Life Over Death: Binary Opposition and Logocentrism in Joyce’s “The Dead”

The presence of binary oppositions in Joyce’s “The Dead” is a central part of the story, particularly in Gabriel’s epiphany. Classic oppositions such as meaning over meaninglessness and life over death are two of many, which have dominated the history of Western thought. Gabriel’s own worldview, an unconscious product of these oppositions, is in the end deconstructed. He firmly believes in meaning over meaninglessness and, most importantly, life over death, two classic, logocentric notions. It is through Gabriel’s experiences in the story that his binary oppositions become deconstructed.

To begin, it is important to first define what it means to deconstruct logocentricsm specifically, and thus define, in very simple terms, what deconstruction aims to do. Jonathan Culler, in “Semiotics and Deconstruction,” offers a helpful definition: “To deconstruct logocentrism is to show that what was taken to be the truth of the world or the ground of an enquiry is in fact a construct that has been imposed and which is contradicted by certain results of the enquiry it founds” (138). It also important to note that in deconstructing these two oppositions, meaning over meaninglessness and life over death, the opposition is not reversed. Norman Melchertt, in The Great Conversation, using the example of speech over writing, explains that:

The claim is rather that the characteristics of what was held to be secondary and derivative are already, and necessarily, found in what was thought to be basic and primary. It is not, then, that the speech/writing dichotomy is simply overturned, so that it becomes writing/speech, with writing now in the primary spot, but that a deeper sense of “writing” is discovered that underwrites both terms. (707-708)

It is not that Gabriel discovers meaninglessness or death to be more important than their classical primaries. Rather, he discovers it is impossible to deny that death is inherent in life as meaninglessness in meaning.

Throughout the story, Gabriel is extremely self-absorbed and concerned with personal appearance. He is desperately trying to be important. Immediately after his introduction to the reader, he makes an inconsiderate comment to Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, someone he has known for years, and immediately, “Gabriel coloured [. . .] and, without looking at her, kicked off his goloshes” (23). He felt, “he had failed with the girl” (24). He is not necessarily concerned with his feelings, but more his own appearance. Looking good at all times is one way in which Gabriel can ensure his life has meaning. When contemplating the speech he is to give to the party guests at dinner, he decides not to quote the lines from Robert Browning for he feared they would be above the heads of his hearers [. . .] The indelicate clacking of the men’s heels and the shuffling of their soles reminded him that their grade of culture differed from his [. . .] They would think he was airing his superior education [. . .] He would fail. (24)
Gabriel not only feels that he is superior to Lily and the other guests, but he is afraid of failing in front of them. He sits below the floor on which the party is taking place, contemplating all this, absorbed in his own self-image. It is this fear, coupled with others that create the greatest fear within Gabriel: Fear of living a meaningless life in the present and fear of dying without having done anything meaningful.

Part of Gabriel’s quest for meaning comes in his value of popular European fashion and culture. He wears, and forces his wife to wear, galoshes, when no one seems to know what they are. Gretta, Gabriel’s wife, explains to aunts: “You’ll never guess what he makes me wear now! [. . .] Goloshes! [. . .] That’s the latest” (25). All the while, she is laughing. Gabriel seems to be embarrassed, either at his aunts’ reactions, or that they are not cultured enough to understand how fashionable galoshes are. In either case, the episode is a source of frustration for Gabriel as he, “laughed nervously and patted his tie reassuringly while Aunt Kate nearly doubled herself, so heartily did she enjoy the joke” (25). A short while later, Gabriel turns on Miss Ivors, admitting, “O, to tell you the truth [. . .] I’m sick of my own country, sick of it” (32). Yet, he can give no reason. He has refused Miss Ivors invitation to visit West Ireland because he wants to visit France and Belgium, “partly to keep in touch with the languages and partly for a change,” and when Miss Ivors queries, “haven’t you your own language to keep in touch with—Irish?” Gabriel replies, “Irish is not my language” (32). Gabriel attributes meaning to something that to Miss Ivors is meaningless. The reverse is also true because Gabriel sees reconnecting with his Irish heritage as completely meaningless. His idea of a meaningful life vis-à-vis culture is constantly undermined. It seems the characters surrounding Gabriel silently wish him to simply live and be happy with what he has around him. Yet, it is not until the end of the story that the opposition of meaning over meaninglessness is deconstructed.

