Edwin Peters entered the Lit Snob reading room and sat down in front of everyone.
"Mr. Peters will be reading from his latest book," Todd said. "A tale of a troubled man who is struggling to find something in his life, but doesn't know what yet. Mr. Peters, whenever you're ready."
...
He was flying to San Francisco.
He hated planes. He never liked flying for his business' conferences. But he was happy to be where he was. Well, maybe happy. Definitely nervous - apprehensive.
He didn't bring much. One small suitcase with some clothes, deoderant, and his three-bladed razor. For the first time ever, he didn't have anything to check. He didn't even bring his laptop with him.
He checked his cell phone for the time, then checked again for messages. None. It was as if he quit his job, left his family and bolted for tahiti to start over. But he was just flying to San Francisco. He'd been there before a hundred times. For business.
He curses himself for now knowing who else was in that city during all one hundred of those visits. His son. His only son was now waiting for him at the airport in San Francisco. He'd been married before but divorced. He never knew his first wife was pregnant. She'd never told him. Then he gets an email from someone named Daniel Peters - the name of his brother, who died years ago.
Confused, he opened hit to find the message of a man desperately trying to find his father, taking one last long shot after finding the right name on internet.
After a few exchanged emails. A plane was flying to San Francisco carrying the father of Daniel Peters. It was definitely his son. He never had children with his second wife, they never wanted any. But now he's a father.
His life had hit a plateau. He had set himself up so that he couldn't fall from where he was, but had no way of climbing any higher. He was happy, but could've been happier. He was on a plain with no ups or downs in sight.
Until that email.
Now he's leaving that plain, as he enters the airport in San Francisco. He looks around anxiously, and sees a man in his late 20s who looks just like him. In one of Daniel Peters' arms is his wife, or girlfriend, he wasn't sure.
In the other arm was a boy about six or seven, who looks just like him.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Chapter Sixteen: Old Fashion Story Time
Todd was befuddled.
"You're going to read a children's story?" he asked.
"Yes," answered this week's reader, Traci. She thought that Todd's befuddlement was charming. She also thought his over annunciation of the previous question was kind of cute. She wondered what Todd was doing after the reading and decided not to ask. Her lack of asking was directly proportional to the lack of sex she was having. That and the fact that she was a children's writer -- all the men she met, who were often also charming, were also married.
"Okay," said Todd.
Traci smiled.
"Well, here is the moment of truth."
______
It’s past my bedtime, but I’m still up. It’s Saturday, and Saturdays I get to look at the stars with Dad.
After Dad puts the last dish away, he looks over to me and says, “Let’s get ready, Nova,” and we hurry upstairs to get our coats. I pull my hat with funny flaps over my ears, because Dad says it’s going to be cold. Dad pulls on sweaters and buttons my coat, because I can’t with my mittens on.
“You get the magazine and I’ll get the scope,” he says, so I hurry to find this month’s star chart.
Dad and I always set up on the flat roof over the porch even though Mom always says to Dad that I am going to fall off.
“If she can identify the stars, she can recognize the end to a roof,” Dad replies.
Mom shakes her head, but she also smiles and kisses Dad on the cheek, saying, “Take care of our Little Star,”
It’s cold and breezy on the roof because it is so exposed. Dad sets up the telescope, and I flip through the star charts and magazine clippings we collect about space.
“Orion is high in the sky tonight,” Dad says. He points to a row of three stars, “See, Little Star, that’s Orion’s belt, and see further up, his arms and bow.”
I squint up at Orion, and then look higher.
“Is that square one with the tail the Big Dipper?” I ask.
“Sure is, and look over there,” Dad points, “the Little Dipper.”
I look over and smile. The Little Dipper is one of my favorites because it is
small like me. All the rest of the stars are in giant shapes that remind me too much of grown ups.
I look down at my magazine clippings to see if there is anything special happening this month. Dad looks over my shoulder.
“Hey, Nova, it says here that a star in Cassiopeia is going to go super nova.”
I smile, “Like me.”
“Nova, like you. It says it should go in several thousand years! Well that’s a long time. That light from the star will take a long time to come here.”
“Because space is really big.” I am proud to know the answer.
“Really, really big, Little Nova Star. Do you know how big space is?”
I scrunch up my head because I am thinking so hard. “Bigger than Earth and the moon, even the solar system?”
“Much, much bigger,” Dad says. “Space is so big that it contains lots and lots of systems with planets and stars.”
I look up, amazed.
“Dad, are there people on those planets looking up at us?”
“I don’t know, Little Star, but space is big. If it were just us that would be a whole lot of space no one was using. Maybe, someday, you’ll see space.”
I look up at the sky and think, “Someday we’re going to travel to Orion,” I say.
“Someday, Star. It’s good to dream.”
Dad and I dream of a giant spaceship with me at the wheel heading out into space. I dream of nebulae and of baby stars and colors in all directions. Dad looks up at the sky, but he says that he dreams of Mom. I think of Mom in a dress of stars with a giant moon crown. If Dad and I ruled the sky, no one would ever cry again, and my best friend, Sal, would have the puppy he’s always wanted.
“Dad, if I ruled the sky, Mom would have a dress of stars, and nobody would ever cry again,” I say.
Dad laughs and says, “Such an unselfish wish.”
I see a light over the tall pine where I like to pretend I’m an insect with Sal. A star shoots across space.
“Hey, look at that one.”
Dad looks up.
“Your first shooting star, Nova,” he says. “Let’s go tell your mother.”
"You're going to read a children's story?" he asked.
"Yes," answered this week's reader, Traci. She thought that Todd's befuddlement was charming. She also thought his over annunciation of the previous question was kind of cute. She wondered what Todd was doing after the reading and decided not to ask. Her lack of asking was directly proportional to the lack of sex she was having. That and the fact that she was a children's writer -- all the men she met, who were often also charming, were also married.
"Okay," said Todd.
Traci smiled.
"Well, here is the moment of truth."
______
It’s past my bedtime, but I’m still up. It’s Saturday, and Saturdays I get to look at the stars with Dad.
After Dad puts the last dish away, he looks over to me and says, “Let’s get ready, Nova,” and we hurry upstairs to get our coats. I pull my hat with funny flaps over my ears, because Dad says it’s going to be cold. Dad pulls on sweaters and buttons my coat, because I can’t with my mittens on.
“You get the magazine and I’ll get the scope,” he says, so I hurry to find this month’s star chart.
Dad and I always set up on the flat roof over the porch even though Mom always says to Dad that I am going to fall off.
“If she can identify the stars, she can recognize the end to a roof,” Dad replies.
Mom shakes her head, but she also smiles and kisses Dad on the cheek, saying, “Take care of our Little Star,”
It’s cold and breezy on the roof because it is so exposed. Dad sets up the telescope, and I flip through the star charts and magazine clippings we collect about space.
“Orion is high in the sky tonight,” Dad says. He points to a row of three stars, “See, Little Star, that’s Orion’s belt, and see further up, his arms and bow.”
I squint up at Orion, and then look higher.
“Is that square one with the tail the Big Dipper?” I ask.
“Sure is, and look over there,” Dad points, “the Little Dipper.”
I look over and smile. The Little Dipper is one of my favorites because it is
small like me. All the rest of the stars are in giant shapes that remind me too much of grown ups.
I look down at my magazine clippings to see if there is anything special happening this month. Dad looks over my shoulder.
“Hey, Nova, it says here that a star in Cassiopeia is going to go super nova.”
I smile, “Like me.”
“Nova, like you. It says it should go in several thousand years! Well that’s a long time. That light from the star will take a long time to come here.”
