David’s knuckles whitened around his steering wheel. The afternoon sun was burning his face, but he couldn’t do anything about it because the visors in his Civic coupe were small. Normally, the passing trees and buildings would continually blot it out, but David was stopped. Traffic backed up Figueroa from Exposition all the way to Adams. He had been crawling for fifteen blocks. David cursed the MTA for their poorly planned bus stops, which forced lumbering buses to block the right lane of traffic. Downtown Los Angeles was not supposed to be this busy at three in the afternoon.
His phone buzzed in his hand. A text message.
Hey gonna b late. Out celebrating new job. Should b home in 30. Just let urself in – Brendan.
His knuckles whitened more. He turned left on West 37th and left again on Broadway. He had to pay ten dollars to park three blocks from Brendan’s apartment. Downtown was unusually cold for April. The wind whipped through the narrow canyons of sky scrapers, creating a biting chill. David reached into the planter next to the front door of Brendan’s apartment building and pulled out a key secured to the wall with painter’s putty. He used it to let himself into the lobby. David hated Brendan’s apartment building. It clearly had not been renovated since the fifties. He tried not to be prejudiced against anyone, but the other tenants made him uncomfortable. They came from worlds very different than his and Brendan’s. Welfare. Food stamps. Thrift stores. It was difficult for David to understand.
He took the rickety elevator to the fourth floor; his knuckles white again around the hand rail inside. David walked down the hall to apartment 4F and found the door unlocked. The floor was wood and very dark. A small mattress lay in the far corner, it’s foot toward the wall the door was on. A T.V. sat facing it. Next to the mattress, a small dresser. The kitchen sink was full of dishes; they spilled onto the counter. A beat up recliner hugged the wall adjacent to the kitchen, an attempt to keep as much floor space as possible. David sat down in it and pulled out his phone to text Brendan.
I’m here – D
He set it down on the small side table beside the chair. There was a card for last year’s birthday from Mom and Dad sitting on it. David picked it up to read.
Happy 22nd Brennie!
Hope the money helps!
Love,
Mom and Dad
David set it down, turned on the T.V. and waited. Brendan threw open the door at 6:30. He stumbled around the room, throwing his keys and jacket on the floor before collapsing on his mattress.
“Sorry I’m late,” he slurred.
“No problem. You okay?”
“Ugh...Yeah,” Brendan replied, sitting up quickly.
His left eye was purple and swollen completely shut. David had never seen a black eye so serious before. It didn’t look real—like it was created with heavy make-up for a movie.
“What the hell—“
“It’s a long shtory,” Brendan spouted.
“Are you still good for dinner?”
“Oh—F—F—Fuck yeah.”
“Okay, well let’s get going. You can tell me the story on the way there.”
They left Brendan’s studio and walked the three blocks back to David’s Civic.
“Which way?” David asked.
“Up Fig. Left on Olympic. Are you excited for this?”
“Definitely.”
“No. Dave. I don’t think you understand. This is going to be the best food you’ve ever had. This is the best Korean bar-b-que in Los Angeles.”
“Sweet. So why are you drunk at four in the afternoon again? And why do you—”
“Okay, okay—Here’s the story,” Brendan began, “Have you ever seen the UFC?”
“I haven’t seen it, but I know what it is.”
“You know what it is, right?”
“Yeah, I just said—“
“Okay, well I was telling Scott, he’s the one who got me the job, I was telling Scott how the Ultimate Fighting Championship is going to bankrupt boxing in the next ten years. Put it out of business.”
“Okay.”
“So this asshole behind me shtarts getting all worked up about it. And he comes over and shtarts talking sh-shit to me and Scott. And I’m having none of it. None.”
“So you try to demonstrate your respective favored sports on each other.”
Brendan paused for a second.
“Something like that.”
They sat in silence the rest of the way to Korea Town.
“Turn right here,” Brendan directed suddenly as they approached a side street off of Olympic. On the corner was a restaurant, the name of which was in Korean.
“They have a valet, but it’s expensive. Let’s just hoof it,” Brendan suggested.
“Sounds good.”
David parked around the block and the two of them walked to the entrance of the restaurant. The interior was open and jungle-like. The ceiling and walls was actually a giant pitched tent. The hostess sat David and Brendan near a planter with a small waterfall. In the middle of their table was a grill.
“Harrow,” the server sputtered quietly. “Bev-ar-radge?”
“A bottle of hot sake and two large Hito’s,” Brendan requested quickly. “And some water.”
“Bottle sake. Two rarge Hito. Water. Okay!”
“No one speaks English hear,” Brendan tried to whisper to David.
On the table were small dishes of various sauces and shredded and stewed vegetables. Brendan took his chopsticks and ate some sprouts one sliver at a time until the server came back with their drinks.
“Ready for order?” the server asked.
“Yes,” Brendan began, “We’ll have the marinated steak. Mare-i-nate-ed pork. Mare-i-nate-ed chicken. And two white rice.”
The server stopped to check his pad and then repeated, “Uh—A mare-nate uhsteak. Uhbeef. Mare-nate chick’n. Uh—white rice.”
“No, no, no,” Brendan said, sounding impatient. “Mare-i-nate-ed steak, pork and chicken. All marinated. Pork, no beef.”
“Oh!” the server said, apparently understanding. “Oh-kay, oh-kay.”
“He’s gonna fuck it up,” Brendan told David as soon as the server walked away.
Brendan lifted the small steaming bottle of sake and poured a shot for himself and David. He then opened one of the bottles of beer and filled their small glasses half full.
“You ever done a sake bomb before?” Brendan asked.
“Nope.”
“Okay, you just pour the sake in the beer and gulp it down. It’s gonna be warm, so swallow it fast, or it’s gonna taste like shit. Ready?”
David nodded and lifted his small, porcelain shot glass.
“To new jobs,” Brendan announced.
David dumped his sake in the short beer glass and gulped down the warm mixture quickly, before the taste could really get to him. It wasn’t as strong as he was expecting. Brendan picked some more at the sprouts.
“So tell me about this new job,” David said, “It’s in a law office or something?”
“Well not exactly. I’m selling law service.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of like lawyer insurance.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s pretty awesome. Okay, so, everyone needs a lawyer at one time or another, right?”
“Um—I don’t—I suppose.”
“Well around here, a lot of people do. But—Most people can’t afford to keep a lawyer on retainer. So then they get stuck with some public defender or if they’re suing, they have to go higher some shyster. Pre-paid legal is like the 1-800-Dentist of the law world. The company screens all the lawyers, so you’re getting the best.”
“So you get a commission, or are you on salary—“
“It’s commission based, but it works so much better than a traditional commission.”
The waiter brought a massive platter of raw meat to their table and a smaller platter of raw chicken. The meat platter had what was obviously marinated steak, but it also had thin rolls of dry beef: the kind David had seen at a Mongolian bar-b-que before.
“I fucking knew he would fuck it up,” Brendan said as the waiter walked away. “He brought us the fucking brisket instead of the marinated pork.”
“Looks good to me,” David said.
“It’s not. The problem is, we can’t get more until we finish this. They make you pay extra for whatever you don’t eat. So we’ll just eat what we want and hide the rest under the salad,” Brendan explained, pointing to the large bowl of mixed greens on the table.
Brendan took his tongs and lifted a large helping of marinated steak on to the grill. David followed suit and put some chicken on with his tongs. The meat sizzled, and the tantalizing smell of the cooking marinade lifted in wonderful smoke and steam. David was suddenly starving. The waiter came back with two bowls of white rice and a bowl of rice paper.
“Let’s put some of this brisket on, so you can see how terrible it is,” Brendan said, setting some on the edge of the grill.
“So you were saying about the commission?”
“First, another toast.”
Brendan poured more sake into their shot glasses and filled David’s and his beer glass half full. Brendan raised his shot glass.
“You make the toast this time,” he said.
“Okay. To...To eating as much meat as we can.”
“An excellent toast.”
David watched as Brendan first shot the sake and chased it with his beer. David opted to take it the same as before.
“I’ve never done that before,” Brendan coughed, his whole body shuddering. “That was hot.”
David watched as Brendan stared at the steak and reached up to tenderly touch his swollen eye.
“I think this steak is about done,” Brendan said, “The brisket too. The chicken takes a little longer.”
David took his tongs and lifted a piece of steak and a piece of brisket onto his plate. He took his chopsticks, dipped the steak in a small dish of dark sauce and then set it in his rice. He attempted to scoop some rice up with the meat, but it wasn’t working, so he stuffed the steak in his mouth and shoveled in some rice after.
“Good?” Brendan asked.
“Mmmmhmm,” David replied, his mouth full.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, savoring each piece. David didn’t think the brisket wasn’t as bad as Brendan made it sound. It seemed to take on the flavor of which ever sauce it was dipped much better than the marinated steak. It was also easier to pick up with rice.
“So,” David began, “Finish telling me about the commission.”
“Oh right,” Brendan said, swallowing a piece of chicken. “Well, I bought into this thing under Scott, who bought in under some one else, who bought in, and so forth. Every time I sell a service, Scott gets a small commission and the guy above him gets a small commission and so forth. Now, Scott has three people under him, including me. The guy above him has God knows how many. I mean—when you think about all the people he signed up who then signed up more people—he must be making a fortune just in other people selling. He probably doesn’t even need to sell!”
“So it’s another pyramid scheme?” David asked.
Brendan’s face quickly contorted into a frown.
“No. It is not a pyramid scheme. It’s not even like multi-level marketing. I mean not completely.”
“How?”
“Because, the service I’m providing is something that people actually want. Who wouldn’t want a prepaid legal service at their disposal? It’s not like I’m peddling shit out of some catalog. It’s not at all like when I was doing Quasar or Two-by-Two. Totally different.”
David just nodded. They sat in silence again, cooking and chewing quietly. The pile of brisket was slowly diminishing.
“We need that pork,” Brendan said.
He took his tongs and put the rest of the brisket on the grill.
“You see what we do is cook this until it’s just charcoal,” he explained, “Then we hide it under this salad.”
“Brendan, we can just pay for it. I don’t care.”
“No! I’m tired of these fucking Nips ripping me off for getting my order wrong. We’re hiding it.”
“That wasn’t even the right racial slur. And I don’t understand why we didn’t just send it back,” David said.
“Because they would’ve charged us for it anyway—Just—Trust me.”
More silence. The restaurant was slowly becoming noisier and busier with the dinner rush. Smoke rose for nearly every table, and the smell was no longer appetizing.
“So what’s new with you, Davey?” Brendan said finally.
“Well, not much. Just getting ready for school in the fall.”
“Oh right, right. English, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And after that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Teach. Get a PhD.”
“In?”
“English probably.”
“You know what you should get a PhD in? Economics. Those guys are fucking millionaires. They do consulting and shit for politicians. Forecasting the economy and shit.”
“Yeah, well I don’t have a degree in economics.”
“Fuck, Dave. It was just a suggestion. So a Master’s in English, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me.”
“It sounds like that to a lot of people.”
“I’m telling you, dude: Economics.”
Brendan turned the brisket over and over until it was black char. He grabbed David’s tongs, and while holding the lettuce in the salad bowl back, he put the steaming gristle into the bowl, and placed the lettuce back on top. David could no longer see the burned brisket. Brendan threw the rest of the steak and chicken on the grill and motioned for the waiter.
“Yes?”
“Yeah, we’d like some more of the marinated steak, and the marinated pork.”
“Steak and pork?”
“You got it.”
The waiter nodded and walked off.
“Another toast,” Brendan announced, refilling all the glasses. “To graduate degrees and economics!”
“Here, here!”
Each shot following the first went down easier. The waiter came back quickly with a smaller plate of steak and pork. Brendan took it right from his hands and dumped the whole thing on the grill.
“I’m sssstarving,” he said.
“Maybe we’d better take it easy on the sake,” David suggested.
“Phbbtt, no. Let’s do another!”
Brendan tipped the sake bottle, but nothing came out.
“Aw, shit.”
“That’s okay, let’s just—“
He motioned for the waiter again.
“Another hot sake, please.”
“One more sake!” the waiter said with enthusiasm.
Brendan smiled at David.
“I don’t know how many more I should do,” David said, “I still gotta drive home.”
“Nah, you’ll be fine. C’mon Davey, it’s not everyday I get an amazing job.”
“Have you told Dad about this amazing job?”
Brendan’s demeanor changed instantaneously again. He looked embarrassed.
“I told him.”
“And?”
“He said exactly what you did.”
“Bren, I didn’t mean—“
“Don’t fuckin’ worry about it, alright? What the fuck does Dad know anyway. Mom was happy for me.”
“Bren, so am I. So is Dad. I was just asking questions. Everyone wants to see you successful. But I do want to know one more thing.”
“What?”
“How much did you have to give Scott to start up?”
“Four fifty. But he loaned me half. He said I’ll make it back in a flash. I just have to sell two policies.”
Brendan paused for a moment and looked David over with his uninjured eye. David knew what was coming.
“Dave—I know you’re all into this teaching thing, but I got to ask you—I mean this is a tremendous opportunity—It’s totally different from all those other things—Those were get-rich-quick schemes—This is—“
“Bren. No—I—Look.”
David looked at Brendan. His face was hopeful, even through the brutality of his injured eye.
“It sounds great, but—It’s just not for me.”
Brendan smiled again.
“I understand, buddy. It’s not for everyone.”
The waiter brought another steaming bottle of sake. Brendan refilled their glasses quickly.
“Oh—Can we have the check?” Brendan asked as the waiter walked away. He turned and nodded.
“Your turn to make the toast.”
David thought for a moment. His heart was becoming heavier with each tip of the glass.
“Here’s to—Here’s to not listening to a goddamn thing Dad says.”
“Fuck yeah.”
David slammed his glass down and picked up his tongs to get more meat.
“You can use the rice paper to make a little soft taco thing,” Brendan instructed.
David gave it a try. The rice paper was slimy, slightly rubbery and cold because it had been sitting untouched all night. But it, like the rice and the brisket, took on the flavor of whatever sauce he dipped it in, which made it good. The waiter brought the check. Sixteen dollars a person, plus twenty dollars for the two bottles of sake, plus fourteen dollars for the two large bottles of beer. David pulled out his credit card.
“I’ll have to take you out when you get your first real teaching job,” Brendan said.
“Sounds good.”
They took their time finishing off the last of the meat. David savored every bite. He realized Brendan was correct in saying that it would be the best food he’d ever had. He felt like it really was. Brendan rubbed his belly after swallowing his last piece of pork.
“Another shot?”
“Last one,” David said.
“You got it.”
Brendan once again filled their glasses.
“Whose turn to toast?” he asked.
“I believe it’s yours.”
“Okay. Here’s. Here’s to gettin’ after it.”
David smiled at Brendan and swallowed his last shot. Brendan immediately poured himself another shot, this time a double of sake in his beer glass. David watched as he let all of it slide down his throat.
“One more of those should do it,” Brendan wheezed.
He poured, drank and slammed both sake bottle and glass on the table at the same time. The party at the table next to them jumped at the sound.
“Okay, I think you’ve had more than enough today.”
“Can’t let the beer go to waste,” Brendan said.
He grabbed the last bottle of Hito, which only had two glasses worth left and shotgunned it. David reached out and grabbed the bottle, stopping him from slamming it down. David met Brendan’s one good eye. It was angry, but quickly calmed.
“I have to,” Brendan pleaded.
David released the bottle, allowing Brendan to slam it down on the table. The bottom shattered. The people at the next table jumped again and gasped. Brendan took no notice of anything.
“You ready?” he asked.
David nodded solemnly and they stood. Blood rushed to his extremities, making them feel not his own. He tried to steady himself as best as he could so as not to look like he was about to drive drunk through Downtown Los Angeles.
“You alright to drive there, champ?” Brendan teased.
“You’re definitely not.”
“I so could.”
“That’s okay. I think I’ll take my chances. I bet you’ll be seeing all that Korean bar-b-que later tonight.”
“Wanna make a bet?”
“Sure. Ten bucks.”
“Okay, make sure you text me later tonight. I won’t lie.”
They walked around the corner to David’s car and got in. The drive back to Brendan’s apartment was slow and quiet. All at once Brendan took a deep breath and spoke.
“I had a dream last night, Davey.”
“That’s nice.”
“It really was actually. I dreamed that you and I were some place. Like a family gathering or something. I can’t remember if Mom and Dad were there—It doesn’t matter. We were both there. And it was like ten years from now—or—sometime in the future.”
Brendan sat quiet for a moment, but David knew he wasn’t finished. The neon lights of Downtown flashed across his face.
“The thing that made it really nice,” Brendan continued, “was that we were both really successful. And really happy. But like—We had taken two completely different paths to get there. But everyone was so proud of us. I guess we must have been at a family thing or something. But—yeah. We had both attained just—just so much success. I really think that’s going to happen someday, don’t you?”
David pulled up in front of Brendan’s apartment building. Brendan opened the door to get out.
“Bren. I do think that will happen someday. Take care of that eye, all right?”
Brendan smiled and said, “Will do. See ya around.”
David watched as his younger brother walked up the stairs and into the lobby. It was nearly ten. He had to be up early for work. Thankfully the traffic in Downtown was much lighter than earlier that afternoon. David focused intensely on the road ahead of him.
VerveEarth
Friday, May 25, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Intelligence
I stare at the paper towel dispenser in the men’s restroom on the sixth floor of 300 North Lake Avenue. It’s not one of those new, automatic ones that dispense a single clean sheet with the wave of your hand. It isn’t even the kind where you pull a lever, which spins a roll inside. It’s the old kind—where you pull out one sheet at a time. The boxes are beautifully polished chrome, so they don’t look trashy at all. They look sophisticated in a 1930s, Art Deco sort of way. The paper towels are folded together in such a manner that pulling one out allows half of the next one to be pulled through the opening. It’s the same idea behind a tissue box. One cannot survive without the other—the folding pattern and box design. When those paper towels are just left sitting on top of the dispenser because some janitor was too lazy to put them in, the folding pattern becomes a burden. You try to grab just two, but either you pull ten more, or the whole stack begins to topple over. The dispenser is, in this case, just a mantle. The janitor on the sixth floor of 300 North Lake Avenue was lazy today.
I decide that I need to know who came up with the folding pattern. Whoever it is should be rolling. This is what I need. This kind of idea. I use my thumb to flip through the stack of paper towels, doing what, I’m not sure. Trying to figure out how whoever it was figured this out. There is a pattern here. It’s very easy to see. Over, under. The trick is discovering the pattern in the first place. Once it’s discovered, it seems like the absolute simplest thing in the world. Dalton throws open the door and scares me into knocking the whole stack onto the floor.
“What the hell are you doing in here, Stephen?” he says, panting. “They’re waiting for us. In the conference room.” He is sweating. I can see the sweat starting to form at the corners of his pits. It’s soaked all the way through his suit jacket. “And they have a very nice cheese platter.”
“With Rye Crisps?” I say, perking up.