In Gabriel’s insatiable thirst for significance, he believes in privileging life over death. He equates life with the present and the future, while death is part of the past. Throughout the night, Gabriel is surrounded by images of and conversation about death, though he does not realize it until his Joycean epiphany at the end. Both his mother and father are dead. His uncle, Pat, is dead. In his aunts’ home hang pictures of the dead: “the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet...and beside it was a picture of the two murdered princes in the Tower” (30). Aunt Julia reminisces about Parkinson, who was “A beautiful pure sweet mellow English tenor” (41). It is this talk of dead singers that prompts Gabriel to mention something about death in his speech. He speaks of the past and says:

Those days might, without exaggeration, be called spacious days: and if they are gone beyond recall let us hope, at least that in gatherings such as this we shall still speak of them with pride and affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory of those dead and gone great ones whose fame the world will not willingly let die. (43)

Gabriel’s assumption is that once someone dies, so does the memory of him or her. Only through fame can one’s memory live on because that fame, the important and significant achievements of that person deserve to live on in the hearts of humanity. Gabriel also uses the dead, as with his dead grandfather, as a source of humor. He tells the story about Patrick Morkan, stretching the details, without compassion in order to garner a laugh from those listening. In this case, death allows him to use someone as nothing more than a punchline. It is this separation of life from death, and Gabriel’s favoring of life over death that is deconstructed through his wife’s story about Michael Furey.

Gretta’s story about this childhood love brings Gabriel’s selfishness to the full attention of the reader. He mocks, “O then, you were in love with him? [. . .] Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to Galway with that Ivors girl?” completely ignoring his wife’s feelings (56). During the story, Gabriel cannot comprehend why someone would have such strong emotion towards a person who is no longer a part of her life. Michael Furey is part of the past, and although Gabriel does not yet know that Michael Furey is dead or why he died, people of the past have no place in the present except as a way for Gabriel to bring more significance to his own life. When he does finally find out how Michael Furey died, he at first still tries to deny the connection that life and death share and write off Gretta’s experience as nothing important. “So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for her sake,” Gabriel thinks to himself, and “It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life” (58). It is at this moment that Gabriel begins to deconstruct the logocentrism of his beliefs. He begins to think of all the people whom he knows now—who are alive—but who would someday succumb to death. He imagines Aunt Kate and himself mourning the death of Aunt Julia. Suddenly, “One by one they were all becoming shades,” and Gabriel realizes that everyone he knows, including himself will die. Simultaneously, things that seemed to have no meaning before—the West of Ireland, death, his wife’s own feelings—are now meaningful. Gabriel cannot escape them because of how he now sees his wife. He realizes that although he has had the utmost concern for his public appearance, his wife, who’s opinion of his public appearance and significance he should value most, is affected by someone whom, for all Gabriel knows, lead a meaningless existence. Based on these realizations, Gabriel lies in bed, watching the snow fall “upon all the living and the dead” (59). Thus, Gabriel’s epiphany deconstructs the logocentrism of Gabriel’s worldview regarding meaning.

The question of what Gabriel does with this epiphany is relevant. While it is enough to say his change was incredibly profound, Joyce leaves the question open to the reader. Either Gabriel learns from the deconstruction of these two core beliefs and attempts to change his life, or he succumbs to the pessimism that his realizations present. However, succumbing to that pessimism would not constitute complete deconstruction of the logocentricism of his beliefs because while he recognizes death as an inherent part of life, Gabriel would still value life over death. If his beliefs have been truly deconstructed, he will be able to move forward and rebuild his relationship with Gretta.

Works Cited

Culler, Jonathan. “Semiotics and Deconstruction.” Poetics Today 1.1/2 Special Issue: Literature, Interpretation, Communication (Autumn 1979): 137-141. JSTOR. 3 October 2007.

Joyce, James. “The Dead.” The Dead: Case Studies in Contemporary Criticism. Ed. Daniel R. Schwarz. New York: Bedford/St. Martin’s: 1994.

Melchert, Norman. The Great Conversation: Volume II: Decartes through Derrida and Quine. 4th Ed. Boston: McGraw Hill, 2002.

Knowledge and Invention: Modernity as the Destroyer in García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude

Humanity’s quest for knowledge has allowed for its greatest achievements but has also been its greatest scourge. Through the quest for knowledge, the world has seen the advent of devices and theories, which have changed the course of history and have, many would argue, made the world a much better, safer place. However, the quest for knowledge has also been the root of war and devastation as deadlier weapons are invented, disagreements over what is true continue to arise, and the waste from the modern, developed world pollute. In his masterpiece, One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez explores the detrimental effects of an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and the devastation that Modernity has had on the world.

