while
I started writing and then couldn’t stop. This was the period in my life when I was
growing up and beginning to see things in a new, mature perspective. When I read this
story today, I can’t help laughing. While writing this story I tried to make the main
character as unlike me as possible. So of course I read it now and see more similarities
than I would like to admit. I was always known as this happy, goofy girl, and it made me
angry because whenever I wouldn’t be happy it would be obvious. I think this story had
a lot of elements and feelings that are a part of me that I never felt comfortable
expressing. “Cynical Girl” helped me to allow some of those feelings to escape.
It was important to me that the story include no deaths, divorces, or anything that
could too easily explain the root of Lin’s cynicism. She’s just a girl going through the
same old stupid stuff that most teenage girls go through. It’s quite plain and simple. This
story is for any girl that has ever sat in the waiting room at the Planned Parenthood,
received her period a couple weeks late, not been able to stand her friends or boyfriend,
or felt that she is just not really good at anything. I’m sure any American teenage girl can
relate to something in this short story. At least, I hope so.
I always enjoyed writing for myself, but never for school. I have horrible
grammar skills. On almost every paper I’d get back, teachers would write that I had good
ideas but too many run-ons and poor punctuation. A lot of those problems I had with
“Cynical Girl,” but, luckily, because it was chosen for the school literary magazine, I had
the chance to fix them. When I read “Cynical Girl” now, a couple years later, I’ve fully
convinced myself I’m not half bad of a writer. It gives me confidence that even though I
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may not have a 4.0 GPA or excellent grammar, I still can write an effective story—
especially when it comes down to something I care about. I never thought anyone even
read our school literary magazine, the Gryphon, but the response I got from this story was
amazing. What amazed me most wasn’t even the fact that people were telling me the
story was great but that they’d actually taken the time to read something I wrote. For me
this was enough—though the compliments, of course, were rewarding. I’m really proud
of this story.
I’d like to thank the brilliant Emily Schu, the editor of the Gryphon in 2004, for
her help, hard work, and faith in the story. She helped it all come together. Special
thanks go out to my amazing family, especially my older brother, James. Without his
critiques on my sister and me growing up, his witty humor, and his love for Woody Allen
films, this story would never be. I’m grateful to James for teaching me not to care too
much about what other people think and for reading me and Lauren Catcher in the Rye,
out loud, when he was drunk. He is a great brother.
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Teacher Reflection
Romantic Comedy in Rachael Elliott’s Cynical Girl
In her reflection Rachael Elliott reveals that, if only indirectly, Woody Allen films
had some effect on her writing of “Cynical Girl.” There’s something to learn about
comedy from this connection—specifically, something about romantic comedy, which, in
a sense, is what “Cynical Girl” is. In the traditional romantic comedy—let’s say, for
example, Sleepless in Seattle, a movie that many readers may know—the protagonist
starts out reluctant to get involved in a romantic relationship, for reasons we sympathize
with (the wife of Tom Hanks’s character died recently, so he can’t imagine loving
another woman); by the end of the story, in spite of his reservations, he gives in to the
power of love.
Nora Efron, the writer and director of Sleepless in Seattle—as well as the writer
of When Harry Met Sally—describes two different kinds of romantic-story conflicts: in
the one kind—as in Romeo and Juliet—powerful outside forces prevent two lovers from
being together; in the second kind—as in When Harry Met Sally and certain Woody
Allen films—the lovers are prevented from being together, not by outside forces, but
inside, or internal, psychological, forces, which exist only in the mind of the protagonist.
These protagonists are often neurotic—that is, overanxious, oversensitive,
obsessive about everyday things—and self-conscious, often aware of the fact that their
own neurotic behavior is keeping them from enjoying life, specifically a romantic
relationship. In certain Woody Allen romantic comedies the protagonist fails to make a
relationship work, even in the end, when we might expect a happier ending; whereas, in
When Harry Met Sally, Billy Crystal’s character not only realizes the destructive effects
of his own neurotic behavior, but also manages to win the heart of the woman he loves.
In “Cynical Girl,” Lin is a hilarious neurotic. Her observations of people, not to
mention her “apologetic” self-criticism, which often follows her criticism of others, are
not only funny, but insightful. She can hardly stand herself for having such a ruthlessly
critical eye, but, it seems, she can’t help it. We sympathize with her; after all, she seems
to be surrounded by fools and ignoramuses—from the women at Planned Parenthood, to
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her friends, to her parents and sister, to her boyfriend, Josh. Of course, we get only one
person’s perspective of Lin—Lin’s perspective of herself—that is, until Josh challenges
her cynicism, by offering his devotion, which she dismisses with wisecracks.
We come to realize—before Lin herself realizes—that she uses her cynicism to
distance herself from people, not only from those she deems offensive or foolish, like the
women at Planned Parenthood or her friends, but from those she loves—her parents, her
sister, and even Josh. With the exception of Josh, people are continually disappointing
her. So, rather than get sad and emotional, she gets witty and becomes detached. Often
Lin’s lighthearted mockery turns bitter and then dismissive. For example, at first Lin is
excited to see her sister, hopeful for a meaningful conversation with “the coolest person I
know,” gushing with admiration at her sister’s “vagabond lifestyle,” weaving in only the
subtlest criticism; but Lin is disappointed by their conversation and concludes of her
sister, “Goddamn pothead.” And so the story goes: after wry depictions of her parents
and siblings, she concludes, “My family’s useless in helping me cope with my problems.”
Though we laugh through much of the story, we begin to sense that the path of the
neurotic can lead only to loneliness. Josh represents Lin’s last hope. By the climax,
when Josh confronts Lin, the significance of her pregnancy takes a back seat to the
significance of her cynicism, which she uses once again to dismiss Josh’s sincerity.
Inevitably, she is alone—but the author never loses her comic touch, nor does Lin lose
her wit, laughing at herself, in armpit-stained T-shirt and grandma underpants, smoking
cigarettes on the roof. Along with her tears comes an epiphany, the realization that Josh
is right about her. In the final paragraphs her cynicism turns to honesty. Early on in the
story Lin rejects the term “boyfriend…so it would be easier when we break up.” At last,
with Lin eager to start anew with Josh, this “neurotic romantic comedy” ends happily.
Exercise
Write a “romantic comedy” told from the point of view of a neurotic protagonist, whose
anxieties and obsessions provide the story with humor while preventing romance from
blooming fully, and whose cynicism distances herself from the people around her, until
she realizes, finally, that her neurotic behavior is undermining her love life.
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Breath
Paul Scherer 2004
The neighborhood slept in the darkness.
Then a phone rang. Its shrill cries echoed through the house of David Hallsley.
Slow to react and still dazed with lack of sleep, David reached groggily for the phone, his
hand stumbling over his bed table like a newborn animal struggling to find its footing.
David had only begun to rest in the last hour, to let the darkness surround him. As he
picked up the phone, David heard the first telltale whimpers of a waking baby. With the
receiver to his ear, David turned to face the crib. He had just transferred it to the alcove
of his bedroom. “Hello?” He heard a sharp intake of breath, a quick sniffle, and the click
of the other receiver hanging up. His eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness of bare
illumination by a light in the hall, David sat up and quickly ran his hands through his
hair, as though making sure it was there. The baby had started to cry in earnest. His
wails, bouncing off the walls, carried through the empty house, searching for a response.
He’s hungry, David thought, climbing out of bed and stepping onto a wet towel. He put
his hands under the child, hesitating only slightly with impractice, and carefully walked
down the carpeted stairs. His fingers tripped over the bottle as he warmed it; he felt only
slightly ridiculous pouring a few drops onto his arm. It took only a short time for the
baby to be fed, burped, changed, and sleeping again. Back in bed, David resisted the
urge to reach out to the empty space next to him, knowing who would not be there.
*
He had not slept soundly since the night the sheriff woke him up. While slipping
into his worn, brown robe, he had staggered down the steps, cursing at whoever was
pounding at the door. He prayed that Michael would sleep through the disturbance.
Staring at a pair of wrinkled eyes, disproportionate through the glass hole in the door,
David swung the oak barrier out of place and saw three officers standing there. They had
asked to enter…but they never looked at his eyes, he later realized. That should have
been the first clue. David ushered the men to sit and then sat himself. It had been quick,
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they told him. His wife, Julia, had died in a car wreck. Their words had rolled around in
his head since that night, marbles too large to be flushed out with tears. The sheriff had
stared at David’s feet while he filled in the details. There had been a drunk driver…and a
dangerous intersection…David nodded and soon let the uncomfortable men leave the
house of mourning. They had knocked on the door and come and gone.
He was no longer in disbelief. He knew. Their knock had shattered his house of
glass and sent the world he had created spinning off its axis, just slightly. How could he
have known?
*
Caroline came alone a few weeks later, when the commotion surrounding the
funeral had died down. Her sunglasses veiled her eyes; her hands shook. She had rung
the doorbell with the incessant urgency of a tortured and chased soul. The sunlight was
harsh in the afternoon; its intensity rushed her through the door and into the cooling
shade of David’s drawn windows. She held her arms about her shoulders, shuddering
with each breath; it had taken everything for her to come. David closed the door behind
her, hesitating to shut it as his eyes took in the situation. He murmured a slight,
unanswered “Hello” that she may not even have heard. David peered into the kitchen,
watched the baby in its electric swing for an instant, the gentle tick-tock-tock that had
permeated through the house interrupted by this strange sensation of desperation.
Caroline sat on the edge of the couch, uneasily, wringing her hands and
eventually removing her sunglasses. David sat near her but did not touch her. She had
become drawn into herself. “It began two years ago,” her quavering voice cracked with
strain, desperately struggling to keep a steady flow of syllables. “My sister said she
couldn’t stand being chained down. Then the baby…” She made a slight gesture toward
the child in the other room. Unable to say anymore, she leaned into David and pressed
her mascara-stained cheeks to his shoulder. She had said enough. Her tears spilled onto
his blue shirt and crept outward to form a deep-blue stain. More tears came. They ran
down his arm, trickling down the side of granite cliffs. He had hardened in those instants
of betrayal. His wife had not been coming home from buying groceries at all, nor had
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she been running any other late-night errands. She had come, flushed with excitement,
from a man David had never heard of, a man he’d known nothing about. Julia had not
found happiness or satisfaction with him. David felt himself crumbling from within. He
led his sister-in-law to her car, the wheels screeching as she fled the scene. He walked
back inside, his son beginning to gurgle and awaken. He had promised at his first glance
that he would never abandon his child as he himself had been abandoned. He had made
the promises his father had never kept. He would love the child. He could not let him
go. He swept his son into his arms, flattening his wisps of hair against his head. His
tears hit Michael and ran down the back of his head. Hearing the child’s slight whimper,
David pressed his son more closely to his body.
*
David’s stomach dropped as he pulled into the lot and parked his car. Taking a
deep breath, he pressed his palms to his eyelids, the force causing a burst of stars and
colored ribbons to shoot out of some part of his brain and strike his consciousness.
The car’s soft idling sounds did nothing to soothe him. The gently blowing heat
at his feet still left him chilled. Turning off the ignition had taken on an eternal
significance; for David, it symbolized the point of no return. He opened the door and
stiffly swung himself out of the car, supporting his frame with a hand on the car roof. A
chill passed over his skin and hit into his quivering stomach as he stood and read the
metallic, silver sign on the building: Wilson Medical Laboratory. He had come here a
few weeks earlier, that time with his son. He felt his shoes grip the pavement. Glistening
in the sun, the glass door’s stainless-steel handle beckoned him forward.
Suddenly, he felt naked, standing motionless at the threshold of the building. He
could hardly open the door, much less cope with the information he would soon hear. He
pressed his forehead to the glass, suddenly feeling its coldness as the glass absorbed his
body heat. Suddenly, gripping the door with his gloved hand, David pulled himself
inside. The dark, stone-polished floor reflected his image back up at him. The tempered
lights shone behind frosted glass plates. The walls, white save splotches of muffled,
seemingly bleached, modem art, were barren. He felt his stomach drop as he came to Dr.
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Heisen’ s office door. He pressed the cold, metal handle to his now ungloved hand and
turned it. The waiting room was quiet. A woman sat beside a window, tears at the
corners of her eyes, her hands limp, a scrap of paper in her lap. The ruffles of her skirt
stirred just slightly, the loss of a dream seeping out of her. It was only his fear that kept
David from looking on her with pity.
David brushed by much of the sparse room, building up enough courage to plow
forward to the receptionist. She spoke into a receiver in muted tones, her eyes glued to a
computer monitor, utterly withdrawn from the plight of others. Her voice was soothing,
but her hands were constantly in action; her feet tapped and her leg swung in barely
perceptible arcs of utter boredom. Her hips, widened from sitting for hours, were glued
to the chair. A Diet Coke with a plastic straw was not far from reach. She flicked a
pencil to-and-fro between her fattened fingers.
He walked to the desk in a quiet way, his shoulders stooped low. His eyes
scanned her face, searching for any sign indicating that she knew his secret. She looked
squarely at David and then brushed him off with a wave of her hand, as though shooing
away an impertinent waiter. His momentary hesitation, his manifest uncertainty, delayed
his retreat for a fraction of a second. Reaching to close a glass partition, the receptionist
sealed herself off, as if she were not already. David walked to a chair and sat on its edge,
the uncomfortable lip of the vinyl pressing against him. As if hiding from some
omnipotent truth, David closed his eyes, his hands covering them. Slowly, he reached
behind his head, lowered his torso, and shielded himself. He exhaled, not having realized
that he had been holding his breath. A moment later he inhaled, held his breath and
waited for a sound from the secretary. He gradually began to think that he would never
be called. The seeds of hope grew in his chest, as the receptionist’s suddenly harsh, hard
voice startled him even more. “May I help you, sir?”
Pressing his hands to his knees and lifting, he stood up and walked over to her. “I
would like the results for David Hallsley.” His plea was uncertain on the first syllable
but soon fell back onto the safety of the phrase that he had practiced the previous night
when unable to sleep.
“Is that you?”
“Yeah,” he stuttered, pausing, then continued, “I came in a week ago.”
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“Do you know that your results have been in for days? You paid extra to have
them rushed.” It was a statement, devoid of sympathy.
“Yes.” He stared back at the receptionist, ready to leave.
She swiveled in her chair, reaching into a low filing cabinet. Her hand reached
into a file, its black cover momentarily blocking her fingers. She extracted an otherwise
ordinary, plain, white envelope. “Is there anything else you need?”
“That’s all. Thanks.” David put the envelope into his upper, left-hand jacket
pocket and buttoned his coat. He pressed the envelope with his right hand and felt it.
Without looking at the receptionist again, he turned around. As he heaved the door open
again, he knew that he had crossed a threshold that he could never return through.
The sun shone in shifts; the rapid swirling of clouds above him mixed sunlight
with shade. He opened the car door and lowered himself to the driver’s seat. With
another affirmation of the presence of the stiff paper, he inserted the keys and left.
*
The hours of brooding in his car as he waited had not prepared David for the sight
of his wife’s lover. From Caroline, he had learned the man’s name. James Hugo. It
seemed sudden when James emerged from his office building, unaware of being watched.
James affected an air of happiness and success, but David thought he saw, or at least he
hoped, that James’s carefree attitude masked his pain. The sight of his wife’s lover was
neither a shock nor a push to deny the truth. The man’s existence was simply a
confirmation of a horrible truth that David had not wanted to believe. James made
everything that David had taken as truth a possible lie, another possible fallacy. A part of
David wanted to lash out at the man who had taken his wife from her rightful pedestal,
the man who inspired David to question his son’s identity. Another side of David made
him want to shame the lying bastard, to heap society’s wrath on his head.
As he continued to watch the man eating in the deli next to his office, the
pounding blood in David’s ears slowed. David could see how James would tempt a
woman. He had sleek black hair and deep-blue eyes; his chin and cheeks were slightly
dimpled. His frame showed regular exercise, but the way that he carried himself
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suggested that he had seen the world. His swagger had taken him through the Italian
Alps; his crossed arms had gazed on the great matadors of Spain. Julia had always
understood people; she would have recognized the man’s worldliness. David could
almost visualize her approach, a demure glance cast across busy tables. She had sat with
him, chatting in her charming way, throwing her head back to let the wind catch her hair.