“Because space is really big.” I am proud to know the answer.
“Really, really big, Little Nova Star. Do you know how big space is?”
I scrunch up my head because I am thinking so hard. “Bigger than Earth and the moon, even the solar system?”
“Much, much bigger,” Dad says. “Space is so big that it contains lots and lots of systems with planets and stars.”
I look up, amazed.
“Dad, are there people on those planets looking up at us?”
“I don’t know, Little Star, but space is big. If it were just us that would be a whole lot of space no one was using. Maybe, someday, you’ll see space.”
I look up at the sky and think, “Someday we’re going to travel to Orion,” I say.
“Someday, Star. It’s good to dream.”
Dad and I dream of a giant spaceship with me at the wheel heading out into space. I dream of nebulae and of baby stars and colors in all directions. Dad looks up at the sky, but he says that he dreams of Mom. I think of Mom in a dress of stars with a giant moon crown. If Dad and I ruled the sky, no one would ever cry again, and my best friend, Sal, would have the puppy he’s always wanted.
“Dad, if I ruled the sky, Mom would have a dress of stars, and nobody would ever cry again,” I say.
Dad laughs and says, “Such an unselfish wish.”
I see a light over the tall pine where I like to pretend I’m an insect with Sal. A star shoots across space.
“Hey, look at that one.”
Dad looks up.
“Your first shooting star, Nova,” he says. “Let’s go tell your mother.”
Chapter Fifteen: Alaska John Plays Poker
***
It was surprisingly warm that Tuesday - or was it a Monday? Looking back, I can't really be sure. You know, the longer you're by yourself, the quicker the days - and the idea of 'days' - just vanish. But I'm pretty sure it was a Tuesday. I mean, it had that 'thank God it's not Monday anymore' feeling to it.
Anyhow, here I was, sitting outside of my cabin on a stump that I had recently turned into a lawn chair. I mean, it's no Lazy-Boy, but it was pretty damn comfortable once I got my ass-groove imprinted in the wood. So I'm sitting there, my makeshift log table in front of me, waiting for Rufus.
Now, now, don't get excited, when I said that I lived alone, I meant it. Don't worry, Rufus isn't a human. He's a large-tailed beaver that lived down the path from me. I had been to his dam a couple of times, but it's a little moist for my taste. So I had told Rufus to come over to my place from now on for our weekly poker game. God, I love poker, and so of course I brought my favorite deck of Bicycle cards with me on my trip. But let me get back to Rufus. He finally shows up - an hour late, mind you - wanders over to the log across from me, slumps down, and lets out a sigh.
"Goddamn it's hot today, John," he says. I nod in agreement, my look emphasizing my impatience at his tardiness. He grunts at me and shrugs it off. Rufus is always late. It's like his thing. Like how some people's thing is eating chocolate, or sleeping around - well, for Rufus, it was being late. I guess he just lived by his own pace. And suddenly, he just wanted to get started.
"Well, you going to deal, or am I just going to rot out here?" he asks with a bit of a temper.
"Listen, cut that shit out if you want to play. It's not my fault that it's so damn hot out. Let's just have some fun in the sun, OK?" he nods, trying his best to get in the mood.
I deal out - Hold'Em of course - and I've got 2/7 off-suit. Now, I'm not a frickin' moron. You fold with 2/7 off-suit. But Rufus and I don't fold - there's only two of us, after all, and we've got to do some betting. I throw in a few pine-combs. He grunts and calls. I throw down the flop - we've got 2 / J / 5. Things are a little better, I suppose. His bet - he raises. I call. Fourth street is a seven. Now we're talking, I'm thinking. More bets, then fifth street comes down a Jack. I think I've got him - come on, now I'm showing two pair of J's and 7's. That's not too bad, is it?
Let me tell you: they should have named that beaver Ruthless. He raises and calls, then shows two more J's. Damn - he wins again!
I slide my pine-combs across the log table, and his laughs his shitty little beaver laugh.
"Well, I'll be damned," I sigh with exasperation. Rufus stares at me with a smile on his face - his two huge teeth gleaming in the sun.
"Hey, I thought you said that it was too moist in there for you!" I look over at him and shake my head, cursing his whole damn beaver family.
Then we both share a shitty little beaver laugh together. And we're still friends.
***
It was surprisingly warm that Tuesday - or was it a Monday? Looking back, I can't really be sure. You know, the longer you're by yourself, the quicker the days - and the idea of 'days' - just vanish. But I'm pretty sure it was a Tuesday. I mean, it had that 'thank God it's not Monday anymore' feeling to it.
Anyhow, here I was, sitting outside of my cabin on a stump that I had recently turned into a lawn chair. I mean, it's no Lazy-Boy, but it was pretty damn comfortable once I got my ass-groove imprinted in the wood. So I'm sitting there, my makeshift log table in front of me, waiting for Rufus.
Now, now, don't get excited, when I said that I lived alone, I meant it. Don't worry, Rufus isn't a human. He's a large-tailed beaver that lived down the path from me. I had been to his dam a couple of times, but it's a little moist for my taste. So I had told Rufus to come over to my place from now on for our weekly poker game. God, I love poker, and so of course I brought my favorite deck of Bicycle cards with me on my trip. But let me get back to Rufus. He finally shows up - an hour late, mind you - wanders over to the log across from me, slumps down, and lets out a sigh.
"Goddamn it's hot today, John," he says. I nod in agreement, my look emphasizing my impatience at his tardiness. He grunts at me and shrugs it off. Rufus is always late. It's like his thing. Like how some people's thing is eating chocolate, or sleeping around - well, for Rufus, it was being late. I guess he just lived by his own pace. And suddenly, he just wanted to get started.
"Well, you going to deal, or am I just going to rot out here?" he asks with a bit of a temper.
"Listen, cut that shit out if you want to play. It's not my fault that it's so damn hot out. Let's just have some fun in the sun, OK?" he nods, trying his best to get in the mood.
I deal out - Hold'Em of course - and I've got 2/7 off-suit. Now, I'm not a frickin' moron. You fold with 2/7 off-suit. But Rufus and I don't fold - there's only two of us, after all, and we've got to do some betting. I throw in a few pine-combs. He grunts and calls. I throw down the flop - we've got 2 / J / 5. Things are a little better, I suppose. His bet - he raises. I call. Fourth street is a seven. Now we're talking, I'm thinking. More bets, then fifth street comes down a Jack. I think I've got him - come on, now I'm showing two pair of J's and 7's. That's not too bad, is it?
Let me tell you: they should have named that beaver Ruthless. He raises and calls, then shows two more J's. Damn - he wins again!
I slide my pine-combs across the log table, and his laughs his shitty little beaver laugh.
"Well, I'll be damned," I sigh with exasperation. Rufus stares at me with a smile on his face - his two huge teeth gleaming in the sun.
"Hey, I thought you said that it was too moist in there for you!" I look over at him and shake my head, cursing his whole damn beaver family.
Then we both share a shitty little beaver laugh together. And we're still friends.
***
Monday, April 23, 2007
Chapter Fourteen: What to Do?
This week's reader was a new writer who simply wanted someone to hear his words. He shyly walked to the front of the room while Todd introduced him. He sat and began reading with little in terms of his own introduction to the story.
...
Why bother? It's only going to crumble. They hate each other. That happy life you were going to build for yourself because your parents failed to build it for you is getting cut down at the knees. Your mother and girlfriend don't see eye to eye. They don't hear ear to ear either.
You've been with her forever. Well, both of them. They're so like you. They're your support system. They're so like each other. Maybe that's why it's so hard to get them in the same room. But what about you? How are you supposed to live a segmented life?
