Gravediggers (3 A.M., #162)

Note: NaNoWriMo begins in several weeks, so I am using my exercises as an opportunity to develop a character/story idea I'm working on.

                  “Go sulk somewhere else,” my Grandfather says through a mouthful of mash potatoes.  “Your Gam works hard on these dinners and I’d like to enjoy mine without having to look at your pitiful face.”

                “Oh, Hank, let her be, I don’t mind.” Gam says.  “She’s got to eat something, she’s all bones.”

                “I didn’t say she couldn’t eat, I told her to go somewhere else.  She can take her plate with her.  Go sit in front of the TV and eat like most people your age.”

                “Enough,” says my Gam.  “Wren, don’t pick.  Eat.”

                I shovel a heaping spoonful of mash potatoes, dripping with gravy, into my mouth.

                “MMMMMMMMMmmmmmmm, tho ood.”  I say.

                My Grandfather just stares at me.  Finally he says, “You don’t like your job, go out and get a new one.  No one wants you working in that dump anyway, it isn’t safe.”

                I swallow down the thick mass of potato.   “It pays the bills.”

                “Macy’s is not a bill, it’s an addiction.  Michael Kors, meth—they’re the same.”  He stands his fork straight up in his pile of potatoes, and then extends his wagging finger.  “You can sit around commiserating about all the missed opportunities in your life, or you can go out looking for new ones.  I say with all those new shoes you’ve never worn, it’d be more economical to go out.”

                My Grandfather—always weighing life’s metaphorical costs while reminding you of the literal ones.

                “No one is hiring,” I sigh.  “Besides, hardly anyone comes in anyway, so I have lots of time to study.”

                “So it’s a choice, then.  You aren’t stuck.  Stop the sulking.”

                “I do it for you.  If I didn’t sulk, you would have nobody to give all your unwanted Family Ties advice to.”

                “I said ENOUGH.” Gam is angry now.  She gets up from the table, takes my plate and then a TV tray from the space between the fridge and the kitchen counter, and marches into the living room.  “Wren!  Your smartass mouth can eat in the living room from now on!” she yells.

                I’ve been living with my grandparents for a year, ever since my mom was raped and killed in our home while I was at a night class.  Never once had she yelled at me.  She’d never even raised her voice.  My Grandfather and I pushed each other’s buttons and argued at the very least, ten times a day.

                Gam comes back into the kitchen.  “Go before I carry you in there by your ponytail.”

                I stand up, push in my chair, but I don’t go into the living room.  I walk over to the coatrack by the back door and take my parka.  My purse and keys are on table next to the rack, and I take those, too.  I open the door and walk out into the cold, night air.  I don’t slam the door.  I don’t even close it.  I just walk out to my car, start it up, and head to my job an hour early.

                When I get to the Qwikmart on Jessop Street, I park under the only working streetlamp.  I crack the window and take a box of cigarettes from my purse.  I light one up and smoke it slowly as I watch Carol, a 36-year-old single mother of two, do her shift change routine.  Even though she thinks she has the radio low, I can hear “Don’t Stop Believin’” from my spot across from the store.

                My second soul jumped into Carol once.   It stayed long enough to get her clean and give her the confidence to go back to school to become a nurse.  I babysit for her on my nights off sometimes.  Anything to get me out of my grandparents’ house.

Wallace & Gromit (4 A.M., #147)

                He  thinks I’m retarded.

                “Since when do you care what people think,” Grover said.

                I don’t.  I just wanted you to be aware.  Don’t get angry at him.  It doesn’t bother me.

                “Then why even bring it up,” Grover said.

                Augie crumpled the cocktail napkin and tucked his pen back into the breast pocket of his shirt.  He leaned back and settled his shoulders into the hard wicker chair, and wondered why the Tooley’s, with all their millions, didn’t invest in some nice padding for their lawn furniture.

                “Augie’s not retarded,” Grover told Mr. Tooley matter-of-factly when he stepped back onto the patio carrying a platter of assorted cheeses.

                No chair pads and no hired help, Augie thought to himself.  Some millionaire.

                Mr. Tooley cleared his throat.  “I never—well, gee, Mr. Peterson, I didn’t…”

                “I’m just letting you know before you get such an idea in your head,” Grover said, in that same “it-is-what-it-is” tone of voice.  “He hasn’t spoken since the war.  He wasn’t hit in the head or anything.   Some people just come back like that.  If you saw what we saw over there, you’d understand. “

                “With all do respect, Mr. Peterson, my father served this country in that same war—“

                “Is he retarded?”

                “What?  No—“

                “Well, neither is Augie.”

                “Mr. Peterson, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.  I asked you and Mr. Colwell here today—“

                “I know why you asked us here, Mr. Tooley.  I’m not retarded, either.”

                Augie was sorry he had ever written down the word retarded.  It was the offensive words that Grover seemed to cling to in conversation.  Augie should have known better.

                “Fair enough, Mr. Peterson.  Why don’t we just talk about the photograph shall we?”

                “It’s not for sale.”

                “So you’ve said, but I think if you knew why it is so important to me—“

                “For the same reason the Heart of the Ocean was so important to Brock Lovett, Mr. Tooley,” Grover said.

                “Excuse me?”

                Augie sighed and started to reach for his pen again.  Grover waved his hand dismissively in Augie’s direction.   Augie knew that if he didn’t intervene, Grover could easily get carried away with his movie references—especially when it came to Titanic, Grover’s favorite film.  Augie took the waving of his hand to mean Grover would move on.

                “For you, Mr. Tooley, it’s all about money, power, and fame.  You could give a rat’s ass about the history.  Tell me, do you have any idea what the coat Lucy’s wearing in that picture smelled like?  Or what the note said that Franklin, that dog, slipped in the pocket of her coat that day?  You just want to disgrace her.”