David saw her first almost daring herself to stay and then gradually letting herself be
swept away in his charm. They must have met secretly. James would have known about
David. When they were close, would either have ever thought of what they were
destroying?
David looked out his side mirror as if averting his gaze from the picture that had
begun to form in his mind. But the question lingered: What was it that he gave her that I
couldn’t give? The simplest answer would have been affection, doting, and physical
love. But that isn’t Julia, he told himself. There had to be something else. Perhaps she
was trying to escape the normalcy that had begun to encircle their lives. The arrival of
the baby had toned down their time for each other, but neither had had much more time
for the other before. Maybe it was for the danger, maybe for the escape, maybe…
David’s mind had gone blank. I’ll never know.
David softly rubbed his temple with his fingers, his eyes open and staring
unfocused in the direction of the speedometer. He raised his head and glanced once more
at James. His chest raised with the intake of a breath, and his eyes shut for several
seconds. He opened them again. David’s car came to life quickly, then disappeared,
driving away from the cafes and the bustle of commerce and into the endless blocks of
the suburbs.
*
When David arrived back home it was around two o’clock; his mind was
scattered. He entered to find the babysitter ogling over the baby, her blond hair forming a
tent around the baby’s head. The child was laughing in the soft, almost soundless way
that babies do. She left after a few more quick glances and funny faces in the baby’s
direction. David went into the kitchen and stirred up a bottle. Sitting on the couch, he
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fed his son, no longer unsure of how to act or what to do. His meal over, the baby was
changed. He fussed when David tried to put him down for a nap. In the end, David lay
down on the couch with Michael, softly cooing the baby to sleep. When Michael’s
breathing had become light and even, David looked down the length of the couch, the
only noises the slight breaths of air. David imagined their future, the coming years
passing as a rush of memories, here then gone, like wisps of smoke in the wind. He saw
Michael, growing, learning how to ride a bike…asking him about girls a few years
later…shaving for the first time, father and son playing with lather…high school
graduation, his son accepting his diploma…
Father and son soon slept silently on the couch.
*
In the farthest corner of his closet, David hid a shoebox. He stayed awake that
night, filling the box with everything that he wanted his son to know someday. David
had put inside a few of his love letters from Julia, his will, a stream of thought put to
paper of how he felt when Michael was born, a few things about fatherhood, a letter to
his son of his regrets to date, and the letter he had never opened. The hex was sealed
with a mass of tape, never to be opened accidentally.
The next day, whenever he opened his closet door, David would surreptitiously
glance into the corner. David was and always would be a good father. He knew it. After
Michael was born, while he waited outside of me room where Julia and her newly born
son slept, he had glanced through one magazine after another. One line had struck him
and came back with stunning clarity: “In every breath we take, we breathe the atoms of
each and of every other living creature with the exception of those of the very young.”
David knew that Michael was breathing now the breath of his father, using and expelling
it, without ever being able to know if it was David or James. David had that day
promised to himself that he would love Michael as he deserved to be loved.
David could not fall asleep the next night. The soft breathing sounds of his young
son did not comfort him, but rather made just enough noise to keep David awake. He
rolled over and faced Michael. His son felt distant. David reached out to his son and
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tried to doze, synchronizing his breathing… But he couldn’t. There was something
different. Some discordant element was destroying the harmony of their lives. David
rolled over. His eyes flicked involuntarily to his closet. He knew what was there. David
got up.
Moonlight streamed into the bedroom through the uncurtained window. The
infant was bathed in the pale glow. David could hardly bear to reach down and feel his
son’s soft skin under his callused hands. Michael’s innocence glowed from within, a
hidden quantity held just below the surface. David turned around, faced his closet, and
threw the door open. It slid noiselessly. David’s hand plunged into the darkness of the
closet; it sensed where the shoebox was and grasped it firmly. David could not bear to
open the box in front of his son; he would not know how to live with himself if he built
another wall between them.
David stalked into the kitchen, found a pair of kitchen shears and a box of
matches, and ripped open the bonds holding the box together. He found the letter sitting
on top of a pile of joyful memories and extracted it. The feeling of the cool, smooth
paper against his skin sent tingles up his arm. Walking outside, David found himself
only slightly chilled. He stepped out onto his driveway and saw the moon shining
brightly. It was almost full. A light breeze played games in the treetops, its footsteps the
slight indentations in the line of leaves. He lit a match. The yellow warmth heated his
skin. He slowly brought the flames closer to the letter. The charcoal-black color that
always precedes a flame had just begun to appear on one corner of the envelope when the
breeze extinguished the flame. David stared at the letter. The thoughts of an unsatisfied
wife and of her careless lover flooded David’s mind. He had questioned his ability to
connect to his son. He lit another match and cupped it against his body, tightly. The fire
burned steadily. He again tried to light the letter. The flames grew closer to his
fingertips, singeing them. David hardly felt it. Finally, the letter began to burn. David
dropped the match. He watched the black ash dash ahead of the engulfing flame as the
barrier between his son and himself slowly disintegrated into a pile of gray dust. David
released the envelope just before it reached his fingertips. He watched the breeze carry it
away, waiting till the moonlight no longer illuminated the remaining scrap of paper.
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The light that had been gone for weeks rekindled in his eyes. He turned away
from the scrap of paper and headed back towards his house, his son, his future.
He was free.
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PAUL SCHERER
Since graduating from high school in 2004, I have studied biology in the College of Arts
and Sciences at the University of Pennsylvania. However, as of spring 2006, I am
currently taking a writing course in the experimental short story. This has given me an
opportunity to get back into reading and even writing short fiction.
Reflection on Breath
I have always had trouble coming up with ideas for creative writing assignments.
When I started writing “Breath,” I had only the vaguest idea of what I wanted to say. I
did not feel comfortable writing about someone my own age, so I decided to go out on a
limb and try to get into the shoes of someone much older. One of my favorite short
stories is “Air Mail” by Jeffrey Eugenides, who said that his goal was to write a story
“wherein death and enlightenment would be indistinguishable.” I really liked his idea of
combining two completely disparate concepts in the climax of a story. In the beginning I
lacked a clear vision of what I wanted to accomplish, but as I wrote I gradually developed
the notion that I wanted to combine the concepts of unconditional love and complete
ignorance, or indifference.
Before I can start to lay out a scene, I find I have to visualize the entire course of
the action in my mind’s eye, and then I have to make sure that I describe enough of what
I see so that I convey the right mood, tone, and action of the scene. For example, when
writing about the conversation between David and Caroline, I was watching her walk
through the door unsteadily, and I knew the guilt she carried. My goal was to provide a
descriptive narration. To know if I have actually managed to convey a scene as I saw it
and to see how far I still have to go, I find comments from an outside reader to be very
useful. In writing “Breath,” I was fortunate enough to have an excellent reader. I will
always be grateful to my friend and classmate at the time, Emily Schu, who provided
essential help at every stage of writing, without which I am sure that the final result
would have been a poor shadow of its present self.
Rereading my story two years after I wrote it, I find there is little I would like to
change. It is far from perfect, but I simply do not think that I could get back into the
frame of mind I was in when I wrote this story. There is one point I would like to
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address, a question I’m asked quite frequently after someone reads “Breath.” What did
the letter say? I always say that I never made that decision. The most important idea I
hoped to get across was that the contents of the envelope are truly irrelevant.
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Teacher’s Reflection
Starting In Medias Res—In the Middle—in Paul Scherer’s Breath
Paul Scherer begins his story in medias res—a Latin term meaning “in the
middle.” That is, the present action of the story begins after significant events have
already taken place: it is through flashbacks that we witness police officers delivering the
news of Julia’s death, and Caroline revealing the secret of her sister’s affair; it is through
back story that we learn that David has already completed blood tests to learn the identity
of his son’s biological father—in fact, when David goes to the laboratory, in the present
action, we discover that the results have been available for four days now. All of this has
already happened. Needless to say, considering the chronological timeline of all the
story’s events, the author does not start at the beginning; rather, he actually delves into
the present action soon before the climactic action, when he burns the blood-test results.
Why does the author “bury” compelling plot elements in the past and reveal them
through flashbacks and back story? Why not begin the story earlier and flesh out these
crucial scenes in the present action?
In the first scene of “Breath” we see a father caring for a crying baby; and then he
“resisted the urge to reach out to the empty space next to him, knowing who would not be
there.” At this moment the story moves in two directions—both forward and backward;
that is, we wonder not only “what will happen next?” but also “what happened?” The
second scene transitions smoothly to a flashback, to the night David learned of the car
accident that killed his wife; the third scene transitions smoothly to another flashback, to
the night Caroline informed him of Julia’s affair. These flashbacks work well, because
we are as interested to learn about David’s past as we are about his future. We are onethird of the way through the story before we actually get to the compelling present action,
when David goes to the lab—but, even then, we learn that the blood-test results have
been available for four days.
The format—or the structure—of the story reflects David’s core conflict, his fears
and desires. The truth of the matter—as we ultimately discover when David burns the
test results—is that, deep down, he doesn’t want to know the truth about his son’s
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biological father; rather, he wants to be, as Paul writes in his reflection, “completely
ignorant, or indifferent.” His love is unconditional. It makes sense, then, that the story
starts so “late,” or “in the middle,” because David must, first of all, shed the past before
he can deal with the present; put another way, the past is part of David’s present conflict.
The early flashbacks serve to demonstrate David’s ongoing struggle to reconcile himself
with the truth about his wife—and with the potential implications of her affair; only after
he accepts the past can he confront the mystery of his son’s DNA and set himself free.
Exercise
Write a story—or even just write the opening of a story—beginning in medias res. For
fun, test out potential beginnings as close to the climactic action as possible, perhaps even
in the instant before the climax—or even after the climax. Remember that the reader will
wonder not only what will happen next? but also what happened already?—what
happened that led up to this moment in time? Use the mystery of the past to create
suspense. Consider how and where you might most effectively weave the past—through
flashbacks and back story—into the present action.
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Share the Darkness
Patrick Shubert 2004
I can’t say I expected it to end any better. The week had been hollow that way.
Predictably enough, things that seem too good to be true slip away under the slightest
inspection. I allowed myself to be drowned and stirred in the moment.
Lying out under these stars, it’s all so simple again. The sky spreads out above
my head with an omnipotent grace, touching the four corners of the world in an indefinite
moment. It can see through me, through my antics, my intentions, my mistake. She must
have seen my world this way too. The road lies cool against my back, and it holds me
here in this hopeful eternal moment. So much has happened, and so much has yet to
happen. I am here. Even now in a frozen silent frame, which I manage to inhabit,
headlights approach, taillights recede. The world seems moist and real, seeping through
me. There was no way to know better, no “right” answer that could have prevented this.
It just was.
I had been tired but happy. It was a feeling that had become the standard mode of
high school existence. The grass was fresh under my bare feet, and my muscles, though
sore, were still alive. The moment was familiar; the players exhausted and content to
retreat.
“Aw, hell, Mack, we have an optics test tomorrow, don’t we?”
“Tuesday morning test, yup.” It sounded right at the time. Why would anyone
think I knew? I didn’t care. I opened my trunk, pulled out my socks, and stashed the ball
away. The sky had begun to feign death, only to be awakened again at some point in the
uncertain future. I had best set home. Already a dozen friends had piled into various cars
across the lot, with diversified destinations in mind. A few hung by the gate to the field,
preaching in boastful voices of plans for the Friday dance. I had little taste for the public
debates of girls’ merits, which would soon follow. It wasn’t that I found it offensive but
that I had very little to say on the subject traditionally and added little to the weekly postgame conversations. Pulling on a light jacket and tennis shoes, I usually would head
home after my game and stop by a coffee shop on the way. After spiking my tank with a
necessary cup of caffeine Java, I could head home and face the tedious reality of my
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evening homework. I slipped into my car unnoticed by the remaining crowd and pulled
out of the parking lot at sunset as the remaining boys cast long, lazy shadows on the field
in the remaining daylight.
The shop was a small comfortable one, bathed in earth tones, but it did little to
calm my pre-work anxieties. At any given time I felt I carried the weight of my
unscheduled appointments. I made my way out onto the street, coffee in hand, half dazed
by the mental manifesto of work to be completed later in the night. A call from across
the street woke me.
“Mack! What are you up to?” My eyes crawled the sidewalk for the familiar
voice of my friend Andrew. “Coffee...alone?” he continued. “You goon. A bunch of us
are coming back here tonight, grabbin’ coffee and studyin’ optics. You want in?” I
thought for a moment. I knew the chapter fine but the session would be a necessary
escape from my house.
“Sure, what time?”
Andrew paused for a moment, as if to think before speaking. “Eight, I’ll see ya
there.”
*
I found myself back at the shop a little after eight that night, physics book tucked
uncomfortably under my arm. A dozen people had already arrived and were milling
about, insulator cups in hand. The class’s top students were gathered around a mediumsized table, paging through unnecessary tomes of notes as top students tend to do. In a
corner opposite them were some juniors, studying for their own physics test the next
morning. The air caught my throat as I worked my way into the room. It was thick with
thought.
I made my way over to an empty table between the seniors and juniors and sat
down. I was already exhausted. It wasn’t a bad day by any measure, but it was tainted.
Every day had lost its joy to me, wrapped in a heavy veil of college anxieties. I
wondered where I’d be in a year. I wondered how I would pay for it all. A light guitar
strummed in the background of the dimly lit café. I wanted more than anything to be that
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guitar player. I wondered what it would be like to be a gentle undercurrent of
contentment under the overtones of everyone else’s professionally driven lives. I was
slipping into sleep while waiting for Andrew, and the idea of doing any work at all was
unpleasant. I hoped no one would approach me at the table. Andy found me quickly.
She didn’t seem anything special, but that was my fault. Rachel had sat behind
me in class the prior years. We had never talked. I didn’t even know she took physics.
Now she stood there next to Andrew, her neighbor.
“These seats taken?” Andrew sat down before waiting for an answer. “Rachel’s
gonna study with us. You don’t mind, Mack.”
“Yeah…no.” There it was, undeniable work sitting in front of me; there was no
way for me to slip out of it now.
The night is somewhat of a blur. Andrew circulated tables while Rachel and I
tried to get a grasp on our tests. She was younger, but I was no help. Less work got done
as an unexpected conversation grew slowly. If you ask me now what she said to me, I
couldn’t tell you. It’s not that I wasn’t listening; it just seemed unreal. I had never talked
to her before, but it seemed full and familiar. Our physics books sat open between us,
lonely and unstated. We procrastinated and were distracted by a conversation that ebbed
lightly with guitar in the background. It seems like a dream, and perhaps it was. Slowly
the room emptied, but we were unaware. I was still surrounded by the thoughtful ghosts
of those who had been present hours ago, but I only saw her eyes. It was the perfect time
of day, until closing time.
We said our goodbye as we moved into the street. It was a shy, unwelcome
goodbye. It was a pleasantry after a conversation to which we had both wished there
would be no end. I climbed back into my small car on the opposite side of the street and
threw it into gear for home. The back roads were dark, with very little moonlight to cut
through the crisp November air. The stars pierced the blanket above me. They were
innumerably large and inexpressibly small all at the same time. The darkness was
interrupted by delicately powerful points of light. I had never seen them before. Not like
this. Perhaps the conversation had dipped into a dream, and I had now been returned to
reality with a quiet celestial key. The stars were cast east over me as I drove west past
fields of corn and alfalfa. I remember thinking, I’m not alone tonight.
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That night I lay in bed awake. I wanted to show her. My ceiling spun above me
as I reconsidered my few hours awake. I could see through the ceiling, through those
hours of light, where suns burned overhead invisibly. I had been missing something. As
I walked down the cold sidewalk and worried over my colder future, life spun out around
me unseen. How was I so blind? It was always there, all around me and without her I
held myself close to it. What she said to make it clear remains a mystery. I didn’t
remember a deeply philosophical conversation or any revelation. It just had been there. I
wondered if she felt it too.
*
The next day, school passed before I realized it had begun. The physics test
seemed practical, nothing outstandingly hard or easy, and a bunch of kids decided to stay
after school to finish up a take-home portion of the exam. I hoped Rachel would be
there. I found Andrew instead.
“Yo, Mack, what do you have on problem seven?” Andy inquired.