He's just another kid who's not yet a man. He thinks everyone wants him to be, but nobody does yet. He tries so hard it makes it worse sometimes. Everything has to be perfect, or everything will be trashed. So much in the balance and his arms are getting tired.
Not even 21 and he's trying to be 41. I guess that's what happens when the man who should have been 41 never was. Now there are two women in his world. Neither one he can tame. Neither one he thinks he is satisfying.
How does he fix it? There must be some way to put that perfect life back together before he runs out of duct tape and band aids. And as he asks his mother if his girlfriend can come over for Christmas, pulling that last strand of duct tape off the roll, he hears, "Of course she can."
Family is family, still, he realizes. No need for duct tape and band aids. Just some love and understanding. Even from him.
...
The audience applauds as he self-consciously gives the floor back to Todd.
"Next week's reader comes to us from Alaska, where he has been living for over a year and a half, writing his most recent book in almost complete solitude," Todd said. "I hope to see all of you next week."
...
Why bother? It's only going to crumble. They hate each other. That happy life you were going to build for yourself because your parents failed to build it for you is getting cut down at the knees. Your mother and girlfriend don't see eye to eye. They don't hear ear to ear either.
You've been with her forever. Well, both of them. They're so like you. They're your support system. They're so like each other. Maybe that's why it's so hard to get them in the same room. But what about you? How are you supposed to live a segmented life?
He's just another kid who's not yet a man. He thinks everyone wants him to be, but nobody does yet. He tries so hard it makes it worse sometimes. Everything has to be perfect, or everything will be trashed. So much in the balance and his arms are getting tired.
Not even 21 and he's trying to be 41. I guess that's what happens when the man who should have been 41 never was. Now there are two women in his world. Neither one he can tame. Neither one he thinks he is satisfying.
How does he fix it? There must be some way to put that perfect life back together before he runs out of duct tape and band aids. And as he asks his mother if his girlfriend can come over for Christmas, pulling that last strand of duct tape off the roll, he hears, "Of course she can."
Family is family, still, he realizes. No need for duct tape and band aids. Just some love and understanding. Even from him.
...
The audience applauds as he self-consciously gives the floor back to Todd.
"Next week's reader comes to us from Alaska, where he has been living for over a year and a half, writing his most recent book in almost complete solitude," Todd said. "I hope to see all of you next week."
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Chapter Thirteen: Inside the Small Blue Book
Because.
She drives south. There is an alternation between speed and sloth. She drives fast to hear the white hum of rubber on tar, to watch the dots of the lines fade into blends. She drives slowly out of fear. At all speeds, she drives to forget and does not.
The imagined includes cliffs, a California highway landscape. Imagined too are friends that had to be left, time that had to pass, pass, pass. A semi goes by, all American and pushing air. The path of the Volvo bows in time, in space. Always a push but never enough.
Her mind bends with thoughts of California – the early days before Bray. Simple days with her and Aiden laughing at mortality. Beatific with youth and sun, with beach-scapes far stretching into rounded mountains. Oh, the west! They were adventurers, the offspring of those heroic, hard men and women of the earth traipsing towards that other ocean. Pack up baby in a cloth covered wagon and make way for home, if you dare. She drives south, pretends its west, but from here where else can you go but down?
The birth was nothing of beauty. She did not love her son at first sight but instead in the moments afterwards – a week later, tired and hungry and Bray was too. Looking down with power and a momentary realization: this is my flesh and blood. People always say it, trite and without meaning, but that night she was feeling it.
The Night.
The night it was all flesh and blood and sirens baying at the moon. The night that it was all shoulda’ coulda’ woulda’. The moment was clear. She told the therapist later, “All I could think of was Ordinary People.”
Aiden.
They met over the library’s singular, dog-eared Vintage Lolita.
“Have coffee with me.” He took the book from her hand. He frightened her at a time of her life when she wanted to be frightened, so she said, “Yes.”
Breakdown.
The tire is thump-thumping around the rim. She pulls off and is jarred intensely by the rumble strip – coarse concrete under her feet. That’s what it feels like anyway. All movement stops, which jars her more after hours of perpetual motion behind the wheel. Her legs unfold like a crickets. She feels wobbly on little feet. Irony is this: before leaving home she put on her best heals.
Children’s Hour.
Bray had been bad at baseball, and, with a child’s innocent nonchalantness, not cared a bit. He shamed her. He would, one, two, three strikes your out with a goofy grin. He’d run off the field waving at her, shouting, “Hi, Mom.” She had never in her youth imagined being someone’s mother. The act of mothering, of motherhood, was not something she qualified for with her impatience, impractical bags, and uncompromising need for her own space.
It was impossible to not love Bray. Hours were spent reading The Very Hungary Caterpillar over and over, Saturday afternoon was devoted to cupcake making for his first grade class in honor of the seventh birthday of her very own Bray Norton. All the acts that youth had scorned motherhood adored. A being that was nothing and now everything. She saw bits of her husband in Bray and in him felt that she was seeing a glimpse into Aiden’ formative years.
Tapes.
The car is filled with Bray’s old tapes: Raffi in Concert, Shari Lewis’ Bible Tales – a plethora of memories. But Bray never really did like the Raffi tape, always choosing instead to listen to the Pointer Sister’s song “Jump” and bounce along in his booster seat.
Mobius Strip.
Love and pity intertwined – a massive inside-outside Mobius strip. Fourth period art’s Brice with his Rumpelstiltskin straw into gold hair, Roman nose, and serious teen angst. She appreciated, as he pushed her into books of Michelangelo and the classics that this was not sympathy. There was no endless talking, no sound at all but the that of the zipper teeth releasing their intertwined grasp.
His eyes were nothing like Bray’s. Or Aiden’s.
Tea Time.
She’d have tea with breakfast, always black with honey, not sugar, and cream, not milk. She’d lean in too close over the cup, pouring in the hot water, clumping her mascara together with steam. The black coat would meld together in a kind of alien conjoining of eyelashes and paint, giving her something to feel.
Baby Shoes.
After the accident, the P.C. term that she has coined it, she’d found Bray’s baby shoes. She removed them from the shelf, hiding them safely in the back of her sock drawer. And did not think of the irony that she had hidden condoms there as a young woman.
She drives south. There is an alternation between speed and sloth. She drives fast to hear the white hum of rubber on tar, to watch the dots of the lines fade into blends. She drives slowly out of fear. At all speeds, she drives to forget and does not.
The imagined includes cliffs, a California highway landscape. Imagined too are friends that had to be left, time that had to pass, pass, pass. A semi goes by, all American and pushing air. The path of the Volvo bows in time, in space. Always a push but never enough.
Her mind bends with thoughts of California – the early days before Bray. Simple days with her and Aiden laughing at mortality. Beatific with youth and sun, with beach-scapes far stretching into rounded mountains. Oh, the west! They were adventurers, the offspring of those heroic, hard men and women of the earth traipsing towards that other ocean. Pack up baby in a cloth covered wagon and make way for home, if you dare. She drives south, pretends its west, but from here where else can you go but down?
The birth was nothing of beauty. She did not love her son at first sight but instead in the moments afterwards – a week later, tired and hungry and Bray was too. Looking down with power and a momentary realization: this is my flesh and blood. People always say it, trite and without meaning, but that night she was feeling it.
The Night.
The night it was all flesh and blood and sirens baying at the moon. The night that it was all shoulda’ coulda’ woulda’. The moment was clear. She told the therapist later, “All I could think of was Ordinary People.”
Aiden.