                “I’m not as interested in Lucy Mercer as I am—“

                “Oh, I have not a problem with you hanging that dog out to dry,” Grover spat.  “But it will hurt Lucy.  It will hurt her family, and I can’t have that.”

                “What about you, Mr. Peterson?  What about the hurt Ms. Mercer caused you?  Doesn’t that count for anything?”

                Augie tried to catch Mr. Tooley’s eye—to send him some sort of warning not to go down that road.  Augie had been down it many, many of times.  Augie had read all of the letters Lucy Mercer had sent Grover when he was out on the front lines.  Letters that expressed a yearning and desire for his company, his hand, his warm embrace.  Letters that described long hours spent curled in an arm chair staring aimlessly out the front window, consumed with too much pain and worry to move from that spot until she saw her Grover walk safely up their front steps, breeze in, and whisk her up the stairs to their bedroom where she imagined he would spend many more long hours healing her broken heart.

                Letters full of lies.  Because while Grover was away, fighting for his country, his lovely wife Lucy Mercer was spending long hours in bed with—

                “Mr. Colwell, it was your wife who took the photograph, is that right?” Mr. Tooley was asking.

                “He doesn’t talk.  I’m beginning to think you’re the retarded one.”

                “Now Mr. Peterson, there is no need to be rude.”

                After a long pause, Grover sighed.  “Yes,  it was Mr. Colwell’s wife who took the photograph.  She sent it to Augie.  He waited to give it to me until the war ended and we were on our way home.”

                Augie felt a pang in his jaw, right in the spot where Grover had punched him that day.  Augie didn’t swing back.  Not once did he put up his arms to block the blows that continued to come.  Augie let his best friend of 22 years hit him in the face, the chest, and then the stomach until Grover was too tired to do anything but sink his knees in the dirt and sob.

                Because Augie had just survived a war.  What were a few angry punches compared to bombs and bullets?

Evil ( 3 A.M., #29)

            Lewis Pagano opens his small, leather journal to a crisp, clean page.  He pulls a tiny golf pencil from the breast pocket of his thin, white linen shirt and makes a tally mark on the page.  It is the one-hundred-and-thirty-sixth tally mark he has made in the journal.  It is the one-hundred-and-thirty-sixth day he has managed to evade the Ramsey PD.

            Of course, the Ramsey PD has no idea it is Lewis Pagano they are looking for.

            Lewis tucks the golf pencil back into his breast pocket and lays the journal down on the Formica countertop, which is splattered with bits of congealed grease and black coffee, and goes back to eating his bacon and avocado eggs benedict.

            “Louie,” the waitress behind the counter says as she brings over his second glass of orange juice.  “Sammy has a math test on Friday.  He could use an hour or two of tutorin’ if you’re free this afternoon.”

            “No problem, Ms. Saldarini,” Louie replies.  “I have to take my Ma to her appointment, but I’ll stop by after.”

            “You’re a good boy, Louie,” Ms. Saldarini says.  “I wish Sammy was a good boy like you.  This morning he told me he hated my guts.  Can you believe that?  I bet you would never say something like that to your Ma.”

            Before Louie can answer, Ms. Saldarini shuffles over to two old timers at the far end of the counter and tops off their coffees.  Louie wonders if she sensed that he was about to tell her that in fact he had said worse.

            That he had done worse.

            Louie thinks back one-hundred-and-thirty-six days.  He had walked into the bank where his mother worked, shot and killed the security guard and three tellers’ right in front of her, then held a gun to her head and demanded she open the safe.  Each time she fidgeted, he called her a worthless cunt and a dried up whore.  When she finally got him in, Louie filled a gunnysack with as many bundles of cash as he could fit, then ran out.

            His mother had no idea the man in the Nixon mask was her son.  Her son was at his 9 a.m. creative writing class at Brown.

            Louie got a call from his Ma that afternoon.  He took it on his cellphone in the bathroom of the casino where he had gone to exchange the cash for chips.  He pretended to get online to book a flight home.  “I won’t be in until late, Ma,” he said.  “Try to get some rest.”

            He had three jack and cokes at the bar, then exchanged the chips for cash.

            He had dinner at a McDonalds nearby and reread the worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye that he never took out of his backpack.

            When he arrived home late, just as he said he would, his mother was at the kitchen table, her face pale and her eyes rimmed in red.

            “The cameras were still down,” she said.  “That lazy bastard Manny never got them fixed.  The police have nothin’ to go on.”

            Louie already knew this.  His mother always complained about that lazy bastard Manny, which was how he’d known the cameras were down in the first place.  He had taken it as a sign from God.

            God wanted Louie to rob the bank to get the money they needed to pay for his Ma’s chemotherapy.

            “You should have been out of there weeks ago, but you don’t listen,” Louie had told her.  “You’re too sick to still be working.”

            “Can’t pay for treatment with shells and beans, kiddo,” was always her reply. “Manny moved me to the window closet to the bathroom.  He lets me take as many breaks as I need.”

            The ongoing fight over whether Louie could take a semester off at Brown until his Ma got better ended that night at the kitchen table.  Ma was too shaken up over watching three of her friends die in front of her to argue with him.

            The question over how they would continue to pay for the chemotherapy hung thick in the air, but neither mentioned it.

            The next morning, a letter arrived in the mail from a book publisher in New York.

            “They liked the first chapter of my book, Ma!” Louie said.  “They are wiring me an advance so I can finish it.”

            “My son, a bestselling author!” his Ma beamed.

            Only Louie knew there was no book.  He had typed the letter himself and sent it to the house three days before.

            Louie mops up the last bit of hollandaise sauce with his last bite of English muffin.  When he is through, he pushes the plate aside and reaches into his backpack for the worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye.  He reads a few chapters as he sips from his second glass of orange juice.  He takes solace in knowing that Holden would have done any and everything if it meant his sister, Phoebe, could live.

           

Rusty

It has been a very long time.  Too long.