“Uh—No. I don’t think so. But there are some very nice stoned wheat crackers—Gah! Look—Get your ass in there. Now. We gotta sell this thing. I’m tired of pitching. We need to make a sale.”
“Pitch is the name of the game, Dalt,” I say, straightening my tie in the mirror.
“That doesn’t mean anything, Stephen. I’ll be in the conference room. Eating a stoned wheat cracker with spreadable Brie.”
“Not too many, buddy. Tuck your shirt back in; it’s riding up.”
Dalton looks down at his slightly protruding gut and stuffs his shirt back into his pants, pulling them up higher on his waist.
“Let’s go,” he commands.
I give him a salute as he holds the door for me. I walk swiftly down the hall and hang a left past reception. I wave at the board as Dalton and I walk by the glass wall of the conference room.
“Gentlemen, I apologize for the delay. Are we ready to begin?”
The thing about selling is there’s a thing. You pretend it is the central part of your existence, and for those fifteen minutes, it is. You have to make others want it to be the central part of their existence too. You do that by telling a story. The pitch is a story in which you are the protagonist, all others are antagonists, and your thing—is the key that will ultimately result in a happy ending. It has to have romance. Action. Deceit—but not too much. Adventure, emotion, humor. Above all, people have to buy it. In order to buy it, they have to believe it. They have to believe in it.
Dalton and I sit on the curb in front of the bus stop on the corner of Colorado and Lake. The bench is taken up by cleaning ladies on the way to their next job.
“What is wrong with us?” Dalton demands, as if of the universe.
“Nothing’s wrong with us, Dalt,” I reassure, “It may be the product. It may even be our pitch.”
“Either of those would be a pretty big problem, don’t you think? And didn’t you say that pitch was the name of the game or something like that?”
“Yes, but they’re not problems that can’t be solved.”
“Stephen. I’m tired of calling my parents for money. I’m tired of—I’m tired—“
He doesn’t need to finish. I know what he was trying to say.
“There is a solution, Dalt. We just have to recognize the pattern of failure. We need to go back over each pitch and figure out the exact point where we lost them.”
“The pattern?” he laughs, “And what do we discern from this ‘pattern’?”
“Dalton,” I attest, “Recognition of patterns is the most basic form of intelligence. It is what separates us from animals. Selling requires the basic instincts that animals possess, but if you want to make the sale, it requires intelligence. Now, let’s get something to eat and we’ll reconvene tomorrow at my place. Sound good?”
“Well, we have plenty of failures to choose from.”
“That’s the problem with your attitude, Dalt. You’re a pessimist. Failure is not a negative result.”
“And how do you figure that?” Dalton asks in his most sarcastic voice. “We don’t make any money if we fail.”
“Come on, Dalt. You’re just hungry.”
I help him to his feet. We walk down Lake Avenue to Souplantation to eat our fill of salad, chicken noodle soup and blueberry muffins.
I need to wake up and get it together. I feel like I’m losing my edge, though I never truly had any edge to begin with. Well, that’s not entirely true—I shouldn’t sell myself short. I do have an edge. It’s meta-cognition. Dalton calls it self-analysis. But he doesn’t have it like I do. I have been able to boil our business plan down to the absolute simplest form possible all through meta-cognitive thinking. It’s a pattern. Just like how those towels fold one into the other. It doesn’t matter what the product is. I will hop from one product to the next until I find a winner. This is what separates me from the rest: I’m not a believer in my product. I’m a believer in the process. If I can recognize the pattern, I will win.
The line at the Souplantation is horrendous. But it’s worth the wait. I make a half plate of salad: just romaine, seasoned croutons, cheddar cheese, crispy noodles, and honey mustard. Dalton gets a little of everything. Even a small spoonful of Joan’s Broccoli Madness, which has bacon bits and mayonnaise. I take my tray and move to the soup. The chicken noodle is my favorite. Next I grab a small plate and take a couple small rectangles of focaccia and cheese pizza and a blueberry muffin. I find a small table in the corner and set my tray down then turn back to the soda fountain to get some iced tea. When Dalton finally joins me, he has two bowls of soup, firehouse chili and New England clam chowder, three plates of pizza, focaccia and muffins and a small dish of penne with tomato sauce.
“This is the kind of model we need to go on Dalt,” I say with my mouth full of lettuce.
“A restaurant? Stephen, we don’t work in the restaurant industry. The people we’re pitching to don’t work—“
“Ah, ah!” I saw, seizing this teachable moment. “But there is a pattern here. Look at how they order the salad bar. Look at the layout of the different buffets. It’s that pattern that brings people back.”
“Or it’s that they have some amazing blueberry muffins. And I wouldn’t necessarily call that a pattern—it’s more like a system.”
“No, no, Dalt—It’s definitely a pattern. A system is much more complex. System implies parts working together to form a mechanized whole.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“Nothing. But within every system is a pattern. Look at paper towel dispensers for instance—“
“Oh God, is that what you—“
“Just! Listen to me for a sec,” I demand, my breath quickening, “This is the simplest example I can think of. You have the towels and the dispenser. Used together, they form a system, but—it is the pattern that the towels are folded in which makes it possible. Over, under.”
“Give another example,” Dalton responds instantly.
I’ve never heard this kind of enthusiasm from him before. It catches me off guard.
“Okay—Uh—How ‘bout—Like a clock. The gears of a clock. Even more demonstrative than the paper towels. You have them all working together to form a system that makes the clockwork. But the gears themselves are designed according to a pattern. They have teeth and spokes and—It is that pattern that allows the system to work.”
“So—how does this pertain to us then?”
“Because, Dalton. Folks in the business world are always in search of a system. Most never find it. Few will, at best, stumble over it. If they could only recognize patterns—That’s why it’s so important. That is how we will succeed.”
“But how do we find it? I’m tired of searching.”
“All in good time, Dalt. That’s why I’m always looking.”
Dalton and I have two meetings set up for the following week. We give a perfect pitch in the first. We spent a lot of time reviewing our process and cutting unnecessary elements. Part of our pattern of failure has been letting Dalton speak too much. He can be clunky, and he repeats himself. On the other hand, if he doesn’t speak at all, we agreed, then the client might think something is wrong with him. Or that he is my personal bodyguard, which is not the message we’re trying to send.
I stare at the cheese platter while Dalton and I wait for the board to return with a decision. They have Rye Crisps. They are fanned in a circle around the outer edge of the platter. A line of Triscuts lines the inner edge of the Rye Crisps. Inside those is an array of cracker-cut cheeses: Colby Jack, Mild Cheddar, and Monterey. In the center is a pile of summer sausage slices. The pattern is so simple. Like the gears of a clock. I munch a few Rye Crisps quickly and carefully because I don’t want the board to return while my mouth is full.
They are only out for five minutes before they come back in. Generally, not a good sign.
“Gentlemen,” one board member begins, “All though we find your pitch both compelling and interesting, we have decided not to purchase any product at this time. On behalf of the board, I thank you. Good day.”
I rub my temples in the elevator. I want Dalton to think the rejection hurt me like I know it did him. He is slumped in the corner, his head hanging, limp. It’s not a problem. We still have one more meeting. If that fails as well, then we’ll rethink the strategy again. Eventually, we’ll come to a solution. Edison tested thousands of materials before he came to tungsten. We just hadn’t come across our tungsten yet.
“We need to clear our heads, Dalt,” I announce as we exit the elevator.
We take the bus to the northern most stop on Lake Avenue. Then I start walking up to where the street ends. We turn left and walk down Alta Vista Drive, finally hanging a right onto an unnamed road that winds into the mountains. By this time, we’ve walked about three miles, mostly uphill.
“Where are we going?” Dalton wheezes.
“You’ll see.”
The mountain road curves for a few miles into the hills of Altadena before coming to a small parking lot. From there the road continues down in to the canyon. But we’re going to the summit.
“Follow me,” I say.
Dalton complies. There is an overgrown path that begins a yard from the bend in the road. I push the brush back and struggle past tall grass, gnats and an occasional bee. We are both drenched in sweat. Foxtails stick in my slacks and Dalton’s, jabbing our calves from time to time. Dalton lets out a little gasp every time he’s poked by one. Finally the grass turns to sand and rock and opens into a small clearing. Half of the San Gabriel Valley at sunset is visible below.
“You used to be able to see the ocean from here,” I tell Dalton, “At least, that’s what my grandfather always told me.”
Dalton looks at me, but doesn’t say anything.
“Sometimes I just come up here and do nothing. For hours. Just think. And listen. Try to hear what the world has been trying to tell me, you know?”
Dalton nods.
“Breathe it in Dalt. Breathe in that air. We’re above the smog here.”
I take a deep breath, hold it, and let it go in a slow, steady stream. I smile at Dalton.
“We’ll make it, buddy. Don’t you worry. We’re so close to narrowing it down. I can feel it. Can’t you?”
Dalton puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs.
“We’ve just been circling and circling. Doesn’t it feel like that? Like we’ve just been circling around the answer for so long, coming closer and closer. We’re right there. Like we’ve been talking about it this whole time and not even realized it.”
I close my eyes.
Dalton pushes me as hard as he can from behind. He’s much stronger than I ever thought. I tumble forward, down the hill. I don’t get much time to think before I fall off a cliff. It’s not very high, maybe twenty feet. So that doesn’t give me more than a few seconds to think after the initial shock of what has happened passes and my head clears. Somehow those seconds expand into full minutes, maybe even hours. I suppose they could have been days if I wanted. Sunrises and sunsets flying over the valley as if the sun were on some celestial wheel. I never had the chance to come up here during a sunrise. My grandfather told me it was spectacular: the shadow of the mountains shrinking back as the sun grows higher, revealing the valley as it awakens.
I am able to remember, in those brief seconds, the day I met Dalton. Perhaps I promised too much. Business school can do that to you. I was just as naive as he. Just as hopeful. We are the same. I can almost see the sun sink behind the line of the horizon. Just another second and it would have been gone. I wish I could have seen more sunrises. I wish I could have reached enlightenment. I wish I knew how I never saw this coming.
I open my eyes and turn toward Dalton. But he is gone. It is dark now and I wonder how long I’ve been standing here. I don’t bother calling his name. The evening breeze makes me shiver. My clothes are still wet. I imagine the celestial wheel again, spinning and spinning. If I could only skip ahead to the day I figure it all out without growing any older. I wish I could just disappear.
I decide that I need to know who came up with the folding pattern. Whoever it is should be rolling. This is what I need. This kind of idea. I use my thumb to flip through the stack of paper towels, doing what, I’m not sure. Trying to figure out how whoever it was figured this out. There is a pattern here. It’s very easy to see. Over, under. The trick is discovering the pattern in the first place. Once it’s discovered, it seems like the absolute simplest thing in the world. Dalton throws open the door and scares me into knocking the whole stack onto the floor.
“What the hell are you doing in here, Stephen?” he says, panting. “They’re waiting for us. In the conference room.” He is sweating. I can see the sweat starting to form at the corners of his pits. It’s soaked all the way through his suit jacket. “And they have a very nice cheese platter.”
“With Rye Crisps?” I say, perking up.
“Uh—No. I don’t think so. But there are some very nice stoned wheat crackers—Gah! Look—Get your ass in there. Now. We gotta sell this thing. I’m tired of pitching. We need to make a sale.”
“Pitch is the name of the game, Dalt,” I say, straightening my tie in the mirror.
“That doesn’t mean anything, Stephen. I’ll be in the conference room. Eating a stoned wheat cracker with spreadable Brie.”
“Not too many, buddy. Tuck your shirt back in; it’s riding up.”
Dalton looks down at his slightly protruding gut and stuffs his shirt back into his pants, pulling them up higher on his waist.
“Let’s go,” he commands.
I give him a salute as he holds the door for me. I walk swiftly down the hall and hang a left past reception. I wave at the board as Dalton and I walk by the glass wall of the conference room.
“Gentlemen, I apologize for the delay. Are we ready to begin?”
The thing about selling is there’s a thing. You pretend it is the central part of your existence, and for those fifteen minutes, it is. You have to make others want it to be the central part of their existence too. You do that by telling a story. The pitch is a story in which you are the protagonist, all others are antagonists, and your thing—is the key that will ultimately result in a happy ending. It has to have romance. Action. Deceit—but not too much. Adventure, emotion, humor. Above all, people have to buy it. In order to buy it, they have to believe it. They have to believe in it.
Dalton and I sit on the curb in front of the bus stop on the corner of Colorado and Lake. The bench is taken up by cleaning ladies on the way to their next job.
“What is wrong with us?” Dalton demands, as if of the universe.
“Nothing’s wrong with us, Dalt,” I reassure, “It may be the product. It may even be our pitch.”
“Either of those would be a pretty big problem, don’t you think? And didn’t you say that pitch was the name of the game or something like that?”
“Yes, but they’re not problems that can’t be solved.”
“Stephen. I’m tired of calling my parents for money. I’m tired of—I’m tired—“
He doesn’t need to finish. I know what he was trying to say.
“There is a solution, Dalt. We just have to recognize the pattern of failure. We need to go back over each pitch and figure out the exact point where we lost them.”
“The pattern?” he laughs, “And what do we discern from this ‘pattern’?”
“Dalton,” I attest, “Recognition of patterns is the most basic form of intelligence. It is what separates us from animals. Selling requires the basic instincts that animals possess, but if you want to make the sale, it requires intelligence. Now, let’s get something to eat and we’ll reconvene tomorrow at my place. Sound good?”
“Well, we have plenty of failures to choose from.”
“That’s the problem with your attitude, Dalt. You’re a pessimist. Failure is not a negative result.”
“And how do you figure that?” Dalton asks in his most sarcastic voice. “We don’t make any money if we fail.”
“Come on, Dalt. You’re just hungry.”
I help him to his feet. We walk down Lake Avenue to Souplantation to eat our fill of salad, chicken noodle soup and blueberry muffins.
I need to wake up and get it together. I feel like I’m losing my edge, though I never truly had any edge to begin with. Well, that’s not entirely true—I shouldn’t sell myself short. I do have an edge. It’s meta-cognition. Dalton calls it self-analysis. But he doesn’t have it like I do. I have been able to boil our business plan down to the absolute simplest form possible all through meta-cognitive thinking. It’s a pattern. Just like how those towels fold one into the other. It doesn’t matter what the product is. I will hop from one product to the next until I find a winner. This is what separates me from the rest: I’m not a believer in my product. I’m a believer in the process. If I can recognize the pattern, I will win.
The line at the Souplantation is horrendous. But it’s worth the wait. I make a half plate of salad: just romaine, seasoned croutons, cheddar cheese, crispy noodles, and honey mustard. Dalton gets a little of everything. Even a small spoonful of Joan’s Broccoli Madness, which has bacon bits and mayonnaise. I take my tray and move to the soup. The chicken noodle is my favorite. Next I grab a small plate and take a couple small rectangles of focaccia and cheese pizza and a blueberry muffin. I find a small table in the corner and set my tray down then turn back to the soda fountain to get some iced tea. When Dalton finally joins me, he has two bowls of soup, firehouse chili and New England clam chowder, three plates of pizza, focaccia and muffins and a small dish of penne with tomato sauce.
“This is the kind of model we need to go on Dalt,” I say with my mouth full of lettuce.
“A restaurant? Stephen, we don’t work in the restaurant industry. The people we’re pitching to don’t work—“
“Ah, ah!” I saw, seizing this teachable moment. “But there is a pattern here. Look at how they order the salad bar. Look at the layout of the different buffets. It’s that pattern that brings people back.”
“Or it’s that they have some amazing blueberry muffins. And I wouldn’t necessarily call that a pattern—it’s more like a system.”
“No, no, Dalt—It’s definitely a pattern. A system is much more complex. System implies parts working together to form a mechanized whole.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“Nothing. But within every system is a pattern. Look at paper towel dispensers for instance—“
“Oh God, is that what you—“
“Just! Listen to me for a sec,” I demand, my breath quickening, “This is the simplest example I can think of. You have the towels and the dispenser. Used together, they form a system, but—it is the pattern that the towels are folded in which makes it possible. Over, under.”
“Give another example,” Dalton responds instantly.
I’ve never heard this kind of enthusiasm from him before. It catches me off guard.
“Okay—Uh—How ‘bout—Like a clock. The gears of a clock. Even more demonstrative than the paper towels. You have them all working together to form a system that makes the clockwork. But the gears themselves are designed according to a pattern. They have teeth and spokes and—It is that pattern that allows the system to work.”
“So—how does this pertain to us then?”
“Because, Dalton. Folks in the business world are always in search of a system. Most never find it. Few will, at best, stumble over it. If they could only recognize patterns—That’s why it’s so important. That is how we will succeed.”
“But how do we find it? I’m tired of searching.”
“All in good time, Dalt. That’s why I’m always looking.”
Dalton and I have two meetings set up for the following week. We give a perfect pitch in the first. We spent a lot of time reviewing our process and cutting unnecessary elements. Part of our pattern of failure has been letting Dalton speak too much. He can be clunky, and he repeats himself. On the other hand, if he doesn’t speak at all, we agreed, then the client might think something is wrong with him. Or that he is my personal bodyguard, which is not the message we’re trying to send.
I stare at the cheese platter while Dalton and I wait for the board to return with a decision. They have Rye Crisps. They are fanned in a circle around the outer edge of the platter. A line of Triscuts lines the inner edge of the Rye Crisps. Inside those is an array of cracker-cut cheeses: Colby Jack, Mild Cheddar, and Monterey. In the center is a pile of summer sausage slices. The pattern is so simple. Like the gears of a clock. I munch a few Rye Crisps quickly and carefully because I don’t want the board to return while my mouth is full.
They are only out for five minutes before they come back in. Generally, not a good sign.
“Gentlemen,” one board member begins, “All though we find your pitch both compelling and interesting, we have decided not to purchase any product at this time. On behalf of the board, I thank you. Good day.”
I rub my temples in the elevator. I want Dalton to think the rejection hurt me like I know it did him. He is slumped in the corner, his head hanging, limp. It’s not a problem. We still have one more meeting. If that fails as well, then we’ll rethink the strategy again. Eventually, we’ll come to a solution. Edison tested thousands of materials before he came to tungsten. We just hadn’t come across our tungsten yet.
“We need to clear our heads, Dalt,” I announce as we exit the elevator.
We take the bus to the northern most stop on Lake Avenue. Then I start walking up to where the street ends. We turn left and walk down Alta Vista Drive, finally hanging a right onto an unnamed road that winds into the mountains. By this time, we’ve walked about three miles, mostly uphill.
“Where are we going?” Dalton wheezes.
“You’ll see.”
The mountain road curves for a few miles into the hills of Altadena before coming to a small parking lot. From there the road continues down in to the canyon. But we’re going to the summit.
“Follow me,” I say.
Dalton complies. There is an overgrown path that begins a yard from the bend in the road. I push the brush back and struggle past tall grass, gnats and an occasional bee. We are both drenched in sweat. Foxtails stick in my slacks and Dalton’s, jabbing our calves from time to time. Dalton lets out a little gasp every time he’s poked by one. Finally the grass turns to sand and rock and opens into a small clearing. Half of the San Gabriel Valley at sunset is visible below.