I looked down at my pages of work. Number seven was blank. “Um, I haven’t
gotten to it yet…”
Andrew continued his work, not giving me so much as a disappointed glare.
Finally, he looked up at me with a half-crooked grin.
“Maybe you’d have finished…if you hadn’t had such a good time last night.”
“Aw, go to hell, man. You’re kidding me. I was just helping her with Physics.” I
paused a moment. “And stuff…”
“And stuff…and stuff…” Andy laughed.
My face filled with blood as I tried to defend myself against Andrew’s
unwarranted attacks. Luckily, the subject herself chose to interrupt our conversation. I
noticed Rachel as she walked through the door.
“ …and stuff. You two are cute.” Andrew laughed, unaware she had entered the
room.
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I shot him a dirty look and threw my eyes towards the door. He turned to see her
nearby and then sent me back an embarrassed shrug. My eyes returned to Rachel; I
wanted to say something.
“Hey, Mack,” Rachel called to me.
“Hey, Rach, how’d you make out on your test?” I asked with a sincere notion in
mind.
“Well, I probably would have been better prepared if I actually spent some time
studying last night,” she laughed.
I felt accountable. “Oh, I’m sorry. I talked your ear off, didn’t I…” I managed to
mumble a short apology before she interrupted me.
“No, no really, it’s fine. I just didn’t see it coming. Had we ever even talked
before?”
I didn’t know. Suddenly I realized I had probably seen this girl every day in
classes the previous year, and never taken the chance to look deeper.
“I don’t know,” I chuckled awkwardly. “Hey, if you’re not too busy tonight, how
about I be a distraction again? Want to grab some coffee?” If my question was
awkward, her response was even more so.
“Sure, I’d like that.” She forced the words out, “Look, I’ve got to head over to
play practice but take my cell number and call me around six-ish?”
I took the instructions as if they were a holy quest.
*
That night I called Rachel at 6:01—fashionably late. We decided to meet again at
the cafe that had been so kind to us. I found her about a half hour later sitting at our table
from the night before. I had never realized how beautiful she was. It was that quiet
understated beauty, the type that just seemed to lie asleep under everyday life until you
manage to awaken it, and then there’s no way out. Our words trumped those from the
night before. Everything seemed familiar and comfortable; she seemed familiar and
comfortable. Again we lost track of time, and when we realized it was almost nine, we
hurried out onto the sidewalk. It was another cold November night, with not a single
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cloud to blanket us. As I walked her back to her car, we both looked towards the sky.
There were countless stars, all hanging just above our heads. I watched her watching
them. I didn’t need to show her; she just seemed to know.
“Let’s pick one,” I asserted.
“What?”
“Let’s pick a star, our star.” I hung back about five feet out of my skin, watching
myself. What are you saying? It was that kind of sentimental bullshit you might see in a
1950’s romance B film, but I liked it.
She hesitated for a moment and looked up at the sky. “That one, just below the
other three in the line.”
I found the star without trouble. It was ours. “It’s amazing. I think you picked
the best one.” We paused and looked at each other. It seemed as if hours passed before
we said goodbye, and she reached for the door handle of her car. In truth, that moment
couldn’t be long enough.
That night, I lay in bed awake once again. I could see through my ceiling; it had
practically melted away from my room. I could see our star. I felt the stars pierce my
mind, cold and distant, warm and ever present. I wondered how I had never seen them
before, such beautiful things gone by unnoticed. It made me wonder what else I had been
missing. I felt as if I had been admitted into a new corner of life, a niche that felt more
right for me than anything I had ever known.
The rest of the week passed in the same ether as Monday and Tuesday nights. I
saw Rachel each evening up until Friday. We talked about everything. Religion, goals,
and music fell victim to our evening conversations. I didn’t ask her about Friday’s dance;
it was all going too well.
*
I wandered into the school lobby about an hour late, as upperclassmen tend to do.
Music leaked from the closed cafeteria as freshmen ran across the hallway, screaming
and carrying on over the social event of their naive adolescent existence. I just wanted to
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find her. I pushed my way through the crowd of toddlers in make-up and grown-up
clothes, into the cafeteria.
The music and lights were mildly disorienting, and I felt congested as crazed
dancers surrounded me. I spat words at casual acquaintances and friends as I pushed my
way through the crowd of dancing ninnies towards the front of the room. I saw her
through the crowd; she was more beautiful than ever. Surrounded by friends I didn’t
know, she laughed and shouted over the music at an unfamiliar guy. She leaned over and
kissed him.
I don’t remember forcing my way out of the cramped cage of teenagers, fighting
fiercely for space. I don’t remember storming out of the school to my convertible in the
parking lot. I don’t remember throwing my car into gear and peeling out of the parking
lot, no sound destination in mind. I couldn’t go home; my parents would only fill my
night with inquiries and concerns; they wouldn’t understand. I couldn’t even understand.
It had all seemed so right. It had all been so fake. I felt my heart pounding against the
back of my bucket seat, my car sliding across country road past fields and livestock. A
clearing was familiar. I saw my Monday night field. I pulled my car into the vacant lot,
and threw my door open, slamming it a moment thereafter. The field was empty, given a
second life by the night, and I made my way up the short embankment between the
parking lot and the road. I took a step onto the cool pavement, still looking across the
street into the open field. I didn’t even see it coming. Thinking back now, I realize it
was a small black car that must have whipped around the turn as kids like to do.
The collision felt light. I felt my body tossed by the force of the car, a final
physics question left unanswered. The car paused for a moment, quivered, and then
peeled out, leaving me behind. The taillights faded into the distance. The road pushed
against my back, cool and solid beneath me. I wonder how it could have all been such a
sham. I wonder what I saw, if it was ever really there. How had it all faded away, like
my ceiling? I’m tired now. As I push my eyelids apart, a familiar sight descends. I peer
into the sky, my body spread across the road, and a single star falls on me. All the beauty
is still there. The heavens glow, cutting through an inexpressible darkness. It swallows
my world, and I feel no alarm now. The innumerable specks of light sit over my head,
ever present, unaffected by my joy and my tears. They had always been there, the
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constants of my life, unstated and unrealized beauty. Only now is the darkness so warm,
as my body’s heat dissipates into the cold earth. I can feel my life seep away into wet
pavement. No questions, no answers reach me now, as I watch the sky and sleep.
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PATRICK SHUBERT
For a long time I considered writing to be a hobby, which would be pushed aside at the
slightest glimpse of an opportunity for professional or educational advancement. At the
end of my senior year at Penncrest, I had pretty much wrapped up the “liberal arts”
portion of my life as I set out for Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. My aspirations
were purely focused on becoming an Air Force Pilot. Little did I know, the school’s
location in Daytona Beach would provide me with a great deal to write about. I believe
that a certain poetic element is inherited in the air that has kept me off the ground for the
past two years. It’s hard to look down over miles of ocean and civilization without
feeling a few heartstrings tug at you. “Share the Darkness” was one of the first stories I
ever wrote that gave me a strong insight into myself. Just as the protagonist, Mack,
found himself staring into the heavens above him, I have been doing the same in my
recent endeavors as a pilot. What I’ve found is an infinite source of stories. After every
smooth landing, stepping back onto terra firma, I find it almost essential to tie up the
aircraft and head right back into the pilot’s lounge to sit down with a cup of coffee and a
pen. The only thing that I am more grateful for than those smooth landings that
contribute to hours of writing are the rocky ones that contribute days worth. There is
very little course-based writing that I am responsible for, but I have probably filled more
notebooks in the past year than my entire life prior to it. Call it self-administered therapy,
I’ve finally learned to write for the sake of writing.
Reflection on Share the Darkness
I wrote this story because I had just come out of the longest relationship in my
life, one that gave me great joy and allowed me a fair amount of personal growth. With
that chapter of my life behind me, “Share the Darkness” was a way to remind myself that
I was still alive and life was just as beautiful. I wrote a story that allowed me to explore
the idea that even after you’ve lost it all and you’re bleeding on the asphalt, the world is
still a magnificent thing.
Originally, my vision was to write a story about how one human being might be
able to open brand new doors for another human being. The story was supposed to point
out how caring about someone might offer a unique perspective. After I got about half
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way through, I realized that the story was contained inside the protagonist, and that
whatever he had learned shouldn’t hinge upon dependence. The best way to do that was
to take away his love interest, introduce some betrayal, and force him into a situation
where he could appreciate his life completely alone. So the story took an unexpected
twist and reflected my change in thought. Mack realizes that the newfound beauty he
saw in the world is still there, it has always been there, and he is able to come to peace
with his ending life.
As I look back on the story now, I don’t think I would change a thing. My level
of satisfaction hasn’t changed a bit since I finished the last draft. “Share the Darkness”
will always be the first story I wrote that I invested a part of myself in. However, my
interest in it has changed slightly since the day I first submitted it. Now it seems more
like a milestone or a time capsule for a ton of vital lessons I learned. I have built upon
that milestone ever since.
It’s interesting to think about how the stories we write—and the stories we read—
reflect the stages of our lives. I recall that back in high school, I was reading primarily
science fiction and war novels. My story held very little resemblance to what I had been
reading at the time. More recently, I’ve been reading a lot more historical novels, as well
as theologically centered pieces. As a result, my interest has shifted to exploring those
ideas through writing, and most of my recent scribblings have focused on ordinary
skeptics struggling with their spiritual and mental inhibitions. My newest interest has
been writing screenplays and producing short films with friends at school. Last summer I
was lucky enough to make a short film with friends from Penncrest, which piqued my
interest.
I’m a notoriously anal-retentive individual. That being said, the copy of the
Gryphon literary magazine that my story was printed in has sat upon my shelf ever since I
moved into my new apartment. Every fictional piece I’ve ever written sits upon the shelf,
ordered chronologically, with the Gryphon at the very beginning. I hadn’t read over my
story in full since the summer after my senior year, that is, until very recently.
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Teacher Reflection
The Unlikely Narrator in Patrick Shubert’s Share the Darkness
There are countless classic stories—and novels and plays—in which the
protagonist dies in the end; of course, such a fate for the hero defines the tragedy. But
typically when we’re reading a story told in the first-person point of view, we don’t
expect the narrator himself to die. After all, we buy into the illusion that he’s telling the
story “now,” as we’re reading—or we at least assume he was alive when he told the
story. In a way, it is all the more extraordinary that in Patrick Shubert’s “Share the
Darkness” the unlikely—and intriguing—narrator isn’t dead yet, even in the story’s final
moments.
Technically, this narrator tells the story, as he recalls it—by way of flashbacks
and reflection—lying, dying, on the asphalt, where we find him in the end—and, of
course, where we’re introduced to him in the beginning. Needless to say, writing such a
story—and making it convincing—is no easy task. The “narrative stance” of the story is
unrealistic, at least in the sense that we can’t imagine the dying protagonist literally
writing down the story’s he’s telling, or even relaying the story at all. Patrick draws us
into the narrator’s mind, where, in fact, the story unfolds. The opening is so honest and
compelling, and the ending is so convincing—the turn of events so moving—that we
never pause to question the aesthetic qualities—the “impossibilities”—of the fiction.
In our Modern Literature class we read Jeffrey Eugenides’s short story “Air
Mail,” in which the protagonist dies in the final scene (or at least his death is implied, as
he slips out of consciousness). The story, unlike Patrick Shubert’s, is told in the close, or
limited, third-person point of view; so, even though the narration has provided a
subjective view of the story (capturing the protagonist’s perspective), we don’t throw our
hands up in the end, as we might if the protagonist were the narrator himself, and say,
“Wait a second! You can’t be dead! You just told us the story!” In the third-person
point of view, the narration provides the author some “distance” from the consciousness
of the main character, a “distance” that the first-person point of view does not afford.
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In another modern story, Willa Cather’s “Paul’s Case”—a classic—the narration
leaps from the close third-person point of view to a more distant omniscient point of view
immediately after Paul hurls himself in front of a train, killing himself, in the end; after
all, once he’s dead, there’s no “Paul” point of view to capture, and so the narrator “pulls
back,” like a movie camera offering a “wide shot” of the world that keeps spinning, even
after the protagonist has passed on. The narration, particularly this shift in the end, is
crucial in achieving the story’s devastating effect. There are no absolute rules in fiction.
There’s no rule that says you can’t tell a story from the point of view of a dead person, or
an angel, or an unborn baby. But it’s always a good idea to have a point.
Exercise
Write a short story, or even just a paragraph, from an unusual or unlikely point of view,
either in first-person or close third-person. Your main character may be alive and well,
not necessarily dead or dying. Consider circumstances that would make telling or
relaying—let alone physically writing—the story difficult. Your choice of narration
should be integral to the point of the story. That is, for example, if your protagonist is a
pastry chef, locked inside a walk-in freezer, the story, at some point, should be about his
being a baker in these particular circumstances—not just about a nice memory he has of
flying a kite with his uncle.
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Anticipating
Morgan Tuohy 2004
The early morning sun splintered through the frost on the windshield. I was too
numb to raise a hand to cover my eyes. A combination of my exhaustion and the biting
cold. I let the light hit my eyes and force water to the surface. I’m not really much of a
blinker. I was in my car, still parked right outside my house. The keys were still
clanking in the ignition, swinging side to side. They made a sound like the ticking of a
clock. It had been 6:13 when I left the house. I had no idea how long I’d been sitting in
the car. I didn’t want to look at my watch.
I was supposed to be on my way to Alyson’s, but I couldn’t get myself to start the
car and leave. It felt nice to sit in the cold, and to be up with the sunrise. I used to see
many sunrises, but lately I’d been lying awake all night, only to fall asleep finally around
four a.m. I hadn’t slept at all last night. It was a strange feeling. Everything seemed
blurred, and yet I was wide-awake. At first it felt heavy, but after a while my head got
light. I’d spent all night thinking about Alyson, about today. Last night I’d experienced
a kind of wakefulness in which I could detect every minuscule sound in the room: the
ticking of the watch on my dresser, the house settling, the moths fluttering against my
window. Too much was coming into my ears and out of my thoughts at the same time.
My eyes had refused to close; they’d kept shifting to the clock, watching the hours go by.
I didn’t know what time it was now, but I knew it was still early. We wouldn’t be late if I
just sat there for a little while longer. A neighbor got into the car in front of mine and
drove off.
I continued to sit there, not moving my head. I didn’t want to look back at my
house. I didn’t want to be tempted to run right back inside. I stared at the empty parking
space in front of me, tensing and relaxing all of my muscles. This made me warmer; I
could feel the blood moving in my veins now. I did this for maybe five minutes, getting
even closer to the appointment time. Finally I raised my hand and clumsily turned the
key in the ignition.
*
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I know that when she told me, I’d sat in front of the wheel much as I had this
morning before leaving. There had been a long silence, in which I stared at the
dashboard, my mouth drying as I fumbled for something to say. Alyson sat as close to
the passenger side door as she could, leaning her head against the window, pressing the
side of her forehead against the cold glass. I was almost afraid she might push her way
out through it, shatter the glass and crawl out away from me. I could hear her breathing,
and I wished that she would say something more. I wished I didn’t have to be the one to
speak next. I was afraid of saying something negative, even hurtful. I knew that would
be ridiculous, completely unjustified, but I felt something that made me want to burst out.
I had to push it down.
“Aren’t you gonna say anything?” she asked without looking at me. Her voice
was heavy, exhausted. It sounded as if she’d been up for nights waiting for this
conversation.
“Well,” I began, my voice scratchy inside my throat, “what are you expecting me
to say? How upset I am? Or whether I agree that this is the right way to handle it?”
How I can’t believe that this is happening? When I looked at her, I realized that this
wasn’t the right approach. She looked hurt. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really just don’t know
exactly how to react right now. I wasn’t expecting this. It’s a little…disconcerting.
Well, a lot, actually.”
“I know.” She turned to face me finally. “I was thrown off too. But it’s
something we have to deal with. I really wish we didn’t have to deal with it, but we have
no choice.” Her voice was shaking and she looked ready to collapse. I put my hand on
her cheek; she was unresponsive. I pulled it back.
*
I took my time as I climbed the stairs to her apartment. It’s only one flight of
stairs to get to her hallway, eleven steps. The building was quiet. It felt deserted, dusty.