I'm committing myself to one exercise a day.  It won't be from Method and Madness, because I had to return it to a friend and have yet to buy a copy for myself.  So I'll work from 3 A.M. and 4 A.M. until I decide to shell out the $42.55 Amazon is asking.  (And, when the time comes, I fully intend to start the process over... as when so much time goes by one tends to change and approach things differently. Yay growth!)

So for those of you still reading, be warned that what comes out of me these first days back will probably be garbage.

Because I'm rusty. Really, really rusty.

But at least I'm giving it a go.

Ch. 5: Why You Need to Show and Tell: Dramatizing and Narrating

#2: What Everyone Knows/What I Know
 What everyone knows about him is that God gave him big ears, but perfect teeth.  He gets a check in the mail every month just for being Indian.  When he drinks too much, he thinks he’s invincible.  How once it landed him in the hospital and they took his spleen.  How another time it landed him hard on the ground, breaking the collarbone above his pitching arm, and they took his contract with the Cleveland Indians.  On the weekends, he gets up early and takes his boat out to the lake to fish. The pick-up truck he bought and fixed up in high school, the one he lifted and painted cherry red, is his pride and joy.  His family comes first, his friends a close second.  He says very little when he’s sober, is the loudest of the bunch when he’s drunk. He’s cheated on every girlfriend he’s ever had.  The nights he was slated to pitch always drew the biggest crowd.
    What I know is that he doesn’t say much because he’s too busy watching.  How all the things he used to see were whispered in my ear.  That the smiles and looks he gives across the room are telling me what you’re talking about and how bored he is listening to you.  That when I forget and slam the passenger door of his truck, he isn’t going to yell, but instead just sit there and stare at me until I notice we aren’t going anywhere and realize what I did.  How if I don’t look at him and open the door back up and close it softly, it will make him smile and shake his head.  That I’m on the list of people he can’t stand to disappoint.  How even though he would tease me sometimes, any guy who really hurt me would find his fist in their face.  That he married the wrong girl.

Ch. 5: Why You Need to Show and Tell: Dramatizing and Narrating

Note: There are two exercises for this chapter, but I'm only posting the first one today because it took me so long to complete. I'll post the second one tomorrow.

#1: Tell Me a Story

Pure Narration
It was morning, still early, and we were sitting out on the deck around the outdoor fire pit.  The two of them sucked on cigarettes, and I, the asthmatic, had to shift and move constantly to avoid inhaling their smoke.  I concentrated on my coffee, stared into it and admired the way the white cream swirled across its surface, as the two of them recounted all the drama that took place the night before.  I noticed how this time it wasn’t all the outrageous, uncalled for events that were making me so angry.  Instead, it was how the women were being so self-righteous.  Each was a tragic mess in their own way, always finding themselves in the same exact situations, the only difference being the people involved.  Yet, each always acted as if they were the victim—the drama was always happening to them, and they ignored the common denominator of the drama: themselves.  They were always perfect, always rational, and their goal became eliminating the people who they considered to be really at fault from their lives.  Once that was done, then the focus shifted to reinventing themselves.  For one of the women, the reinvention involved the church and God.  For the other, yoga, meditation, and the healing power of crystals promised a new and better life.  I bit down on my tongue to keep from asking questions that involved words like reality, responsibility, and self-reflection.  If I had learned anything in those last 12 hours it was that any form of constructive criticism from my mouth quickly turned me from friend to judgmental bitch… even if my opinion had been asked for, sought out.  I looked down at the jeans I’d slept in.  My hair and clothes smelled like an ashtray.  My tongue was thick with yeast and had the sour aftertaste of too many beers.  All I wanted was to go home and shower, crawl into bed with my mom and watch episodes One Tree Hill while stuffing our faces with ice cream and chocolate and whatever splendid meal my dad had planned for dinner that night.  I heard one of the women compare our lives to reality tv.  They were discussing what it would be like if we all lived in a house together while someone taped our lives—what we might say about each other during our confession interviews.  As they laughed over the comments they’d make about me, I added deflecting to the list of words I couldn’t say.

Pure Scene
“They were just sitting there, drinking beers like it was nothing!” Melissa said.
    “Maybe it was nothing,” said Susie.
    “There was plenty of beer here.  They didn’t need to go up to his place to get more.”
    “Maybe they didn’t like the kind you bought.”
    “Ok, so get it and then come back.  Why stay up there and hang out?  The party was here.”
    “Why don’t you ask them all this?” I said.
    “I did, when I walked in and caught them all in the kitchen.”
    “Didn’t you say you started screaming at them?” Susie said.  “Maybe the screaming distracted them.  Maybe now that you aren’t drunk, you should try talking to them again.”
    “And then forgive them like you always do and let them do the same thing to you all over again next party,” I said.
    “Wow, Jo, that was pretty harsh,” Susie said.
    “No, she’s right,” Melissa said.  “I need to start taking stock of my friends.  I need to eliminate all these toxic people from my life.  Nobody out there appreciates me and all that I do for them.”
    “Nope, not a single person,” I said.
    “You just need to relax,” Susie said.  “You’re too worked up.  You need to do yoga or come to my hoop class.  Have you tried meditation?
    “I think I just need to go back to church and focus on God,” Melissa said.
    “Well, whatever it is, it’s good that you are working towards change,” Susie said.  “I’ve been feeling the same way, lately.  Like I need to change.  There is just all this bad juju in my life and I just need to find peace.”
    “Too bad you gave away your favorite crystal to ol’ red bra,” I said.
    “See, you’re mean,” Susie said.
    “I like to think of it as being honest,” I said.
    “We need our own reality show,” Melissa said.  “Wouldn’t that be funny?”
    “Oh yeah, a real riot,” I said.  “I can see it now… a montage of Melissa sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening to me?’ which then cuts to clips of her making bad choices.  Then, her saying, ‘I’m going to change!’ And then more clips of her making bad choices, and again her sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening!’”
    “And there will be clips of Susie playing devil’s advocate, then talking shit about you behind your back during her interviews?” Melissa said.  “Then you’ll see her go off to meditate because she’s so plagued by all the negative energy caused by her being two-faced.”
    “You two are both so mean!”
    “And you’re so fake!” Melissa said.