“You used to be able to see the ocean from here,” I tell Dalton, “At least, that’s what my grandfather always told me.”
Dalton looks at me, but doesn’t say anything.
“Sometimes I just come up here and do nothing. For hours. Just think. And listen. Try to hear what the world has been trying to tell me, you know?”
Dalton nods.
“Breathe it in Dalt. Breathe in that air. We’re above the smog here.”
I take a deep breath, hold it, and let it go in a slow, steady stream. I smile at Dalton.
“We’ll make it, buddy. Don’t you worry. We’re so close to narrowing it down. I can feel it. Can’t you?”
Dalton puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs.
“We’ve just been circling and circling. Doesn’t it feel like that? Like we’ve just been circling around the answer for so long, coming closer and closer. We’re right there. Like we’ve been talking about it this whole time and not even realized it.”
I close my eyes.
Dalton pushes me as hard as he can from behind. He’s much stronger than I ever thought. I tumble forward, down the hill. I don’t get much time to think before I fall off a cliff. It’s not very high, maybe twenty feet. So that doesn’t give me more than a few seconds to think after the initial shock of what has happened passes and my head clears. Somehow those seconds expand into full minutes, maybe even hours. I suppose they could have been days if I wanted. Sunrises and sunsets flying over the valley as if the sun were on some celestial wheel. I never had the chance to come up here during a sunrise. My grandfather told me it was spectacular: the shadow of the mountains shrinking back as the sun grows higher, revealing the valley as it awakens.
I am able to remember, in those brief seconds, the day I met Dalton. Perhaps I promised too much. Business school can do that to you. I was just as naive as he. Just as hopeful. We are the same. I can almost see the sun sink behind the line of the horizon. Just another second and it would have been gone. I wish I could have seen more sunrises. I wish I could have reached enlightenment. I wish I knew how I never saw this coming.
I open my eyes and turn toward Dalton. But he is gone. It is dark now and I wonder how long I’ve been standing here. I don’t bother calling his name. The evening breeze makes me shiver. My clothes are still wet. I imagine the celestial wheel again, spinning and spinning. If I could only skip ahead to the day I figure it all out without growing any older. I wish I could just disappear.
Monday, March 12, 2007
In Contemplating the Future
The hills are green velvet this afternoon. They resemble a down comforter pulled over the knees of some sleeping, majestic, giant. There’s only one paved road. It runs along the giant’s leg, until it’s lost in some unknown valley. The wind is strong, but somehow comforting. Comforting in the way it holds the wings of hawks afloat for hours. Comforting in the way the ocean breeze hits you: sound rushing in your ears, until you can’t hear anything except a voice telling you everything is going to be okay. The world will be put to rights someday. The Santa Ynez river snakes its way through the valley. The trees on its banks are yellow, if they survived the bitter frost of winter, or bare if they did not. They don’t complain; rather they join in the wind’s voice, adding layer upon layer to it. There are cows here. They hear the wind too and respond in their own simple way. A car horn is heard off in the distance, a reminder that society hasn’t gone away; it’s just not here at the moment.
The wind is stronger now: stronger than it has been all day. And here I am. With my laptop computer. Drinking Italian sparkling mineral water from a glass bottle. Sitting in a lounge chair. I want to blend in. I want to melt away into the velvet green of the hills across the valley. They’re almost completely in shadow now. The sun is about to sink behind them, ushering in the night. The utter darkness that will shroud this humble valley, making it impossible to see the green of the hills. Maybe someday I will return here, when I’m older and more experienced, and say to myself, I always did like the green of those hills. Like velvet. It is good. And it is.
The wind is stronger now: stronger than it has been all day. And here I am. With my laptop computer. Drinking Italian sparkling mineral water from a glass bottle. Sitting in a lounge chair. I want to blend in. I want to melt away into the velvet green of the hills across the valley. They’re almost completely in shadow now. The sun is about to sink behind them, ushering in the night. The utter darkness that will shroud this humble valley, making it impossible to see the green of the hills. Maybe someday I will return here, when I’m older and more experienced, and say to myself, I always did like the green of those hills. Like velvet. It is good. And it is.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Pipe
The lightbulb in the right corner of the vanity mirror flickered on and off. It was the wiring, not the bulb that was faulty; nevertheless, it made it very difficult to pluck and shape eyebrows. Bernard had to lean very close to the mirror and fix his eyes on the exact spot that his tweezers were pulling--he looked past the troublesome bulb.
He was making excellent time with his eyebrows. After a few minutes, he moved on to his moustache, carefully plucking single hairs until it was perfectly trimmed. He squeezed a glob of gel into his hand and ran it through his peppered hair. It was curly, but not gerricurled like most other black men. He took even more care with the hair on his head, adjusting strands, making sure everything was in place. Bernard was rounding out his mid-thirties, but he certainly didn’t want anyone to know. He washed the excess gel off his hands, dropped the towel from his waist onto the floor and strutted into his bedroom, naked. He swung his package back and forth, admiring its moderate size. On the bed was his evening wardrobe, laid out in order of dress.
He preferred the support of standard briefs, but he didn’t like the feel of cotton. He needed satin. It was soft and hugged his buttocks tightly in position. His blouse was off-white and ruffled. Ruffled collar, ruffled sleeves. Bernard slipped it on and buttoned it to the middle of his chest. He shaved the hair regularly, so only a few stubble bumps were exposed on his gingerbread skin. He picked up the nylons that lay on the bed and slipped them on. They were a natural tone and no one but Bernard would know they were there. He only wore them because he didn’t like the feel of bare feet in high heels.
Tonight he was dawning his orange polyester suit. It was a sherbet orange—even the texture looked like ice cream. It had been his mothers. When she died, he inherited everything she owned.
Seven cats, all but two now deceased
A number of gaudy paintings
This orange suit
She donated everything else to Goodwill before she passed. She was a kind woman. A gentle and generous woman. She was all Bernard had then. She was a difficult void to fill, yet he never thought of her anymore. He never cried.
The suit had no visible stitching, and only two breast pockets. Bernard slipped on the pants, tucking in his shirt and pulling them up just above his bellybutton. His thin, wire-rimmed glasses with slightly squared lenses were placed neatly on the bridge of his nose. He reached under his bed and pulled out a pair of black pumps with one inch heals. He slipped them on and then put the final touch on his outfit. The jacket fit him so well—like it had been tailor made for him. He studied himself in the mirror for a few minutes, fiddling with his hair and smoothing out his clothes as much as possible. One final look and he was out the door.
He stepped into the balmy Los Angeles night. Bernard liked to think of himself as an art conisuer. He knew nothing of art history or technique or aesthetic evaluation, but he did know that those types didn’t look at him like he was offensive to everything living. He knew art appreciation was easy to fake, and nearly everyone at the gallery tonight would be faking it with him.
The Hive Gallery hosted an open house once a month where various artists were invited to display their talents. In the front rooms of the gallery, various touring pieces were displayed over couches, vases and cloth plants. A couple of local folk or experimental bands performed in the center room, setting an ambiance of independence and uncertain sophistication. Past the front rooms was the bar where a young woman could serve you a red party cup of five-dollar-a-bottle Robert Mondavi for eight dollars. Past the bar was The Caves.
The Caves was where local artists were invited to paint while an audience wandered, drifting in and out of worlds. The audience was allowed into moments that only the artist is supposed to see: the incomplete, the idea, the draft. Each artist had their own stall, partially enclosed by three walls. The Hive Gallery allowed the artists to decorate their stall in any way necessary to achieve supreme creative conditions. This was Bernard’s favorite night to go to The Hive because it was where beauty and sophistication truly became relative terms.
Bernard turned the corner from Broadway to 2nd Street and made his way to the end of the block. The streets of Downtown were very quiet this late after dark. A few homeless lay, stretched on the sidewalk and benches in sleeping bags. They took no notice of Bernard, which suited him just fine. Despite all the light pouring out from late-night offices, street lamps, 24-hr sushi restaurants, and the like, Los Angeles had a very dark quality about it. The night sky seemed to snuff out any extra light or at least disguise it as more deep, palpable darkness.
There was a short line to get into The Hive. Bernard stood at the end and opened up his handbag to fish out a five-dollar bill. He approached the folding table and handed the twenty-something his five. Another stamped his left hand. A large man wearing a black shirt with the word “SECURITY” screened in white across his chest stopped Bernard and asked to see inside his purse. Bernard complied and after a ten second glance, the large man pointed his thumb to the doorway. Bernard passed through strings of beads hung from the top of the frame and was inside.
The first room contained a collection of portraits. Small groups of viewers were gathered at various pieces. Bernard began on the left side of the room, briefly studying each, but moving slowly enough to appear to be truly contemplating. Each portrait depicted the full body of the subject, bizarrely dressed in bright feathers, leather and masks standing in front of simple, drab drop cloths. Bernard smiled confidently at them.
The walls of the room formed a perfect square and each holding eight portraits. In the center was a set of walls, which created a smaller square perfectly proportional to the shape of the room. Each face of the inner column held only one portrait. As Bernard turned from the left wall, he suddenly took notice of the center block and wondered why he hadn’t started there. He approached the first painting studying small parts of it at a time.
All at once the whole subject of the painting struck him. The man stood squared straight to the viewer, arms at his sides, yet his posture was slightly effeminate. The hair looked freshly moussed, the imaginary light glinting slightly off of it. The man’s lips were curled slightly at the corner in a seductive smirk, lifting his neatly trimmed moustache. The orange polyester was textured perfectly and the blouse buttoned to the middle of the man’s chest and ruffled playfully on the lapels of the suit. The black pumps were shinning just like his hair.
Bernard stopped breathing for a moment. He felt scared and flattered at the same time. He looked around the room to see if anyone noticed him looking at his reflection in the form of oil on canvas. He moved closer to see if he could make out an artist’s signature, but there was none to be found. He turned and decided to walk the rest of the room. The other portraits matched the same sideshow quality of the ones previous, though each had their own unique character. The painting on each side of the center column, however, was of the same character—in slightly different poses. Bernard stood center between each wall comparing the outer wall subjects to the ones bearing his likeness in the center. He looked hard back and forth at each trying to find the common thread between the center paintings and those on the outer walls.
He became aware that other visitors were beginning to take notice of the resemblance. He pushed his way through a group of them, who didn’t say anything—only watched him as he entered the next room of the gallery.
The room was very dark and confining. It was simply two walls, painted black, forming a narrow hallway. The thick curtains at either end prevented light from escaping into the tunnel. Small display lights illuminated the art, making it appear as though they hung in nothingness. Bernard’s breathing became deep and labored. Only four paintings were displayed in this room: three on the left, one on the right.
He was in every one of them. The first looked familiar, but Bernard did not know what it was called. He was sure he had seen it in a book somewhere. But this was different. Instead of a man in a bowler hat, a black man with shiny curls in an orange suit stood. The apple covering his face was red. The wall separating him from the beach still stood, bleached white by sun and sand and salt; the ocean caught in half swell against the shore. The next painting was much smaller than the others. It was only two feet across by six inches. Bernard knew this one. He took a Renaissance art history course at the community college a few years back in an attempt to improve his conversation. He knew every apostle’s name. He had also read The Da Vinci Code. Everything was exactly like Da Vinci’s monumental masterpiece except that the confused and upset face of Thomas was replaced by a black man’s face with a neatly trimmed moustache and glasses. The scale of the painting made it almost impossible to make out, but Bernard now knew what to look for.
The third painting was on the right side of the room. Bernard did not know it. It was hardly larger than the first painting. Its subject was a table in what looked like the main room of a modest cabin. Bernard had learned enough to know that it was probably sixteenth or seventeenth century, Flemish. On the table was a bowl of fruit, an apple and pear strayed from it. A humble place setting was near the corner and next to it a chicken with a newly broken neck. It looked like it was dead in mid-flight. A hound lay near the fireplace on the right side of the room. Bernard did not see anything out of the ordinary. Then he noticed a shadow across the table. He originally thought it was his own. It seemed to be cast by some light source out of frame. As if the light from the opposite wall of the gallery was casting it. Bernard’s shadow reached for an item on the table, but he could not distinguish what. He stepped away, and the shadow remained. It was cold and unwelcoming. It haunted that tiny cabin room.
The final work frightened Bernard more than he had ever been. It looked exactly like a really famous one that Bernard had definitely seen before. He was upset with himself for failing so miserably at this test in art history. Nevertheless, this painting was unmistakable. In place of the iconic bald figure, was a man in a sherbet suit with curly black hair, clutching the sides of his head and letting out a scream so deafening, the sky itself was shaken in the background. This new figure didn’t looked forced; rather it was as if there had never been that allusive ghost in the first place.
Bernard fought his way out of the curtain at the end of the hall. He was bathed in florescent light again.
“Wine or beer?” a young woman’s voice queried.
Bernard snapped around to face a woman in her mid-twenties. She had short, blonde hair and pale, blue eyes. Her face was pretty, but plain. She smiled awkwardly at Bernard.
“We also have a few cocktails. I’m not very good, but I can make a couple things.”
“I—I could use—could I just have some water?”
“Sure, we have Perrier and Evian. I think we might have a couple Aquafinas. They’re not cold though.”
“Uh...I guess a, uh...” Bernard was breathing heavily, like he had just sprinted to the bar from the street. “Evian is fine. How much, five?”
“Nope,” she said excitedly, “Only three.” She held her arm straight, displaying three fingers.
Bernard reached into his handbag and pulled out three crisp one dollar bills. He handed the young woman the money and received the sweaty twelve-ounce bottle.
“I like your purse,” she said.
Bernard looked around him as if he thought she was speaking to someone else. He then noticed the handbag he was still holding.
“Oh—Thank you.”
“Enjoying the exhibit tonight?”
“Have you seen it?” he said trying to sound casual.
“Me? Oh no. This is just a job. You know, just tryin’ to make a buck.” She put her hand on an empty Red Vines bin, the kind you get from Costco. Over the label, the word “TIPS” was written in Sharpie. It had a handful of coins, mostly pennies and nickels, and two bills. Bernard met her eyes and she suddenly looked very ashamed of herself. He dug back in his handbag, pulled out another dollar, and placed it in the jar.
“Oh you didn’t have to,” she said.
“It’s not a problem,” Bernard said, removing the cap from his water bottle. Raising it to her, he said, “To the best water slinger in town.”
She bowed to him. Bernard turned to enter The Caves.
“I’ve never understood what spurs people on,” she said suddenly to him. “I mean to make it back here. It seems like it’d be easy to just get lost in the moments of the front. With the music and all. I don’t get to see many people come back here I guess.” Bernard stopped to listen out of courtesy. “What made you come back here? If I may be so bold.”
He still had the water bottle tilted to his lips but responded without thought.
“I’m curious.” He was trying not to look surprised by his own answer.
“Everyone is I suppose. Enjoy your curiosity then.”
Bernard raised his bottle to her again and walked through the next curtain.
The Caves always looked like they were under construction. Seven shrines to developing art. Three on each side and one at the end dedicated to the featured artist of the night. Bernard felt much better after his imported water, but the memory of the previous galleries was still fresh and he dreaded what awaited him.
At the same time, he already knew what he was going to see. He kept trying to force himself to just accept it. He ran over options in his head. He could run through and then back out before any of the artists noticed they were painting him. He could also walk through as if they weren’t painting him at all—only someone that bared a striking resemblance. He could just deny it all together. Yes, that would do nicely.
Bernard strolled almost melodramatically to the first stall. He let out a small shriek. The woman sat on a stool, her back to the aisle, the canvas in front of her. Bernard’s likeness was on all fours, naked, with a spiked collar around his neck. His tongue, long and red, was hanging out of sharp teeth. He was placed on grass near a shady tree. Other dogs frolicked in the background. The woman jumped at Bernard’s outburst.
“Excuse me,” she said in her kindest voice, “that is not appropriate. If you are offended by my expression, you certainly have no business being here.” Bernard nodded and moved on. He decided to walk briskly through the stalls. A fair compromise.
He saw himself with a pipe in his mouth sitting in a velvet armchair; as a cowboy leaning against an old post fence; in the shape of an airplane, his arms spread and wide; dressed as a clown standing with the spotlight on him in the center ring. He was running by the end. It seemed as if the room had been extended at least a mile, the stalls spread out further and further.
When he arrived near the final artist, he stopped and stood to observe. The man was sitting on his knees in front of an enormous, white canvas. Bernard approached him slowly and stopped next to but slightly behind the man.
“I’m stumped,” the artist announced suddenly.
Bernard stood silent. His breathing began to settle.
“I’m envisioning a man,” the artist continued, “but I can’t see him. He’s—he’s formless somehow.”
Bernard took another gulp of water. He told himself he should leave, yet he was compelled to listen.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” the artist mused, “You’re the first one to make it back here.” He turned to face Bernard. “I suppose the seven of us were unable to create any magic tonight.”
Bernard suddenly felt his face become very hot.
“It just so happens that I am full of magic!” he retorted. Without waiting for a response Bernard turned and walked out of The Caves, stripping off his jacket and leaving it at the entrance.
“How was it?” the young woman behind the bar asked.
“Magical,” Bernard replied. He removed his shirt and set it on the end of the bar.
“You look like a changed man,” she sang out, “Hope to see you again soon!”
He left his shoes in the dark hallway, along with his empty handbag. He clutched his California Identification Card and the few bills he had left in his hand. In the main room, he took off his pants and nylons. Hardly anyone was left in the gallery, and no one took any notice. When he reached the entrance to The Hive, he removed his satin briefs and walked past the security guard and the money table. Once outside, Bernard turned his walk into a run. The balmy Los Angeles night felt good on his skin. Bernard ran down the street toward his apartment, running toward himself.
He was making excellent time with his eyebrows. After a few minutes, he moved on to his moustache, carefully plucking single hairs until it was perfectly trimmed. He squeezed a glob of gel into his hand and ran it through his peppered hair. It was curly, but not gerricurled like most other black men. He took even more care with the hair on his head, adjusting strands, making sure everything was in place. Bernard was rounding out his mid-thirties, but he certainly didn’t want anyone to know. He washed the excess gel off his hands, dropped the towel from his waist onto the floor and strutted into his bedroom, naked. He swung his package back and forth, admiring its moderate size. On the bed was his evening wardrobe, laid out in order of dress.
He preferred the support of standard briefs, but he didn’t like the feel of cotton. He needed satin. It was soft and hugged his buttocks tightly in position. His blouse was off-white and ruffled. Ruffled collar, ruffled sleeves. Bernard slipped it on and buttoned it to the middle of his chest. He shaved the hair regularly, so only a few stubble bumps were exposed on his gingerbread skin. He picked up the nylons that lay on the bed and slipped them on. They were a natural tone and no one but Bernard would know they were there. He only wore them because he didn’t like the feel of bare feet in high heels.