The walls seemed a duller gray than usual. I thought maybe they needed to be cleaned.
The steps creaked under me, so I softened my footing. I wanted to apologize to someone
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for being so noisy, but there was no one. I stopped at the top of the stairs and sat down.
A few more minutes wouldn’t make a difference. It wasn’t much warmer inside than it
had been in my car, so I put my hands in my coat pocket. I realized then that I hadn’t
checked to make sure I had my wallet before I left; I always checked. Having my hand in
my pocket I confirmed that it was there, and then finally looked at my watch. 6:57. I got
up and walked the length of the hallway to the last door on the left. She must have
unlocked the door after she buzzed me in. I walked in, entering the living room. Alyson
was sitting cross-legged on the couch, immobile. When I looked at her face, I thought
that mine must have looked just like it twenty minutes ago in the car. No furrowed brow,
no grimace, just wide-eyed and tight. She turned her head just slightly and watched me
move to the couch. When I sat down next to her, she turned back to her original position.
I fought the urge to take up the same posture and instead sat sideways so that I could look
at her. If she felt my stare she didn’t show it. Her sandy-blonde hair was still wet and
tangled from the shower. There was a wet spot on the back of the couch behind her. She
was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and I thought she must have been cold, but she looked
indifferent.
We hadn’t talked since Wednesday. It was now Saturday. We were alone in the
apartment because Alyson’s parents were up in New York for the weekend, again. I
wanted to say something, something that would make it easier somehow. At least
something to get a reply from her. I waited for anything to come to me, but she spoke
first.
“Brian?” she said, as if she were unsure it was me beside her.
“Yeah,” I replied reassuringly, as if this were a completely normal way to greet
each other. I looked at her more intently, hoping to force her wordlessly to look at me.
Instead, she closed her eyes. This reaction stirred something in me. I felt as if she had
just taken a blow to the head and I had to keep her awake in case she had a concussion.
“Hey,” I said as gently as I could, not making an accusation but just trying to keep her
attention.
“I’m still with you,” she said, “it’s just the light’s giving me a headache.” She
looked as if she were meditating, and the urge to keep her with me conflicted with a
desire not to bother her; maybe she would be happier if she could tune me out along with
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everything else. I decided just to wait for her to come out of it; it would do no good to
push her.
It was almost hard to believe that Alyson and I had known each other since we
were fourteen. Not that we’re so much older now, but things were just very different
then. Simpler. We’d met in an art class freshman year. To my fourteen-year-old eyes,
she was the most beautiful thing that walked the earth. But I had to wait for months
before she noticed me. It was understandable; I bore really no distinction. My artwork
was bland, and I was never very outgoing. She was talented, beloved, smart, opinionated.
I had dreams about saving her from some peril, sweeping her off her feet. Dreams that
never came true. Our relationship was never so dramatic. When she finally began to take
notice of me it was only expressed in small, polite smiles. Other than that, she didn’t
seem to have a thought for me.
After a while, the smiles turned into hellos, and eventually I got up the nerve to
ask for her opinion on a project or two. We’d get to talking and discovered we had a lot
in common, and finally started talking outside of class, too. In the spring there was a big
dance, a Sadie Hawkins thing. For days I dreaded the thought that I might have to see
Alyson ask someone else. Every time she talked to another guy I got a sinking feeling in
my stomach. But it never happened. Two days before the dance, she came over to my
drawing table and looked over my shoulder. The nearness of her made me nervous. I
started thinking that what I was working on was horrible and that she was probably
laughing to herself about it.
“That looks pretty good,” she said, surprising me. “You’ve gotten better, you
know.”
“Thanks,” I spit out meekly. “Actually, though, you showed me how to plot out
these lines last week.” I pointed to the contour of a chalice. “That was a big help.”
“I only gave you a little nudge. You would have done fine without me.” I looked
at her for the first time since she’d come over to me; she smiled and turned her head
down slightly, almost shyly. I became very anxious then, very aware of my posture. I
straightened up in the second or two that she wasn’t looking at me, then smiled back
when she did. “So,” she began casually, “you going to that dance this weekend?”
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“Uh, no. You know, with that whole girls-ask-the-guys thing… Nobody’s asked
me yet.”
There was an awkward pause, and for a moment I became terrified that she was
playing a cruel joke, getting my hopes up that she was about to ask me and then
humiliating me by walking away, leaving me hanging there. She seemed to notice, and
hurried to correct the situation. “Well, would you go with me?” I smiled, too quickly, I
thought, and too broadly. But apparently that didn’t make her think any less of me
because she asked, “Is that a yes?” I was elated.
“Yeah,” I replied, composing myself, “I’ll go with you.”
There was no ceremony the night of the dance. No confessions of affection. We
acted as if we’d been together for a long time already. It went without saying. It
wouldn’t have been strange to either of us then to expect that we would still be together
today. It also wasn’t strange that we hadn’t gotten together earlier. Everything just
seemed to flow from then on, as if it always had and always would—a river that pours
cyclically into and out of a vast blue ocean.
*
The waiting room had been brutally white. We’d sat in stiff-backed chairs
diagonal to each other. Out of the corner of my eye I’d watched her flipping languidly
through an old magazine with a picture of a baby in it. I wasn’t about to pretend that I
was interested in reading anything. I tried to think of a way to start some conversation.
But what could I say that wasn’t already clear to both of us, that wouldn’t make it seem
like I was trying too hard? It didn’t matter though, because a nurse or some other
assistant came out and called her name. Alyson turned to me, expressionless.
“You want me to come in with you?” I asked, without much hope that she would
say yes.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. She took my hand and squeezed it gently. “Just be here
when I get back.” I nodded and managed a little smile, which I kept until the door closed
behind her.
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I sat there for a few minutes, picked up a magazine twice, threw it back down
twice. I switched chairs, then just got up altogether. I walked to the window and looked
out onto a small garden below. At least, it had been a garden once. But in the dead of
winter all I saw down there was a blanket of brown with a few white and crystal patches.
I looked at my watch and figured Alyson had been gone only about ten minutes. I
decided to get some air.
Out in the parking lot, I instinctively headed for my car. Halfway there I stopped
short, forced myself to stand still and breathe. I stood in an empty spot, looking around
for something, anything, to occupy myself. What I saw was a small flower shop across
the street. I checked my wallet. Definitely not enough for roses. Maybe a cheap bunch
of whatever wild flowers they might have at this time of year. I jogged over to the store
and asked the guy at the counter for something small, but nice. I was happy enough with
what he gave me and walked back, at a slower pace so as to shelter the flowers a bit. As I
did, I thought about the money I needed. I’d have to sell some things. Putting my free
hand in my pocket, I hoped I wouldn’t have to sell my new leather gloves, which I had
forgotten to put on. I wanted to get back inside where it was warm.
Instead of going right back to the waiting room, I went to the tiny cafeteria to get
some coffee. I knew I had some time. I put the flowers on a chair at the table I took in
the corner. I tried not to think of much. I wanted a clear mind when I greeted Alyson. I
decided that we should talk, have a real conversation like we used to. I resolved to bring
it up with her. When I returned to the waiting room, she hadn’t come out yet. I sat with
my back facing the door she’d gone through earlier, and I just looked ahead of me. At
this point the dazed effect of my exhaustion finally gave way to an actual will to sleep,
and I nodded off in my chair. I woke up after about an hour with a painfully stiff neck. I
knew she would be out soon, so I tried to make myself look more relaxed, happier even.
I guess I ended up looking surprised, because Alyson came up behind me and put her
hand on my shoulder. I got up and hugged her, and she seemed really glad to see me, as
if reassured of something by my presence. She pulled my hand and we headed out.
*
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I thought of last summer, a day we’d gone to the beach. We had a picnic and
sprawled out together on a straw mat. I hadn’t brought towels because I hadn’t expected
that we would go into the water. I was happy just to lie there with Alyson under the sun,
but she wanted to swim. She got up and ran to the water, turning around every few feet
to call to me. I stayed on the mat until she was standing at the water’s edge. I couldn’t
see her face clearly from that distance, but I could imagine her expression: trying to hide
a laugh under a pout, opening her eyes wide like an innocent little girl.
I walked out to her slowly, deliberately stalling. I knew that when I reached her
she would raise one eyebrow and tighten her mouth, trying not to smile at me. By taking
my time I would make it harder for her to keep a straight face when I finally got there.
She tried, of course, and then finally laughed and put her arms around me. She grabbed
hold of my hand and pulled me farther into the water. When we were in up to our necks,
she stopped. I looked back at the sand and thought it seemed farther than it really was.
When I turned back to her again, we kissed. The kiss was not particularly special in any
way, not passionate, not long, just warm. Her mouth tasted like the salty air. After we’d
let go of each other, she ducked under the water, letting me know with a glance that I was
supposed to come after her. I dove forward and swam a few yards before reaching her.
When we both came to the surface, it was for just long enough to take a breath and be
knocked back under by a wave. I tumbled for a few seconds, and Alyson’s hand found
mine. She pulled me toward her, and we had gone a few strokes before I realized that we
were heading farther out. For a while, we stayed close, swimming hand in hand. When
another wave came, we were pulled apart. Instead of being pushed back to the sand, we
just went in opposite directions, parallel with the shore. I didn’t fight the current, but I
waited for it to bring us back.
*
Now we’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, taking up again that familiar
staring position. I’m listening to the murmurings coming from the kitchen, where
Alyson’s parents are deliberating. I wish they would hurry up and get it over with. I
don’t want to wait any longer for their reactions, their charges. I don’t want to be here at
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all, where there will soon be crying, harsh words, disbelief. They’ve saved all of it for
now.
As the weeks went by, Alyson had seemed to them to be changed. She’d begun
eating less, staying in her room more. We were supposed to tell them together. We
thought it would help them to recognize the blame as equal. But they got concerned too
early, and she couldn’t keep it up in front of them any longer. So she broke down and
told them herself, two days before we were going to do it together. That’s why we’re
here now, like this. Anticipating the conversation.
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MORGAN TUOHY
After graduating from Penncrest in 2004, I entered the University of Delaware to study
Art Conservation, but have since changed my major to English, and I hope to someday
work in the publishing world. Most of my writing these days has been school-related, but
I have constantly kept a journal of ideas for creative work, too many and too vague,
unfortunately, for me to always be able to remember what I was thinking when I look
back at them. When I am immersed in schoolwork, I try a lot of writing exercises, just to
keep in practice.
Reflection on Anticipating
“Anticipating” was done in a very different style from what I usually like to read.
It was quiet for my taste. I like action. But in class at the time, we had read a story in
which the main character’s son was dying from a wasting sickness; the class came to a
consensus that it was most likely AIDS, but it was never actually explicitly named. It
was very clear what was going on, but still it was kept almost in the background. The
story became not about the illness, but about the relationship between the mother and her
son.
The idea of that challenge, to write a story that depends on such a circumstance
but is not about that circumstance, appealed to me. This was what I tried to do in
“Anticipating.” Technically, the plot revolves around this couple having an abortion.
After my mother read the story, she said: Neither of them is thinking about the baby.
Well, I wasn’t interested in the abortion (a loaded topic, which I didn’t want
overpowering the story); I was interested in what happens to Brian and Alyson’s
relationship. I didn’t want their collapse to make the story moralizing or preachy, but I
liked the slow dissolution of their bond; it seemed real to me.
There are plenty of small things about the story, as I submitted it in 2004, that
have bothered me since. I’ve been over it again many times, but my adjustments have all
been minor. The mood of it has remained intact.
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Teacher Reflection
The Taboo Topic in Morgan Tuohy’s Anticipating
The devastating, surprising ending of “Anticipating” comes with a rush of insight,
which we share with the protagonist himself. The “twist”—or the revelation—is not that
that “unspoken thing”—the taboo topic—is finally announced (after all, we don’t need to
be told what it is; deep down we’ve known all along, at least since the “waiting room”
scene). Rather, the surprising twist relates to something else, what the story ends up
really being about. In the final moments the story becomes not about the abortion, or
even about announcing it to Alyson’s parents—needless to say, since Alyson has already
told them the news, to Bryan’s dismay. The story becomes about something even more
specific than the protagonist’s relationship with his girlfriend: it becomes about Bryan’s
aloneness.
As we approach the ending we come to understand that the story has been about
the couple’s handling of their problem together—ultimately, about their plan to tell her
parents. However, in the final moment, the protagonist is as shocked by his revelation as
we are: she has already told them. Suddenly, his aloneness is emphasized by the
presence of her parents, who are discussing the matter in the adjacent room and who, as
such, have seized control of the situation. Instead of facing Alyson’s parents, alongside
his girlfriend, Bryan is now bracing himself for her parents’ response to the news.
What’s more, Bryan realizes, in abandoning their plan to tell them together, Alyson has
also abandoned him, or so it would seem—or feel, to Bryan.
Morgan Tuohy creates a magical moment in which the story is transformed and
defined all at once. It is important to note that while we are indeed surprised, we do not
feel that the author herself has been keeping us in the dark, that is, that she has been
withholding the story’s secret so as to shock us in the end; rather, we feel crushed,
convinced, that, like the protagonist himself, we have been living one story while an
altogether different story has been going on without us. Of course, betrayed as we, and of
course he, might feel, we must also remember Alyson, sitting beside him, feeling perhaps
as alone as Bryan does—we must remember that it was her own deep anguish that led her
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to her parents. This sense of aloneness and loss is beyond our judgment—and seems to
be shared by all parties in the story, even the parents, who we might imagine devastated
in the next room. It leaves us, the reader, like the protagonist, speechless, anticipating…
In her reflection Morgan refers to “In the Gloaming,” by Alice Elliott Dark,
whose protagonist, the mother of a son who dies of AIDS, feels alone in the end,
especially in the company of her husband, who made himself absent while his son
suffered from that “unmentionable” cause of death. In the end the story is about a mother
who lost “the love of her life” when her son died. In never mentioning “AIDS”—and in
never mentioning “abortion”—these two stories succeed not only in creating a haunting
sense of the “elephant in the room,” but in thrusting into the foreground the protagonist’s
inner conflict, which of course germinated in “that unspeakable thing”—that taboo
topic—that everyone sees but dares not mention.
Exercise
Consider other potentially “taboo” topics like abortion and AIDS and, as Morgan sought
to do, “write a story that depends on such a circumstance but is not about that
circumstance.” First, consider how setting (time and place), culture, and values
determine such “taboo” issues within a group of people. For example, AIDS, not to
mention a son’s homosexuality, may be a “taboo” subject in one household—in a certain
time period—but a matter of common discourse in another.
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Moving Out
Matt Gilbride 2005
The distant thud of the back door closing woke John up from another deep, beerinduced slumber. He opened his eyes and looked over at his window. The sunlight was
covered up by the shade so that a tiny slit of light made its way through the room from
the bottom of the window. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to make the
headache go away, and looked over at the clock. Two-thirty. Must have been his brother
coming home from school. He got up, walked over to his closet, and thought for a
second about putting on some real clothes and getting started towards Davenport a few
hours early. But John never did anything early, so he decided once again to throw on his
bathing suit.
On his way downstairs John H. Liverwell III exchanged the same “What’s up,
dude” with his little brother that had been swapped at least once in each day of the last
three years. John admired his little brother, whom he often thought should have been the
one to take his father’s and grandfather’s name. Russ was a senior this year and John had
watched him develop into the classic high school student that he was. A great student, at
least in comparison to the one John had been, Russ had just recently taken John’s advice
and let his girlfriend of two years down easy. “Shit, I remember being right in that
place,” John had said between hits of Russ’s little blue pipe. He never would have
guessed when he moved back home that he’d be smoking weed this often with his
otherwise clean-cut brother. “You’ve got to try to be as easy on her as you can, man,”
John had said, and couldn’t muster much more advice than that. “Good luck,” he had
said after realizing his history might make it a bad idea to give his little brother too much
advice about women. Advice like that was exchanged often between the two, though
John had recently realized that he took as much knowledge away from Russ, who was
half his age, as he imparted to him. Whenever John came home late and felt drunk and
lonely (the two feelings almost always coincided), he would walk down into the
basement to see if Russ was still up or sleeping peacefully in front of the TV. When his
little brother was awake, John would stomp down the stairs and begin blathering on about
life and what it consisted off. Russ had memorized most of the story long ago. “Dad
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really knew exactly what he was doing with his life, man. Listen to him,” John would
assert among epic stories about how he was never really sure if they loved each other.