In the earliest days Macondo, the village is an Eden of sorts. Colonel Aureliano Buendía remembers that “many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point” (1). The town held an innocence that quickly disappears once Melquíades, a gypsy, introduces science to José Arcadio Buendía, Macondo’s founder. He introduces magnets, a telescope, and a magnifying glass to José Arcadio Buendía. Melquíades helps him build an alchemy laboratory. It is through the introduction of these tools of science that José Arcadio Buendía begins to lose his mind. He reveals to his wife that, “The earth is round; like an orange,” and soon the whole town “was convinced that [he] had lost his reason...” (4-5). Once science and the quest for knowledge are introduced, the town loses its innocence. Arabs come to trade with the village. More groups of gypsies arrive to share their secrets. It is José Arcadio Buendía’s search for the philosopher’s stone that ultimately leads to his insanity. The villagers eventually “drag him to the chestnut tree in the courtyard, where they left him tied up, barking in the strange language and giving off a green froth at the mouth” (78). Buendía is speaking Latin, the language of science.

Many years later, a railroad comes to Macondo and with it comes a banana plantation and many other industries: both are symbols of modernity and progress coming to Macondo. The town is confused at first by the building of the tracks. “No one paid any attention to [the gangs] because they thought it was some new trick of the gypsies...” (222). The narrator gives a prophecy of the effect that the train will have when he says it “was to bring so many ambiguities and certainties, so many pleasant and unpleasant moments, so many changes, calamities, and feelings of nostalgia to Macondo” (222). The people, prior to this moment, were not aware of modernity and its innovations at all. The only exposure they had was through the gypsies, Melquíades, and Jose Arcadio Buendía, who went insane. They are amazed by “the pale electric bulbs fed by the plant that Aureliano Triste had brought back when the train made its second trip” and the magic of film, which they call “living images” (223). Modernity appears to be very positive. Strangers from distant lands arrive and bring with them more innovations.

A generation following the arrival of Modernity to Macondo, a strike of plantation workers, during which the plantation is burned to the ground, leads to the execution of three thousand men, women and children. Following the massacre, it begins to rain when “It had not rained for three months” and it is announced by Mr. Brown, the dictatorial manager of the plantation, that “As long as the rain lasts we’re suspending all activities” (309). It rains for nearly five years following this decree and once the skies clear, “the world lighted up...and it did not rain again for ten years. Macondo was in ruins” (330). The train no longer stops in Macondo. The banana plantation and houses of the former workers are completely abandoned: “The wooden houses, the cool terraces...seemed to have been blown away in an anticipation of the prophetic wind that years later would wipe Macondo off the face of the earth” (330-331). This prophetic wind is brought about by the last of the Buendía line and through the simplest, yet most important invention and product of human knowledge: writing.

Malquíades’ mysterious parchments are a source of frustration for many of the men in the Buendía line. Arcadio attempts to decipher them, but gives up quickly. José Arcadio Segundo, after the plantation massacre, spends the remainder of his life attempting to interpret the parchments until “the only visible in the intricate tangle of hair was the teeth striped with green slime and his motionless eyes” (335). When he finally dies, “he fell back on the parchments and died with his eyes open” (353). The parchments reveal to him the truth of the massacre that he witnesses, but which no one believes happened. With this truth, he dies. The parchment writing has a similar effect in the final destruction of the town. Melquíades appears to Aureliano Babilonia and aides him in deciphering the parchment. The parchment, he discovers, is “the history of the family, written by Melquíades, down to the most trivial details, one hundred years ahead of time” (415). However, “impatient to know his own origin, Aureliano skipped ahead” (416). It is at that point that the wind, which destroys the town, begins to strengthen and as Aureliano reads the final sentences, which proclaim the destruction of the town, it is destroyed. It is clear that Aureliano’s arrogance and selfishness in wanting the knowledge of his origin hastened the destruction of the town, it was the writing itself, which stated Macondo’s destruction.

The quest for Modernity and knowledge are unavoidable. They are an inherent part of human nature and curiosity. However, Garcia Marquez points out the importance of being aware of the potential destructive powers. It is not enough to believe that through the acquisition of knowledge and the furtherance of Modernity will solely benefit mankind. Humanity must be aware there are dire consequences for ignoring the side effects of progress.

Works Cited

Garcia Marquez, Gabriel. One Hundred Years of Solitude. New York: Harper and Row, 1970.