Tonight he was dawning his orange polyester suit. It was a sherbet orange—even the texture looked like ice cream. It had been his mothers. When she died, he inherited everything she owned.
Seven cats, all but two now deceased
A number of gaudy paintings
This orange suit
She donated everything else to Goodwill before she passed. She was a kind woman. A gentle and generous woman. She was all Bernard had then. She was a difficult void to fill, yet he never thought of her anymore. He never cried.
The suit had no visible stitching, and only two breast pockets. Bernard slipped on the pants, tucking in his shirt and pulling them up just above his bellybutton. His thin, wire-rimmed glasses with slightly squared lenses were placed neatly on the bridge of his nose. He reached under his bed and pulled out a pair of black pumps with one inch heals. He slipped them on and then put the final touch on his outfit. The jacket fit him so well—like it had been tailor made for him. He studied himself in the mirror for a few minutes, fiddling with his hair and smoothing out his clothes as much as possible. One final look and he was out the door.
He stepped into the balmy Los Angeles night. Bernard liked to think of himself as an art conisuer. He knew nothing of art history or technique or aesthetic evaluation, but he did know that those types didn’t look at him like he was offensive to everything living. He knew art appreciation was easy to fake, and nearly everyone at the gallery tonight would be faking it with him.
The Hive Gallery hosted an open house once a month where various artists were invited to display their talents. In the front rooms of the gallery, various touring pieces were displayed over couches, vases and cloth plants. A couple of local folk or experimental bands performed in the center room, setting an ambiance of independence and uncertain sophistication. Past the front rooms was the bar where a young woman could serve you a red party cup of five-dollar-a-bottle Robert Mondavi for eight dollars. Past the bar was The Caves.
The Caves was where local artists were invited to paint while an audience wandered, drifting in and out of worlds. The audience was allowed into moments that only the artist is supposed to see: the incomplete, the idea, the draft. Each artist had their own stall, partially enclosed by three walls. The Hive Gallery allowed the artists to decorate their stall in any way necessary to achieve supreme creative conditions. This was Bernard’s favorite night to go to The Hive because it was where beauty and sophistication truly became relative terms.
Bernard turned the corner from Broadway to 2nd Street and made his way to the end of the block. The streets of Downtown were very quiet this late after dark. A few homeless lay, stretched on the sidewalk and benches in sleeping bags. They took no notice of Bernard, which suited him just fine. Despite all the light pouring out from late-night offices, street lamps, 24-hr sushi restaurants, and the like, Los Angeles had a very dark quality about it. The night sky seemed to snuff out any extra light or at least disguise it as more deep, palpable darkness.
There was a short line to get into The Hive. Bernard stood at the end and opened up his handbag to fish out a five-dollar bill. He approached the folding table and handed the twenty-something his five. Another stamped his left hand. A large man wearing a black shirt with the word “SECURITY” screened in white across his chest stopped Bernard and asked to see inside his purse. Bernard complied and after a ten second glance, the large man pointed his thumb to the doorway. Bernard passed through strings of beads hung from the top of the frame and was inside.
The first room contained a collection of portraits. Small groups of viewers were gathered at various pieces. Bernard began on the left side of the room, briefly studying each, but moving slowly enough to appear to be truly contemplating. Each portrait depicted the full body of the subject, bizarrely dressed in bright feathers, leather and masks standing in front of simple, drab drop cloths. Bernard smiled confidently at them.
The walls of the room formed a perfect square and each holding eight portraits. In the center was a set of walls, which created a smaller square perfectly proportional to the shape of the room. Each face of the inner column held only one portrait. As Bernard turned from the left wall, he suddenly took notice of the center block and wondered why he hadn’t started there. He approached the first painting studying small parts of it at a time.
All at once the whole subject of the painting struck him. The man stood squared straight to the viewer, arms at his sides, yet his posture was slightly effeminate. The hair looked freshly moussed, the imaginary light glinting slightly off of it. The man’s lips were curled slightly at the corner in a seductive smirk, lifting his neatly trimmed moustache. The orange polyester was textured perfectly and the blouse buttoned to the middle of the man’s chest and ruffled playfully on the lapels of the suit. The black pumps were shinning just like his hair.
Bernard stopped breathing for a moment. He felt scared and flattered at the same time. He looked around the room to see if anyone noticed him looking at his reflection in the form of oil on canvas. He moved closer to see if he could make out an artist’s signature, but there was none to be found. He turned and decided to walk the rest of the room. The other portraits matched the same sideshow quality of the ones previous, though each had their own unique character. The painting on each side of the center column, however, was of the same character—in slightly different poses. Bernard stood center between each wall comparing the outer wall subjects to the ones bearing his likeness in the center. He looked hard back and forth at each trying to find the common thread between the center paintings and those on the outer walls.
He became aware that other visitors were beginning to take notice of the resemblance. He pushed his way through a group of them, who didn’t say anything—only watched him as he entered the next room of the gallery.
The room was very dark and confining. It was simply two walls, painted black, forming a narrow hallway. The thick curtains at either end prevented light from escaping into the tunnel. Small display lights illuminated the art, making it appear as though they hung in nothingness. Bernard’s breathing became deep and labored. Only four paintings were displayed in this room: three on the left, one on the right.
He was in every one of them. The first looked familiar, but Bernard did not know what it was called. He was sure he had seen it in a book somewhere. But this was different. Instead of a man in a bowler hat, a black man with shiny curls in an orange suit stood. The apple covering his face was red. The wall separating him from the beach still stood, bleached white by sun and sand and salt; the ocean caught in half swell against the shore. The next painting was much smaller than the others. It was only two feet across by six inches. Bernard knew this one. He took a Renaissance art history course at the community college a few years back in an attempt to improve his conversation. He knew every apostle’s name. He had also read The Da Vinci Code. Everything was exactly like Da Vinci’s monumental masterpiece except that the confused and upset face of Thomas was replaced by a black man’s face with a neatly trimmed moustache and glasses. The scale of the painting made it almost impossible to make out, but Bernard now knew what to look for.
The third painting was on the right side of the room. Bernard did not know it. It was hardly larger than the first painting. Its subject was a table in what looked like the main room of a modest cabin. Bernard had learned enough to know that it was probably sixteenth or seventeenth century, Flemish. On the table was a bowl of fruit, an apple and pear strayed from it. A humble place setting was near the corner and next to it a chicken with a newly broken neck. It looked like it was dead in mid-flight. A hound lay near the fireplace on the right side of the room. Bernard did not see anything out of the ordinary. Then he noticed a shadow across the table. He originally thought it was his own. It seemed to be cast by some light source out of frame. As if the light from the opposite wall of the gallery was casting it. Bernard’s shadow reached for an item on the table, but he could not distinguish what. He stepped away, and the shadow remained. It was cold and unwelcoming. It haunted that tiny cabin room.
The final work frightened Bernard more than he had ever been. It looked exactly like a really famous one that Bernard had definitely seen before. He was upset with himself for failing so miserably at this test in art history. Nevertheless, this painting was unmistakable. In place of the iconic bald figure, was a man in a sherbet suit with curly black hair, clutching the sides of his head and letting out a scream so deafening, the sky itself was shaken in the background. This new figure didn’t looked forced; rather it was as if there had never been that allusive ghost in the first place.
Bernard fought his way out of the curtain at the end of the hall. He was bathed in florescent light again.
“Wine or beer?” a young woman’s voice queried.
Bernard snapped around to face a woman in her mid-twenties. She had short, blonde hair and pale, blue eyes. Her face was pretty, but plain. She smiled awkwardly at Bernard.
“We also have a few cocktails. I’m not very good, but I can make a couple things.”
“I—I could use—could I just have some water?”
“Sure, we have Perrier and Evian. I think we might have a couple Aquafinas. They’re not cold though.”
“Uh...I guess a, uh...” Bernard was breathing heavily, like he had just sprinted to the bar from the street. “Evian is fine. How much, five?”
“Nope,” she said excitedly, “Only three.” She held her arm straight, displaying three fingers.
Bernard reached into his handbag and pulled out three crisp one dollar bills. He handed the young woman the money and received the sweaty twelve-ounce bottle.
“I like your purse,” she said.
Bernard looked around him as if he thought she was speaking to someone else. He then noticed the handbag he was still holding.
“Oh—Thank you.”
“Enjoying the exhibit tonight?”
“Have you seen it?” he said trying to sound casual.
“Me? Oh no. This is just a job. You know, just tryin’ to make a buck.” She put her hand on an empty Red Vines bin, the kind you get from Costco. Over the label, the word “TIPS” was written in Sharpie. It had a handful of coins, mostly pennies and nickels, and two bills. Bernard met her eyes and she suddenly looked very ashamed of herself. He dug back in his handbag, pulled out another dollar, and placed it in the jar.
“Oh you didn’t have to,” she said.
“It’s not a problem,” Bernard said, removing the cap from his water bottle. Raising it to her, he said, “To the best water slinger in town.”
She bowed to him. Bernard turned to enter The Caves.
“I’ve never understood what spurs people on,” she said suddenly to him. “I mean to make it back here. It seems like it’d be easy to just get lost in the moments of the front. With the music and all. I don’t get to see many people come back here I guess.” Bernard stopped to listen out of courtesy. “What made you come back here? If I may be so bold.”
He still had the water bottle tilted to his lips but responded without thought.
“I’m curious.” He was trying not to look surprised by his own answer.
“Everyone is I suppose. Enjoy your curiosity then.”
Bernard raised his bottle to her again and walked through the next curtain.
The Caves always looked like they were under construction. Seven shrines to developing art. Three on each side and one at the end dedicated to the featured artist of the night. Bernard felt much better after his imported water, but the memory of the previous galleries was still fresh and he dreaded what awaited him.
At the same time, he already knew what he was going to see. He kept trying to force himself to just accept it. He ran over options in his head. He could run through and then back out before any of the artists noticed they were painting him. He could also walk through as if they weren’t painting him at all—only someone that bared a striking resemblance. He could just deny it all together. Yes, that would do nicely.
Bernard strolled almost melodramatically to the first stall. He let out a small shriek. The woman sat on a stool, her back to the aisle, the canvas in front of her. Bernard’s likeness was on all fours, naked, with a spiked collar around his neck. His tongue, long and red, was hanging out of sharp teeth. He was placed on grass near a shady tree. Other dogs frolicked in the background. The woman jumped at Bernard’s outburst.
“Excuse me,” she said in her kindest voice, “that is not appropriate. If you are offended by my expression, you certainly have no business being here.” Bernard nodded and moved on. He decided to walk briskly through the stalls. A fair compromise.
He saw himself with a pipe in his mouth sitting in a velvet armchair; as a cowboy leaning against an old post fence; in the shape of an airplane, his arms spread and wide; dressed as a clown standing with the spotlight on him in the center ring. He was running by the end. It seemed as if the room had been extended at least a mile, the stalls spread out further and further.
When he arrived near the final artist, he stopped and stood to observe. The man was sitting on his knees in front of an enormous, white canvas. Bernard approached him slowly and stopped next to but slightly behind the man.
“I’m stumped,” the artist announced suddenly.
Bernard stood silent. His breathing began to settle.
“I’m envisioning a man,” the artist continued, “but I can’t see him. He’s—he’s formless somehow.”
Bernard took another gulp of water. He told himself he should leave, yet he was compelled to listen.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” the artist mused, “You’re the first one to make it back here.” He turned to face Bernard. “I suppose the seven of us were unable to create any magic tonight.”
Bernard suddenly felt his face become very hot.
“It just so happens that I am full of magic!” he retorted. Without waiting for a response Bernard turned and walked out of The Caves, stripping off his jacket and leaving it at the entrance.
“How was it?” the young woman behind the bar asked.
“Magical,” Bernard replied. He removed his shirt and set it on the end of the bar.
“You look like a changed man,” she sang out, “Hope to see you again soon!”
He left his shoes in the dark hallway, along with his empty handbag. He clutched his California Identification Card and the few bills he had left in his hand. In the main room, he took off his pants and nylons. Hardly anyone was left in the gallery, and no one took any notice. When he reached the entrance to The Hive, he removed his satin briefs and walked past the security guard and the money table. Once outside, Bernard turned his walk into a run. The balmy Los Angeles night felt good on his skin. Bernard ran down the street toward his apartment, running toward himself.
Monday, January 29, 2007
We'll never write quite like John Updike
We’ll never write quite like John Updike.
-------No
-----------“Good dog” for a prized pet, though
I’ve thought long and hard about it.
---and cummings’ care with words and—
careful. punctuation capitalization,
------cannot
-------------easily
------------------------be
-------------matched
------------------------by
----------------------------me. Though I try.
(Don’t forget his beautiful spacing)!
I had an argument with a friend
Whether or not rhyme equals meaning
-------------------And in the end
We decided it’s all meaningless
--------(Especially in the case of)
---------------OZYMANDIAS
No one has time for two vast
and trunkless legs. At last,
he conceded, being on the side of rhyme,
and I had decided, having now made the time,
Which Road I would travel by
It’s not the one you think.
We’ll never write quite like John Updike.
-------Though
---------------I’ve read many who’ve tried. So
their words spew like verbal diarrhea and
they draw nearer to disillusion yet endure no shame.
-------------Eliot always said he wrote what
he meant
-------------Still even Prufrock knew he was
not long for this world.
Pass the cream and sugar.
I fell in love with a friend
and it was a
Long
Hard
Fall
Falling like
------leaves
------------------often
do.
Like snow on Frost’s woods.
Like rain on Leaves of Grass.
The way The Poet wanted to see those leaves—
Desperate and bare.
Nothing held back.
Everything exposed.
Something exceptionally rare.
-------No
-----------“Good dog” for a prized pet, though
I’ve thought long and hard about it.
---and cummings’ care with words and—
careful. punctuation capitalization,
------cannot
-------------easily
------------------------be
-------------matched
------------------------by
----------------------------me. Though I try.
(Don’t forget his beautiful spacing)!
I had an argument with a friend
Whether or not rhyme equals meaning
-------------------And in the end
We decided it’s all meaningless
--------(Especially in the case of)
---------------OZYMANDIAS
No one has time for two vast
and trunkless legs. At last,
he conceded, being on the side of rhyme,
and I had decided, having now made the time,
Which Road I would travel by
It’s not the one you think.
We’ll never write quite like John Updike.
-------Though
---------------I’ve read many who’ve tried. So
their words spew like verbal diarrhea and
they draw nearer to disillusion yet endure no shame.
-------------Eliot always said he wrote what
he meant
-------------Still even Prufrock knew he was
not long for this world.
Pass the cream and sugar.
I fell in love with a friend
and it was a
Long
Hard
Fall
Falling like
------leaves
------------------often
do.
Like snow on Frost’s woods.
Like rain on Leaves of Grass.
The way The Poet wanted to see those leaves—
Desperate and bare.
Nothing held back.
Everything exposed.
Something exceptionally rare.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Principles
Denis sat at his desk staring at the stack of referrals strewn across it, and began to wonder why he ever became an administrator in the first place. Teaching had been so much easier. You have a problem with a kid, you can make him someone else’s problem. Denis was now someone else. He sighed and picked one at random.
TEACHER: Pat Walker
STUDENT: Brian Perkins GRADE: 9
ISSUE: Brian is consistently talking in class. He is disruptive.
EFFORT MADE TO RESOLVE: Student conference (10/19)
Lunch Detention-10 min. (10/24)
The laziness disgusted him. Now matter how ridiculous he thought a referral to be, he had to follow through and call the kid in. The teacher would have his head otherwise. It was his obligation as an administrator. He had always liked to handle his own messes. He missed the old days where you could scream at a kid and get in his face to straighten him out. Nowadays you’d have a lawsuit on your hands, but even if you could let them have it, most of them would just shrug it off or laugh in your face. Denis couldn’t get through to kids the way he did when he was their teacher. As an administrator, he was an invisible entity to the good kids—a looming threat that kept them on track. To the habitually misbehaving, he was a vacation. Some kids did things just to get sent to him because he was a much better alternative to sitting in class.
He picked up his call slip pad and began planning out his week of useless lunch detentions and lectures. Carol appeared in his door.
“Yes?” he droned, eyes focused on his work.
“Sorrow to bother you. I just got a call from Ms. Hitower. Two boys were fighting in her class. I sent a cart to get them.”
“How’d she break it up?”
“She didn’t mention—“
“Thank you, Carol. Oh, what are their names?”
“Luis Maldanado and Justin Boyce.”
“Did she say what it was about?”
“No.”
“Okay, send Luis in first. Have Justin sit on the bench in the hall.”
“Will do.”
Denis was the hardest on fighters. It was almost always for one senseless reason or another, and he hated the idea of these students putting others at risk for something petty. Furthermore, these two were now keeping him from making any attempt at clearing his desk. His frustration grew as he furiously filled out new call slips to replace the ones he had finished for that afternoon, pushing the times back thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes. That’s all he was going to give these two losers.
He was almost to the end of his replacement stack when a large Hispanic kid with thick, curly hair filled the doorframe. He had thin, twiggy legs, which exploded out at the hips to a rotund midsection. His head was small and looked cartoonish. His features were small and squished close together on his face.
“You must be Luis,” Denis said, standing. “I think you’ve maybe been in this office once or twice before.” It was hard to keep them all straight with so many pouring in each day.
Luis shrugged his shoulders and threw himself down in the chair opposite Denis. He looked around the office, as if he were checking out a new friend’s house for the first time.
“What grade are you, Luis?”
“Eleven.”
“Okay,” Denis said, making a couple notes to himself.
“Hey, your name is Denny?” Luis said, snickering a bit and reaching for Dennis’ name placard.
“That’s what my friends call me,” he said, looking hard at Luis. “You are not my friend. You will call me Mr. Moulton or Sir, is that understood?”
“Sure thing, boss,” Luis said in falsetto. Denis stared at him pretending to be intimidating, but he knew he wasn’t going to win.
“What are we going to do about this attitude of yours, Luis?”
Luis stared blankly back like a five-year old.
“You’ve continued to be a problem for Ms. Hitower,” Denis continued, trying to find anything to reprimand Luis for.
“Do you do any work in her class?”
“Ieunno.”
Denis was trying to get upset. He was upset, he knew he was, but he just couldn’t’ put it into words that would shake Luis up the way he wanted to.
“What was this fight about?” Denis said in his most stern voice.
“Nothing.”
“Is that what Justin is going to tell me? If he started it, you could get yourself out of a heap of trouble by telling me what happened.”
“Nah.”
Denis sighed and pulled out another for from his desk.
“Three days Saturday school. You know the routine, I’m sure.”
Luis stared at him with a dumb smile.
“Be here at eight in the morning for the next three Saturdays. You’re finished at one.”
Denis looked Luis in the eyes. Luis still had the same expression on his face. He looked like he hadn’t heard a word that had been said.
“As for the rest of the day, you’re going to in-house.”
“Okay,” Luis said, as if he had just been sent to Disneyland. The school had a mandatory in-house policy for fighters. Denis hated it because kids would get in fights just to be sent to in-house. It didn’t matter if Denis thought they should go or not—he had to send them there.