“Don’t do what I did” was his only other notable point. Russ must have heard it a
thousand times before, whether it was from John himself or from his parents. “Don’t be
like your brother” was the messages they gave him. He understood, though the
temptation was always there.
John walked outside and planted himself in one of the deck chairs next to the pool
where he had spent the good part of nearly every summer afternoon watching his skin get
darker and his gut bigger. The sun would rise and fall and all John usually knew of it was
its subtle gleam underneath the bottom of his bedroom shade or, when he was outside, its
suggestive heat blazing on the back of his closed eyelids. He’d think of his son during
the day. Little Jack had been born in Colorado when John’s ignorance was still blissful
and his drinking was not yet a problem. Jack’s mother, Tracy, was the love of John’s
life, but she had left him for her family in Iowa when his drinking and their newfound
family began to conflict with one another. John would think about how Jack was a
miracle, about how Tracy wasn’t supposed to be able to get pregnant but she did, and
about how much he didn’t learn in his twelve weeks in AA. He’d have dreams of rehashing his relationship with Tracy. Maybe she was the love of his life and maybe she
wasn’t, but with John’s thirty-seventh coming up the next year she was the best John
would ever get. Getting married and finally having his family were more important than
love at this point. Such a reunion, John thought, would save his life. He had no career to
focus on and no hobbies to distract himself with. Darkness and drunkenness defined his
life, as it were, and unconscious images of his ex-girlfriend and son’s shiny blue eyes and
sunny-blonde hair were the only things that kept him going.
He woke up three hours later, blinded by the sun, and immediately got up and
marched inside. He remembered that Dad would be home from work soon to hassle him
about car insurance and other debts that he knew existed but rarely admitted he had, so he
showered, got dressed, and went out.
John Sr., a well-established father of four who couldn’t wait to get the first out of
the house, again, returned from work to find his oldest again gone. The empty space left
on the driveway where John Jr.’s Jetta was usually parked reminded him of the empty
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space that would be left in his wallet if his oldest son stopped making car payments. He
knew from the beginning that he shouldn’t have co-signed a financing agreement for a
brand new car for a son who couldn’t pay off magazine debts, but John Jr. was persistent
and manipulative. Once the father signed the contract he couldn’t go back. So far there
hadn’t been a problem. John Jr. hadn’t been late with a single payment, but Sr. had a
feeling this was a temporary condition. Little John was always impressive in the
beginning of his endeavors: A’s freshmen year of high school and college, followed by
C’s and D’s for the next three. For the first six months of his stay, John was completely
sober, worked all week and all weekend, paid off nearly all his debts, and picked up a
hobby of taking long bike rides. For the past two and a half years he had rediscovered his
love for drinking, began sleeping in until late every afternoon, worked less, and allowed
the gears of his bike to rust out from under-use. Big John loved all of his four children
but he sensed the first would never stop being a heartbreaker. He picked up the mail,
which someone had gotten before he got home from work. There hadn’t been a letter
from John’s bank stating that he was overdrawn since the summer started. Nor, during
that time, had Big John ever been the first one to get the mail. Even when Little John
was at work all day, the mailbox would be empty when Big John got home. That left one
person left to be snagging the mail as soon as it came every afternoon—Russell. Russ
had no reason to get the mail and had never been courteous enough to do that favor for
his parents before, and he and his brother had actually grown quite close since Little John
moved in. As with most of Little John’s little tricks that he pulled throughout his
childhood and his adulthood, his father had a strong suspicion of foul play but no proof.
Russ was down in the basement as usual. His father walked to the doorway and
asked him how his senior year of high school had started off. “Good,” his youngest said.
John Sr. could rarely get more than two words at a time out of the newly eighteen-yearold. It had been that way for years. Now that his last child was about to leave the house
for college, the traditional father of four was finally realizing that he had spent the
majority of his fatherhood at work, and that when he was home he was usually still
working. Amy, his wife, his lovely wife of more than thirty years now, had been begging
him to get involved since John Jr. was born. Big John had been struggling with his newly
discovered chronic absence recently. He wondered if his oldest son’s problems were
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partly due to the fact that he was never home when he was a kid. Hell, he had barely
graduated from college when Amy announced that she was pregnant with their first child
at the age of twenty. When John Jr. was growing up, John Sr. was in the prime of his
work-hard play-harder days. He remembered drinking beers in the car with his best
friend back in Seattle and throwing the empty cans back at his two young sons, happily
giggling in the back seat at the clank of the empty aluminum against the bottom of their
car seats. “He was learning to party at the age of five, from us,” Big John had said to
their wife when John Jr.’s lifestyle first revealed itself to them when he was in high
school. “It’s no wonder…”
The goodbye had been awkward. Mom tried to make it a big festivity for the four
of them but no one felt festive. No one felt particularly sad, though they all thought they
should have. Little John was nervous but not sad; he was ready to flee once again from
Mom and Dad’s nagging questions. “How much do you really owe, bud? Why won’t
you be honest with us?” These inquiries always made Junior stomp off in frustration. He
didn’t have an answer. He hadn’t had an answer three years ago when he asked to move
back home. John was running then, too. Running from a child he wasn’t sure he wanted,
running from debt, running from his world. Third parties had told John’s parents that he
was still running from the latter two things by moving back out. They were right. Little
John was feeling something new lately though. He was always aware of his tendency to
run from his problems, but lately he had discovered something new to run for. He had
discovered something to run towards rather than away from: his son, maybe a family,
even. He was more excited than nervous. At least that was his desperate plea. He gave a
happy goodbye hug to his brother and mother and a cautious one to his father, and finally
drove away for the last time.
All John Jr.’s things fit inside his car. He had arranged for a place to stay with a
buddy and had secured another meaningless bartending job in Davenport months earlier.
The drive to Iowa would be a two-day hike filled with hopes, dreams, and fears. He
stayed at two Econo-Lodges and drove mostly at night. Traffic was lighter at night and it
was less depressing. Driving during the sunny day always reminded John of how dark
life could be. Besides, he was used to sleeping during the day. He was more comfortable
that way. When insomnia did present itself, John would try to comfort himself with his
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hopes and his dreams, pushing the fears of debt, drinks, and dejection as far away from
himself as possible. Those blue eyes, reflecting the sunlight so that John could enjoy it
rather than wallow in it, would make things better.
And there they were. The two sets of shining blue eyes John met upon walking
into Tracy’s house were a story of contrasting feelings. Jack screeched upon seeing his
father walk through the front door, sprinted into his arms, and immediately began
giggling uncontrollably. Daddy was fun at all times and rarely made him go to bed early.
The father was absolutely adored by his son despite his absence. Luckily for John, he
was able to return to his son before he was old enough to develop any sort of resentment
towards his absent father. Tracy, however, embodied such resentful feelings. Tracy’s
family never liked John, and had been reinforcing her own malevolence for him since she
moved back home from Colorado. Her eyes were the antithesis of her son’s. While
Jack’s shined brightly in happiness in the arms of his father’s, Tracy’s imparted an air of
frigid discomfort. She was perfectly cordial, but also distant. John felt as though Tracy’s
eyes were miles away, and they were. She avoided eye contact while he searched for it in
her. Every time he looked at his son, the boy’s eyes would be resting on his, but Tracy
seemed always to find a way to be looking the other way. It was for this reason that John
didn’t stay longer. She had said she didn’t want him to take Jack today. The poor kid
had had a long day in kindergarten. His mother had to break to him the fact that his
teachers did not recommend that he move on to first grade the next year. Although he
was wound-up over his father’s arrival, Tracy felt he needed to get to bed early because
he must be tired. The father and son played outside for a few hours and John began to
see the sleep in the boy’s eyes as well. He left around dinnertime, reluctantly, after trying
desperately to recover some sort of chemistry with his long-lost lover and the mother of
his child. She effectively crushed any hope John had without actually saying that there
was no chance. She had the ability to make things like this obvious with her eyes, and
she did. John walked back to the car pondering over his bittersweet new life. How
relieving to finally be able to actively participate in the parenting of his son. How
depressing to realize he wouldn’t be doing it with a wife.
This day’s sun had not been so scalding. It was less humid in Iowa, and in
playing outside for a good part of the day with Jack, John had refreshingly spent happy
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hours under the sun for the first time in a few years. The sun went down, however, and it
was Friday night. John put off moving all his stuff out of his car. He didn’t start the
bartending job until next week, and he’d arranged to meet one of his old Colorado
buddies, Greg, and to host him for the weekend. Greg had taken the inconvenience of
riding a train from his home in Chicago to visit with John and help him move into his
apartment. John picked him up at the train station around eight. They took enough time
to chuck his stuff into the apartment before hustling to the most crowded bar/night club in
Davenport, which had all of twenty-five people in it. Drinks were cheap, however, and
John hadn’t had a taste since a day or so before he left Pennsylvania. This was a
celebration. Greg and John had been party kings as well as kings of the hill at Colorado
Mountain College just a few years before. They knew how to drink and, more so, they
knew how to get too drunk. By midnight John was feeling queasy but queasy was
familiar and easy to deal with. They continued taking shots. John had always been
partial to beer, but he figured he might as well go big tonight so as to flow with the spirit
of their reunion. At some point late in the night they got separated. Greg had gone off to
chase one of the few decent-looking girls in the place. John stayed at his bar stool. The
room had begun to spin, but he ordered another shot anyway. He was jealous of Greg for
chasing a female around, but he was too drunk to hit on anyone tonight and too
heartbroken even if he were sober. He could have puked, but he held it back and took yet
another shot. The haze thickened. John’s phone vibrated. A text message from Greg:
“Got a bite, don’t wait up.” It was just like a true friend like Greg to leave him on the
first night of reunion after four years of separation. He always put the bitches before his
buds. That was the only thing John hated about him. So John got up and stumbled
outside. He was drunk, heavily intoxicated. John had all the experience in the world
drinking, but, in the moment, he ranked this near the top of the list of the most inebriated
occasions he had ever experienced.
Luckily the drive to his apartment was only three blocks because he could not
operate his vehicle. The shots had come fast after Greg left. He had had no one to talk to
to pass the time between drinks. It was hitting him now. He puked all over the sidewalk
after turning off his engine. He puked again just before unlocking his door. John had
definitely never been this drunk. His mind was spinning out of control and he did
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everything he knew how to do from his years of experience to control it. He fell twice on
the way to the air mattress he had set up in the middle of the largest room in the place and
again began puking. It didn’t matter. He was safe now. He’d never been this sick, but
he’d made it home without killing himself. The room continued to spin, and the puke
kept coming. How many shots had he had? It must have been at least fifteen. He’d been
drinking beer, too, but he was used to beer. John never liked liquor; he always seemed to
find himself sick off of it. The room kept spinning. “I’ve never been this sick before,”
he thought.
Fear began to set in now. John had had one experience with alcohol poisoning
back in Colorado and it was from tequila. He’d had only four shots of tequila tonight, but
they had been aided by shots of countless other liquors. It was a bender in every sense of
the word, and a well-deserved one, so John thought. He’d abstained form drinking for a
few days and he was heartbroken. That thought, that of being heartbroken, made John
feel even sicker. He was alone. He needed help. He puked again, just bile this time, but
the whole place stank now. He made no attempt to make it to the bathroom or get a
bucket. Now that he was lying down, he couldn’t fathom getting back up. The puke kept
coming and John started to feel sleepy. His stomach ached now, but not as it normally
would. He tried to think of his son. Those blue eyes, that golden hair. He thought of
playing with him in the sunlight. With his eyes closed John pictured that. It was like
heaven. He tried to become part of the dream. Consciousness began to leave him. Again
he puked, rolling over on his side and curling up into a ball. His phone rang: Greg. He
managed to pick it up but could not get a coherent message to his buddy. “Yo, John, I’m
coming home, buddy. That girl was nuts,” Greg said over the phone. “You okay? You
puking, buddy?” John breathed heavily into the phone. He couldn’t think of what to say
or how he would be able to move his mouth in order to say it. “Hurry” was all he could
get out, but Greg got the message. He laughed, said, “I’ll be right over, buddy. I have a
ride, and we’ll get you all cleaned up,” and hung up the phone. John couldn’t handle
himself. The pain in his stomach grew, and sleep kept pulling him in. He thought again
of Jack. The dream came back, and he tried to throw himself into it. John’s eyes were
slightly open, but his vision was too blurred for him to make out anything in the room.
The dream persisted. He dreamed of the sun, how it reflected through his boy’s eyes. He
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had totally lost consciousness now. He puked again, but he was asleep. Lying on his
back he continued to fall into the dream. Deep in his consciousness he felt himself
gasping for air. His mouth was full of vomit but he was in a drunken, sleeping haze, and
the alarms in his head didn’t go off. It didn’t register. He kept falling towards the dream.
Tracy was there now, smiling at him for the first time in years. It was so happy. He ran
to the dream. Nothing hurt now, he was too happy to hurt. Maybe this was reality.
Maybe the vomiting was the dream. He felt the oxygen leaving his brain and became
even happier. The dream continued. His son, his girl, himself were all together. It was
all okay now, he was ready to go. In the distance he heard Greg knocking on the door.
He remembered that Greg didn’t have a key, but he couldn’t get up. He was too sick to
get up, and the dream was too lovely. He gasped for air. The fear was gone. No more
debt, no more drinking. Greg broke open the door and rushed in. John’s face was
completely colorless and he was lying in a pile of black vomit. Greg picked up his phone
and dialed nine-one-one. The last thing John heard was the whaling screams of sirens.
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MATT GILBRIDE
I graduated from Penncrest High School in 2005 and am currently in my second semester
at Penn State. I plan on majoring in Finance, but have taken an interest in Philosophy,
which I will probably get a minor in. Most recently I’ve also been intrigued by my
business law class, and am considering fulfilling pre-law requirements and going to law
school after I graduate. My mind seems to change every six months, however, so who
knows where I will be in three more years. I thank my mom and dad for my academic
success, for they truly knew what they were doing when they were raising me.
Reflection on Moving Out
I grew up as the youngest child, by far, of happily married parents. I’d like to
believe I was aware of my luck from the start, for I certainly am today. My parents were
always very lenient, and hesitant to insert themselves into my life when it was
unnecessary. From early childhood I was the only one who worried about whether or not
I did my homework. I always tried to realize how lucky I was to have parents that I
really couldn’t complain much about, especially considering the situations of some of my
close friends. My house was always a sanctuary for my buddies who wanted to get out of
their own homes for a while.
When I was born, my sister was eleven and my two brothers were sixteen and
eighteen. The only sibling I even remember from early childhood is my sister. Granted,
I’ve always known of my brothers, but they were more like distant uncles than brothers.
One went to school in Colorado and the other in Oregon. So, when my sophomore year
in high school rolled around—and my thirty-four-year-old brother moved in—things
were weird.
Sometimes my mom feels guilty about the contrast between how she raised me
versus how she raised her oldest, John. She was only twenty-one when she had him,
barely more than a child herself, but those were different times. Although his life had
been somewhat troubled, John and I developed quite a friendly relationship through my
final three years of high school. He’d spent nine years at Colorado Mountain College and
another few bartending. I think John may have continued an extremely happy, if not
wealthy, life as a ski bum had he not had a child with a girl he was very attached to. As it
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turned out, his girlfriend, Tracy, had some sort of ovarian complication that was supposed
to prevent her from getting pregnant. She did get pregnant, however, and my brother ran
into a rude awakening when his planned life of partying had to change.
When John moved out at the beginning of my senior year, I actually missed him
genuinely, which was a surprise, considering that he had almost no influence in my life
before he’d had to come home. When the short story assignment at the end of my senior
year was assigned, I already had a topic in mind.
The first half or so of my story is virtually non-fiction. The first four or five
pages were scenes straight from my memory; perhaps this is why I had no trouble
inserting some interesting detail into the initial scenes of the story. As it turned out, the
majority of the story became a reflection of how I saw my brother’s sentiments about his
own life. The only part of the story that deviated from my own experience with John was
the final scene. I’ve never even seen my brother sick from drinking. Drinking binges
weren’t his problem; drinking moderately too frequently was.