Scene and Narration
“They were just sitting there, drinking beers like it was nothing!” Melissa said.
    “Maybe it was nothing,” said Susie.
It was morning, still early, and we were sitting out on the deck around the outdoor fire pit.  The two of them sucked on cigarettes, and I, the asthmatic, had to shift and move constantly to avoid inhaling their smoke.
“There was plenty of beer here.  They didn’t need to go up to his place to get more.”
    “Maybe they didn’t like the kind you bought,” Susie said.
    “Ok, so get it and then come back.  Why stay up there and hang out?  The party was here.”
I concentrated on my coffee, stared into it and admired the way the white cream swirled across its surface, as the two of them tried to figure out all the drama that took place the night before.  I bit down on my tongue to keep from asking questions that involved words like reality, responsibility, and self-reflection.  Instead I said, “Why don’t you ask them all this?”
“I did, when I walked in and caught them all in the kitchen,” Melissa replied.
    “Didn’t you say you started screaming at them?” Susie asked.  “Maybe the screaming distracted them.  Maybe now that you aren’t drunk, you should try talking to them again.”
    For as long as we’d known her, Susie spent more energy trying to make you see the other side of things rather than just taking your side.  It’s why I called her “Earth Mother.”  Well, that, and she always dressed like she was headed to a peace rally.
    “Then after they explain themselves, you can forgive them like you always do and let them do the same thing all over again next party,” I said.
    “Wow, Jo, that was pretty harsh,” Susie said.
I looked down at the jeans I’d slept in.  My hair and clothes smelled like an ashtray.  My tongue was thick with yeast and had the sour aftertaste of too many beers.  All I wanted was go home and shower, crawl into bed with my mom and watch episodes of One Tree Hill while stuffing our faces with junk food and whatever splendid meal my dad had planned for dinner that night.
“No, she’s right,” Melissa said.  “I need to start taking stock of my friends.  I need to eliminate all these toxic people from my life.  Nobody out there appreciates me and all that I do for them.”
    “Nope, not a single person,” I said.
    “You just need to relax,” Susie said.  “You’re too worked up.  You need to do yoga or come to my hoop class.  Have you tried meditation?
    “I think I just need to go back to church and focus on God,” Melissa said.
    I got up to add another log to the fire— an attempt to hide my rolling eyes.  These reunions had become so predictable.  Drama, poor me, reinvention.
    “Well, whatever it is, it’s good that you are working towards change,” Susie said.  “I’ve been feeling the same way, lately.  Like I need to change.  There is just all this bad juju in my life and I just need to find some peace and balance.”
    “Too bad you gave away your favorite crystal to ol’ Red Bra,” I said.  Last night had been a theme party—“Naughty or Nice” to celebrate Christmas.  Apparently the word naughty implied that clothes were optional.  Both women found it rude that I had taken to calling some girl I didn’t know “Red Bra” because of her choice to wear lingerie in 40-degree weather.
    “See, you’re mean,” Susie said.
    “I like to think of it as being honest,” I said.  But not as honest as I wanted to be.  Reality, responsibility, self-reflection.
    “We need our own reality show,” Melissa said.  “Wouldn’t that be funny?”
    “Oh yeah, a real riot,” I said.  “I can see it now… a montage of you sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening to me?’ which then cuts to clips of you making bad choices.  Then, again, saying, ‘I’m going to change!’ And then more clips of you making bad choices, and again sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening!’”
    Susie laughed hard and snorted.
    “And there will be clips of Susie playing devil’s advocate, then talking shit about you behind your back during her interviews,” Melissa said.  “Then you’ll see her go off to meditate because she’s so plagued by all the negative energy caused by her being so two-faced.”
    “You two are both mean!”
    “And you’re fake!” Melissa said.
    And then it was as if they realized that in a couple days I was going back home, to San Diego, and that they would still be living in this small town together, and the focus quickly shifted onto me. 
As they came up with clever quips about how my flaws would play out on television, I added deflecting to the list of words I couldn’t say.

Ch. 4: The Short Story: Defining and Shaping

#1: False Epiphanies I Have Had

1.) Suddenly I realized… that the only men I want are the ones I can’t have.

2.) I’ll go weeks without dreaming about him, and then suddenly he’s there. He’s in the tree house I’ve climbed up into to escape the crazy man slowly stalking me through the woods—the one who no matter how fast you run is always just a few steps behind you, walking. He’s sitting in a bus stop shelter on the deserted road I’m jogging along. He comes out from around corners or is leaning against buildings, always just out of my reach, always smiling. The wave of shock and excitement over his unexplained presence is the first thing to come, followed always by the same question—“What are you doing here?” I never get an answer. Just that smile, like he knows something really great—something that will be years before I can even begin to understand. But this not knowing doesn’t scare me. When I’m here with him like this, his face so full of answers to questions I haven’t even thought of yet, the only thing I feel is safe. He’s going to hug me now, squeeze me really tight. I’ll feel the warmth of his breath on the top of my head, smell his cologne. I’ll lift my head to kiss his lips, still parted, still smiling. Just as I’m about to tell him that I love him, I wake up.