“Get out and don’t you even look at the other one.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Luis said in the same falsetto he used earlier.
“Out.”
Luis moved sluggishly to the door and out it. Denis sat for a moment to collect himself. He was trying to be angry. He really was angry. Little bastards like Luis were the absolute end of his patience. But he wanted to be intimidating. Anger was what some of them wanted. He stood and stuck his head out the door.
“Justin Boyce?” he said to a short African American boy sitting on the bench outside his office. He was slouched on the bench, making himself look scrawny, but when he stood, his full figure was revealed. He was short, but broad shouldered and obviously very fit. He slung his backpack over one should and walked into the office, his head high.
“Sit down.”
Justin lowered himself slowly into the chair Luis had been sitting in moments before. Denis waited until Justin was seated, then walked around his desk to his chair and sat. He studied the young man in front of him. He hadn’t seen him in his office before. Justin had an almost regal look about him. He sat very straight, but he didn’t look uncomfortable. Dennis contemplated how to begin.
“Luis tells me you two were fighting in Ms. Hitower’s class. Is this true?”
Justin sat silent.
“Haven’t seen you in here before I don’t think. Why don’t you explain to me why fighting is more important than doing your work?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Justin replied. “I’m getting suspended no matter what.”
“What are we going to do about this attitude of yours, Justin?”
Nothing.
“I just need to know what happened, son. If he started it, then—well, let’s just start with your account.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I beg to differ,” Denis said, raising his voice. Justin did not move. He remained a statue. Dennis held his eyes, and Justin did not look away. He didn’t blink. Denis could tell Justin was upset. That could work to his advantage. He just needed to push Justin a little more.
“Maybe I should just call home. What’s your phone number?”
“No one’s there.”
“Okay, give me one of your parents’ work numbers. Mom or Dad. I could just look it up, but this saves us some time,” Dennis said. He felt like he might be able to get somewhere with this kid. Really scare him into straightening out.
“Look it up then. There’s nothing.”
“Don’t make me. It’ll be better if you just tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Denis felt some fury rising inside himself now. He couldn’t get angry. He had to remain wrathful.
“Have it your way then.”
Denis turned to his computer and searched Justin’s name.
“Is this your home number? Seven one two, seven eight six four?”
“Yes. But I said—“
“Says here you’re a transfer from Long Beach Poly.”
“That’s right.”
Denis felt the power falling more and more into his hands. He was going to nail this kid to the wall.
“And there’s a secondary number: Three five three, two two zero one.”
“That’s my cell.”
Denis turned to Justin, confused. He wasn’t sure if he heard him right.
“Your cell?”
“Yes. I told you, man. Nobody’s home because I’m here. Those are my numbers.”
Denis was in shock. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“How—How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
Denis was muttering and stumbling over nonsensical words, trying to find the right question to ask.
“I take it you want me to explain?” Justin asked.
“Yes, I think that is necessary.”
“My dad died a few years back. He was in the military. Marines. Number forty-three to die in active service over there. My mom’s there right now,” Justin’s voice was rising, “Has been for a year. On her second tour. We got no one out here. She put me in an apartment, but when the landlord found out it was just me living there, I got evicted. So my mom moved me to Lakewood.”
Denis still didn’t know how to proceed.
“So you—you do everything alone?”
“I work. My mom sends me money every month to help with rent.”
“And school?”
“What about it?”
Denis wanted to tread carefully.
“Why do you do it?”
“Why am I in school?” Justin laughed a little. “Why is anyone in school? I gotta be. Not just for me, but for my mom. She has standards. When you’re the son of two Marines, you learn about standards real quick. I don’t expect you to understand me, man. Let’s just get this over with.”
Denis was feverish.
“Why in God’s good name were you fighting, son? You’re parents don’t have standards about that?”
Justin shot to his feet making Denis jump back in his chair.
“No, man. They don’t. There are no standards when it comes to defending yourself or a friend. There’s only principles. I got principles. Ain’t no man gonna strip those from me. Not that bitch Luis, and certainly not you, mister suit and tie.”
Both men were breathing hard, but slow and steady. Their eyes still locked on each other.
“Now,” Justin continued, “Tell what my punishment is so I can get it done.”
He sat down in his chair, still holding Denis’ gaze. Denis was at a complete loss.
“Justin,” Denis began slowly, choosing every word, “if you just tell me what the fight was about, then we can clear this up. I can just send you back to class, and your time with me will count as detention served. Just tell me what happened.”
“No. Now tell me what my punishment is.”
“If you don’t tell me, then you’ll serve the same detention as Luis. Is that what you want?” Denis screamed. “You want to drop to that level? Look at yourself. You’re better than he is. Tell me what happened.”
“We both fought,” Justin said calmly. “For different reasons, but we both fought. We are equally guilty and I will serve the time that I deserve. What happened makes no difference. I have my principles, and if anything, I’ve learned that if you want have principles—real, true principles—you have to pay for them. What is my punishment, Mr. Moulton?”
Denis’ hands were shaking. He reached into a drawer to pull out the Saturday detention slips.
“Three days Saturday detention,” he said, his voice cracking, “Show up this Saturday, eight in the morning, and for the next two following. You’ll be finished at one. For the rest of the day, you’ll have to go to in-house.”
He handed the slip to Justin.
Justin turned to walk out the door, but stopped and said in a very steady, official voice, “Thank you, Mr. Moulton. I apologize for the argument. I hope you understand.”
Denis didn’t say anything. He raised his hand in futility, knowing that it was only for appearance, in case Justin caught him out of the corner of his eye as he walked out the door.
He closed his eyes and they remained closed until he heard Carol’s voice at the door.
“Mr. Moulton?”
His eyes snapped open but he wasn’t looking at her.
“I—I’m sorry to disturb you—I, um—Ms. Hitower just called to check on the two boys she...”
“They were sent to in-house, Carol,” Denis replied, turning his face to her, his voice the calmest he had ever remembered. “Unless another issue arises, they will be in class tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll just—I’ll just let her know.”
Denis nodded. He watched as Carol turned and gently shut the door behind her. The stacks of referrals were not disgusting anymore; they acutely saddened him. With a deep breath he swept up the call slips in one motion and walked them out to Carol’s desk for disbursement. If he didn’t make it through at least half by the end of the day, he’d be hearing from teachers. It was his obligation.
TEACHER: Pat Walker
STUDENT: Brian Perkins GRADE: 9
ISSUE: Brian is consistently talking in class. He is disruptive.
EFFORT MADE TO RESOLVE: Student conference (10/19)
Lunch Detention-10 min. (10/24)
The laziness disgusted him. Now matter how ridiculous he thought a referral to be, he had to follow through and call the kid in. The teacher would have his head otherwise. It was his obligation as an administrator. He had always liked to handle his own messes. He missed the old days where you could scream at a kid and get in his face to straighten him out. Nowadays you’d have a lawsuit on your hands, but even if you could let them have it, most of them would just shrug it off or laugh in your face. Denis couldn’t get through to kids the way he did when he was their teacher. As an administrator, he was an invisible entity to the good kids—a looming threat that kept them on track. To the habitually misbehaving, he was a vacation. Some kids did things just to get sent to him because he was a much better alternative to sitting in class.
He picked up his call slip pad and began planning out his week of useless lunch detentions and lectures. Carol appeared in his door.
“Yes?” he droned, eyes focused on his work.
“Sorrow to bother you. I just got a call from Ms. Hitower. Two boys were fighting in her class. I sent a cart to get them.”
“How’d she break it up?”
“She didn’t mention—“
“Thank you, Carol. Oh, what are their names?”
“Luis Maldanado and Justin Boyce.”
“Did she say what it was about?”
“No.”
“Okay, send Luis in first. Have Justin sit on the bench in the hall.”
“Will do.”
Denis was the hardest on fighters. It was almost always for one senseless reason or another, and he hated the idea of these students putting others at risk for something petty. Furthermore, these two were now keeping him from making any attempt at clearing his desk. His frustration grew as he furiously filled out new call slips to replace the ones he had finished for that afternoon, pushing the times back thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes. That’s all he was going to give these two losers.
He was almost to the end of his replacement stack when a large Hispanic kid with thick, curly hair filled the doorframe. He had thin, twiggy legs, which exploded out at the hips to a rotund midsection. His head was small and looked cartoonish. His features were small and squished close together on his face.
“You must be Luis,” Denis said, standing. “I think you’ve maybe been in this office once or twice before.” It was hard to keep them all straight with so many pouring in each day.
Luis shrugged his shoulders and threw himself down in the chair opposite Denis. He looked around the office, as if he were checking out a new friend’s house for the first time.
“What grade are you, Luis?”
“Eleven.”
“Okay,” Denis said, making a couple notes to himself.
“Hey, your name is Denny?” Luis said, snickering a bit and reaching for Dennis’ name placard.
“That’s what my friends call me,” he said, looking hard at Luis. “You are not my friend. You will call me Mr. Moulton or Sir, is that understood?”
“Sure thing, boss,” Luis said in falsetto. Denis stared at him pretending to be intimidating, but he knew he wasn’t going to win.
“What are we going to do about this attitude of yours, Luis?”
Luis stared blankly back like a five-year old.
“You’ve continued to be a problem for Ms. Hitower,” Denis continued, trying to find anything to reprimand Luis for.
“Do you do any work in her class?”
“Ieunno.”
Denis was trying to get upset. He was upset, he knew he was, but he just couldn’t’ put it into words that would shake Luis up the way he wanted to.
“What was this fight about?” Denis said in his most stern voice.
“Nothing.”
“Is that what Justin is going to tell me? If he started it, you could get yourself out of a heap of trouble by telling me what happened.”
“Nah.”
Denis sighed and pulled out another for from his desk.
“Three days Saturday school. You know the routine, I’m sure.”
Luis stared at him with a dumb smile.
“Be here at eight in the morning for the next three Saturdays. You’re finished at one.”
Denis looked Luis in the eyes. Luis still had the same expression on his face. He looked like he hadn’t heard a word that had been said.
“As for the rest of the day, you’re going to in-house.”
“Okay,” Luis said, as if he had just been sent to Disneyland. The school had a mandatory in-house policy for fighters. Denis hated it because kids would get in fights just to be sent to in-house. It didn’t matter if Denis thought they should go or not—he had to send them there.
“Get out and don’t you even look at the other one.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Luis said in the same falsetto he used earlier.
“Out.”
Luis moved sluggishly to the door and out it. Denis sat for a moment to collect himself. He was trying to be angry. He really was angry. Little bastards like Luis were the absolute end of his patience. But he wanted to be intimidating. Anger was what some of them wanted. He stood and stuck his head out the door.
“Justin Boyce?” he said to a short African American boy sitting on the bench outside his office. He was slouched on the bench, making himself look scrawny, but when he stood, his full figure was revealed. He was short, but broad shouldered and obviously very fit. He slung his backpack over one should and walked into the office, his head high.
“Sit down.”
Justin lowered himself slowly into the chair Luis had been sitting in moments before. Denis waited until Justin was seated, then walked around his desk to his chair and sat. He studied the young man in front of him. He hadn’t seen him in his office before. Justin had an almost regal look about him. He sat very straight, but he didn’t look uncomfortable. Dennis contemplated how to begin.
“Luis tells me you two were fighting in Ms. Hitower’s class. Is this true?”
Justin sat silent.
“Haven’t seen you in here before I don’t think. Why don’t you explain to me why fighting is more important than doing your work?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Justin replied. “I’m getting suspended no matter what.”
“What are we going to do about this attitude of yours, Justin?”
Nothing.
“I just need to know what happened, son. If he started it, then—well, let’s just start with your account.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I beg to differ,” Denis said, raising his voice. Justin did not move. He remained a statue. Dennis held his eyes, and Justin did not look away. He didn’t blink. Denis could tell Justin was upset. That could work to his advantage. He just needed to push Justin a little more.
“Maybe I should just call home. What’s your phone number?”
“No one’s there.”
“Okay, give me one of your parents’ work numbers. Mom or Dad. I could just look it up, but this saves us some time,” Dennis said. He felt like he might be able to get somewhere with this kid. Really scare him into straightening out.
“Look it up then. There’s nothing.”
“Don’t make me. It’ll be better if you just tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Denis felt some fury rising inside himself now. He couldn’t get angry. He had to remain wrathful.
“Have it your way then.”
Denis turned to his computer and searched Justin’s name.
“Is this your home number? Seven one two, seven eight six four?”
“Yes. But I said—“
“Says here you’re a transfer from Long Beach Poly.”
“That’s right.”
Denis felt the power falling more and more into his hands. He was going to nail this kid to the wall.
“And there’s a secondary number: Three five three, two two zero one.”
“That’s my cell.”
Denis turned to Justin, confused. He wasn’t sure if he heard him right.
“Your cell?”
“Yes. I told you, man. Nobody’s home because I’m here. Those are my numbers.”
Denis was in shock. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“How—How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
Denis was muttering and stumbling over nonsensical words, trying to find the right question to ask.
“I take it you want me to explain?” Justin asked.
“Yes, I think that is necessary.”
“My dad died a few years back. He was in the military. Marines. Number forty-three to die in active service over there. My mom’s there right now,” Justin’s voice was rising, “Has been for a year. On her second tour. We got no one out here. She put me in an apartment, but when the landlord found out it was just me living there, I got evicted. So my mom moved me to Lakewood.”
Denis still didn’t know how to proceed.
“So you—you do everything alone?”
“I work. My mom sends me money every month to help with rent.”
“And school?”
“What about it?”
Denis wanted to tread carefully.
“Why do you do it?”
“Why am I in school?” Justin laughed a little. “Why is anyone in school? I gotta be. Not just for me, but for my mom. She has standards. When you’re the son of two Marines, you learn about standards real quick. I don’t expect you to understand me, man. Let’s just get this over with.”
Denis was feverish.
“Why in God’s good name were you fighting, son? You’re parents don’t have standards about that?”
Justin shot to his feet making Denis jump back in his chair.
“No, man. They don’t. There are no standards when it comes to defending yourself or a friend. There’s only principles. I got principles. Ain’t no man gonna strip those from me. Not that bitch Luis, and certainly not you, mister suit and tie.”
Both men were breathing hard, but slow and steady. Their eyes still locked on each other.
“Now,” Justin continued, “Tell what my punishment is so I can get it done.”
He sat down in his chair, still holding Denis’ gaze. Denis was at a complete loss.
“Justin,” Denis began slowly, choosing every word, “if you just tell me what the fight was about, then we can clear this up. I can just send you back to class, and your time with me will count as detention served. Just tell me what happened.”
“No. Now tell me what my punishment is.”
“If you don’t tell me, then you’ll serve the same detention as Luis. Is that what you want?” Denis screamed. “You want to drop to that level? Look at yourself. You’re better than he is. Tell me what happened.”
“We both fought,” Justin said calmly. “For different reasons, but we both fought. We are equally guilty and I will serve the time that I deserve. What happened makes no difference. I have my principles, and if anything, I’ve learned that if you want have principles—real, true principles—you have to pay for them. What is my punishment, Mr. Moulton?”
Denis’ hands were shaking. He reached into a drawer to pull out the Saturday detention slips.
“Three days Saturday detention,” he said, his voice cracking, “Show up this Saturday, eight in the morning, and for the next two following. You’ll be finished at one. For the rest of the day, you’ll have to go to in-house.”
He handed the slip to Justin.
Justin turned to walk out the door, but stopped and said in a very steady, official voice, “Thank you, Mr. Moulton. I apologize for the argument. I hope you understand.”
Denis didn’t say anything. He raised his hand in futility, knowing that it was only for appearance, in case Justin caught him out of the corner of his eye as he walked out the door.
He closed his eyes and they remained closed until he heard Carol’s voice at the door.
“Mr. Moulton?”
His eyes snapped open but he wasn’t looking at her.
“I—I’m sorry to disturb you—I, um—Ms. Hitower just called to check on the two boys she...”
“They were sent to in-house, Carol,” Denis replied, turning his face to her, his voice the calmest he had ever remembered. “Unless another issue arises, they will be in class tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll just—I’ll just let her know.”
Denis nodded. He watched as Carol turned and gently shut the door behind her. The stacks of referrals were not disgusting anymore; they acutely saddened him. With a deep breath he swept up the call slips in one motion and walked them out to Carol’s desk for disbursement. If he didn’t make it through at least half by the end of the day, he’d be hearing from teachers. It was his obligation.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
I Put My Hand to the Plow and Look Back
Listen to me because what I have to say is vitally important. It isn’t life or death. It is live or die. Maybe alive or dead. But it’s not meant to change anyone’s life. This isn’t one of those sentimental bullshit Hallmark cards. This isn’t an after school special. I’m not going to say, “Don’t just be—Do!” That would be ridiculous. Besides, I hate grammar. Even more than grammar, I hate cleverness that is based on it. Let me explain for those who don’t understand. To be is a verb that describes a state of being. Its conjugated forms are: am, is, are, was, were. There are other tenses, but there’s no need to get into those. It does not describe any action. It can describe a state of action, but the word itself is only a state. See-I just used “is,” an intransitive linking verb, that describes the noun “word” as something specific: “a state.” “Do,” describes action. Rather, it “helps” to describe action. Even when someone asks “How are you doing?” You say, “I’m doing fine/good/well/not so good/etc.” Not so good at what? Life, probably. Activism is for people who don’t know any better.
I wake up on Friday morning wanting to punch my roommate in the face, and I do. That’s how I end up in the hospital. I had never hit someone, closed fisted, in the face before. I’ve slapped people plenty of times, mostly because I was too afraid to punch. But not today. I punch him square in the mouth. Lucky for him, he is laughing like an idiot. Otherwise his teeth probably would have punctured both his lips. Instead, they puncture my hand. The knuckles hit those little yellow daggers and are stuck for a second. I can feel the incisors yanking out as he falls backward. It hurts. A lot.
The nurse at the hospital calls me an idiot. I thank him for his diagnosis and the stitches and go on my way. Jeremy is waiting for me in the lobby. He has a prescription in his hand. We don’t say anything to each other until we get in the car. Then we both jump in at the same time.
“IfDon’tyoueverevenstartcrazyfuckinIwillassholemurderyouif
WhatmeI’ll beat your face in next time,” Jeremy trails off after I stop.
“You’ll beat me in, will you?”
“What is wrong with you?”
“I got eight stitches in my hand, and you got a prescription for some Tylenol.”
“No. Why did you hit me?”
“We’re not talking about that right now. Not unless you wanna add some morphine and maybe a leg cast to that piece of paper.”
Jeremy looks at me like he’s never seen me before in his life. Maybe I’m different. No, I’m not different. I will make no apologies. Six months ago, I did notice things beginning to spin. I decided to quit my job. I was tired of work.
“So, you’re like Ron Livingston in Office Space,” Jeremy said. We were playing Mario Kart when I pitched it to him.
“No.”
“So what is this then? It sounds like Peter.”