They met over the library’s singular, dog-eared Vintage Lolita.
“Have coffee with me.” He took the book from her hand. He frightened her at a time of her life when she wanted to be frightened, so she said, “Yes.”
Breakdown.
The tire is thump-thumping around the rim. She pulls off and is jarred intensely by the rumble strip – coarse concrete under her feet. That’s what it feels like anyway. All movement stops, which jars her more after hours of perpetual motion behind the wheel. Her legs unfold like a crickets. She feels wobbly on little feet. Irony is this: before leaving home she put on her best heals.
Children’s Hour.
Bray had been bad at baseball, and, with a child’s innocent nonchalantness, not cared a bit. He shamed her. He would, one, two, three strikes your out with a goofy grin. He’d run off the field waving at her, shouting, “Hi, Mom.” She had never in her youth imagined being someone’s mother. The act of mothering, of motherhood, was not something she qualified for with her impatience, impractical bags, and uncompromising need for her own space.
It was impossible to not love Bray. Hours were spent reading The Very Hungary Caterpillar over and over, Saturday afternoon was devoted to cupcake making for his first grade class in honor of the seventh birthday of her very own Bray Norton. All the acts that youth had scorned motherhood adored. A being that was nothing and now everything. She saw bits of her husband in Bray and in him felt that she was seeing a glimpse into Aiden’ formative years.
Tapes.
The car is filled with Bray’s old tapes: Raffi in Concert, Shari Lewis’ Bible Tales – a plethora of memories. But Bray never really did like the Raffi tape, always choosing instead to listen to the Pointer Sister’s song “Jump” and bounce along in his booster seat.
Mobius Strip.
Love and pity intertwined – a massive inside-outside Mobius strip. Fourth period art’s Brice with his Rumpelstiltskin straw into gold hair, Roman nose, and serious teen angst. She appreciated, as he pushed her into books of Michelangelo and the classics that this was not sympathy. There was no endless talking, no sound at all but the that of the zipper teeth releasing their intertwined grasp.
His eyes were nothing like Bray’s. Or Aiden’s.
Tea Time.
She’d have tea with breakfast, always black with honey, not sugar, and cream, not milk. She’d lean in too close over the cup, pouring in the hot water, clumping her mascara together with steam. The black coat would meld together in a kind of alien conjoining of eyelashes and paint, giving her something to feel.
Baby Shoes.
After the accident, the P.C. term that she has coined it, she’d found Bray’s baby shoes. She removed them from the shelf, hiding them safely in the back of her sock drawer. And did not think of the irony that she had hidden condoms there as a young woman.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Chapter Twelve: Biggest
Ms. Henderson had been published before, but she was still an extremely shy individual. She had never given a public reading before, and even though she was initially excited when Todd announced her as the next Lit Snob guest, that intense elation soon turned to anxiety. Now, sitting on the stool where she had seen so many go to their up-turned-nose fate before, sitting above the floor which she cleaned every night - and would undoubtedly clean this night - she heard the rumblings in her stomach echoing the snaps of the snooty crowd that had gathered for the weekly reading. She felt as though she could see it in their eyes - they were skeptical, of course, but this was something more. It seemed to Ms. Henderson that the patrons viewed her as something lower.
She was, of course, a janitor for a literary club and café. What they didn't know was that she had graduated from high school and went on to receive a BA in Classics with a minor in English. But after graduating - with honors mind you - things just didn't go as planned. The money wasn't there - and neither were her parents - and so she had found the janitorial job as something to tide her over. Her work had been recently published - that was a start - and she felt that maybe she would soon be able to begin a writing career. And this reading was just another step. She kept reminding herself of that as she leaned in to the microphone.
"Hi, everyone. This evening, I'd like to read a haiku that I've recently written - it hasn't been published yet, so this is kinda like a premiere." With that said, Ms. Henderson - Allison - removed a small paper from her left-jacket pocket and began to read.
***
Long, gray, winter hair
Slither and slop about, and
Make the floor pristine
***
There was, as she expected, silence. She had confirmed their disdain for her.
The stupid little janitor - what the hell is she doing reading in our club? She should be cleaning up after us and looking silently pretty.
But they were in the dark yet again. They didn't know what she really had planned for them. Now it was time. She wasn't going to hold back. They'd be eating their words soon enough.
"Just kidding, guys, just kidding! I'm actually going to read from my latest, and as of yet unpublished, work. Enjoy!" Some snaps, but mostly sighs. She wasn't sure if they were sighs of relief or sighs of despair.
She didn't care at this point.
Allison Henderson reached into her right-jacket pocket and removed a small, blue-covered book. Opening, she began to read...
She was, of course, a janitor for a literary club and café. What they didn't know was that she had graduated from high school and went on to receive a BA in Classics with a minor in English. But after graduating - with honors mind you - things just didn't go as planned. The money wasn't there - and neither were her parents - and so she had found the janitorial job as something to tide her over. Her work had been recently published - that was a start - and she felt that maybe she would soon be able to begin a writing career. And this reading was just another step. She kept reminding herself of that as she leaned in to the microphone.
"Hi, everyone. This evening, I'd like to read a haiku that I've recently written - it hasn't been published yet, so this is kinda like a premiere." With that said, Ms. Henderson - Allison - removed a small paper from her left-jacket pocket and began to read.
***
Long, gray, winter hair
Slither and slop about, and
Make the floor pristine
***
There was, as she expected, silence. She had confirmed their disdain for her.
The stupid little janitor - what the hell is she doing reading in our club? She should be cleaning up after us and looking silently pretty.
But they were in the dark yet again. They didn't know what she really had planned for them. Now it was time. She wasn't going to hold back. They'd be eating their words soon enough.
"Just kidding, guys, just kidding! I'm actually going to read from my latest, and as of yet unpublished, work. Enjoy!" Some snaps, but mostly sighs. She wasn't sure if they were sighs of relief or sighs of despair.
She didn't care at this point.
Allison Henderson reached into her right-jacket pocket and removed a small, blue-covered book. Opening, she began to read...
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Chapter Eleven: Bigger
Todd stood in front of the room, sat at the stool and opened an old notebook. It was tattered, with a read cover, spiral bound.
"I wrote this poem recalling my teen years, struggling to find love and real connection. Most writing about teenagers from people who have long passed those years seem to lack an understanding of how hard they can be. I hope I did a better job."
"I wrote this poem recalling my teen years, struggling to find love and real connection. Most writing about teenagers from people who have long passed those years seem to lack an understanding of how hard they can be. I hope I did a better job."
Worth What
sunburned skin begins to melt
heart of the girl who felt
you were more than just a guy
questioned look of passers by
now you stand upon the ledge
saying goodbye to your friends
wish that momma wouldn’t see
all those things you’d never be
chilling thoughts begin to swirl
recipe to save the girl
filling holes here or there
lose your step die in despair
mirror was your greatest foe
ugly, lonely, loser, slow
you said you would save the world
see those eyes below those curls
clipping toenails in her room
smell her perfume, say it soon
he’ll always stand in your way
“you’re a loser, you are gay”
find her walking alone at night
words escape with every fright
she knows all about daddy
can’t escape the family
crawl in there you have to hide
write down your very best words
before your view lies with the birds
sunburned skin begins to melt
heart of the girl who felt
there is no place left for me
how did all this come to be?
The audience sat amazed that their host had held so much angst inside him. And also that is words could cut so deeply into one's emotions.
Clearly sefl-conscious, Todd quickly began to close the session.
"Thank you all for coming. Next week, we will be honored to have our very own Ms. Henderson, whose work was recently published in Atlantic Monthly."