3.) The next morning, nothing will get done. Because when he comes to me like this, the rest of the day is a loss—it’s spent kicking myself for never telling him how I really feel. Because now he is married. And the one after him was married, too. And the one I almost married is about to marry someone else. And the one I want to marry now never wants to get married. And so it goes. I tell myself I only want men I can’t have… when really I cling to men I can’t have because I’m afraid of being alone. And, hey, look at that! Another epiphany! And so the cycle continues…

#2.) Opportunities Not Taken

I had planned to go north for Spring Break to visit my family, but the closer the time came to having to pack up the car and make the eight hour drive from San Diego, the more I wanted to just stay home. A little over four months had passed since I’d last seen my parents, Christmas at their house. I missed them, they missed me, and I didn’t want there to be hurt feelings. But the weather there predicted thunderstorms and snow all week, while the weather here called for sunshine and temperatures in the low 80s. My roommate would also be out of town, which meant I’d have the house to myself. Tom Cruise slid through my mind in a pair of underwear and black Ray-Bans, urging me to stay home and rock ‘n roll. Nobody says no to Tom Cruise. Instead I said no to make-up, drying my hair, and wearing anything but pajamas. I said no to healthy food and exercise. I said no to laundry and cleaning. I went to the beach and watched the surfers attempt to catch waves and small children attempt to skip rocks across them. I caught up on all the new movies I hadn’t seen. I listened to hours of This American Life while sipping coffee spiked with cinnamon. I wrote, I read, I wrote some more. I watched that new show Glee everyone is talking about, pausing every now and then to belt out the songs I liked myself—to my surprise, I’m pretty good. I drank white wine and danced in my underwear to Beyonce, Lady Gaga, and Ludicrous. Tom Cruise may be the master at sliding across the floor in his calf high white socks, but I can show him a thing or two about “gettin’ low.”

Ch. 3: Details, Details: The Basic Building Blocks

#1: Harper’s Index on a Personal Level

Number of unread books on my shelf: 24
Number of times I’ve felt a connection with a random stranger: 3
Number of times I’ve acted on it: 0
Number of fortune cookie fortunes I’ve saved: 2
Number of wedding dresses in my closet: 1
Number of times I’ve been married: 0
Average number of minutes after my mom gets upset with my brother that I get a phone call: 1
Chances that when I move I will throw away all my décor and redecorate my new place: 97 percent
Number of times I wash my hands a day: at least 50
Minutes that go by after I see an illness on a medical show before I diagnose myself with the same ailment and begin naming when I’ve experienced all the symptoms: less than 1
Number of short stories I’ve completed writing: 4
Number of short stories I’ve had published: 0
Chances that I’m going to vacuum and mop my floor after you leave if you wore your shoes in my house while you were here: 100 percent
Number of marriages I’ve been responsible for ending: 1
Number of times I’ve been in love: 2
Number of food concoctions I eat that other people would think were weird: 2
Number of times I’ve read Catcher in the Rye: 3
Number of times I’ve read The Great Gatsby: 5
Number of times I’ve seen The Breakfast Club: 10
Number of times I’ve renewed my faith in God: 3
Chances that something will happen that will make me lose trust in God and go back to questioning my faith: 100 percent
Chances I’ll rewrite something that I’m writing by hand if there is even the tinniest mistake or imperfection: 100 percent
Number of times that I usually end up rewriting something I’ve written by hand before I consider it perfect: 3
Number of articles of clothing that still have the tags on it: 5
Number of times I’ll eat leftovers: 1
Chances that I’ll write “your” instead of “you’re” and have to change it: 100 percent
Number of times I check my e-mail a day: 15
Number of people I consider to be my true friends: 3
Number of times I’ve been out of California: 6
Number of times a month I say, “I’ll start working out/eating healthier on Monday”: 4 (once a week)
Number of crosswords I attempt a week: 3
Number of crosswords I finished completely without help (including not Googling a clue): 2
Number of times I usually have to Google a clue on a crossword: 4
Number of glasses of wine I’ll usually have after opening the bottle: 2
Number of songs in my repertoire that I’ll belt into a hairbrush for my best friends’ amusement when he/she has had a bad day: 3
Chances that when I’ve had a bad day you’ll find me dancing and singing in my kitchen with a glass of wine: 100 percent
Bible versus I can recite off the top of my head: 0
Number of movie/t.v. quotes/lines from books I can recite off the top of my head: 10
Number of times I’ve voted for a President since turning 18: 0
Number of times I’ve voted for an American Idol contestant: 3
Number of ex’s: 2
Number of ex’s I’m still friends with: 0
Number of dirty laundry loads that are waiting to be washed in my laundry room right now: 8
Number of showers I take a day: 2
Number of towels I use a day (to take a shower): 4
Number of “celebrities” I’ve met: 4
Number of vacations I’ve been on: 10
Number of vacations I’ve actually come back from feeling relaxed: 0

#2: Render a Tree, Capture a Forest

“Blink and you’ll miss it,” is the line often used when referring to Jamestown, California, as it only stretches for three miles in every direction between the significantly larger neighboring towns. I’ve always found the remark a bit unfair. When I’m passing through, my eyes never seem to stop roaming. In the spring, they roll over hills lush with lime colored grass and bright orange poppies, robbed of their fertility by the paralyzing heat of summer, which leaves everything dry and prickly against bare, tan legs that run down a dirt path to a neighbor’s house to play. They reach up 300 feet to the tops of staggering pines that also shift between green and brittle brown depending on the season, and whose branches bend under the weight of the crisp, white blankets of snow the town sees once every five winters. They see the Mini-Mart where, in the summers, the high school boys fill up their parents’ boats to go fishing or to ride around the pretty, popular girls who sun themselves in faded, dingy bikinis and talk about the boys they’d rather be with. Almost every jacked up Chevy four-by-four— in charcoal gray or white—on the road has a boat on its trailer hitch come summertime. They slow traffic to 30 mph as they make their way to one of the three lakes that lap against various edges of the town. The sun glistens off their stone blue surfaces so intensely you have to slow your car as you go by so as not to drive off the road. What I don’t blink for in fear of missing is the cemetery. Not a single blade of grass grows on the red, dirt hill pimpled with headstones. Like all the pick-up trucks in town, they are either white or gray. The ones with a bit of sparkle in the stone and the ones with the glossy finish tell you whose family had pants with deep pockets. There is nothing about the way the graves are positioned that gives the impression there was a plan to where each hole was dug, as perfect strangers are often just a roll away from being bedmates. Like the town, the space is not big enough to hold the increasing population, and I often wonder how many feuding neighbors are seeing their Hatfield and McCoy melodrama play out in their afterlife. The day my mom brought my grandma’s ashes to be buried in her family’s plot, which sits on the far side of the cemetery, safe, for now, from crowding, the sky, thick with clouds the color of great gray brains, poured. “She doesn’t want to be buried with them,” my mom told me on the phone that night. I closed my eyes and imagined the dry, red dirt turning into thick clay, sweeping everything in the little town away.