“Peter was tired of his bosses telling him what to do.”
“So that’s not why you’re quitting?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, why then? —Goddamn red shell!”
“Because this is just the beginning of—I don’t know what to call it yet. Something new.”
“Sounds like Peter, man.”
“Peter was tired of rules and regulations.”
“You’re not tire—damnit!” Jeremy threw the controller down. He’s terrible at video games. “You’re not tired of that?”
“No, I am,” I said standing and turning off the T.V. “What I’m doing is more than that though.”
“So what are you doing then?”
“I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
We have to go to CVS before we go home so Jeremy can get his prescription. I go in with him and look at the cards. They have a category called “Any Occasion.” A card just because. I pick one up to read. On the front is a cartoon cat shrugging its shoulders with a bashful smile smashed on its face. The inside reads:
Don’t know why,
Just sayin’ hi!
Hi!
For some reason I feel sorry for the cat. Jeremy comes up behind me.
“They have magazines,” he says.
“Can you believe the nerve of these people?”
“What?”
“These cards.”
“Just forget it; let’s go. Damnit my mouth hurts.” He turns, putting his hand to his front teeth and rubbing. I follow him down the aisle.
“I’m just saying, what is the purpose of this card?” I still have it in my hand. “Who buys this?”
“No one probably—Jesus, what is wrong with you lately? Just let it go.”
I buy the card.
“There’s an envelope that comes with this,” the checker tells me.
“I don’t need it.”
Jeremy doesn’t notice until we get in the car.
“Is that what you bought? Two weeks without a job and you’re wasting what you have left on some card you’re not—what the hell are you going to do with that?”
Yes, it took me five months to grow the balls to quit my job. That’s not Peter at all.
“I don’t know yet. Hey, remember how I told you I didn’t know what I was doing six months ago?”
“Didn’t know six months ago? You don’t know now!”
“That’s not what—! That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean you said, what are you doing if it’s not the Peter thing, and I said, I don’t know but it’s something. Well, I decided. I’m quitting life.”
Jeremy laughs so hard that he pulls the car into opposing traffic, but quickly swerves back to avoid a not-too-happy Mustang.
“So you’re committing suicide?”
“No, that’s not it at all.”
“I’m sorry,” he says trying to control his laughter, “You just sound like a retarded sixteen-year-old. You know, one of those, like, really philosophical kids who thinks they have it all figured out. Oh! Like a drama kid! That’s it!”
I don’t say anything until he laughs it out a little.
“I’m just tired of—thiiiis,” I say waving my arms around.
“So you want to commit suicide.”
“No. I just—don’t want to do anything—but even that involves compliance to something—which is nothing.”
“Drama kid.”
“I’m done waking up to structure.”
“Oh! I know who you sound like! Brad Pitt from Fight Club! Or Edward Norton. You decide.”
“No, that’s not what this is. This isn’t some social experiment whatever thing. Tyler Durden wanted to spur social unrest. I don’t care about anyone else.”
“No, no! It makes perfect sense,” Jeremy said getting very excited, “That’s why you punched me! You wanna start Fight Club! Instead of working, you’re just going to—“
“Jeremy. Shut up. God, you sound like such a tool. We’re not starting Fight Club. That’s not what this is.”
“Well, you’re doing a really shitty job of explaining it.”
I don’t know how to explain it. Not at all. But I make the best attempt I can.
“You know that feeling you get when you’re driving by yourself? Like, you’re driving down the 605 or something. Traffic is terrible—just fucking—stay with me on this, okay? You’re driving. And you’re listening to The Get Up Kids or something that takes you back to when you first got interested in things other than what T.V. told you was cool. You’re just—just focusing so hard. Listening to every note, every word. You listen so intently that all of the sudden, you just turn the stereo off. And it’s silent in the car—no traffic noises, nothing. Now you’re really thinking. Just thinking about all the things you’re going to do. Whenever. Not things that you have to do, things you are going to do. And this feeling starts to rise in you; it’s like excitement, but better. It’s more than excitement. It’s longing. To be where you want to be. That’s what I want. All the time. You know what feeling I’m talking about?”
“No.”
“You are hopeless. Fucking hopeless. You wanna know why I punched you in the face? Because you never think about anything. You just do and never think. That’s why you suck shit at video games.”
“Look, I like watching those artsy, indie films as much as the next guy, or even you for that matter, but you’ve been sounding like one a lot these last few months. It’s kind of disgusting actually. You sound like you’re—like you’re just—trying way too hard. Is that what this is? Some kind of pretentious indie kid thing? Like, you want to be indie, but not, because everyone is indie now and so being indie is really not being indie? And, like, you just don’t know what you need to do to reclaim that indieness or something?” He waits for a response. “So really, the definition of indie sits with you in your lofty court of indie justice.”
“I don’t even know what you just said.”
“Of course not,” Jeremy says throwing his hands in the air and then letting them slap back onto the steering wheel.
“I’m just saying what you said has nothing to do with what I’m doing.”
He doesn’t respond.
We finally arrive back at the apartment. Jeremy walks ahead of me through the two rows of parking stalls and up the stairs. I saunter a bit. I remove the any occasion card from the small, plastic CVS bag, walk over to the dumpster and throw the bag away. I turn the card over and over in my hands.
When I walk in the front door, Jeremy is already in his room with the door shut. He is blasting The Get Up Kids. I walk into my room and sit down at my desk. It’s empty except for my computer, about a hundred crumpled receipts, this month’s unpaid bills, and a multitude of meaningless school assignments. I set the card upright and open on the back corner.
I walk down the short hall to Jeremy’s room and knock on the door. Then I pound. The music stops abruptly, and after a moment the door swings open.
“I just want to say—I’m not that sorry for punching you in the face, but I am just a little. I guess in the way that I should feel guilty for inflicting physical injury. Just think of it this way: If I hadn’t punched you, you probably wouldn’t have been listening to The Get Up Kids just now. Or had the opportunity to try and call me out as an indie fraud.”
“Which you are.”
“Not the point.”
“So then what is?”
“I don’t know.” I don’t seem to know much about anything anymore. “I think I’m going to call my old job back. They said they’d have something for me if I ever returned from finding myself.”
“That’s what you told them?”
“No, that’s what they said to me.”
“I mean, you told them you were finding yourself?”
“No. I said I was dissatisfied with their performance.”
“So you fired them?”
“In a way, yes.”
Jeremy cocks his head thoughtfully.
“I think I’m gonna call some people up and go bowling tonight. Cosmic bowling,” he says.
“Count me in.”
I walk back to my room, sit at my desk and pick up the card. I don’t feel sorry for the cat anymore. I respect him. To do without reason is impossible to defend. The only defense is just because. That takes courage. I want that.
I wake up on Friday morning wanting to punch my roommate in the face, and I do. That’s how I end up in the hospital. I had never hit someone, closed fisted, in the face before. I’ve slapped people plenty of times, mostly because I was too afraid to punch. But not today. I punch him square in the mouth. Lucky for him, he is laughing like an idiot. Otherwise his teeth probably would have punctured both his lips. Instead, they puncture my hand. The knuckles hit those little yellow daggers and are stuck for a second. I can feel the incisors yanking out as he falls backward. It hurts. A lot.
The nurse at the hospital calls me an idiot. I thank him for his diagnosis and the stitches and go on my way. Jeremy is waiting for me in the lobby. He has a prescription in his hand. We don’t say anything to each other until we get in the car. Then we both jump in at the same time.
“IfDon’tyoueverevenstartcrazyfuckinIwillassholemurderyouif
WhatmeI’ll beat your face in next time,” Jeremy trails off after I stop.
“You’ll beat me in, will you?”
“What is wrong with you?”
“I got eight stitches in my hand, and you got a prescription for some Tylenol.”
“No. Why did you hit me?”
“We’re not talking about that right now. Not unless you wanna add some morphine and maybe a leg cast to that piece of paper.”
Jeremy looks at me like he’s never seen me before in his life. Maybe I’m different. No, I’m not different. I will make no apologies. Six months ago, I did notice things beginning to spin. I decided to quit my job. I was tired of work.
“So, you’re like Ron Livingston in Office Space,” Jeremy said. We were playing Mario Kart when I pitched it to him.
“No.”
“So what is this then? It sounds like Peter.”
“Peter was tired of his bosses telling him what to do.”
“So that’s not why you’re quitting?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, why then? —Goddamn red shell!”
“Because this is just the beginning of—I don’t know what to call it yet. Something new.”
“Sounds like Peter, man.”
“Peter was tired of rules and regulations.”
“You’re not tire—damnit!” Jeremy threw the controller down. He’s terrible at video games. “You’re not tired of that?”
“No, I am,” I said standing and turning off the T.V. “What I’m doing is more than that though.”
“So what are you doing then?”
“I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
We have to go to CVS before we go home so Jeremy can get his prescription. I go in with him and look at the cards. They have a category called “Any Occasion.” A card just because. I pick one up to read. On the front is a cartoon cat shrugging its shoulders with a bashful smile smashed on its face. The inside reads:
Don’t know why,
Just sayin’ hi!
Hi!
For some reason I feel sorry for the cat. Jeremy comes up behind me.
“They have magazines,” he says.
“Can you believe the nerve of these people?”
“What?”
“These cards.”
“Just forget it; let’s go. Damnit my mouth hurts.” He turns, putting his hand to his front teeth and rubbing. I follow him down the aisle.
“I’m just saying, what is the purpose of this card?” I still have it in my hand. “Who buys this?”
“No one probably—Jesus, what is wrong with you lately? Just let it go.”
I buy the card.
“There’s an envelope that comes with this,” the checker tells me.
“I don’t need it.”
Jeremy doesn’t notice until we get in the car.
“Is that what you bought? Two weeks without a job and you’re wasting what you have left on some card you’re not—what the hell are you going to do with that?”
Yes, it took me five months to grow the balls to quit my job. That’s not Peter at all.
“I don’t know yet. Hey, remember how I told you I didn’t know what I was doing six months ago?”
“Didn’t know six months ago? You don’t know now!”
“That’s not what—! That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean you said, what are you doing if it’s not the Peter thing, and I said, I don’t know but it’s something. Well, I decided. I’m quitting life.”
Jeremy laughs so hard that he pulls the car into opposing traffic, but quickly swerves back to avoid a not-too-happy Mustang.
“So you’re committing suicide?”
“No, that’s not it at all.”
“I’m sorry,” he says trying to control his laughter, “You just sound like a retarded sixteen-year-old. You know, one of those, like, really philosophical kids who thinks they have it all figured out. Oh! Like a drama kid! That’s it!”
I don’t say anything until he laughs it out a little.
“I’m just tired of—thiiiis,” I say waving my arms around.
“So you want to commit suicide.”
“No. I just—don’t want to do anything—but even that involves compliance to something—which is nothing.”
“Drama kid.”
“I’m done waking up to structure.”
“Oh! I know who you sound like! Brad Pitt from Fight Club! Or Edward Norton. You decide.”
“No, that’s not what this is. This isn’t some social experiment whatever thing. Tyler Durden wanted to spur social unrest. I don’t care about anyone else.”
“No, no! It makes perfect sense,” Jeremy said getting very excited, “That’s why you punched me! You wanna start Fight Club! Instead of working, you’re just going to—“
“Jeremy. Shut up. God, you sound like such a tool. We’re not starting Fight Club. That’s not what this is.”
“Well, you’re doing a really shitty job of explaining it.”
I don’t know how to explain it. Not at all. But I make the best attempt I can.
“You know that feeling you get when you’re driving by yourself? Like, you’re driving down the 605 or something. Traffic is terrible—just fucking—stay with me on this, okay? You’re driving. And you’re listening to The Get Up Kids or something that takes you back to when you first got interested in things other than what T.V. told you was cool. You’re just—just focusing so hard. Listening to every note, every word. You listen so intently that all of the sudden, you just turn the stereo off. And it’s silent in the car—no traffic noises, nothing. Now you’re really thinking. Just thinking about all the things you’re going to do. Whenever. Not things that you have to do, things you are going to do. And this feeling starts to rise in you; it’s like excitement, but better. It’s more than excitement. It’s longing. To be where you want to be. That’s what I want. All the time. You know what feeling I’m talking about?”
“No.”
“You are hopeless. Fucking hopeless. You wanna know why I punched you in the face? Because you never think about anything. You just do and never think. That’s why you suck shit at video games.”
“Look, I like watching those artsy, indie films as much as the next guy, or even you for that matter, but you’ve been sounding like one a lot these last few months. It’s kind of disgusting actually. You sound like you’re—like you’re just—trying way too hard. Is that what this is? Some kind of pretentious indie kid thing? Like, you want to be indie, but not, because everyone is indie now and so being indie is really not being indie? And, like, you just don’t know what you need to do to reclaim that indieness or something?” He waits for a response. “So really, the definition of indie sits with you in your lofty court of indie justice.”
“I don’t even know what you just said.”
“Of course not,” Jeremy says throwing his hands in the air and then letting them slap back onto the steering wheel.
“I’m just saying what you said has nothing to do with what I’m doing.”
He doesn’t respond.
We finally arrive back at the apartment. Jeremy walks ahead of me through the two rows of parking stalls and up the stairs. I saunter a bit. I remove the any occasion card from the small, plastic CVS bag, walk over to the dumpster and throw the bag away. I turn the card over and over in my hands.
When I walk in the front door, Jeremy is already in his room with the door shut. He is blasting The Get Up Kids. I walk into my room and sit down at my desk. It’s empty except for my computer, about a hundred crumpled receipts, this month’s unpaid bills, and a multitude of meaningless school assignments. I set the card upright and open on the back corner.
I walk down the short hall to Jeremy’s room and knock on the door. Then I pound. The music stops abruptly, and after a moment the door swings open.
“I just want to say—I’m not that sorry for punching you in the face, but I am just a little. I guess in the way that I should feel guilty for inflicting physical injury. Just think of it this way: If I hadn’t punched you, you probably wouldn’t have been listening to The Get Up Kids just now. Or had the opportunity to try and call me out as an indie fraud.”
“Which you are.”
“Not the point.”
“So then what is?”
“I don’t know.” I don’t seem to know much about anything anymore. “I think I’m going to call my old job back. They said they’d have something for me if I ever returned from finding myself.”
“That’s what you told them?”
“No, that’s what they said to me.”
“I mean, you told them you were finding yourself?”
“No. I said I was dissatisfied with their performance.”
“So you fired them?”
“In a way, yes.”
Jeremy cocks his head thoughtfully.
“I think I’m gonna call some people up and go bowling tonight. Cosmic bowling,” he says.
“Count me in.”
I walk back to my room, sit at my desk and pick up the card. I don’t feel sorry for the cat anymore. I respect him. To do without reason is impossible to defend. The only defense is just because. That takes courage. I want that.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Signs and Signifiers
I slump in the front seat of my car. A mist is beginning to descend, dampening the parking lot asphalt. The brick of the building goes from a dull pink to a deep orange. The 11:49 pm train is crossing the Gold Line, humming along the cables headed for the Mission St. station. Eleven minutes left until I have to be sitting at my phone. Eleven minutes left for me to just sit and be quiet. I keep my eyes closed, hoping that when I open them the clock will have jumped backwards. It never does. Every time I open my eyes it’s a couple minutes closer. I breathe deep, fly out of my car and into the back door of the building. I haven't seen the sun rise in five years.
The front room has been narrowed by obsolete phone equipment piled and collected over the fifty years the company has been in business. No one really knows why it hasn’t been thrown away, or at least organized to be displayed. Beyond the phone mausoleum lies the main hallway with the breakroom immediately to the left. Large windows display the inside. Four refrigerators, a couple vending machines and tables with plastic chairs. It’s a zoo exhibit.
I clock in before anyone stops to talk to me. My cubicle is littered with new memos. Marta is already at her phone answering calls in her awful tone. She's large, just as wide as the cubicle. She has a collection of five muu muus, at least I've only seen five, that she wears each week. Today it's midnight blue with orange birds-of-paradise. How she has continued to come in dressed like that without a word from our supervisor is a mystery to me. Once I wore jeans and he warned me that if I ever came in dressed like homeless jackass again, I'd be fired. From then on, it's been slacks and a tie. I make up for it by sitting down right at midnight. I never give anything more than I have to. Just enough to stay. Marta is always early and I resent her for it. I hate her for loving this.
“Thank you for calling TRM. This is Marta, how can I help you?” she says.
I drop into my chair and log on to my computer. I pull a sanitary wipe out of my satchel and wipe the ear grease off of my headset. I supposed to answer my first call before 12:01. The phone system comes on.
22 CALLS WAITING, the display reads. The second I hit Ready, the system will randomly route a call to me and I will most likely be speaking to someone across the country.
Marta pushes her chair back on the linoleum and stretches for a second between calls. She opens her mouth to yawn, creating multiple chins on her neck.
“How ya doin today Bobbo?”
“I'm fine, I say to her.”
“That's good, that's good.”
We have the same exchange every day. At the exact same time: 12:01 am. Marta grabs on to the sides of the cubicle and pulls herself back to the computer. She hits the Ready button on her phone system and takes a new call. Sounds like a Lego Catalog order. Who the hell orders Legos in the middle of the night?
I decide it's probably a good idea that I get started so I put my headset on and hit my Ready button. The Ready button is the gate. It is the plug in the damn. When you press that button, my supervisor told me in training, you are saying, yes I am ready to help someone. Yes, I’m ready for whatever is next.
“Thank you for calling TRM. My name is Robert. May I have your first name please?”
“Penny.”
“And your last name Penny?”
“Durham.”
“Okay Miss Durham, can I have the name and number of your store?”
“Corner Drug Store. There's no number. It's the only one I know of anyway.”
“Okay. Can I have the phone number?”
“Nine seven eight. Five nine eight. Five nine eight one.”
“Thank you Miss Durham--”
“Call me Penny, please.”
This is new. I can hear an urgency in her voice. Not the usual, I-want-my-copier-fixed-this-instant urgency.
“Okay, Penny. What can I help you with today?”
“Tell me why I'm talking to you, she says.”
I know everything there is to know about TRM copy and ATM machines. If you have ever had to deal with a grocery store copy machine, it was probably a TRM. Those aren't the only calls I take. If you call to order the LA Times, you could talk to me. Or you could talk to some woman in Ohio, pregnant with her fourth child, holding down this job just to feed herself and the other three not knowing how she is going to take care of the one growing inside her. But you would never know any of that. You only know that she can tell you all about the weekly specials and make a special note for the delivery boy to leave the paper on your porch, not in your driveway. If you call the 800 number from an infomercial, it could be me taking your order. I can tell you all about the new America's Test Kitchen cookbook, or the pill that will change your life and flush your colon. I'm lying mostly. But so is the man on the television. The information I have is just as abstract and general as what you, the consumer, hears from him. I can give you no more than what I'm given. Yes ma’am, the product is designed cleanse the body and make you feel happier and healthier than ever before. How does it work? Well why don’t you try it for sixty days and if you’re not completely satisfied, you can return and get a no-questions-asked refund! How does that sound?