He knew all along! Ms. Henderson thought. No wonder he wasn't going to have her read this week, he had scheduled her for next week as a surprise.
Clearly sefl-conscious, Todd quickly began to close the session.
"Thank you all for coming. Next week, we will be honored to have our very own Ms. Henderson, whose work was recently published in Atlantic Monthly."
He knew all along! Ms. Henderson thought. No wonder he wasn't going to have her read this week, he had scheduled her for next week as a surprise.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Chapter Ten: Big
This is going to be big, Todd thought. In fact, he further thought, this is going to be bigger than big. Clearly, Todd was very excited.
There was a large group at the Lit Snob tonight, all waiting, Todd was sure, with baited breath. He took a deep, deep inhale and stood before the crowd.
"It is my joy to announce tonight's reader - me!" Todd glowed. The crowd looked confused.
When they had read "Famous surprise guest reader" on the sign outside the Lit Snob they had assumed it was going to be a local fame. You know, James Tate or someone like that. They tried not to look too disappointed out of the modicum of politeness that they still maintained. Mrs. Darson's knitting needles clicked in a slightly aggravated manner. The MFA students collectively pushed their heavy black glasses to a better resting position on their noses.
Ms. Henderson, the janitor, stood in the back corner as she always did. She uncrossed and then recrossed her arms crossly. Earlier that week she had asked Todd if perhaps she could be the reader this week.
"You know Todd," she had said, "I have some stuff that I've written and I was wondering if maybe, you know, I could read it next week."
The mop in the bucket pendulumed from left to right in front of Todd's face.
"Well, um, sorry, no," he had stated briskly with no explanation. Not even allowing Ms. Henderson to tell him that the work she wanted to read had been published in Atlantic Monthly earlier that week.
And now here Todd, that dolt!, was reading his own work. This had better be good, thought Ms. Henderson, crossing her arms again as Todd began to speak.
There was a large group at the Lit Snob tonight, all waiting, Todd was sure, with baited breath. He took a deep, deep inhale and stood before the crowd.
"It is my joy to announce tonight's reader - me!" Todd glowed. The crowd looked confused.
When they had read "Famous surprise guest reader" on the sign outside the Lit Snob they had assumed it was going to be a local fame. You know, James Tate or someone like that. They tried not to look too disappointed out of the modicum of politeness that they still maintained. Mrs. Darson's knitting needles clicked in a slightly aggravated manner. The MFA students collectively pushed their heavy black glasses to a better resting position on their noses.
Ms. Henderson, the janitor, stood in the back corner as she always did. She uncrossed and then recrossed her arms crossly. Earlier that week she had asked Todd if perhaps she could be the reader this week.
"You know Todd," she had said, "I have some stuff that I've written and I was wondering if maybe, you know, I could read it next week."
The mop in the bucket pendulumed from left to right in front of Todd's face.
"Well, um, sorry, no," he had stated briskly with no explanation. Not even allowing Ms. Henderson to tell him that the work she wanted to read had been published in Atlantic Monthly earlier that week.
And now here Todd, that dolt!, was reading his own work. This had better be good, thought Ms. Henderson, crossing her arms again as Todd began to speak.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Chapter Nine: Eat Up the Plagiarism
The janitor's mop swirled back and forth along the messy tile. It didn't seem to clean anything, only smear it, the mop only pushing the filth further into the grout. He watched the mop as it neared his feet - when it did, Todd looked up into the eyes of the cleaning woman. She feigned a smile and then slowly shook her head - her eyes closing for effect - as she continued on her way across the room towards the stage. Once their gaze had broken, Todd's eyes fell to the floor once more as his hand brushed away more wetness on his face.
How could this have happened? He asked himself with anger and disdain.
How are we going to recover from this? The memories of the night again began to flood into his consciousness...
***
He was running around like a madman, and he knew it. It just didn't matter. It was only thirty minutes until the reading was to begin, and his reader had called out. Understandably, the death of Kurt Vonnegut had taken a toll on the literary community, and they were all taking the night off to reminisce and honor Mr. Vonnegut's genius with closed-door readings between authors - no public allowed. This had placed Todd in a terrible position. He didn't want to cancel again, because he had to do that two weeks ago. Instead, he was running around talking to every patron, trying desperately to find an author before show-time. So far, no dice. He was beginning to lose his mind when Todd spotted a young man enter the Lit Snob. He looked to be college age, was freshly shaved, and certainly dressed the part with his brown blazer, pressed slacks, and professional-looking shoes. Todd approached the young man and asked him rather directly,
"Sir, are you an author?"
Apparently, the young man thought that Todd was talking to someone else, only realizing that he was on the spot when Todd tapped his shoulder.
"Who me? Ah, um, yeah, I'm an author - why?"
Todd's face lit up with dual excitement and relief. He eagerly shook the man's hand and began to explain to him his predicament. Once he had finished, the young man looked a little nervous.
"Gee, sir, I just don't know. I haven't done a reading in a long time. And besides, I don't think I even have any of my work on me at the moment."
"Please man, you've got to help with this. If I don't find a reader before the top of the hour, these people are going to leave. And they're never going to come back. So please ... and I'll even make an exception." Todd reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. Examining the contents, he withdrew a hefty amount of money.
"Here, one hundred dollars. It's yours. Try to remember something - make up something off the top of your head - anything! Just put on a great reading!"
The young man eyed the wad of cash eagerly; then, realizing his obvious stare, he regained his composure.
"Well, if you put it that way, maybe I do have something in this bag of mine ... it's a deal."
The relief showered over Todd like a wave of heat. Handing the money over, he gave his new friend one last piece of advice.
"Be ready in five minutes. And be ready for a tough crowd."
The young man looked at him with an easy and casual demeanor.
"Don't worry, I can handle them. I've got pure gold."
***
The stage was set, and Todd has just explained the situation regarding the expected reader of the night, and had just introduced his newest friend and the night's new reader, Mr. Jacob Idlier. As usual, the claps and snaps came sparingly - this young grasshopper has not won their approval yet. Jacob climbed onto the stool, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a lone piece of paper - it looked like a page from a small writing journal. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he began.
"Hello everyone, this selection is from my poem, "She Ate a Bad Apple" - I hope you all enjoy it."
Jacob was going to continue when he heard a noise. A noise that he immediately discerned was the sound of people gasping and in all other ways entering into shock.
Then a coffee cup hit him square in the face - luckily, it was only one-quarter full.
Then the obscenities began...
***
Looking down at the small piece of paper in his hand, Todd was faced with his own stupidity.
It was a page from the Norton Critical Edition of John Milton's Paradise Lost.
Jacob had instantly bolted for the door, taking his burned face - and Todd's $100 - right out there with him. When the police arrived, they were unable to find any trace of the young con-man All they found were upturned tables, coffee-stains on the furniture, and a hell of a lot of liquid on the floor. The same liquid that was now being driven into the tile by the janitor's mop.
Todd looked around at the pig-sty that had been the reader's corner of the Lit Snob. He realized that he had one week to come up with something big.
It was the only way that he could save his - and his business' - reputation.
How could this have happened? He asked himself with anger and disdain.
How are we going to recover from this? The memories of the night again began to flood into his consciousness...