Ch. 2: The Gift of Not Knowing: Writing as Discovery

#1: Things I Was Taught / Things I Was Not Taught

Things my mother taught me

- That on Sundays showering is optional and you can wear your pajamas all day long, eat ice cream for breakfast and chocolate for lunch, and wrap up in a blanket on the couch and watch movies all day (getting up only to go to the bathroom or to get more food)—but on every other day of the week, you must look your absolute best before going out in public.
- How the best time of day is the hour before everyone else in the house gets up, sitting in the dark, the only light coming from the fire in the stove, drinking hot tea.
- How it is necessary to write a list of questions before going to the doctor so that if he tries to rush you through the visit you are prepared, rather than getting frazzled and forgetting what it was you wanted to ask him in the first place.
- That looking straight ahead when you see someone you don’t want to talk to doesn’t magically make you invisible.
- To never fight with your brother because there may come a day when he’s the only family you have.


Things my mother didn’t teach me

- How it’s best to leave the person you are with when the relationship isn’t working rather than being unfaithful.
- That your approach and/or response to a situation should always match your intentions, otherwise your intentions will always be misinterpreted.
- How to raise and care for a dog, and how having a dog can make you a more tolerant person.
- How to be affectionate with another person—to not cringe or shy away at their touch, or how to not get embarrassed or uncomfortable when they attempt to be affectionate with you in public.
- How to cook food with fresh ingredients rather than settling for meals that come out of a can or a box.


#2: I Want to Know Why

I want to know why:

- I freak out about people wearing shoes in the house (because of all the germs they track over my floor), but have no qualms about wearing new clothes I buy from department stores without washing them first.
- Sandwiches always taste better when somebody else makes them for you.
- When you go through a break-up every single song you hear on the radio sums up exactly how you’re feeling.
- Some women get all dolled up to go workout and sweat at the gym.
- The fifteen year old girl standing on the street corner holding a sign that says, “2 months pregnant, please help” thinks whatever money she does make will be even close to enough.
- The smell of cinnamon makes me feel like a kid again.
- I can’t find a single hot dog stand in San Diego.
- The only time I can sit still for long periods of time is when I’m sitting looking at the ocean.
- People who hate interacting with people get customer service jobs.
- My dog can love unconditionally, but I can’t.

I can’t find a single hotdog stand in San Diego. Sure, there is always Costco, but it’s not the same as the one-man-stand outside the bulk items store in my hometown. Ten years ago, when I was a senior in high school, four of us girls would pile into my best friend Shelby’s Christmas tree green mustang—me having automatic shotgun since I was six foot one and had the longest legs. We only had a half hour for lunch, so we’d race down the narrow back roads of downtown, avoiding the bumper to bumper lunch hour traffic on main street and a stop sign or two. AC/DC vibrated the stereo speakers, the other girls singing along because, unlike me, they knew all the words. When we finally reached the parking lot (only 20 minutes left!) our awkward, teenage legs would emerge from the doors before the car was even in park, feet hovering inches above the warm pavement. The man who owned the hot dog stand knew us all by name, his ruddy, red face breaking into a warm smile to reveal two rows of perfectly straight teeth stained yellow from coffee or cigarettes—we couldn't tell which—as we made our way up to the cart. His hair was a mixture of silver and charcoal grays and curled out from a dingy red trucker’s cap, the ends damp and slick from the steam that rose up each time he opened the lid of the bin the hotdogs were in. The white apron tied tightly around his waist looked like a kindergartner’s finger painting with its smears of ketchup, mustard, and relish. “Five regular dogs and five Dr.’s for the pretty college girls,” he’d always say, knowing we were still in high school. The other girls loaded their dogs with onions and relish, while Shelby and I dressed ours simply in a blanket of ketchup, spinning the dog a few times to give it an even coat. The dogs were plump and juicy; the thin skin of their casing making the slightest pop as it broke against your teeth. My favorite part was always the large, seedy bun, and when I was almost at the end I’d push my dog out a little bit so the last bite was always an inch or so of warm bread soggy with ketchup. We’d wash it all down with big gulps of Dr. Pepper, which always resulted in a burping contest on the ride back to school. Jaime’s burps sounded like the ones a newborn baby makes after gorging on its mother’s milk—a simple “eh!” forcing itself out of the throat. Shelby and I always tied for first place, as we’d been trying to out-do each other in the belching arena since the 6th grade when we’d come home after school and stuff ourselves with Hershey kisses and caffeine free Pepsi—staple items in my fridge. Our burps were long and loud, rumbling up from the deepest part of our bellies. We’d break into hysterics each time someone would say that all that was missing was the ripple across our lips like Homer Simpson got each time he let one off. Too soon we were back in the school parking lot (5 minutes left!), this time the doors staying closed long after the engine had been turned off, discussing whether we could afford to miss 5th period. Almost always the answer was no, so we’d suck in our protruding bellies, re-button the tops of our tight fitting jeans and walk slowly to our lockers, the taste of warm processed meat still fresh in our mouths.