So many people want to know more. That's how they get you. They snare you with generalities.
TRM is our biggest client. Customers call from Wal-Mart, Winn-Dixie, Shoppers Drug Mart, 7-Eleven to tell me their copier is broken. There are only two types of people that call: young Southern girls, or male Indian immigrants. I can't understand the men most of the time. They get very upset with me and curse. The girls usually sound like they're daydreaming.
“You say you can't find the paper jam?”
“Hmm? Oh yes, that's right.”
“So you need a technician out right away?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You say you want my hands all over you?”
“Yeah, listen is someone going to be out today? My manager is really on my ass about this.”
“Yes miss. We usually try to respond within forty-eight hours.”
“All right then.”
“Thank you for calling TRM.”
They don't know that I don't really work for the company they're trying to contact. And I'm not supposed to tell them. I am the Wizard of Oz, talking to you from behind my curtain. I am a road sign with subtext.
I pulled the curtain back once. I unchained this guy from the cave wall. He was blinded by his new knowledge. He didn't know what to do with himself.
“You mean to tell me that you don't work for this company?”
“No sir, I work for a company whom that company has hired to answer its customer service calls.”
“So you can't contact the warehouse?”
“No.”
“You can't get in touch with anyone who actually sells this shit?”
“No sir.”
“Oh--This--this is great. I'm gonna sue your company's ass back to the goddamn Stone Age is what I'm gonna do.”
“Sir, they're not my company.”
“Well whoever the hell it is better watch out. Because I'm coming. I am coming, goddammit.”
“Okay sir, anything else?”
“Yeah, one more thing: Kill yourself.”
“Thank you sir, have a nice day.”
I don't say anything for over a minute. I know because I watch the clock on the computer screen change from 12:04 to 12:05 and then to 12:06. I can hear her waiting for my answer.
“Is there someone else you should be talking to?” I say.
“No, but I knew that I would talk to you. A man named Robert,” Penny tells me.
“I'm not sure I understand what you're saying.”
“Look, can I try something? I'm going to hang up and call back, and if I reach you again, we'll know it was meant to be, okay?”
“Penny, I don't want to disappoint you, but I don't think you're going to get through to me again. Do you know how many--”
“There are fifteen call centers nation wide who handle calls for TRM. Furthermore, your call center, Peak Communications, handles calls for 700 clients. All the incoming calls are randomly routed and distributed between all the call centers and all the agents. You're probably only trained on twenty or so of those, which narrows it down considerably. Since it's the middle of the night where you are, there are probably only between twenty and thirty agents handling calls, right? Well assuming it's the same at all the other call centers, I'd say the chances are slim, but that's why it's important. I guessed the name of the person I would get on the phone. I dialed the number and said to myself, I am going to speak to Robert. And here we are.”
“So what does that mean?” I ask. I know this is meaningless, but I want to keep her on the phone as long as possible. She is a customer, after all, and no one is ever allowed to hang up on a customer. Ever. We have to sit and listen and wait until we hear click.
“Well it doesn't mean anything yet. Not until I call back and reach you again. Do you know where I am?”
“No, I haven't looked up your store's account yet.”
“I live in Massachusetts. Have you ever been back here?”
“No,” I admit sheepishly.
“You're in Los Angeles aren't you? I've never been there either. I've never been beyond the Appalachians.”
“And so, you're saying--”
“Here we are, two voices. Neither of us has ever been even remotely near the other. We've probably had completely different life experiences. Has anyone ever spoken to you before?”
“You're joking right? I talk to people every day, eight hours a day,” I tell her in the sort of curt tone that customers usually talk to me in.
“But do they speak to you?”
This is getting weird, I think to myself. I look at the clock and notice that we've been on the phone for almost ten minutes.
“I--I guess not. I mean not in a religious or philosophical--I don't believe I'm having this conversation.”
“Believe it,” she says like an evangelist.
“Look, people call. They have problems. I try to help them fix those problems. That's it,” I say
“No one has ever wanted to know who you are, where you're from, the last time you cried, the name of your first kiss, what you had for dinner?”
“Why would anyone want to know?” I say, almost out of patience.
“That's what you need to tell me,” she says.
“Penny, listen. Is there anything wrong with your copier? Because, if not, I should probably get on to other calls.”
“I'm going to call back. At five o'clock Pacific time. And if I get you, we'll take it as a sign. As fate.”
Now I'm upset. I can't decide why exactly. An irrational anger is growing in my throat.
“A sign? It would be a coincidence. What would something like that mean?”
“It can mean anything you want it to. People interpret fate in a number of ways. In any way they want. Do you believe in fate?”
I pause for a moment. I’m not deciding, I already know the answer. I just don't know if I want to tell her. Fate is something for mystics and dreamers, my father would say. Destiny, moira, lot--all garbage. A man makes his own. No one can decide for him. All the words of my father. He put up a façade--he didn't believe in anything philosophical. But that in itself was a philosophy and he knew it. He hid behind his blue collar. He used it as a crutch. I could never understand why. He didn't thrive on sympathy. He didn't want anyone to feel sorry for him. I did though. I hated how he would never admit that maybe things could have been better for us. He would never say that I could do better. Everything was acceptable. Community college was acceptable. State was acceptable. This job was acceptable. You make your own destiny, son.
He was a bus driver for the MTA. Never took a single sick day. They laid him off one hot, spring morning just about nine months before he was going to retire. The unusual heat that year was making it difficult for him to see. He wore glasses thick as DMV windows and needed prescription sunglasses.
“I can't see nothin' but heat risin' from the pavement out there,” he'd say. “I'm gonna kill someone or someone gonna kill me.”
His back was also getting progressively worse. Sitting for eight hours a day on vibrating vinyl rattled his insides so that they just wouldn't stop moving. He needed surgery, or he wasn't going to be able to walk by the time he was ready to retire. The MTA wouldn't pay for it. After all his years of service, they just let him go and hired someone younger who already owned sunglasses and had a spotless medical record.
“That's just the way some things are,” my father told me. “No point in blamin' something silly as fate. I'd like to think I have a bit more control over myself. I make my own decisions and so the consequences are mine--no one else's. “
My father's route was considered one of the most dangerous. The 42. It started in Downtown between 3rd and 4th on Broadway, not far from the Civic Center. It crossed down through the Jewelry District, then headed West past USC and Expo Park, then turned slightly South and went through Crenshaw, Inglewood and finally ended just North of LAX in Westchester. The year after Dad got laid off, the police officers accused of beating Rodney King nearly to death were acquitted. Rioters stopped many MTA busses, including Dad's old one. The new driver was able run and escape the mob, who smashed all the windows and lit the bus on fire. Dad never even noticed; he drew no connection. But the coincidence always made me wonder. I don't think Dad would have been as lucky as the other driver. There are some moments in time that imprint themselves on your mind. They make you think about things differently from then on. No one else thinks anything of it. To them, it's just another day. But to you, it changes everything. It is the point on which your existence pivots and changes direction.
“I do,” I finally say.
“Goodbye, Robert. I hope to speak to you again in a few hours.”
I say nothing and wait until the LED on my phone system moves from Call to Wrap-Up. I switch off-line for a minute and breathe slowly.
My shift continues uneventfully. I have a swarm of calls between 2 and 3am for TRM; the grocery store employees in the Eastern and Central time zones always arrive at 5am to open shop. A few sleepless people call to order some colon cleanser from the infomercial they're watching with dry eyes. I hate not having a break between calls. Even ten seconds is bliss. There is an LED on the phone console set apart from the buttons that is supposed to give me an approximate idea of the call volume.
When it is off, I have no calls waiting.
Green means 1-5 calls waiting.
Yellow means 6-15 calls waiting.
Red is 16 or more.
Most days the light is red the second I sign on. Those days are always bad. I know that, statistically, I am more likely to talk to more assholes that day than a day where the light is green when I sign on. It is almost never off.
As it gets closer to 5 am, I begin to get nervous. I know why, but I don't want to admit it to myself. I tried to just forget about it at first. But I keep thinking, what if? I told myself it was impossible. I still want to believe it's impossible. But what will happen if she does get through? I've pinned it. I’m afraid nothing will happen. I want the space-time continuum to tear and shred into a million pieces. I want it to incite a miracle. I want to pivot again. I know strange coincidences and statistical anomalies occur everyday, but most don’t mean anything. I believe in fate. I want to hear Penny's voice in my headset at 5 am. I just want to know before I do, that something will happen. I want it to mean something.
I know that if she calls right at 5 am, she will probably have to wait on hold for at least ten minutes. The West Coast grocery stores call at 5 am. I am trying to time it right, though there's no sense in trying. I want to take a call right at 5 am. I'm on a car loan application at 4:57 am. These can take less than a minute, but I drag it out, and instead of telling the customer I don't know the answer to his questions, I fake it.
“Yes sir just got three blue Escalades in this morning. Yes, one of them is in the showroom right now. Oh, well, I think they're all fully loaded, sir. Yes, I will check on that. Sure, let me take your number, and a sales rep will call you right back. Thanks for your business.” Click.
5 am.
The LED sits on Wrap-Up. My heart is beating in my wrists. I try to slow it down. Stop. Stop. Stop. I want to prepare myself for disappointment before I hit Ready, but I can't. I have to get this over with and get back to normal, no matter what that is.
3 CALLS WAITING
“Thank you for calling TRM. My name is Robert. May I have your first name please?”
Silence. This happens from time to time. Someone is on hold for a long time and they put the phone down. Their ear hurts after a while and they need a break. They get sick of the elevator music. Music I have never heard. I don't even know what type of music they're really listening too. Many people complain about it, but they only tell me, You need to get that waiting music changed. I have no idea what it sounds like.
“Hello? You've reached TRM, this is Robert. How may I help you?”
“Oh, Hello? Hello? Is this the copy place?”
“Yes sir, may I have your first name please.”
My heart drops.
With each call, disappointment displaces my anxiety. The time moves closer and closer to 5:30. I take more TRM, a comment for Downey Fabric Softener, an LA Times order. I have to take a break. Not because I need one, but because my supervisor tells me it's time.
“Take ten, Bob,” he says to me.
Marta is in the break room finishing her breakfast: a SlimFast shake.
I saunter around the room, contemplating a soda or snack from a machine, but decide against it. I grab a seat in the corner of the room and just sit for a moment with my eyes shut tight and the palms of my hands stretching my face back. I can feel Marta’s eyes on me. Please God, I don’t want her to talk to me.
“Bobbo?” she asks in a motherly tone. We have never spoken outside our five-second conversation first thing when I come in. Christ, please let this end.
“Yes?”
“You're not really looking like yourself today. Is everything all right?”
I snap up and open last September's Time, trying to ignore her, but something tugs at me.
“Well--” I breathe deeply-- “Marta. The truth is that I think I've missed a huge opportunity. A chance for change. I think I’ve missed something really big, and there is nothing I can do about it now.”
She looks at me with a furrowed brow. Her forehead is deeply ridged. I can tell she understands and is turning it over in her head. “What are you wanting to change?” she asks me.
“I don't know,” I say, frustrated. “I was waiting for a sign. For fate to step in. It's not just this job. It's everything. The way I think. Christ, I sound like an idiot. I just wanted a new philosophy.”
“Fate? Robert.” And she looks at me hard. Very seriously, the way a doctor would. She has never called me Robert before. “I don’t know, I don’t want to sound rude. I guess I’ve always believed fate was sort of--well--just ridiculous.”
She looks at me sheepishly, like she just insulted my mother and feels bad about it.
“Ridiculous how?” I say, humoring her.
“Not ridiculous, but--I guess I just learned that a person chooses his own. I figure, I can’t go blaming something like fate every time things don’t my way. I’d like to think I have a bit more control over things.”
I feel something in the pit of my stomach. It’s rising. At first I think it’s vomit--it’s familiar like that, but different. I stare ahead and focus on nothing. My eyes blur.
“Weeeellll,” Marta says heaving herself out of her chair, “I guess I better get back to the old grind. It's what I've chosen.” She cracks a smile out of the corner of her mouth and gives me a wink. “It was nice talking to you Bobbo. I hope we can do this again sometime.”
“Yeah,” I say still staring. I check my watch. Two minutes left of my break. I walk back to my cubical. My supervisor is going over new procedures for placing TRM service call orders. Marta is telling someone all about the benefits of a clean colon. I know I will never see either of them again. I'll probably get a call from my supervisor, cursing and telling me I'm fired. I won't say anything and I'll hang up. I know this. I think about Penny and breathe relief. I look at my computer screen. I see the Ready button. I reach down and press it. I walk back passed the break room and out to the parking lot. I get in my car and just sit for a minute. I will drive, but the timing isn't important. The where isn't important right now. I can decide when and where. The sun is coming up over the cables of the Gold Line. The mist is being burned away, but it clings to the tops of the oak trees. The rays sparkle on the damp asphalt of the parking lot. The world lights up around me.
The front room has been narrowed by obsolete phone equipment piled and collected over the fifty years the company has been in business. No one really knows why it hasn’t been thrown away, or at least organized to be displayed. Beyond the phone mausoleum lies the main hallway with the breakroom immediately to the left. Large windows display the inside. Four refrigerators, a couple vending machines and tables with plastic chairs. It’s a zoo exhibit.
I clock in before anyone stops to talk to me. My cubicle is littered with new memos. Marta is already at her phone answering calls in her awful tone. She's large, just as wide as the cubicle. She has a collection of five muu muus, at least I've only seen five, that she wears each week. Today it's midnight blue with orange birds-of-paradise. How she has continued to come in dressed like that without a word from our supervisor is a mystery to me. Once I wore jeans and he warned me that if I ever came in dressed like homeless jackass again, I'd be fired. From then on, it's been slacks and a tie. I make up for it by sitting down right at midnight. I never give anything more than I have to. Just enough to stay. Marta is always early and I resent her for it. I hate her for loving this.
“Thank you for calling TRM. This is Marta, how can I help you?” she says.
I drop into my chair and log on to my computer. I pull a sanitary wipe out of my satchel and wipe the ear grease off of my headset. I supposed to answer my first call before 12:01. The phone system comes on.
22 CALLS WAITING, the display reads. The second I hit Ready, the system will randomly route a call to me and I will most likely be speaking to someone across the country.
Marta pushes her chair back on the linoleum and stretches for a second between calls. She opens her mouth to yawn, creating multiple chins on her neck.
“How ya doin today Bobbo?”
“I'm fine, I say to her.”
“That's good, that's good.”
We have the same exchange every day. At the exact same time: 12:01 am. Marta grabs on to the sides of the cubicle and pulls herself back to the computer. She hits the Ready button on her phone system and takes a new call. Sounds like a Lego Catalog order. Who the hell orders Legos in the middle of the night?
I decide it's probably a good idea that I get started so I put my headset on and hit my Ready button. The Ready button is the gate. It is the plug in the damn. When you press that button, my supervisor told me in training, you are saying, yes I am ready to help someone. Yes, I’m ready for whatever is next.
“Thank you for calling TRM. My name is Robert. May I have your first name please?”
“Penny.”
“And your last name Penny?”
“Durham.”
“Okay Miss Durham, can I have the name and number of your store?”
“Corner Drug Store. There's no number. It's the only one I know of anyway.”
“Okay. Can I have the phone number?”
“Nine seven eight. Five nine eight. Five nine eight one.”
“Thank you Miss Durham--”
“Call me Penny, please.”
This is new. I can hear an urgency in her voice. Not the usual, I-want-my-copier-fixed-this-instant urgency.
“Okay, Penny. What can I help you with today?”
“Tell me why I'm talking to you, she says.”
I know everything there is to know about TRM copy and ATM machines. If you have ever had to deal with a grocery store copy machine, it was probably a TRM. Those aren't the only calls I take. If you call to order the LA Times, you could talk to me. Or you could talk to some woman in Ohio, pregnant with her fourth child, holding down this job just to feed herself and the other three not knowing how she is going to take care of the one growing inside her. But you would never know any of that. You only know that she can tell you all about the weekly specials and make a special note for the delivery boy to leave the paper on your porch, not in your driveway. If you call the 800 number from an infomercial, it could be me taking your order. I can tell you all about the new America's Test Kitchen cookbook, or the pill that will change your life and flush your colon. I'm lying mostly. But so is the man on the television. The information I have is just as abstract and general as what you, the consumer, hears from him. I can give you no more than what I'm given. Yes ma’am, the product is designed cleanse the body and make you feel happier and healthier than ever before. How does it work? Well why don’t you try it for sixty days and if you’re not completely satisfied, you can return and get a no-questions-asked refund! How does that sound?
So many people want to know more. That's how they get you. They snare you with generalities.
TRM is our biggest client. Customers call from Wal-Mart, Winn-Dixie, Shoppers Drug Mart, 7-Eleven to tell me their copier is broken. There are only two types of people that call: young Southern girls, or male Indian immigrants. I can't understand the men most of the time. They get very upset with me and curse. The girls usually sound like they're daydreaming.
“You say you can't find the paper jam?”
“Hmm? Oh yes, that's right.”
“So you need a technician out right away?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You say you want my hands all over you?”
“Yeah, listen is someone going to be out today? My manager is really on my ass about this.”
“Yes miss. We usually try to respond within forty-eight hours.”
“All right then.”
“Thank you for calling TRM.”
They don't know that I don't really work for the company they're trying to contact. And I'm not supposed to tell them. I am the Wizard of Oz, talking to you from behind my curtain. I am a road sign with subtext.
I pulled the curtain back once. I unchained this guy from the cave wall. He was blinded by his new knowledge. He didn't know what to do with himself.
“You mean to tell me that you don't work for this company?”
“No sir, I work for a company whom that company has hired to answer its customer service calls.”
“So you can't contact the warehouse?”
“No.”
“You can't get in touch with anyone who actually sells this shit?”
“No sir.”
“Oh--This--this is great. I'm gonna sue your company's ass back to the goddamn Stone Age is what I'm gonna do.”
“Sir, they're not my company.”
“Well whoever the hell it is better watch out. Because I'm coming. I am coming, goddammit.”
“Okay sir, anything else?”
“Yeah, one more thing: Kill yourself.”
“Thank you sir, have a nice day.”
I don't say anything for over a minute. I know because I watch the clock on the computer screen change from 12:04 to 12:05 and then to 12:06. I can hear her waiting for my answer.
“Is there someone else you should be talking to?” I say.
“No, but I knew that I would talk to you. A man named Robert,” Penny tells me.
“I'm not sure I understand what you're saying.”
“Look, can I try something? I'm going to hang up and call back, and if I reach you again, we'll know it was meant to be, okay?”
“Penny, I don't want to disappoint you, but I don't think you're going to get through to me again. Do you know how many--”
“There are fifteen call centers nation wide who handle calls for TRM. Furthermore, your call center, Peak Communications, handles calls for 700 clients. All the incoming calls are randomly routed and distributed between all the call centers and all the agents. You're probably only trained on twenty or so of those, which narrows it down considerably. Since it's the middle of the night where you are, there are probably only between twenty and thirty agents handling calls, right? Well assuming it's the same at all the other call centers, I'd say the chances are slim, but that's why it's important. I guessed the name of the person I would get on the phone. I dialed the number and said to myself, I am going to speak to Robert. And here we are.”