On a few occasions I ran into road blocks as to where the story was going. As I
set out to write “Moving Out,” I didn’t really have a plan for how it would end. I simply
started writing about the events leading up to my big brother finally getting out of the
house for good. After writing the scene in which John finally gets into the car and drives
away from his parents’ house, I ran into trouble for the first time and didn’t do much
work on the story for the next couple of days. Suddenly I realized that I’d been writing
straight from memory. I thought I had the makings of a good story, but wasn’t sure
where to go with it. When I first thought to end the story on the note that I did, I was sure
that an alcohol-binge-induced low point in my character’s life was too obvious of an
ending, and perhaps it was.
The assignment’s deadline approached and I procrastinated more, hoping to
uncover some definitive ending for my story, apart from the one I had originally thought
of. Deciding finally that I had to finish the story somehow, I began to set up the final
spiral towards the narrative’s ending. At the outset of my work on “Moving Out,” I had
no intention of depicting my lonesome fool of a character as so desperate. The character
I knew in reality was not as hopeless as the one I created. In fact, to this day I haven’t
shown my mom the story because I’m worried about the impression she’ll get of my
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brother and my relationship. The ending to my story is quite obviously pure creation, and
she’d suspect it. Honestly, I’d rather not attempt to explain the mix of non-fiction and
fiction existent in “Moving Out” to my rather naïve mom, nor is it necessary to worry her
so.
In the end I was happy with the way I ended my tale. Once I began to think about
ending the story in the fashion that I did, I realized how I could elaborate on some style
that I had been experimenting with through the first part of the story. I had created some
sort of motif, or metaphor, pertaining to light and darkness at the outset. John had
awoken in a dark room barely being penetrated by daylight and then sat outside with the
sun’s light burning against his shut eyelids. Later on I had elaborated on this nuance with
John’s daydreams of his son and his bright hair and eyes. I discovered upon continuing
through the ending how much I could manipulate these images through John’s son and
his drinking problem. Luckily for me, once the final parts of the story started coming
out, the rest followed surprisingly effortlessly.
Upon rereading the story for the first time since I wrote it, I was annoyed at my
character’s over-the-top last name, Liverwell. It made me cringe. If I could change one
small thing about my story that name would be it. I’m not sure how I would go about
improving the essentials of this story. I believe that I write my best when I write in
waves. The best pages of my story, in my own opinion, are the ones in which the
narrative itself felt clear and complete in my mind, and the “work” I was doing was only
the physical act of typing. Upon revision I made small technical changes and swapped
the orders of some paragraphs or other chunks of text. The plot remained almost
completely intact once I started editing the complete rough draft.
The success I had with “Moving Out” made me realize the satisfaction that can be
reaped from writing. I’m pursuing a money-oriented major and possible career, but I’m
sure that writing, in whatever form, no matter how unpolished or incomplete, will
occasionally be part of my life until it ends. Since middle school I have had bouts of
experimentation with my own free-writing, but never really realized the extent to which it
could help me settle my own thoughts about life. Usually it comes in the form of poetry,
and rarely do the words I throw down on paper ever turn into a finished product. I can
remember two instances since I was about twelve years old that I actually sat down and
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created a finished poem, and both were at low points in my life. For me, writing has a
therapeutic effect. As corny as it may sound, I lift myself out of depressed stages of my
life by expressing my agony in words. Unfortunately for me, I lost both poems that I
wrote for myself, one in middle school and another at the end of my senior year. I shared
the latter with a few of my friends, who were encouragingly impressed by it. I even
contemplated sharing it with my teacher, this collection’s editor, but never got around to
it. I do hope that someday, before my parents move out of the house I grew up in, I’ll
stumble upon the black notebook that I wrote those poems in. Maybe I can fill the rest of
the pages someday.
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Teacher Reflection
Fiction Inspired by “Real Life” in Matt Gilbride’s Moving Out
Matt Gilbride’s “Moving Out” is an excellent model for a story “based on,” or
“inspired by,” “real life.” Of course, I wouldn’t be able to make this claim if not for
Matt’s wonderfully honest and revealing reflection. No doubt, this story is very personal
for Matt, and once we read his reflection, we can’t help reflecting, ourselves, on the deep
connection the author has with it. Matt himself may not fully appreciate one of the
crucial choices he made when approaching the writing of this story, a choice that must
have enabled him to tell such a powerful story, based on such powerful, personal
experience: by not writing in the first-person point of view, he created emotional
distance for himself.
When we write about a personal experience, the natural point-of-view choice is
the first-person; after all, why not just launch right in with “I…” and proceed to tell the
story from one’s own perspective? Instead, Matt instantly creates emotional distance
between himself and the story by focusing on John (the character based on his brother),
capturing John’s perspective, in the third-person-focused point of view. What’s more,
this close third-person narrator progressively “pulls away,” distancing himself further.
When, in the second paragraph, the narrator refers to John as “John Liverwell III,” we
realize that this third-person narrator is not telling the story only from John’s
perspective—that is, only through his eyes (after all, John doesn’t think of himself as
“John Liverwell III”)—but from a perspective outside of John, from a perspective that
allows us to witness John.
In the fifth paragraph the narrator establishes, once and for all, an omniscient
narrator, which not only “pulls away” so that we can witness the action from outside of a
single character’s perspective, but also captures the perspectives of other characters. The
paragraph begins: “John Sr., a well-established father of four who couldn’t wait to get
the first out of the house, again, returned from work to find his oldest again gone.”
This emotional distance Matt has created for himself is a terrific “strategic move”
on his part, as an author who is emotionally close to the story but who, at the same time,
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is devoted to creating the best possible story, one that may very well turn out not to
resemble his own—or, in this case, his brother’s—“real life” at all. By not telling the
story from his own, first-person point of view, Matt has already begun to free himself
from his own sense of knowing the actual story; after all, as well as he might know his
brother, he can only imagine how his brother sees and thinks about the world—the same
is true, of course, with his father or any other character.
This distance also allows Matt, if only unconsciously, to free himself from any
obligation to be faithful to actual events, particularly at the end of the story when, as Matt
tells us himself, the momentum and energy propelled the story to take on a life of its own
and the tragic twist just came to him. As it turns out, the narrative distance he creates
early on is custom-made for the powerful ending, when the perspective shifts, one last
time, to Greg, who breaks in and sees John’s lifeless face. Courageously, Matt allows
this ending to come, and, in doing so, he discovers the emotional truth at the core of his
story.
Knowing, now, that most of the story is based on “real life,” we must admire—
and seek to emulate—Matt’s willingness, as well as his artistic ability, to imagine, and
then actually write, such a tragic, yet perfectly convincing, ending to a story close to his
heart. It cannot be easy to start with a character based on the brother you love and then to
“let this happen to him,” or, worse, to “do this to him.” Matt admits that he has not
shared his story with his mother, and we can understand why. As he says, the non-fiction
elements may be upsetting enough, but the fictional elements might be even more
upsetting. The irony, of course, is that the story—not to mention Matt’s reflection—
demonstrate deep love not only for his brother but also for his family; ultimately, the
fiction writer’s devotion must be to the fiction, to what he is making. It is up to him,
then, whether or not, and with whom, he might share the story. But now, at least, the
story exists, as its own thing, separate from the life that inspired it.
Exercise
Write a story, or a scene, based on, or inspired by, “real life.” But do not write from your
own point of view; instead, write from the third-person point of view, and experiment
with creating “emotional distance” from the characters. Most important, free yourself
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from any obligation to “be true” to actual events; instead, seek to discover the emotional
truth at the core of your own creation.
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Deal With It
Angela Rosenberg 2005
Somehow I had thought things were better this way. I guess they were. Staring
into the blazing fire, the embers glowing in the darkness, I sympathized with the
imprisoned flames. It sounds weird. Nick poked at the logs, producing a shower of
sparks. He would tend to that fire all night long. I guess it was just something to do.
Anyway, those flames would be controlled and monitored until death, when their silent
whispers of smoke crawling towards the sky would cease. But while I sat alone,
watching, the whispers pleaded for the freedom I had. The wind pushed the smoky
towers into my face, stinging my eyes. I turned my face towards the darkness.
“Yo, Anna. You might wanna watch that.” I squinted up at Rob, my eyes
watering. He pointed at the marshmallow oozing towards the flickering fire, struggling
to cling to my roasting stick. The competition with Megan to create the perfect tone of
golden brown had been sabotaged by my thoughts. After glancing over to find her
laughing with Michelle, I flicked my ruined creation into the fire and quickly pierced a
fresh marshmallow, innocently holding it over the flame. Michelle flashed me a smile,
and Megan flipped around, her eyes narrow with suspicion. Trying to concentrate on
slowly rotating the stick, I couldn’t keep a straight face under her lighthearted death
glare.
“You cheated,” she accused.
“Did not.”
“Yes you did. Michelle, did she cheat?”
Michelle just smiled, shook her head and headed over to replace her empty can of
Sprite with another.
“This isn’t even funny, Anal. You cheat every—Rob!”
Rob knocked the stick out of her hand and laughed. Her flawless marshmallow
plunged to the ground, the loose dust coating its gooey exterior. “I swear, Rob—”
“Megs, I’m done!” I boasted, admiring my disqualified marshmallow. “Rob, you
wanna judge?” And then we laughed together.
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“Shut up. You cheat.” She stomped away towards Timmy and the other guys on
the deck. Before she joined them, she turned around and smiled.
Before this moment, images of these gatherings were faded, pixilated in my mind.
Rewinding through the past year showed flashes of friends dominated by scenes of
Ryan—my ex…
Rob took a seat on the log next to me. For once, I didn’t have to scan the area for
suspicious eyes. “Are you having fun tonight?” He tried to make conversation, but
things had never been the same since our fight that summer. Starting sophomore year,
we were inseparable. We shared a locker in the third wing of the school even though we
didn’t have to. During classes we whispered platonic I-love-you’s across the room. We
talked about everything. We were always there for each other. But something changed
while we were in Europe. Once I saw another side of him—when he ditched me and Jill
Parker for European ass… Somehow things were just different. It’s not that we were
engaged in an established dramatic fight. I guess I just couldn’t depend on him anymore.
“Yeah, Timmy should have these gatherings more often. It’s nice. Just hangin’
out with the old crew.”
“Yo, look at him over there. You know he wants on Michelle.” Over on the
deck, I saw Timmy with his arm around her. “She’s so out of his league.”
“Yeah.” I stared at the campfire.
“You know she thinks of him as her best friend. No girl wants to get with her
best friend.”
I looked over at Michelle and Timmy, and then to Rob. “Sure they
do…sometimes.” I smiled—at him. It was fun playing.
He smiled back. “Yeah, whatever.”
Twisting words and innocent smiles made it easy.
“Anna!” Michelle had found a distraction that freed her from Timmy’s arms.
“Your phone is beeping like every two seconds.” My corduroy purse dangled from her
outstretched hands. “You gonna answer it?”
Standing up, I sighed. After glancing at Rob, relieved to be freed from the forced
conversation, happy to leave him wondering, I made my way towards Michelle.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing my purse from her hand as she countered one of Timmy’s
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remarks from across the deck. I began rifling through the loose money and keys and
worthless crap and finally pulled out my phone. Rob had quickly grown tired of sitting
by himself and came to join us. “Three missed calls.” I flipped my phone open to see
that it was Ryan who had been trying to reach me. Rob peered over my shoulder.
“Didn’t you break up with that kid, like, three weeks ago?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Ohmigod. S-Money is back!” Rob used his nickname for Ryan any time he
could. After Ryan stopped by our trig class, like, every single day last year, he was
permanently scarred as ‘Stalker’ by the guys—thus ‘S-Money’.
“I know. He calls me, like, every night. What time is it?”
Michelle jumped in. “Eleven seventeen. Crap, I gotta get going.”
“Every night?” Rob questioned. “He’s such a stalker.”
“Thanks, Rob. I think that’s been established.” I forced a smile to match his. I
rumbled with the keypad on my phone, getting all the details of the calls. He called three
times in the last twenty minutes, left two messages, and a text: “i know u never check ur
voices call me when u get this.”
“Wow, are you serious?” Rob convinced himself that this proved his theory that
Ryan was surely a dangerous psychopath. I’m not gonna lie—it was fun joking, joining
him in the jokes sometimes. Rob was even kinda cute when he preached his arrogant
theories with such undeniable confidence.
Michelle threw in her advice. She had moved on to another guy four seconds
after her breakup with Dom. “Do not call him back, Anna. It will only encourage him.
He’s just like you-know-who. He always wants to be everywhere,” she said in disgust as
though watching Luke hook up with Mrs. Cooper on The O.C.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Whatever, I should probably be going. I was supposed
to be home at eleven.”
“Yeah, same.” Michelle glanced at her watch again. “Rob, you need a ride still?”
“Nah, I’m just gonna crash here.”
I left Rob and Michelle and started to say goodbye to everyone else. “Thanks,
Timmy.” I gave him a hug. He looked depressed from yet another night of fruitlessly
seeking Michelle’s affection. He needed to get over this. “It’s gonna be all right, Tim.
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Come on, smile.” He did. “Bye, Megs, Nick, Michelle, everyone!” I called out over the
music and the noise on the deck. I gave Rob a hug as I was leaving. “Bye b.f.f.”
“Seeya.” He smiled.
I began walking around the house to Timmy’s front yard, across the grass to my
car parked by the curve on War Trophy Lane. I looked at my phone again. “Great.
What am I gonna do?” I mumbled. I almost wanted to call Ryan, but things were just
different. He would think I meant more. I set the car into drive and started home.
The dark shadows shifted as I creaked open the front door and slid inside. I threw
my keys into the wicker basket by the door. The sound echoed through the silence. I
walked to the bottom of the stairs and peered into my mom’s bedroom. I looked to the
empty place beside her in bed and sighed lightly. She was asleep, as usual. There was a
kind of comfort in coming home each night to her sole, steady breathing in the darkness.
It calmed everything.
Lying on my bed, the blue glow from my phone the only light, I scrolled through
my numbers. Ryan was still at the top of the list because his name had a heart next to it.
Following Ryan came BG, Beebs, Belz, Brett, Damian, Dan, Dom. I paused. After
Michelle and Dom had stopped dating, he started talking to me a lot. I guess he needed a
friend after Michelle completely just…dropped him. She hardly gave him an
explanation, certainly no chance for redemption. I still didn’t understand her thought
process on this one. It felt weird, almost wrong, initiating the call. Michelle would have
been pissed. But Dom had advice to give. I pressed “send” and waited for an answer.
“What’s uuuup, dork?!” The loud voices in the background and the heavy music
faded, as he managed to slur his usual greeting.
I smiled with the comfort in consistency of our late-night conversations. “‘Sup,
loser,” I automatically responded.
“Nothin’, we’re just chillin’ at Jon’s. Heather and Sloth and a few guys are here.
What did you do tonight?” He was always at Jon’s. Those two were like brothers.
“Went to Tim’s. Do you wanna get back to the party? ‘Cause I don’t—”
“Are you kidding, Anna? It’s not a party at Jon’s. I live here.” I knew it was
true. I didn’t have to respond. “So what’s up? How are things going?”
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“I don’t know.” I paused, conscious of my intention to open up to Dom. Ryan
hated that, how I never let him know how I felt. But whatever, it was so hard to talk to
that kid. “I just still kinda keep thinking about Ryan, ya know?” I explained what I was
feeling as best I could, loving that, if nothing more, I could always trust Dom to be there
to listen.
“Look, Anna. If you care about someone the way I think you care about Ryan…”
He paused. “It’s not fair to yourself to push him away. Believe me. It just makes you
feel empty inside.” I knew how hard it was for him to cut Michelle out of his life. “I live
with that feeling everyday because I have to. You don’t. Why would you put yourself
through that?”
“No guy is worth your tears, and the one who is won’t make you cry,” I repeated
the cliché quote that appeared on girls’ away messages whenever a boy broke her heart.
“Whatever happened to that?”
After thinking for a moment he said, “That’s not true. That’s a lie.”
I managed to laugh to myself at his repetition.
He went on, “Michelle made me cry more than any person or any event in my
life.” It was true. “And she was completely worth it. If someone is worth crying over,
they must be special.”