The Mathematics of Banana Trees: The Inconsistency of Memory in Alain Robbe-Grillet’s Jealousy

Memory is an aspect of the human mind that can be terribly inconsistent. Two people can witness the same event yet have two completely different recollections of it. In one’s own mind, memory may be manipulated again and again until what is perceived as the reality of what actually happened is, in reality, very far from the truth of the actual event. A variety of techniques may be used to alter memory and then firmly believe that what has been invented is now actual fact. In Jealousy, by Alain Robbe-Grillet, the shortcomings of memory are employed to fuel jealous rage of a husband; however, it is the repetition of constants (numbers, shapes, and objects), which convinces the narrator that these new memories are fact.

In the narrator’s memory, as described in the book, there are two major events that are constantly repeated and changed: the day of A... and Frank’s return and the discovery and crushing of the centipede. The narrator relates the event one way, but later returns to it with a slight alteration of details, each time making the idea of an affair between his wife, A..., and his neighbor, Franck, more likely. However, there are details, even concepts, within the retelling of each and within the setting itself, which serve to allow the narrator, and the reader, to believe that these retellings are the truth. These objects and concepts lose their original utilitarian value and become something else entirely: markers that what the narrator is remembering actually happened. They begin to signify where they may have never been signifiers before. The narrator makes reference to his belief in his own memory and the idea that whatever he remembers must then be the truth when he states, “It’s no use making up contrary possibilities, since things are the way they are: reality stays the same” (75).

The narrator spends ample time describing the layout of his plantation, including the shape in which his banana trees are arranged and the number of trees per row: “There are thirty-two banana trees in the row...instead of being rectangular like the one above it, this patch is trapezoidal...In the second row, starting from the far left, there would be twenty-two trees...” (51). This description of trees goes on for multiple pages. The number of trees, their geometric shape, and their arrangement by row are all certainties in the memory of events that are very uncertain and which consistently change. The narrator returns to the trees again in his story, and they are always the same shape: “...the corner of a rectangular patch where the bare earth can still be distinguished... the second patch, in the shape of a trapezoid...” (91). This description comes in the midst of much confusion about the narrator’s memory. It is unclear which past event he is referring to in the paragraphs surrounding this description. A... is first “...standing in front of the door,” at a point the reader can only assume is before her trip with Franck and is looking through the entire house and out over the banana trees, which are then described by the narrator with the exact same details as in the beginning. This is followed by a jump in the narrator’s memory when “A... is just coming home” (91). The banana trees are the one constant in an otherwise murky memory of A...’s trip with Franck and serve to assure the narrator and the reader that if this myriad of specific details are remembered correctly, the rest must also be true.

The centipede recurs more than any other portion of the narrator’s memory and becomes the most distorted of all the recollected events. At first, it is an afterthought. The narrator simply mentions that “...a blackish spot marks the place where a centipede was squashed last week, at the beginning of the month, perhaps the month before, or later” (47). It is of no importance; however, as the narrator’s obsession with details grows, the metaphor of the stain being on his house, and then on his marriage, or even on the narrator himself, and the idea that Franck is the cause, becomes a reality. The narrator imagines the scene over and over again:

Franck, who has said nothing, is looking at A...again. Then he stands up, noiselessly, holding his napkin in his hand. He wads it into a ball and approaches the wall...the wadded napkin falls on it...Franck lifts the napkin away from the wall and with his foot continues to squash something on the tiles against the baseboard (65).

This is replayed again as: “Frank stands up, picks up his napkin, approaches the wall, squashes the centipede against the wall, lifts his napkin, squashes the centipede on the floor (89).” There are more descriptions of the event that follow this one, each changing slightly. In the first, there is a much longer, drawn out description, and A...’s “...left hand gradually closes over her knife” (65). In the second, the description is terse, and A...’s hand, “...has clenched into a fist on the white cloth” (89). The only constant is that there was a centipede, and it was squashed at some point.

In the final retelling of the squashed centipede, the original facts have become completely distorted. The centipede is now “...enormous: one of the largest to be found in this climate” (112); however, for the narrator, it is not the size that matters, but that there was, in fact, a centipede. It has become a signifier of the alleged affair. It is this concrete fact that he holds on to, until, finally, the story becomes: “Frank, without saying a word, stands up...with his foot, he squashes it against the bedroom floor. Then he comes back toward the bed...[A...’s hand] has clenched into a fist on the white sheet” (113). The narrator has used the repeating image of the squashed centipede, which began as just a stain, to fuel his jealous rage and convince himself that A... and Franck are indeed having an affair.