“So what does that mean?” I ask. I know this is meaningless, but I want to keep her on the phone as long as possible. She is a customer, after all, and no one is ever allowed to hang up on a customer. Ever. We have to sit and listen and wait until we hear click.
“Well it doesn't mean anything yet. Not until I call back and reach you again. Do you know where I am?”
“No, I haven't looked up your store's account yet.”
“I live in Massachusetts. Have you ever been back here?”
“No,” I admit sheepishly.
“You're in Los Angeles aren't you? I've never been there either. I've never been beyond the Appalachians.”
“And so, you're saying--”
“Here we are, two voices. Neither of us has ever been even remotely near the other. We've probably had completely different life experiences. Has anyone ever spoken to you before?”
“You're joking right? I talk to people every day, eight hours a day,” I tell her in the sort of curt tone that customers usually talk to me in.
“But do they speak to you?”
This is getting weird, I think to myself. I look at the clock and notice that we've been on the phone for almost ten minutes.
“I--I guess not. I mean not in a religious or philosophical--I don't believe I'm having this conversation.”
“Believe it,” she says like an evangelist.
“Look, people call. They have problems. I try to help them fix those problems. That's it,” I say
“No one has ever wanted to know who you are, where you're from, the last time you cried, the name of your first kiss, what you had for dinner?”
“Why would anyone want to know?” I say, almost out of patience.
“That's what you need to tell me,” she says.
“Penny, listen. Is there anything wrong with your copier? Because, if not, I should probably get on to other calls.”
“I'm going to call back. At five o'clock Pacific time. And if I get you, we'll take it as a sign. As fate.”
Now I'm upset. I can't decide why exactly. An irrational anger is growing in my throat.
“A sign? It would be a coincidence. What would something like that mean?”
“It can mean anything you want it to. People interpret fate in a number of ways. In any way they want. Do you believe in fate?”
I pause for a moment. I’m not deciding, I already know the answer. I just don't know if I want to tell her. Fate is something for mystics and dreamers, my father would say. Destiny, moira, lot--all garbage. A man makes his own. No one can decide for him. All the words of my father. He put up a façade--he didn't believe in anything philosophical. But that in itself was a philosophy and he knew it. He hid behind his blue collar. He used it as a crutch. I could never understand why. He didn't thrive on sympathy. He didn't want anyone to feel sorry for him. I did though. I hated how he would never admit that maybe things could have been better for us. He would never say that I could do better. Everything was acceptable. Community college was acceptable. State was acceptable. This job was acceptable. You make your own destiny, son.
He was a bus driver for the MTA. Never took a single sick day. They laid him off one hot, spring morning just about nine months before he was going to retire. The unusual heat that year was making it difficult for him to see. He wore glasses thick as DMV windows and needed prescription sunglasses.
“I can't see nothin' but heat risin' from the pavement out there,” he'd say. “I'm gonna kill someone or someone gonna kill me.”
His back was also getting progressively worse. Sitting for eight hours a day on vibrating vinyl rattled his insides so that they just wouldn't stop moving. He needed surgery, or he wasn't going to be able to walk by the time he was ready to retire. The MTA wouldn't pay for it. After all his years of service, they just let him go and hired someone younger who already owned sunglasses and had a spotless medical record.
“That's just the way some things are,” my father told me. “No point in blamin' something silly as fate. I'd like to think I have a bit more control over myself. I make my own decisions and so the consequences are mine--no one else's. “
My father's route was considered one of the most dangerous. The 42. It started in Downtown between 3rd and 4th on Broadway, not far from the Civic Center. It crossed down through the Jewelry District, then headed West past USC and Expo Park, then turned slightly South and went through Crenshaw, Inglewood and finally ended just North of LAX in Westchester. The year after Dad got laid off, the police officers accused of beating Rodney King nearly to death were acquitted. Rioters stopped many MTA busses, including Dad's old one. The new driver was able run and escape the mob, who smashed all the windows and lit the bus on fire. Dad never even noticed; he drew no connection. But the coincidence always made me wonder. I don't think Dad would have been as lucky as the other driver. There are some moments in time that imprint themselves on your mind. They make you think about things differently from then on. No one else thinks anything of it. To them, it's just another day. But to you, it changes everything. It is the point on which your existence pivots and changes direction.
“I do,” I finally say.
“Goodbye, Robert. I hope to speak to you again in a few hours.”
I say nothing and wait until the LED on my phone system moves from Call to Wrap-Up. I switch off-line for a minute and breathe slowly.
My shift continues uneventfully. I have a swarm of calls between 2 and 3am for TRM; the grocery store employees in the Eastern and Central time zones always arrive at 5am to open shop. A few sleepless people call to order some colon cleanser from the infomercial they're watching with dry eyes. I hate not having a break between calls. Even ten seconds is bliss. There is an LED on the phone console set apart from the buttons that is supposed to give me an approximate idea of the call volume.
When it is off, I have no calls waiting.
Green means 1-5 calls waiting.
Yellow means 6-15 calls waiting.
Red is 16 or more.
Most days the light is red the second I sign on. Those days are always bad. I know that, statistically, I am more likely to talk to more assholes that day than a day where the light is green when I sign on. It is almost never off.
As it gets closer to 5 am, I begin to get nervous. I know why, but I don't want to admit it to myself. I tried to just forget about it at first. But I keep thinking, what if? I told myself it was impossible. I still want to believe it's impossible. But what will happen if she does get through? I've pinned it. I’m afraid nothing will happen. I want the space-time continuum to tear and shred into a million pieces. I want it to incite a miracle. I want to pivot again. I know strange coincidences and statistical anomalies occur everyday, but most don’t mean anything. I believe in fate. I want to hear Penny's voice in my headset at 5 am. I just want to know before I do, that something will happen. I want it to mean something.
I know that if she calls right at 5 am, she will probably have to wait on hold for at least ten minutes. The West Coast grocery stores call at 5 am. I am trying to time it right, though there's no sense in trying. I want to take a call right at 5 am. I'm on a car loan application at 4:57 am. These can take less than a minute, but I drag it out, and instead of telling the customer I don't know the answer to his questions, I fake it.
“Yes sir just got three blue Escalades in this morning. Yes, one of them is in the showroom right now. Oh, well, I think they're all fully loaded, sir. Yes, I will check on that. Sure, let me take your number, and a sales rep will call you right back. Thanks for your business.” Click.
5 am.
The LED sits on Wrap-Up. My heart is beating in my wrists. I try to slow it down. Stop. Stop. Stop. I want to prepare myself for disappointment before I hit Ready, but I can't. I have to get this over with and get back to normal, no matter what that is.
3 CALLS WAITING
“Thank you for calling TRM. My name is Robert. May I have your first name please?”
Silence. This happens from time to time. Someone is on hold for a long time and they put the phone down. Their ear hurts after a while and they need a break. They get sick of the elevator music. Music I have never heard. I don't even know what type of music they're really listening too. Many people complain about it, but they only tell me, You need to get that waiting music changed. I have no idea what it sounds like.
“Hello? You've reached TRM, this is Robert. How may I help you?”
“Oh, Hello? Hello? Is this the copy place?”
“Yes sir, may I have your first name please.”
My heart drops.
With each call, disappointment displaces my anxiety. The time moves closer and closer to 5:30. I take more TRM, a comment for Downey Fabric Softener, an LA Times order. I have to take a break. Not because I need one, but because my supervisor tells me it's time.
“Take ten, Bob,” he says to me.
Marta is in the break room finishing her breakfast: a SlimFast shake.
I saunter around the room, contemplating a soda or snack from a machine, but decide against it. I grab a seat in the corner of the room and just sit for a moment with my eyes shut tight and the palms of my hands stretching my face back. I can feel Marta’s eyes on me. Please God, I don’t want her to talk to me.
“Bobbo?” she asks in a motherly tone. We have never spoken outside our five-second conversation first thing when I come in. Christ, please let this end.
“Yes?”
“You're not really looking like yourself today. Is everything all right?”
I snap up and open last September's Time, trying to ignore her, but something tugs at me.
“Well--” I breathe deeply-- “Marta. The truth is that I think I've missed a huge opportunity. A chance for change. I think I’ve missed something really big, and there is nothing I can do about it now.”
She looks at me with a furrowed brow. Her forehead is deeply ridged. I can tell she understands and is turning it over in her head. “What are you wanting to change?” she asks me.
“I don't know,” I say, frustrated. “I was waiting for a sign. For fate to step in. It's not just this job. It's everything. The way I think. Christ, I sound like an idiot. I just wanted a new philosophy.”
“Fate? Robert.” And she looks at me hard. Very seriously, the way a doctor would. She has never called me Robert before. “I don’t know, I don’t want to sound rude. I guess I’ve always believed fate was sort of--well--just ridiculous.”
She looks at me sheepishly, like she just insulted my mother and feels bad about it.
“Ridiculous how?” I say, humoring her.
“Not ridiculous, but--I guess I just learned that a person chooses his own. I figure, I can’t go blaming something like fate every time things don’t my way. I’d like to think I have a bit more control over things.”
I feel something in the pit of my stomach. It’s rising. At first I think it’s vomit--it’s familiar like that, but different. I stare ahead and focus on nothing. My eyes blur.
“Weeeellll,” Marta says heaving herself out of her chair, “I guess I better get back to the old grind. It's what I've chosen.” She cracks a smile out of the corner of her mouth and gives me a wink. “It was nice talking to you Bobbo. I hope we can do this again sometime.”
“Yeah,” I say still staring. I check my watch. Two minutes left of my break. I walk back to my cubical. My supervisor is going over new procedures for placing TRM service call orders. Marta is telling someone all about the benefits of a clean colon. I know I will never see either of them again. I'll probably get a call from my supervisor, cursing and telling me I'm fired. I won't say anything and I'll hang up. I know this. I think about Penny and breathe relief. I look at my computer screen. I see the Ready button. I reach down and press it. I walk back passed the break room and out to the parking lot. I get in my car and just sit for a minute. I will drive, but the timing isn't important. The where isn't important right now. I can decide when and where. The sun is coming up over the cables of the Gold Line. The mist is being burned away, but it clings to the tops of the oak trees. The rays sparkle on the damp asphalt of the parking lot. The world lights up around me.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
You Are Prudish, Father William: Rhyme and Respectability in Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass
The Victorian Era was marked by a heightened sense of moral responsibility. People living during this time felt it necessary to live up to the highest expectations of respectability. They had many conventions and rules to follow in order to meet these expectations. Learning how to be respectable began at a very young age and was emphasized in school through learning and reciting rhymes and poems. In Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, Alice attempts to recite her lessons a number of times but cannot seem to get the words right. Alice’s lessons and rhymes are included in the novel to contradict and poke fun at the Victorian value of respectability through the nonsense verse that replaces the original respectable text when she attempts to repeat them in Wonderland.
At the beginning of Alice’s adventure, she decides that she must try to remember some of her lessons in order to determine that she is still herself. She attempts to recite a poem written by Isaac Watts entitled “Against Idleness and Mischief.” The opening lines of Watt’s poem read “How doth the little busy bee/Improve each shining hour/And gather Honey all the Day/From ev’ry op’ning Flow’r!” (Watts 332). It upholds Victorian respectability because it insists that one must remain busy in order to be good. When Alice begins, the words get confused and she recites:
“How doth the little crocodile/Improve his shining tail/And pour the waters of the Nile/On every golden scale!/How cheerfully he seems to grin/How neatly spreads his claws/And welcomes little fishes in/With gently smiling jaws.” (Carroll 19)
Idleness and mischief are two behaviors that directly contradict Victorian respectability. Alice’s unconscious rewording “attacks the anticomic stuffiness and prudence of Watt’s [poem] and promotes by implication the important values of comic anarchy” (Kincaid 96). Alice’s reading is also uncommonly dark for what would be considered respectable during the Victorian era. The final two lines leave the reader with a dark, yet slightly comical feeling. Carroll wants the reader to recognize the contrast, but does not want it to be completely serious at the same time.
During her adventure in Wonderland, Alice comes across many interesting characters. One of the most memorable is the Caterpillar. While she is having a conversation with this character, he asks her to recite another one of her lessons, which he calls “You are old, Father William” (Carroll 42). What Alice recites is a parody of a poem written by Robert Southey. Southey’s Father William is the picture of Victorian respectability. He tells the young man that "I remembered that youth would flyfast/And abused not my health, and my vigor at first/That I never might need them at last" (Southey 401). The poem emphasizes the respectability of taking care of your health—to the point where you do almost nothing in order to preserve your health and energy for later in life. “Alice’s Father William seems the antithesis of Southey’s pious, temperate old man who has come gently to the end of his days” (Rackin 318). Father William is supposed to represent the type of person you will be if you follow Victorian values. In Alice’s rendition, however, Father William is a silly and ridiculous.
In Through the Looking Glass, Alice journeys back to the magically land of the Looking Glass and encounters many interesting characters as she did in Wonderland. Two rather odd characters, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, relate to her a poem entitled The Walrus and the Carpenter. Carroll uses this poem differently here than how poems were used in the previous novel. The twins’ recitation “prompts Alice into revealing just how much she has grown up. She ignores the victims of the poem, the oysters, and immediately searches for one of the power figures with whom to identify” (Kincaid, 95). Rather than contradicting Victorian respectability directly through the words of the poem, Carroll uses Alice’s reaction to make his point about it. The twins are disappointed with her attachment to the Walrus character. Alice seems to believe that she must choose a character to identify with. Tweedledee and Tweedledum don’t understand why she does not feel sorry for the oysters. In the end, she decides that both the Carpenter and the Walrus were equally unlikable. The poem emphasized “false sympathy and cruelty” (Kincaid, 95), and Alice finally realizes this. Carroll uses Alice’s realization to make a statement about Victorian society: it can be extremely fake and cruel.
Alice came to discover a lot about herself and the society she lived in through her adventures. Lewis Carroll used these discovers to convey his own points about Victorian society. He uses Alice’s adventures, specifically the poems she attempts to recite, to contradict and mock Victorian respectability and prudishness.
Works Cited
Carroll, Lewis. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Ed. Hugh Haughton. London: Penguin Books. 1998.
Kincaid, James R. “Alice’s Invasion of Wonderland.” Publications of the Modern Language Association of America. 88.1 (1973): 92-99.
Rackin, Donald. “Alice’s Journey to the End of Night.” Publications of the Modern Language Association of America. 81.5 (1966): 313-326.
Watts, Isaac. “Against Idleness and Mischeif.” A Collection of English Poems 1660-1800. Ed. Robert S. Crane. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1932. 332.
Southey, Robert. “The Old Man’s Comforts And How He Gained Them.” English Poetry and Prose of the Romantic Movement. Ed. George Benjamin Woods. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Co. 1916. 401.
At the beginning of Alice’s adventure, she decides that she must try to remember some of her lessons in order to determine that she is still herself. She attempts to recite a poem written by Isaac Watts entitled “Against Idleness and Mischief.” The opening lines of Watt’s poem read “How doth the little busy bee/Improve each shining hour/And gather Honey all the Day/From ev’ry op’ning Flow’r!” (Watts 332). It upholds Victorian respectability because it insists that one must remain busy in order to be good. When Alice begins, the words get confused and she recites:
“How doth the little crocodile/Improve his shining tail/And pour the waters of the Nile/On every golden scale!/How cheerfully he seems to grin/How neatly spreads his claws/And welcomes little fishes in/With gently smiling jaws.” (Carroll 19)
Idleness and mischief are two behaviors that directly contradict Victorian respectability. Alice’s unconscious rewording “attacks the anticomic stuffiness and prudence of Watt’s [poem] and promotes by implication the important values of comic anarchy” (Kincaid 96). Alice’s reading is also uncommonly dark for what would be considered respectable during the Victorian era. The final two lines leave the reader with a dark, yet slightly comical feeling. Carroll wants the reader to recognize the contrast, but does not want it to be completely serious at the same time.
During her adventure in Wonderland, Alice comes across many interesting characters. One of the most memorable is the Caterpillar. While she is having a conversation with this character, he asks her to recite another one of her lessons, which he calls “You are old, Father William” (Carroll 42). What Alice recites is a parody of a poem written by Robert Southey. Southey’s Father William is the picture of Victorian respectability. He tells the young man that "I remembered that youth would flyfast/And abused not my health, and my vigor at first/That I never might need them at last" (Southey 401). The poem emphasizes the respectability of taking care of your health—to the point where you do almost nothing in order to preserve your health and energy for later in life. “Alice’s Father William seems the antithesis of Southey’s pious, temperate old man who has come gently to the end of his days” (Rackin 318). Father William is supposed to represent the type of person you will be if you follow Victorian values. In Alice’s rendition, however, Father William is a silly and ridiculous.
In Through the Looking Glass, Alice journeys back to the magically land of the Looking Glass and encounters many interesting characters as she did in Wonderland. Two rather odd characters, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, relate to her a poem entitled The Walrus and the Carpenter. Carroll uses this poem differently here than how poems were used in the previous novel. The twins’ recitation “prompts Alice into revealing just how much she has grown up. She ignores the victims of the poem, the oysters, and immediately searches for one of the power figures with whom to identify” (Kincaid, 95). Rather than contradicting Victorian respectability directly through the words of the poem, Carroll uses Alice’s reaction to make his point about it. The twins are disappointed with her attachment to the Walrus character. Alice seems to believe that she must choose a character to identify with. Tweedledee and Tweedledum don’t understand why she does not feel sorry for the oysters. In the end, she decides that both the Carpenter and the Walrus were equally unlikable. The poem emphasized “false sympathy and cruelty” (Kincaid, 95), and Alice finally realizes this. Carroll uses Alice’s realization to make a statement about Victorian society: it can be extremely fake and cruel.
Alice came to discover a lot about herself and the society she lived in through her adventures. Lewis Carroll used these discovers to convey his own points about Victorian society. He uses Alice’s adventures, specifically the poems she attempts to recite, to contradict and mock Victorian respectability and prudishness.
Works Cited
Carroll, Lewis. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Ed. Hugh Haughton. London: Penguin Books. 1998.
Kincaid, James R. “Alice’s Invasion of Wonderland.” Publications of the Modern Language Association of America. 88.1 (1973): 92-99.
Rackin, Donald. “Alice’s Journey to the End of Night.” Publications of the Modern Language Association of America. 81.5 (1966): 313-326.
Watts, Isaac. “Against Idleness and Mischeif.” A Collection of English Poems 1660-1800. Ed. Robert S. Crane. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1932. 332.
Southey, Robert. “The Old Man’s Comforts And How He Gained Them.” English Poetry and Prose of the Romantic Movement. Ed. George Benjamin Woods. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Co. 1916. 401.
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