Dom had a way of casting new light on everything I knew. His hypnotizing
words sank in like poison.
“Yeah, I know,” I managed to mumble.
“But I don’t know. It’s been a while.” My heart sank a little. “If you both really
cared about each other, you would have found a way to make it work.” My thoughts of a
could-be from a few moments before faded. “But what do I know?”
“Dom, you know everything about…everything,” I pleaded.
His words were slow and solemn. “No. I thought I knew.” I could picture his
distant stare, that glazy look in his eyes when he thought about Michelle. “Look, I gotta
go. Jon keeps trying to get me to see some crap they made.”
I hadn’t meant to bring up Michelle. “Thanks, Dom. Have fun. Tell Jon I said
hi.”
“Yeah. I will. Sweet dreams, Anna.”
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*
“Tonight is gonna be sick.” Jill ran the straightener over her long, blond hair.
“I know. I’m psyched. I haven’t been single at a dance since, like, sophomore
year.” We both flashed bright smiles, letting out girly squeals of excitement. “Okay,
how do I look?” Gazing into the mirrors under the bright bathroom lights, makeup and
hair products surrounding us, we felt like stars.
“You look amazing. You are so getting with Tom tonight.”
“Tom? Come on, Jill. He’s a junior.”
Thinking about it brought some natural blush to my cheeks. “But he is kinda
cute…I guess.” I smiled. “And you know Mike will be looking for you.”
Jill shrugged. She knew.
I retreated to my room to find earrings to complete my ensemble. While opening
my jewelry box, full of entangled delicate chains and hooks, my eyes grazed over the
pictures on the wall. Halloween, soccer camp, eighth-grade pool party, summer…Ryan.
My eyes paused on the picture of us on my front porch: the sunlight perfectly cast over
our faces, perfect smiles. Why are you everywhere? I set the frame facedown.
“First official dance of senior year! Are you ready?” Jill bounded in from the
other room.
I was ready. This was senior year, right?
Have fun.
*
I woke up hung over and feeling terrible—not because of the hangover. The
dance was cool—nice to know that everyone was actually going to remember what
happened, thanks to the new required breathalyzer test upon entrance. The music was
good, and the whole dance atmosphere was exciting. It didn’t really compare to the
dance clubs in Europe, but what do you expect from this town? Dancing with different
guys—anyone besides Ryan—was a nice change of pace. The regular guys: Timmy,
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Rob, John, Nick…and the feature chase-boy of the night, Tom. Nothing happened with
that. It so could have, especially since he showed up at Elise’s party later. I don’t even
know why it didn’t. That was the whole point of not being with Ryan.
Whatever.
Next thing I knew, I was driving to West Chester East to watch Ryan’s rugby
game. I hated rugby. It’s the stupidest game ever. He used to get so mad because I
would never go to his games. I mean, I would, sometimes, but only because I felt like I
had to. Everyone just tackles the crap out of each other until the ref blows the whistle.
Then they get in a big group hug and start again. Then they get drunk. What a great
sport. Pulling into the gravel parking area, I scanned the rows of cars for the silver
Durango. Not in sight. Good thing. At least I wouldn’t have to run into his parents.
It was already the second quarter, or half, or whatever—I don’t know. It was near
the end because the snack stand was already starting to pack up. It was hard to hide
behind the scattered groups of fans. No one ever showed up to those games—clearly, the
sport sucks. At least it was a nice day. It was the kind of day where the sun is shining so
brightly that you just kinda shift into a good mood, even if you want to hate the world.
So anyway, I was sitting behind an empty woven lawn chair, following number fifty-two
up the field with my eyes. He had to have been playing flanker or something. He always
wanted to play there, but he’s small compared to the rest of the massive beasts on the
team. They usually put him at wing, where he doesn’t do anything. But someone
actually passed him the ball, laterally, of course, complying with another stupid rule. He
was pretty good—quick, strong, athletic. Even though I knew he could back up his
constant subtle boasting, it was still annoying. Or, I guess, it used to be. But, I couldn’t
help smiling as he sprinted through defenders, scoring a try for East. The final whistle
blew after a few more group hugs and tackles.
I stood up, stretching my legs, cramped from sitting Indian-style for the whole
fifteen minutes I was there. I left without glancing back at the field. The sun was too
bright anyway. I knew the routine. They were shaking hands with the other teams.
Their coach would try to implant some brief words of wisdom in their heads for the next
game, but they would be too tired to listen. Ryan would scan the sideline for his yellow
and black Nike bag. He would take off his worn cleats and sweaty socks and, after
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gulping some water, throw them into the bag along with his mouthpiece. Gross. After
saying the good-games and good-byes, he would cross the parking lot to his yellow
truck—keys on the driver’s seat.
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ANGELA ROSENBERG
It’s been less than a year since my graduation from Penncrest High School in 2005. I’ve
moved from my comfort zone in the small town of Media, Pennsylvania, into the city of
college students at Penn State, University Park. Most of my required courses fall in the
fields of mathematics and science, but I’m still currently taking one English course. As
we explore the various methods of argumentation, including process analysis, cause and
effect, and definitional arguments, I yearn to write in my favored style: narration. At the
bottom of each returned paper is something along the lines of “This is more narration
than anything else…” Anything that needs to be explained should be done so through a
story—or, at least, that’s my style.
Reflection on Deal With It
I began this story with my twelfth grade writing assignment hanging in the back
of my mind as I stared at a blank computer screen. After reading and analyzing several
older genres of writing and comparing them to modern literature, I faced the task of
composing my own modern story. I began writing in lyrical prose, describing a typical
teenage scene with details from my own life. I scrolled through a typical weekend night,
molding the characters from the familiar personalities of my friends. I transferred the
words from the scene in my head to the page, carefully avoiding to-be verbs, impressing
myself with complex sentence structures, and being sure not to start too many sentences
with ‘I.’ Every few days, two additional pages were due in class and would be spotchecked for completion. So every few days I sat in front of my computer. I would read
and re-read and read over again what I had written so far, gaining momentum. And then
I would write.
As I wrote, more of my own life emerged in the text. The flowing sentences
transformed into shorter sentences, expressing my frustration and cynical attitude towards
the situations that closely resembled my own life. In my revisions, I actually shortened
some of the preliminary sentences, making them more blunt and concise. My characters
allowed me to analyze my life from a third-person perspective. And, as I continued to
draw details from my life, Anna’s feelings and interactions reflected my own
relationships more and more closely.
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The original plot outline, which I was required to complete before beginning the
actual writing process, supplied much more closure to the story and probably much more
satisfaction for most readers. A dramatic ending was planned, with Ryan getting injured
in the rugby game, another girl running onto the field to comfort him, and Anna realizing
that it was too late to mend her misguided decisions. However, the ending that stands is
far more realistic, hopefully conveying the uncertainty of a teenage mind. By the end of
the story, Anna is still confused and unsure of her future with Ryan. She has recognized
her need for comfort in consistency and her relief found in stability. When the reliability
of constants in her life falters, her relationship with Ryan suffers. By the end, she has the
choice to abandon Ryan and alter any imperfections in her comfort-zone of security or
pursue her relationship with Ryan to make him the source of comfort and consistency in
her life.
Throughout the process of writing this story, I not only gained insight into my
own life, but also realized the strength and potential of the written word. After it was
published in Penncrest’s literary magazine, rumors took flight as other students spat out
their various interpretations of what I was really saying. Some characters were built from
the traits and lives of my friends. And, some parts of the story were completely true,
from the events that happened to my feelings and attitudes toward them. But, at the same
time, it was a piece of fiction. Characters and events were manipulated to fit my vision
of Anna’s life—not of my own. And though truth was woven throughout the pages, the
structure of the story was invented. In any case, assumptions were made and feelings
were hurt because of implications I hadn’t intended. And, I won’t lie—some feelings
were hurt with the truth.
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Teacher Reflection
Seeking Closure in Angela Rosenberg’s Deal With It
In Angela Rosenberg’s “Deal With It” what the protagonist, Anna, wants—and
even thinks she has already—is freedom, freedom from her relationship with Ryan,
freedom to socialize with whomever she wishes, whenever she wishes. But the human
heart—or at least Anna’s—is not so willing to let go of the past, not so obedient to the
demands of the mind. And so, whether or not Anna is willing to admit it to herself, what
she needs—as opposed to what she wants—is to recognize what she’s giving up for
freedom; what she seeks—to use the popular psychological terminology—is “closure.”
Throughout the story Anna revels in her freedom, dismissing only passing
thoughts and references to Ryan, her ex-boyfriend, who gets very little attention in the
narrative—that is, until the climactic action, when Anna gears up for the big dance. In
this scene, Anna is determined to have a good time, insisting on exploiting her freedom;
but, in spite of herself, memories, and, in this scene, photographs, of Ryan distract her,
and she thinks, “Why are you everywhere?”
She can’t keep denying her feelings, but that’s not to say that the “solution” to her
“problem” is to “get back to together” with Ryan. What’s wonderful, and startling, about
the ending of “Deal With It” is that Anna chooses to go to Ryan’s rugby game; that is, the
story’s final “showdown” does not happen by accident—the author doesn’t, for example,
contrive a scene in which Anna bumps into her ex-boyfriend, say, on the sidewalk in
town, let alone her ex-boyfriend with a new girlfriend. More important, Anna has no
intention of confronting Ryan, let alone of rekindling their romance—at least, not today.
It would be difficult for the reader to articulate, exactly, why Anna goes to the
game; indeed, it is difficult for Anna herself—“Next thing I knew, I was driving to West
Chester East to watch Ryan’s rugby game. I hated rugby.” It is as if she’s not in control
of her own actions at this point. In order for Anna to get past this stage—in order for her
to truly enjoy the freedom she craves—she must first face the pain that comes with letting
go. This last scene captures this truth about relationships marvelously, and without
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sentimental drama; in fact, Anna’s wry wit is wonderfully intact in the moving closing
paragraphs.
In her reflection, Angela Rosenberg admits to having stopped short of a more
dramatic climactic scene that she had originally envisioned, a scene in which Ryan gets
injured and another girl rushes onto the field. Such a twist in the plot might seem
appropriate, even compelling, for the story’s resolution; no doubt, the twist would, as
Angela writes, make Anna realize “that it was too late to mend her misguided decisions.”
But, painful as it might be for Anna to see that a new girlfriend has already replaced her,
such a twist would actually make life easier for Anna—make the story easier, in a
sense—leaving the protagonist with no choice in the matter.
It’s not the storyteller’s job to make life easy for her protagonist—quite to the
contrary: the writer should seek interesting ways to make life difficult—or as difficult as
necessary—for her characters, as Angela Rosenberg does. The story ends with Anna’s
appreciating the implications of her choice, a choice that she continues to make, in the
moment, even as she watches the game—there is bittersweet recognition in every detail,
right down to Ryan’s “keys on the driver’s seat.” That’s what this story is about, after
all—not perfect “closure” but the painful inevitability of not achieving it, not right away,
anyway—and so Angela is wise to end her story where she does.
Exercise
Reconsider the ending of a story you’ve completed, or consider the ending of a story
you’re still envisioning. Think about what your story is really about, what your character
is driving at, deep down, as she deals with her conflict. The “solution” to your story’s
“problem” may not be that you need to write more, but less; or you may just need to
rearrange the parts and end on a different note. Rewrite—or restructure—your story so
that another, perhaps earlier, scene becomes the ending, a scene that is perhaps less
dramatic than the one you envisioned but that cuts more directly to the core of your
story’s central idea, of your character’s conflict. It may be possible to salvage the
dramatic scene you first envisioned as your ending, perhaps by making it an earlier, or
the penultimate, scene rather than the last.
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O Captain!
Jim Zervanos
The tie-dye-shirted girl that sat back-right—the quiet, athletic senior with the
light-orange curls—she died in a car crash this winter, Michael’s third year on the job. A
few months before, she had written a story for his first-period Creative Writing class
about a girl coping with the death of her best friend who had died in a car crash the year
before. In Michael’s written response to her, he complimented her on her ability to use
her real life to make a good story. He echoed some of her language, feeling obligated to
recognize her personal involvement in the story. He wrote, All the darkness in the world
cannot hide the light of even one small candle. He had no idea when he wrote this—in
fact, when he saw it again, it never registered that these were his words—that this would
be her favorite quote, that she would make a poster of it and tape it to her bedroom wall,
that her mother would have it printed on her daughter’s funeral card just below her birth
and death dates.
Somehow the girl’s mother put it together that these were Michael’s words, and,
now, spring, months after the funeral, she sends him a card in his school mailbox
explaining the connection, recalling the story her daughter had written for him, and
inserting a funeral card just in case he had missed the viewing where they had been
handed out.
Michael had been there, of course. He had stood next to her boyfriend in the back
for a while. They had connected because Michael used to play baseball. Once when he
was reading a story aloud to the class and a few kids were disruptive, this kid actually
shushed them and said, Would you guys let the man read! Michael can still see his
wrinkled eyebrows and hear his tone of alliance. He can’t get the image out of his head:
not the one in class where the kid becomes his ally but the one where the kid is next to
him silent and in the far end of the room in hazy yellow light, his girlfriend, in tie-dyed
tee and faded jeans, lies still, the tips of her toes snug in Birkenstock sandals. Michael
thinks to himself, innocence lost, and regrets the cliché; then he pictures Ophelia
underwater, adorned with flowers, and thinks, no clichés in Shakespeare. Still, it’s too
obvious, this girl in sandals and swirly rainbow shirt and beaded necklace, so he can’t
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help himself: if this were a story, he would criticize it as being way over the top. You
can capture innocence, he would say, without dressing the girl up like a flower child.
*
Michael tells his kids how important it is in fiction-writing to detach themselves
utterly from their real lives, that real-life experience can be a great starting point for story
ideas, but if they stay obligated to the facts, they’ll sacrifice what could be good fiction.
He tells them to sift through. Consider where you might exaggerate someone’s traits to
make a more interesting character. With just the slightest tweaking and focusing on
what’s memorable about an experience, you can make an ordinary event into the source
of a good story. Most of these kids have at least one story to tell, a breakup story or a
dead-dog story. Once they submit this first one, they’re convinced they haven’t lived
long enough to have anything interesting to write. This is what fiction is all about,
Michael says. It’s when you’ve tapped your own well dry that you can finally come up
with something original. Michael doesn’t entirely believe this, of course. This is a tricky
matter. He knows you can never get away from your own stories. You can disguise
them all you want, you can melt people together to make one character, you can change
the names and places and chronology of events and jobs and hair color and what she wore
lying there in her casket and what they were smoking when the car hit the tree. But deep
down somewhere it’s still your story. Somehow it’s always your story no matter how
much you change the facts.
*
Three years ago Michael got into teaching to make connections. After college
he’d worked a year at the local paper. Then he’d wanted to get away from straight
reporting. He’d had enough of reality. Enough of the heartless rhythm of journalistic
prose. He’d always preferred literature and fiction writing. Psychic income, he called
it—that’s what he’d get. Not that the newspaper job had been providing the financial
kind. He had always known he’d do this, just not this soon. High school. He’d be
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teaching the classics. And creative writing. Too perfect to pass up. That summer he’d
gotten back to writing stories himself, and he’d read up on the craft. He’d dug out his
Shakespeare and brushed up on Whitman.
His first year, he got it right; on the last day, a minute before the bell—he was
suspicious of their shifting eyes, their whispers (they’re timing something, he thought)—
they stood on their chairs and stared down at him, smiling, and only slightly out of sync
with each other, they hollered, “O Captain! My Captain!” They were glad for the movie
that had given them this idea—Michael was glad for it, too. What their gesture lacked in
originality, it made up for in sincerity—he knew this, he knew their faces, he saw it in
their eyes, they were half-embarrassed for having to borrow from a movie. Michael was
touched. He felt it in his throat. You’re going to be good at this, he thought. The excited
shuffling before their big move—he had known something was about to happen. The
bell rang. They stepped down and grabbed their book bags and darted off toward
summer. They were gone, just like that. Then something Michael hadn’t expected: He
missed them already. He realized that this was the price he’d pay. Okay. These were the
kind of connections he’d had in mind.