***
He was running around like a madman, and he knew it. It just didn't matter. It was only thirty minutes until the reading was to begin, and his reader had called out. Understandably, the death of Kurt Vonnegut had taken a toll on the literary community, and they were all taking the night off to reminisce and honor Mr. Vonnegut's genius with closed-door readings between authors - no public allowed. This had placed Todd in a terrible position. He didn't want to cancel again, because he had to do that two weeks ago. Instead, he was running around talking to every patron, trying desperately to find an author before show-time. So far, no dice. He was beginning to lose his mind when Todd spotted a young man enter the Lit Snob. He looked to be college age, was freshly shaved, and certainly dressed the part with his brown blazer, pressed slacks, and professional-looking shoes. Todd approached the young man and asked him rather directly,
"Sir, are you an author?"
Apparently, the young man thought that Todd was talking to someone else, only realizing that he was on the spot when Todd tapped his shoulder.
"Who me? Ah, um, yeah, I'm an author - why?"
Todd's face lit up with dual excitement and relief. He eagerly shook the man's hand and began to explain to him his predicament. Once he had finished, the young man looked a little nervous.
"Gee, sir, I just don't know. I haven't done a reading in a long time. And besides, I don't think I even have any of my work on me at the moment."
"Please man, you've got to help with this. If I don't find a reader before the top of the hour, these people are going to leave. And they're never going to come back. So please ... and I'll even make an exception." Todd reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. Examining the contents, he withdrew a hefty amount of money.
"Here, one hundred dollars. It's yours. Try to remember something - make up something off the top of your head - anything! Just put on a great reading!"
The young man eyed the wad of cash eagerly; then, realizing his obvious stare, he regained his composure.
"Well, if you put it that way, maybe I do have something in this bag of mine ... it's a deal."
The relief showered over Todd like a wave of heat. Handing the money over, he gave his new friend one last piece of advice.
"Be ready in five minutes. And be ready for a tough crowd."
The young man looked at him with an easy and casual demeanor.
"Don't worry, I can handle them. I've got pure gold."
***
The stage was set, and Todd has just explained the situation regarding the expected reader of the night, and had just introduced his newest friend and the night's new reader, Mr. Jacob Idlier. As usual, the claps and snaps came sparingly - this young grasshopper has not won their approval yet. Jacob climbed onto the stool, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a lone piece of paper - it looked like a page from a small writing journal. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he began.
"Hello everyone, this selection is from my poem, "She Ate a Bad Apple" - I hope you all enjoy it."
In the day we eat
Of this fair fruit, our doom is, we shall die!
How dies the Serpent? he hath eaten and lives,
And knows, and speaks, and reasons, and discerns,
Irrational till then. For us alone
Was death invented? or to us denied
This intellectual food, for beasts reserved?
For beasts it seems: yet that one beast which first
Hath tasted envies not, but brings with joy
The good befallen him, author unsuspect,
Friendly to man, far from deceit or guile.
What fear I then? rather, what know to fear
Under this ignorance of good and evil,
Of God or death, of law or penalty?
Here grows the cure of all, this fruit divine,
Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste,
Of virtue to make wise: What hinders then
To reach, and feed at once both body and mind?
So saying, her rash hand in evil hour
Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she eat! --
Jacob was going to continue when he heard a noise. A noise that he immediately discerned was the sound of people gasping and in all other ways entering into shock.
Then a coffee cup hit him square in the face - luckily, it was only one-quarter full.
Then the obscenities began...
***
Looking down at the small piece of paper in his hand, Todd was faced with his own stupidity.
It was a page from the Norton Critical Edition of John Milton's Paradise Lost.
Jacob had instantly bolted for the door, taking his burned face - and Todd's $100 - right out there with him. When the police arrived, they were unable to find any trace of the young con-man All they found were upturned tables, coffee-stains on the furniture, and a hell of a lot of liquid on the floor. The same liquid that was now being driven into the tile by the janitor's mop.
Todd looked around at the pig-sty that had been the reader's corner of the Lit Snob. He realized that he had one week to come up with something big.
It was the only way that he could save his - and his business' - reputation.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Chapter Eight: Nonsensical Majesty
Things were beginning to get out of control at The Lit Snob, but luckily, this week's reader was going to be on time, and everything was getting back on schedule.
"Everyone, I'm glad to see you all back again," Todd said to the audience. "I'll just get right to it. This week's reader will be reading the first chapter of his latest autobiography."
"Thank you Todd. Hello everyone. I hope you enjoy the beginning of my story. I've written every chapter in a different style to challenge the reader to follow the story. It may fall flat or get really popular. I guess we'll see."
...
Birth:
His mother said when he was born in a hospital in Worcester that certain things would happen during his lifetime that would be different than the men from generations prior. When she brought him back the duplex in Grafton, he would be different than his father and grandfather and ...
He would get along with his brother, unlike the pairs of boys in the family for generations back as far as the eldest members of the clan could remember.
He would go to college, get a real education, and get out of this shithole suburbia that has reigned in the entire family as they become entangled in a web of low-paying temporary-fix jobs that disintegrate lives.
He would not become an angry, alcoholic bastard who betrayed his family by forgetting so often that he had one.
He would make his mother proud.
Childhood:
"Mommy what are you watching?"
"The Super Bowl sweety, the Bills and the Cowboys are playing. You want to watch? I know you love football."
"Mom, I don't want to move again. When you bought a house with Dad in Hopkinton, you went bankrupt and had to sell it and had to move to Ashland. Now you're buying another house in Upton with Kevin. It's not a good idea. I don't want to make new friends again."
"This is my life. I've gone through hell and back with your father and now I'm with someone and I'm happy and we want to make a life together. You'll make new friends. You're going to college in six years, and you'll never see any of them again anyway, so don't worry about it."
"I told you we'd end up moving out. And Kevin was an asshole, just like I said. Too bad it took you four years to realize it. I don't want to switch schools again, not in my sophomore year."
"You won't. We're moving a town over and I'll drop you and your brother off at school on my way to work. It's just the three of us now, we'll be happy."
"I'm going to go out with Ashley tonight, Mom, I really don't want to go hang out with you and Jack at his place."
"Fine, have a good weekend. We'll see you on Sunday, I guess."
"I called Dad, I'm going to move in with him so I can stay in school in Upton."
"I guess that's that then."
"I'm sorry Mom. I never should have left."
"It's ok. Jack is basically kicking us out. We're moving in with you're uncle down the Cape. It's just for the Summer. It will be ok."
College:
He's almost 21 now. He's already started drinking occasionally, and even smokes pot when he feels like it. He writes, fairly well, and his father is dying somewhere in a hospital bed. He's not sure where because he hasn't spoken to him in three years.
He tries to forget he exists because it's too hard. That's why he didn't write as much about him in the earlier chapters. The cold, hard reality that his life has been far from perfect, far from terrible is too hard for him to grasp because he's only ever seen the two extremes on TV.
Dysfunctional families have been laughing and getting through problems in 22 minutes plus ads for the past two decades, or at least as long as he's been watching TV.
He gets along with his brother, is going to college, and is already in debt trying to pay for it. That high wire that keeps you balanced between having a legitimate shot at climbing the economic ladder and being sucked into crappy job after crappy job is getting tougher to stay on. And that Marx book he's reading is making him wonder if he should be trying to climb the ladder at all.
He guesses he makes his mother proud.
"Everyone, I'm glad to see you all back again," Todd said to the audience. "I'll just get right to it. This week's reader will be reading the first chapter of his latest autobiography."
"Thank you Todd. Hello everyone. I hope you enjoy the beginning of my story. I've written every chapter in a different style to challenge the reader to follow the story. It may fall flat or get really popular. I guess we'll see."
...
Birth:
His mother said when he was born in a hospital in Worcester that certain things would happen during his lifetime that would be different than the men from generations prior. When she brought him back the duplex in Grafton, he would be different than his father and grandfather and ...