Memory is completely subjective unless there is another party to compare facts with. In the narrator’s case, he is lost in his own thoughts and so the reader only has his telling and retelling of the events. Key facts—colors, objects, numbers—are held on to in order to be sure that the memory of an event is correct. They reassure the memory and give it credibility because there are concrete facts relative to some that might not be much more vague. They have the ability to convince and to turn a fictionalized memory into reality.


Works Cited

Robbe-Grillet, Alain. Two Novels by Robbe-Grillet: Jealousy and In the Labyrinth. New York: Grove Press, 1959.

The Art of Invention: Anti-narration in Beckett's Molloy

There are expectations when a reader comes to a work of fiction. At the very least, the reader expects to follow a narrative that will begin and, through a series of events, end. The reader anticipates an objective reality in which characters interact and rules are set for the world those characters will interact in. Although the characters belong to a constructed reality created by the author, the reader expects that reality to never be reconstructed during the course of the text. Written text, however, presents a unique enterprise in that the written word may be easily rearranged and manipulated in order to convey anything or nothing as the author intends. Anti-narration, even anti-language, can be achieved through disarrangement of written text and can potentially break all preconceived notions of traditional literature forcing the reader to view the written word in a different light. Samuel Beckett explores this pliability of language in his novel, Molloy. Beckett uses an anti-narrator, Molloy, in order to demonstrate that the objective reality of a written fiction can be reconstructed or constructed as the narrator moves through the text, thus giving the narrator the ability to create his own subjective reality.

Molloy begins to relate his tale in an obvious state of utter confusion. He cannot clearly explain to the reader what has happened to him or where he has been. He tells the reader, “These are things we shall try to discover. But these are things we must not take seriously,” implying that what he is about to relate may have absolutely no truth to it (17). In fact, the impression is given that Molloy is inventing the entire story as he is going along. He has a starting point, his mother’s room, and from there every detail is invented. The structure of the first section, one solid paragraph with no breaks, gives the distinct impression that this narrative is occurring inside the narrator’s own mind. Molloy does relate the tale of a journey he took to find his mother’s house, yet throughout it he continually reminds the reader that he is constructing the story: “Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong... such a thing is conceivable, since I conceive it... am I imagining it, in the interests of the narrative” (41, 66, 75)? After every fact is dispensed, Molloy then questions its validity, which ordinarily would be very important for the reader to take note of for purposes of deciding the reliability of the narrator, yet that purpose is moot here. Molloy is clearly unreliable without his reassurance of that fact, and ultimately it does not matter what truly happened to him. The reader can never know.

At the end of Molloy’s journey, he begins to use the term ‘region’ to describe where he is and where he is going. It can be inferred that by region, he means reality. He tells the reader, “...regions do not suddenly end, as far as I know, but gradually merge into one another” (88). This idea that realities merge together rather than end is consistent with the notion of inventing or constructing reality because Molloy tells the reader that the narrative he is building is absolutely false. However, it is the reality the reader must accept because there is no other alternative. Molloy, as an anti-narrator, goes beyond the status of what is typically known as an unreliable narrator because he freely admits his narrative is false and no other reality is offered.

Molloy’s confusion with the events grows as he departs further and further from civilization and enters into the forest, which he describes as one of the amenities of his region. The forest is analogous to a state of confusion, and he admits he, “...knew them well, the amenities of my region, and I considered that the forest was no worse” (116). Molloy prefers a reality rooted in confusion to any other reality: something he has clearly established for the reader throughout his narrative. “I did my best to go in a circle, hoping in this way to go in a straight line,” Molloy states as his plan for exiting the forest (115). At this point, the reader is perfectly content with Molloy’s acceptance of the confusion of reality as being no worse than any other state of reality. If Molloy is constructing the reality of the events himself, then there is no reason why he could not choose confusion to be his reality. When Molloy finally exits into the light of the plains, he confesses, “I did not see it from afar...but suddenly I was in it, I opened my eyes and saw I had arrived. And the reason for that was probably this, that for some time past I had not opened my eyes or seldom” (122). Why did he not simply will himself out of the forest and construct the narrative thus? His point is clear: No one can exit the forest through his own cognitive ability. It can only happen by chance.

The idea of multiple realities, a subjective or constructed reality, is one difficult to comprehend. It is difficult to look at the world and understand that the reality of it could be different if chosen to be. The concept is a source of confusion. However, through written text, and specifically the use of an anti-narrator, there can be a physical demonstration of that kind of construction. Molloy, as an anti-narrator, is able to contradict himself and have it be perfectly acceptable. He constructs the world around him as he sees fit.


Works Cited

Beckett, Samuel. Molloy. New York: Grove Press, 1955.

Let the Dead Bury the Dead

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.