Ch. 1: What Is This Thing Called Creative Writing?: The Basics

#1: I Don’t Know Why I Remember…
I don’t know why I remember our last night in New York. It was late, almost one in the morning, and we had to be up in a few hours to catch the plane home. But the most incredible storm was going on outside our fifth floor window. The sharp crack of the lightening, like a lion tamer’s whip, and the deep, rumbling thunder that followed less than a second after had us curious. It was the middle of June, and only a week earlier the city had experienced a record high heat wave, so the storm brewing that night came as a bit of a surprise. I got out of bed and threw back the curtain so we could lay there curled up into each other and watch the jagged lines of bright white lightning etch itself upon the night sky, which was burning a deep red—a reflection from the glow of the city. We watched as lights in the building across the way turned on in rapid succession, yellowing the windows, which shortly after were filled with the faces of tenants we’d been spying on all week. There was the woman who worked out on an elliptical machine in a black bra and matching panties, the soft, milky flesh of her belly and backside tremoring a bit with each stride. And there was the man who sat hunched over his computer, typing feverishly while his cat scaled the bookshelves mounted above him on the wall. We watched the storm for a long time, silent and still, the flashes of lightening illuminating our faces as if we were having our portrait taken. At one point, your knees pressing into the backs of mine, your arm draped over me and your hand clasped tightly between my own, I closed my eyes and thanked God for you. Finally, I rolled over onto my back to check if you were still awake. I don’t know what inspired the “Broadway musical” we then found ourselves writing. I don’t know why I remember the tune and lyrics to the “Chicken Burrito Song” and the “Wells Fargo Song,” but not the story line or songs we came up with for what was sure to be a sold out show. I think it was about superheroes. Is that right? Whatever it was, I know belting it out at the top of our lungs had us laughing so hard our guts ached and our eyes watered. How was it we weren’t tired after all the walking and adventure that had taken place over the previous four days? I wonder if some part of our conscious knew that that night would be the last time we’d truly be happy together, and fought to stay awake to experience and enjoy every possible moment of it.

Method and Madness

Recently I took a trip to the Bay Area to attend a teacher recruitment job fair and visit a very good friend. This friend is close to completing her Master's degree in Creative Writing, and, sharing my fondness for Brian Kiteley's writing exercise books, she recommended a text she fell in love with and has often referred back to during the course of her program-- Method and Madness: The Making Of A Story (A Guide to Writing Fiction), by Alice LaPlante.

When I finally do go back to school to get my Master's degree, I plan on applying to the Creative Writing program. Until then, I've decided to use this text not only as a way to live vicariously through my friend, but to teach myself how to write (better) fiction (since I do have a teaching credential and, in my mind, qualify as an instructor).

So, for now, I'm going to press pause on the Brian Kiteley writing exercise experience and post only my responses to the exercises at the end of each chapter of LaPlante's text (I'm sure there won't be much protest, since I don't think there is anyone out there reading this anyway...).

Happy writing,

Joleen

Tomine Inspired

“I can’t find my socks,” he said. “Why can I never find my socks?”
“Wear a pair of mine,” she said.
“All your socks are pink,” he said.
“So?”
“So, you know how much shit I got from Steve last week when I wore your socks?”
“Why’d you show him?” she said.
“I didn’t show him,” he said. “He dropped his pen during a meeting and when he reached down to get it, he saw them.”
“That’s a shame,” she said.
“Are you taking my socks?”
“Why would I want your socks?” she said. “They aren’t pink.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have time for this. I just won’t wear socks.”
“Pink socks are better than no socks. Only creeps wear no socks.”
“Well then I guess today I’m a creep,” he said, and kissed her on the forehead. “Gotta go.”
Still naked, she went to her bedroom window and looked down from the tiny apartment out onto the street. She imagined him taking the steps to the lobby two at a time, cursing as the hard leather of his dress shoes bit into his heels. She had no doubt he’d have blisters by lunchtime, but still, she didn’t feel any guilt. He could’ve worn the pink socks.
Now he’d be crossing the lobby. Griff, the morning doorman, would give him the traffic report on his way out and suggest which route to take to the office. And now, ah yes, there he was, out the door and walking briskly across the street towards his black BMW.
After he’d driven away, she walked over to the nightstand and pulled out the pair of brown dress socks with white paisley print running up the length of both sides. They had been folded neatly at the bottom of his overnight bag, and she’d taken and hid them while he was showering.
She sat down on the bed, which she had also taken the time to make while he’d been in the shower. Her bare back propped up against several white pillows, she grasped the opening of one sock on both ends and gathered it down to the toe the way one does when fitting a pillowcase. Then, she tucked in her left toes and slowly slid the sock over her foot and up her long, slender calf.
She sat for a minute massaging the foot now encased in soft cotton. She pressed her fingers into the ball and rubbed in small, circular motions towards her heel, continuing up the back of her calf. She smoothed the palms of her hands down her shin, over the top ridge of her foot, and fitted the fingers of one hand between her toes. After a moment, she repeated the measure with the other foot.
Now with both socks on, knees bent, she leaned back into the pillows. She reached up and twisted her hair, black like licorice, into a messy bun. Breasts flopping out to both sides, she moved her feet back and forth across the bed in a little dance. She imagined the socks were grateful for the chance to act silly for a change—a few minutes of freedom from their more serious role as business attire.
“This is what it’s like to be pink,” she said.
She checked the clock. 7:56. In a few minutes she would need to shower, too, and begin getting ready for her own busy day. But for now, she was content to just sit here, his smell and these two ugly socks the only things left of him on her skin.
Later, she’d toss them behind the chair by the window, the one he’d haphazardly thrown his bag on last night before pushing her down on the bed.
“They must have fallen out,” she’d say.
And he’d believe her.