He would get along with his brother, unlike the pairs of boys in the family for generations back as far as the eldest members of the clan could remember.
He would go to college, get a real education, and get out of this shithole suburbia that has reigned in the entire family as they become entangled in a web of low-paying temporary-fix jobs that disintegrate lives.
He would not become an angry, alcoholic bastard who betrayed his family by forgetting so often that he had one.
He would make his mother proud.
Childhood:
"Mommy what are you watching?"
"The Super Bowl sweety, the Bills and the Cowboys are playing. You want to watch? I know you love football."
"Mom, I don't want to move again. When you bought a house with Dad in Hopkinton, you went bankrupt and had to sell it and had to move to Ashland. Now you're buying another house in Upton with Kevin. It's not a good idea. I don't want to make new friends again."
"This is my life. I've gone through hell and back with your father and now I'm with someone and I'm happy and we want to make a life together. You'll make new friends. You're going to college in six years, and you'll never see any of them again anyway, so don't worry about it."
"I told you we'd end up moving out. And Kevin was an asshole, just like I said. Too bad it took you four years to realize it. I don't want to switch schools again, not in my sophomore year."
"You won't. We're moving a town over and I'll drop you and your brother off at school on my way to work. It's just the three of us now, we'll be happy."
"I'm going to go out with Ashley tonight, Mom, I really don't want to go hang out with you and Jack at his place."
"Fine, have a good weekend. We'll see you on Sunday, I guess."
"I called Dad, I'm going to move in with him so I can stay in school in Upton."
"I guess that's that then."
"I'm sorry Mom. I never should have left."
"It's ok. Jack is basically kicking us out. We're moving in with you're uncle down the Cape. It's just for the Summer. It will be ok."
College:
He's almost 21 now. He's already started drinking occasionally, and even smokes pot when he feels like it. He writes, fairly well, and his father is dying somewhere in a hospital bed. He's not sure where because he hasn't spoken to him in three years.
He tries to forget he exists because it's too hard. That's why he didn't write as much about him in the earlier chapters. The cold, hard reality that his life has been far from perfect, far from terrible is too hard for him to grasp because he's only ever seen the two extremes on TV.
Dysfunctional families have been laughing and getting through problems in 22 minutes plus ads for the past two decades, or at least as long as he's been watching TV.
He gets along with his brother, is going to college, and is already in debt trying to pay for it. That high wire that keeps you balanced between having a legitimate shot at climbing the economic ladder and being sucked into crappy job after crappy job is getting tougher to stay on. And that Marx book he's reading is making him wonder if he should be trying to climb the ladder at all.
He guesses he makes his mother proud.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Chapter Seven: The Promise of Salisbury Steak
It was all very depressing. Mrs. Darson stood outside the Lit Snob with rainwater streaming off of her glasses. She hat forgotten her late husband's rain-hat, which she always wore. Naturally, that had put her day off quite a bit. And now this.
"Reading canceled for this week due to lack of reader. Sorry of the inconvenance." Todd, the dolt!, had spelled inconvenience wrong in his anxiety. That mixed with bad news and the lack of a rain-hat put poor Mrs. Darson over the edge. Tears of frustration mixed with streaming rainwater. People passed and did not notice. They just thought that Mrs. Darson was wet and reading a sign. They were walking quickly in the rain. Had they slowed their hurried footsteps they would have noticed not so much that Mrs. Darson was upset - it would have still been hard to tell with all the water - but that Mrs. Darson was taking a particularly long time reading a very brief sign. No one noticed.
It was all very depressing, thought Mrs. Darson. She headed back to her car avoiding puddles and overflowing drains by nature not practicality. She was quite soaked.
In the first bit of fortunate luck in the day, according to Mrs. Darson, the car was still warm and turning up the fan to high produced quite the warm atmosphere. Her glasses began to fog. So did the windshield of the Volvo. Mrs. Darson did not care; she was comfortable for the first time all day.
Well there was television to be watched at home. Despite being an avid attender of the Lit Snob readings, Mrs. Darson did enjoy herself some good TV, as she liked to put it. She even had the premium channels. Even HBO. Mrs. Darson liked Sex and the City quite a lot, liked it with all the sex in it for that matter, not the watered-down crap they put on TBS - a station she felt was definitely not all that funny. There was a Salisbury steak Banquet dinner in the fridge. Mrs. Darson could almost taste the fake mashed potatoes.
Fine the day has been lousy and the reading canceled but she had a fine night planned indeed.
"Reading canceled for this week due to lack of reader. Sorry of the inconvenance." Todd, the dolt!, had spelled inconvenience wrong in his anxiety. That mixed with bad news and the lack of a rain-hat put poor Mrs. Darson over the edge. Tears of frustration mixed with streaming rainwater. People passed and did not notice. They just thought that Mrs. Darson was wet and reading a sign. They were walking quickly in the rain. Had they slowed their hurried footsteps they would have noticed not so much that Mrs. Darson was upset - it would have still been hard to tell with all the water - but that Mrs. Darson was taking a particularly long time reading a very brief sign. No one noticed.
It was all very depressing, thought Mrs. Darson. She headed back to her car avoiding puddles and overflowing drains by nature not practicality. She was quite soaked.
In the first bit of fortunate luck in the day, according to Mrs. Darson, the car was still warm and turning up the fan to high produced quite the warm atmosphere. Her glasses began to fog. So did the windshield of the Volvo. Mrs. Darson did not care; she was comfortable for the first time all day.
Well there was television to be watched at home. Despite being an avid attender of the Lit Snob readings, Mrs. Darson did enjoy herself some good TV, as she liked to put it. She even had the premium channels. Even HBO. Mrs. Darson liked Sex and the City quite a lot, liked it with all the sex in it for that matter, not the watered-down crap they put on TBS - a station she felt was definitely not all that funny. There was a Salisbury steak Banquet dinner in the fridge. Mrs. Darson could almost taste the fake mashed potatoes.
Fine the day has been lousy and the reading canceled but she had a fine night planned indeed.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Chapter Six: The Ivan-man Cometh
It's five minutes until starting time. Todd's pacing back and forth behind the stage - frequently he scans the audience members. He doesn't see her at all. He's almost panicking. Almost.
"Oh hell, where could she be? I bet it's that damn car of hers. The thing is only a step up from a Model T. No, shut up Todd. I'm sure Mrs. Darson will be here. Well, she better be, at least. She's one of our best customers. And there's still that accident with the tiles..."
Checking his watch, he knows that it's time. Todd comes climbs up onto the stage and approaches the microphone.
"Good evening, everyone. Thanks for coming to The Lit Snob's weekly literature reading. This whole thing has gotten off to a great start, and I'm sure that it's only going to get better. Tonight, we have Ivan Stankowski, an accomplished poet who has utilized what some critics have called "archaic, dead language and form." Personally, I love his work, and I'm sure you will too. So, here's Ivan Stankowski."
Slight applause - the usual Lit Snob snobbery. Stankowski climbs up onto the stage. Sitting on the stool, he simply opens his small book of poetry and begins to read.
***
"Racing ahead -"
***
Mrs. Darson bursts through the door, panting heavily and apologizing to everyone - to all of the patrons who have whirled around to greet her with disbelief. She finally apologizes to Ivan, who nods in acknowledgment, and then begins again - Todd sighs deeply from off-stage.
***
Racing ahead to the spot,
Where? Amidst the trees, she thought,
To find her cherry leaf,
And tend to its icy grief.
The clouds did imprison the moon.
And so as darkness fell,
The angel’s wings did swoon,
Lost, she alone, in Hell.
The trees, around her bent,
Against the stirring wind
Now, their tears long spent,
To assail the lone they begin.