*
This course won’t help you in college, Michael emphasizes to his first-period
creative writers. This is a course in fiction writing, but they know that, he hopes; there’s
a composition course offered—that’s different. On the first day he explains to make sure,
fiction versus non-fiction. If you need work with essay writing or research writing—
writing about factual stuff, he says—you’re in the wrong place. If you want to learn how
to write a good story—fiction—stick around. They all do.
He tells these kids not to clutter their stories with too many characters or events,
to boil them down to what’s crucial—short stories, he demands, have one protagonist,
one clear, central conflict and don’t need to be drowned in irrelevant detail. In most
cases, upon investigation, Michael discovers that cluttered stories are the result of the
same thing: the kid is married to how the real story goes; the kid won’t admit, of course,
that he’s sticking too close to real life because he realizes at this point in the course that
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this is Michael’s—Mr. Konaris’s—biggest pet peeve, writers not separating enough from
their source material and focusing on what will make the best story.
We’re not journalists, he reminds them, and we’re not writing our
autobiographies. Some day when you’re important enough and people care, you can
make sure you get all the details in and that you’ve gotten them right. Until then, stand
back and try to see what would make this the best possible story. He says this, risking
insult, suggesting that until they’re important, the details of their lives aren’t. They seem
to understand the advice, appreciating that it’s Michael’s job to focus on the story as a
story, though it’s not uncommon that the final draft will be revised with those same reallife details that he discussed changing. Usually he discovers what a kid is doing when he
suggests something minor like changing the color of a character’s hat for whatever reason
from blue to red and the kid looks at him horrified: But it was blue!
*
Only a month till summer. Four months since the tie-dyed girl. Now, there’s
another one—not death this time, but bad enough: another car accident, another tree. A
first-period kid again. His favorite class. Monday morning the bell rings and the kids
shuffle to their desks, silencing their whispers, gazing at their bandaged-faced classmate
with her head bowed in the front row. Michael thinks, I have supped full with horrors.
He wants to reach back and be sixteen again, now that he knows it all works out,
him in a tie-dye, hollering slow down and, man, don’t smoke that shit, don’t drink that
shit, don’t do that shit (not yet). He pictures these kids in the back seat of their car, with
bottles and sliced limes and shakers and glasses—they’re actually making fucking
margaritas in this girl’s family Buick—some kid’s driving with a Phillies cap on
backwards and he’s reaching back for a packet of sugar and a lime wedge without the
slightest doubt someone, something, will take control of the wheel while he adds the
necessary garnish to his drink. The tree up ahead doesn’t know they’re invincible. It
won’t discriminate against the prettiest girl in the twelfth grade, who right now happens
to be sitting back-center, her face aimed perfectly for the rearview mirror. It doesn’t care
that Michael’s the guy who will have to greet her in the parking lot first thing Monday
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morning as her dad drives off to work, that Michael will dip his head to see the far side of
her face, the thick gauze and her fat blue lips, and say, What happened to you? I’m so
sorry, and she’ll say, I’m sorry, and, like Michael, she won’t know what she means
exactly by it, but they’ll share the same regret.
*
He spends days on the issue of sentimentality in contemporary writing. Stay
away from soap operas, he tells them. And the after-school specials: dying pets and
teenage breakups, basically the stories they’ve got to tell. If it’s a death story, he tells
them, consider, at least, that the climax is not the death itself but when your character
reacts in an original way, perhaps at a gathering after the funeral or alone years later; if
it’s a breakup story, avoid soap opera by not making the actual breakup the climactic
scene, and, instead, show your protagonist doing something original and interesting later,
thereby creating a new climax and a fresh purpose to the story.
*
Only two weeks left in the year. Michael wakes up to the staticky sound of the
local news radio station, and as always it takes a few minutes for the words, let alone the
idea that it’s time to shower, to register. He hears the man say the name of the town
where he works; he says the words domestic dispute, and he says teenager dead—not one
of his kids, he hopes. It’s gotten to this: His kids. He’s taking this way too personally.
He can’t help it. Cynically, Michael thinks a kid’s name to himself; he thinks of this kid,
in particular, in order to prepare himself for the worst. Though the news report doesn’t
change in the next half hour—still no names—even as he listens in his car as he enters
the parking lot, he becomes certain that this boy, the one he thought of, is dead. He
reminds himself, at the same time, that he is not prophetic. That he’s jumping ahead.
The assistant principal is out of place standing inside the entrance doorway, where
he whispers, at this point routinely, his last name, the one he thought of, the worst-case
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scenario, the boy who sits back-center, Michael’s favorite. He’d been shot in the face by
his father.
*
Michael suggests that the greatest moments in stories are those at the end where
the reader enjoys some rush of insight, where he recalls some detail from early on that,
though at the time seemed arbitrary, now reveals itself as crucial to the story’s unfolding.
You don’t want these earlier setup moments to be too obvious, Michael tells them,
because then the reader will be expecting them to come back, a loose end tied up finally.
The best setups are the ones that surprise but that, on the other hand, don’t feel too
convenient. When something comes full circle and the reader thinks to himself, Ah, this
is it, this is what it’s all about, these are your well executed payoff moments. And one
more thing: don’t withhold some crucial information, just for the sake of zapping the
reader with it when he’s vulnerable. The payoff moments have to be genuine moments of
epiphany, experienced through the protagonist, with whom the reader now empathizes.
A payoff moment is not just a surprise. If you want cheap surprises, you’re in the wrong
class.
*
When the bandaged-faced girl had arrived in class just a week before the shotfaced boy’s murder, a few kids surrounded her at her desk, one of whom was the shotfaced boy, though at the time, of course, Michael knew him simply as his favorite.
Michael told him to take her for a walk. Michael winked and nodded to him. By the end
of the period Michael had forgotten about them, and he went to the door and peeked out.
They were right there, sitting in the hallway; the kid had his arm around the girl and she
didn’t look up, but he did, and this next part Michael remembers in slow motion: the kid
smiled, an adult, stiff-lipped smile saying that he knew this girl’s suffering. I’m sorry,
she’d said to Michael out in the parking lot only a few minutes before. I’m sorry, I’m
sorry, the kid was saying now, over and over in a whisper like a mantra, and he meant it,
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he wasn’t just repeating her words, and it was just then that Michael realized that the kid
had been the driver, he had been the one that had let go of the wheel to reach for the lime
wedge.
Since day one he’d been Michael’s favorite—he held the door for everyone,
laughed at his jokes—but right now Michael imagined his face wrapped in gauze with
scratches like open veins creeping out the sides and over his cheeks. Michael saw his
smooth white face mesh with windshield crystals like pudding and stones. He pictured
this. He wasn’t sure why: perhaps he was relieved that this wasn’t true, that the kid’s
face was intact; perhaps he feared for what could happen tomorrow or the next day—not
only to this kid but to any one of these kids—or perhaps Michael wished for some sick
revenge and he allowed this thought to manifest only because he is not superstitious and
he knows that fate has nothing to do with his imagining this. Either way, he was
sickened and turned to go back in. The sun heated the room. It was almost summer.
Only three more weeks of this.
Who knows? Michael thought. Maybe he’d be next. How would he like to go?
He wouldn’t want it to be a surprise. Everyone gets his turn, this he’s learned here. How
about this: he’s writing something on the board—a poor player that struts and frets his
hour upon the stage—then he turns to face them, smiles a big toothy grin, then plugs the
gun’s barrel into his mouth and spreads his brain on the chalkboard behind him. This
will be his revenge on them. A tale told by an idiot! Hah! He hopes there’s a split
second where he might get to see their faces, as reality hits them, and he fades from it.
My soul is too much charged with blood of thine already. This is actually what went
through his mind as he headed back to the lectern that day. Macbeth with nothing left.
*
Early in the course he shows the movie Dead Poets Society, the one where the
kids stand on their desks in the last scene. He uses it to discuss story structure, scene
development, and ending your stories with a powerful, poignant image: this story has its
ultimate crisis moment, its protagonist’s crowning achievement, and its central idea all
built into the last scene, without an explanatory speech. Michael also teaches Walt
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Whitman’s Song of Myself if only to show that even in poetry there is still story, what this
course is all about; it features a protagonist, the writer himself, who, after struggle and
self-examination, undergoes change and leaves something for us—this re-creation of his
own experience—hopefully a catalyst for our own change. On the last day of school he
likes to recite the last lines of the poem, bringing the course full circle and finishing on an
inspiring note.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop some where waiting for you.
This year he stands before the bandaged-face girl. In fact, the bandages are off
now. She lets her hair hang over her left cheek a bit. At the end of the period Michael
stands before them and explains what he is about to do. He tells them to bear with him,
that he might miss a word or two, that he’s never been a great memorizer. In his mind
he’s thinking that this may be the last time he ever does this. In the back row are two
empty desks. He sees her rainbow shirt. His shot face. Michael pictures him looking up
with his arm around the bandaged-faced girl and nodding, stiff-lipped. He imagines
himself walking out of here right now, just driving somewhere he’s never been before
and starting over. Getting a real job. Or just going back to the newspaper. The students
await his first words. They must think that he’s stumped already. He is. He cannot think
of words. Instead, he leans toward the bandaged-faced girl. She scoots back on her chair
as he lifts one foot, then the other, onto the surface of her desk. He stands there
speechless, hoping they make the connection, as he is numb, dumb, looking down and
trying to memorize every one of their silent awestruck faces before this last bell rings and
it’s three months before he gets to come back here again.
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JIM ZERVANOS
I’ve been teaching English at Penncrest for ten years, and writing fiction for only a few
years more than that. After graduating from Bucknell University in 1992, I went to
Temple Law School, for three semesters, before the draw back toward literature and
writing became too strong to resist; I got a masters in literature and, soon after, a job at
Penncrest. In 2004 I graduated from the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson
College in Asheville, North Carolina. On sabbatical, I’ve been working on a novel as
well as this collection of stories.
Reflection on O Captain!
There’s not a detail of this story that I can’t trace back to something from “real
life.” And yet nearly all of those details have been altered in some way to serve the story.
There was a dark period at Penncrest, one that seemed shrouded in death. It lasted
several years, in which car accidents and suicides claimed the lives of more than a dozen
kids—“more than a dozen” seems a heartless estimation; I wish I knew the exact number,
and the names, and the details—but I don’t. It’s not just that I don’t remember. Most of
the kids I didn’t know even then. And, now, as time passes, the memories blur together,
and time condenses and expands in my mind. For me “O Captain!” reflects that
phenomenon of the mind and memory, the unconscious selecting-and-letting-go that goes
on in our sleep.
In one year, the deadliest of that dark period, five eleventh-grade girls, one of
whom I’d taught, were killed in a car accident—a brutal collision with a tree on a stretch
of road not far from the school. In the aftermath of the horror, the hallways were filled
with decorations—poems, drawings, notes, ribbons, flowers—on the walls, the lockers,
and floors, a spontaneously designed maze of prayers, memories, and wishes. The
depthless sorrow had spawned an outbreak of loving expression, such as I had never
witnessed and don’t expect to experience again. Within months—if memory serves
me—a boy, a tenth-grade student of mine, was shot by the disgruntled ex-husband of a
woman who lived in the boy’s apartment complex. The man also shot the boy’s brother,
as well as the daughter of the woman—and then, later, himself. The kids had been
watching TV on the couch.
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It was after this series of events that I felt compelled to write a story that captured
what I was feeling throughout all of this. After all, school carried on, if only at half-pace,
in quieter classrooms. The story began as a kind of purging. I started at the beginning.
The “tie-dyed girl” was a girl from the first class—a tenth grade class—I’d ever taught,
as a student-teacher, at Penncrest; I’d also taught her tenth-grade boyfriend, a baseball
player, that same year. It was two years later—and years before the accident that killed
the five girls—that she died in a car accident; she was a senior in my Modern Literature
class, and she had just written a short story about the death of her friend. Weeks after her
funeral her mom sent me a funeral card, and a note, explaining the source of the
quotation—something I’d written in my response to her story. I was shocked and moved,
and I’ll never forget that moment, reading her mother’s note in the faculty mailroom—
nor will I ever forget standing quietly in the back of the funeral parlor, beside her
boyfriend. She was dressed in a tie-dyed T-shirt and Birkenstocks.
All this happened—though in “O Captain!” I manipulated the timing of events
and tinkered with details as the fictional story became, more and more, something
separate from me. In some earlier draft the climax of the story was the death of the five
girls. Having read the story, a wise writer-friend of mine—not really caring, nor
knowing any better, about whether or not I successfully worked in all the “real life”
stuff—said something to the effect of, “We get the point already.” In other words,
enough was enough. How much death could the reader really take? I knew what he
meant. When you write a story about suffering, your reader shouldn’t have to suffer.
More important, my friend went on, how much death did the reader really need in order
to get the point of the story?
And what was the point of the story, anyway?
My friend pointed me in the right direction. He made me realize that the very
incident that had prompted me to get this story down on paper—the car accident that had
killed five girls—now needed to be excised from it—gone forever; as much as I thought I
had distanced myself from the actual events, I was still holding on to the “real-life” stuff.
It was time to let go completely. I began making other changes. In an early draft I had
made Michael not a journalist in his past career but a public defender (actually the title of
the earliest draft), the kind of lawyer who might be assigned a defendant-client like the
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murderer of the “shot-faced boy.” So—the original idea was—in trying to escape such
an emotionally taxing career, in which he had to defend such criminals, he ends up “on
the other side,” making connections with kids who end up dying. Not much of an escape.
So, ironically, in the end, he was fantasizing about returning to his job as a public
defender, as the teaching job had proven, after all, too emotionally taxing.
My friend pointed out that this was the heart of the story, no matter what
Michael’s past profession: here’s this guy who just wants a “nice” suburban teaching
job, in which he can immerse himself, along with his students, in a world of fiction—in a
world of imagined realities—but that damn real world keeps interfering. I remember that
day, chatting with my friend, sitting outside, at a local café, and getting it, the point of my
own very deeply personal story, which, at the time, was at least twice as long as it ended
up being. My friend had understood the story’s core emotional truth better than I. I
hadn’t been able to see through the thick fog of my own experience. I went home and
started cutting, merging, melding, all the while keeping in mind my friend’s precise
summation of what I had been driving at all along in my story. His objectivity had
allowed him to see the “point of the story,” and I was grateful for his insight, painful as it
was to take his advice.
Still, as much as I eliminated from and altered in the story, the elements that
remain are virtually all based on actual events. It is true that I woke up one morning to
the Philadelphia news station and instantly guessed—knew?—the exact boy who had
been shot in the domestic shooting being reported. Months earlier, my roommate at the
time—a fellow teacher—had been the one to tell me of the five dead girls; now, I was
knocking on his door to tell him some kids had been shot. The news station had reported
only the name of the town, but I knew, and I told my teacher-friend the name of the boy,
who was one of my favorites—he was one of everyone’s favorites. As it turned out, the
boy’s younger brother, who had also been shot, was a current student of my teacherfriend. When we arrived at school—in separate cars—my teacher-friend, who’d arrived
minutes before, looked at me as though I were possessed, when the track coach (not the
assistant principal, as in the story) whispered the names of the shot boys. There are
mysteries and coincidences like this I can’t begin to explain.
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What makes the story fiction—not non-fiction—is the invented arrangement of
the material, re-imagined within a limited space, and re-experienced by me—through
Michael, someone necessarily not me; all the story’s elements become redefined and,
together, take on a whole new form. A big puzzle has been broken to make a smaller
one, distinct from the original, made from selected, malleable pieces. The only plot
element that’s entirely fabricated is the coincidence of the shot-faced boy’s being the
driver in the accident that caused the bandaged-faced girl’s injuries. In “real life” I never
learned much about that accident—an accident that didn’t result in death, “only” in a scar
on the face of a very pretty girl, who happened to sit at the front-center desk in my
classroom. I don’t even remember, for sure, if that accident occurred in the same,
aforementioned dark year. I think so. As time passes, I will remember less of what
actually happened. I will have only the story and the memories it triggers—and the
emotions it sparks. I still like the effect of “shrinking” the story as I did, making all these
kids classmates in the same year, weaving in relevant fiction lessons, concentrating all
my emotions toward one singular moment when Michael—some version of me—
fantasizes about escaping this world of the classroom, as real life relentlessly carries on
and he can barely imagine enduring another year. But he does come back, as I do.