The cherub again takes flight,
Searching with all her might,
To find that leaf so dear,
And bring it to her bosom near.
In the shadowy nooks of the wood,
The trees doing all they could,
To punish she who forgot,
The helpless Love she now sought.
And by accident they did claim
The frightened one, full of shame.
A root, rising from the dirt,
Caught her woven and silken skirt.
Down, down she fell,
From Grace, and in a spell,
Landed, gazing up alone,
Her head stricken against a stone.
Her head writhing, crimson, and wet,
Her eyes, they fluttered shut.
In the wintered woods she stays.
And as the wind nigh grew brief,
Along its drifts did fly,
A single, longing leaf,
And its virtuous love it spied.
Falling against her still heart,
Whilst the sun o’er the treetops shone,
The leaf did mourn and exclaim:
“My Love, How changed thou art!”
***
Ivan stops, thanks the audience, and is met with no applause. Instead, everyone is nodding their heads and smiling. That's all - but it means everything from the Lit Snob crowd. Stankowski smiles in return, then stands up and leaves the stage in silence and completely content. Todd climbs back up to the microphone."Thanks for coming everybody. We're actually not decided on a reader for next week ... so ... come for the surprise of the week - it promises to be a classic! Thanks again!"
"Oh hell, where could she be? I bet it's that damn car of hers. The thing is only a step up from a Model T. No, shut up Todd. I'm sure Mrs. Darson will be here. Well, she better be, at least. She's one of our best customers. And there's still that accident with the tiles..."
Checking his watch, he knows that it's time. Todd comes climbs up onto the stage and approaches the microphone.
"Good evening, everyone. Thanks for coming to The Lit Snob's weekly literature reading. This whole thing has gotten off to a great start, and I'm sure that it's only going to get better. Tonight, we have Ivan Stankowski, an accomplished poet who has utilized what some critics have called "archaic, dead language and form." Personally, I love his work, and I'm sure you will too. So, here's Ivan Stankowski."
Slight applause - the usual Lit Snob snobbery. Stankowski climbs up onto the stage. Sitting on the stool, he simply opens his small book of poetry and begins to read.
***
"Racing ahead -"
***
Mrs. Darson bursts through the door, panting heavily and apologizing to everyone - to all of the patrons who have whirled around to greet her with disbelief. She finally apologizes to Ivan, who nods in acknowledgment, and then begins again - Todd sighs deeply from off-stage.
***
Racing ahead to the spot,
Where? Amidst the trees, she thought,
To find her cherry leaf,
And tend to its icy grief.
The clouds did imprison the moon.
And so as darkness fell,
The angel’s wings did swoon,
Lost, she alone, in Hell.
The trees, around her bent,
Against the stirring wind
Now, their tears long spent,
To assail the lone they begin.
The cherub again takes flight,
Searching with all her might,
To find that leaf so dear,
And bring it to her bosom near.
In the shadowy nooks of the wood,
The trees doing all they could,
To punish she who forgot,
The helpless Love she now sought.
And by accident they did claim
The frightened one, full of shame.
A root, rising from the dirt,
Caught her woven and silken skirt.
Down, down she fell,
From Grace, and in a spell,
Landed, gazing up alone,
Her head stricken against a stone.
Her head writhing, crimson, and wet,
Her eyes, they fluttered shut.
In the wintered woods she stays.
And as the wind nigh grew brief,
Along its drifts did fly,
A single, longing leaf,
And its virtuous love it spied.
Falling against her still heart,
Whilst the sun o’er the treetops shone,
The leaf did mourn and exclaim:
“My Love, How changed thou art!”
***
Ivan stops, thanks the audience, and is met with no applause. Instead, everyone is nodding their heads and smiling. That's all - but it means everything from the Lit Snob crowd. Stankowski smiles in return, then stands up and leaves the stage in silence and completely content. Todd climbs back up to the microphone."Thanks for coming everybody. We're actually not decided on a reader for next week ... so ... come for the surprise of the week - it promises to be a classic! Thanks again!"
Chapter Five: What Are You Watching Tonight?
"David Cambera's book is something that should reach to everyone in this room," Todd said. "His work discusses television, and whether or not we should consider it art the way we do films and music. He will read from the first chapter of his book."
"Thanks Todd. Ladies and Gentlemen, What are you watching tonight?"
...
First, there is a story of a family being reunited. They've come to this sunny, green pasture after so long apart. All over the country, they live their normal lives, but have returned to where they all grew up, or their parents grew up, to renew and reconnect with the part of their lives from which the rest of it spawned.
They are there to mourn the death of a relative who passed away too soon, and too suddenly for anyone, anyone to say goodbye. Now they are doing it together. It's funny how a funeral can bring people together more effectively than any type of celebration can.
Next, a woman manipulates a number of men to get what she wants. Using sex, love, and anything at her disposal to fulfill her material desires. It's a story of betrayal and heartbreak.
The men are left wondering what happens as the woman disappears from their lives as quickly as she had entered them.
Following the tragedy is a comedy. A bunch of party boys have a great time drinking Bud Light, or Coors Light, or Miller Light (light beer used to be a chick beer but now it's the cool one to drink for the health-conscious male).
Jokes are made, pranks are pulled, and crazy amazing things happen - like very attractive ladies in bikinis in a hot-tub on a snow covered mountain.
It's of course unrealistic, but what on TV is? And moreover, who cares?
Finally, a family sits down to dinner after a long day, talks about what they did and has a delicious, affordable meal. The house is perfect, the furniture and things are expensive, and the people on the screen are almost frighteningly happy.
...That's when the commercial break ends and the network switches back to its sitcom.
...
"I'll stop there. I hope you enjoyed it and will buy my book if it gets published. It's something I think everyone should really think about in this society," Cambera says.
Todd thanks his latest guest, and announces that next week's reader will be another poet, Ivan Stankowski, who will be reading from his latest compilation of poems.
"Thanks Todd. Ladies and Gentlemen, What are you watching tonight?"
...
First, there is a story of a family being reunited. They've come to this sunny, green pasture after so long apart. All over the country, they live their normal lives, but have returned to where they all grew up, or their parents grew up, to renew and reconnect with the part of their lives from which the rest of it spawned.
They are there to mourn the death of a relative who passed away too soon, and too suddenly for anyone, anyone to say goodbye. Now they are doing it together. It's funny how a funeral can bring people together more effectively than any type of celebration can.
Next, a woman manipulates a number of men to get what she wants. Using sex, love, and anything at her disposal to fulfill her material desires. It's a story of betrayal and heartbreak.
The men are left wondering what happens as the woman disappears from their lives as quickly as she had entered them.
Following the tragedy is a comedy. A bunch of party boys have a great time drinking Bud Light, or Coors Light, or Miller Light (light beer used to be a chick beer but now it's the cool one to drink for the health-conscious male).
Jokes are made, pranks are pulled, and crazy amazing things happen - like very attractive ladies in bikinis in a hot-tub on a snow covered mountain.
It's of course unrealistic, but what on TV is? And moreover, who cares?
Finally, a family sits down to dinner after a long day, talks about what they did and has a delicious, affordable meal. The house is perfect, the furniture and things are expensive, and the people on the screen are almost frighteningly happy.
...That's when the commercial break ends and the network switches back to its sitcom.
...
"I'll stop there. I hope you enjoyed it and will buy my book if it gets published. It's something I think everyone should really think about in this society," Cambera says.
Todd thanks his latest guest, and announces that next week's reader will be another poet, Ivan Stankowski, who will be reading from his latest compilation of poems.
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