Pain (4 A.M., #83)

Henley scanned the menu, wondering if her date would be offended if she only ordered mashed potatoes.
This morning, he had sent chocolates to her office with a card that read: “A sweet start to your day. Looking forward to tonight, Gabe”
She cracked her tooth on an almond from the first piece she’d tried. Anyone else would have instinctively spit the candy out, but in a panic she’d swallowed it along with a chunk of bottom molar.
Alexa, the perky blonde she shared a cubicle with, was kind enough to call her dentist, but they couldn’t get Henley in until tomorrow morning. She knew she should cancel the date, but spending Valentine’s Day alone seemed more painful than sitting through dinner with a toothache.
So now here she was sharing a booth looking out over the Bay Bridge with a strikingly handsome, extremely interesting man, trying her best to concentrate on the conversation and the company.
“Would either of you care for a glass of wine?” the waiter came by to ask.
Henley could go for a whole bottle, as the two Vicodin she’d popped before leaving the house were already beginning to wear off.
“No, water peas,” she said, avoiding looking over at her date.
“Are you sure?” Gabe said.
“Yes, I’m ine.” The first lie of what she knew would be a long evening.
“I guess water for me then as well.” And now he avoided looking at the waiter, which embarrassed Henley since she was about to make them look even cheaper by only ordering soup.
“No ice peas,” Henley added quickly as the waiter turned to leave. “Tap, neat” she thought she heard him mumble.
“So, how was your day?”
“Ine, hank oo,” she said, keeping the number of words in her response to a minimum. She had to keep her tongue on the right side of her mouth, far away from the hole in her left molar.
Gabe only stared at her, until finally she realized he was waiting for her to ask about his day—and probably for a thank you for the chocolates.
“Ow us ors?”
Gabe just continued to stare.
Maybe she should have ordered wine.
The waiter returned with their waters and asked if they were ready to order.
“Ladies first,” Gabe said.
“Up of oup, peas.”
“Cup of soup to start,” said the waiter. “And for the main course?”
“Um, no, us the oup.”
Now both Gabe and the waiter were starting at her.
“Peas?” she said.
The throbbing was back in full force. She reached for her water and managed a small sip before a steady stream ran down her chin and onto the crotch of her red Calvin Klein dress.
“And for you sir?” the waiter said, still staring at Henley.
“I think we’ll need another minute,” Gabe said.
When the waiter left, Gabe excused himself, saying he needed to use the restroom.
Ten minutes passed before Henley realized he wasn’t coming back.

Alarm Clock Dream (3 A.M., #22)

A bank of clouds purple like a newly formed bruise hovers on the horizon. I am slowed for a moment by their intense beauty. I’ve been running for almost and hour, so lost in thought that only now do I take in my surroundings.
Across the road is a bus shelter. It seems out of place on this deserted stretch of highway. It’s as if someone built it here to say, “Don’t be fooled, life does exist here,”—but still I doubt that it is actually ever used.
Then I notice someone is in fact sitting on its plywood bench. It takes me a minute to determine the sex of this person, as my eyes are first drawn to the dazzling bright white of their smile.
I know whom this smile belongs to before I even take in the rest of the face. It’s a sly smile—the lips pulled back ever so gently across the teeth, the left corner of the mouth turned up just a half-inch higher than the right. I know that if I move my gaze up to the eyes, all will be lost.
I find him in the most unusual places, always wearing this same smile, the one that says, Did you really think you could escape me?
I know how the rest will go before I even begin to move towards him. I wish I could stand right where I am, just staring back as he smiles at me, forever… but I know it’s not up to me.
When I am halfway across the road he rises. I take in all that I can before the inevitable end of this moment—his almond shaped eyes dark as obsidian and his smooth chestnut skin. His ears have always stuck out too far, and now they catch the sun and turn a translucent red as it penetrates through them.
The wave of shock and excitement over his unexplained presence is the first thing to come, followed always by the same question—“What are you doing here?”
I never get an answer.
Just that smile, like he knows something really great—something that will be years before I can even begin to understand. But this not knowing doesn’t scare me. When I’m here with him like this, his face so full of answers to questions I haven’t even thought of yet, the only thing I feel is safe.
He’s going to hug me now. Then everything will get dark. Right before I wake up, he’ll squeeze me really tight.
And now, here I am back in my bed. I glance at the clock. 2 a.m. I won’t be able to fall back asleep for several hours. When he comes to me like this, the rest of the day is a loss.
I walk around in a daze, replaying the dream in my head trying to recapture those feelings I’m filled with at that moment he takes me in his arms. When I am unable to, I start thinking about whether it would be the same if we were to simply run into each other in town.
Because that’s the thing… the man who comes to me in my dreams is not a man I’ve lost to illness or death. Not a man that was ever mine to lose, really. A man I can’t for sure say has ever even shared the feelings I once had for him.
He’s a man who is very much alive and very easy to find. He is a man who used to be my best friend, and, if I ever felt the need, could still call for anything.
And that is why these dreams I have every few months never fail to shake me and leave me with so many questions.
Questions that I never dare to ask, as it seems to be he’s the one with all the answers.

The Royal We (3 A.M., #6)

We found him sitting on the back porch. “You two just let me be,” he said. “I’ve heard enough.”
Paul and Maggie asked if that meant he’d come to a decision.
“I’ll decide when I’m good and ready to decide.”
We exchanged a look that said should we leave it alone for now? Maggie raised an eyebrow that suggested later might be too late.
Paul asked our dad why he was so against the idea. “You said yourself the place and the people seemed nice.”
“Spain and its people are nice too, but it doesn’t mean I want to live there,” he said.
“You’ve never been to Spain, Dad,” Maggie said.
“You don’t know what I did and saw before you were born. I don’t tell you everything.”
We sat down on the steps, one on each side of him. It was a tight squeeze, but he didn’t complain.
“Do you think Mom would want you to stay here like this?” Paul said.
“Like what?”
“Alone. Sick,” said Maggie.
Dad looked up, gestured towards Banks, our seven-year-old beagle patroling the fence line. “I’m not alone.”
“Banks can’t call someone if something happens to you, Dad,” Paul said.
We sat there with him for a long time. His body grew tenser with each passing minute. He didn’t like when we ganged up on him like this. We knew he felt both relief and regret that Shelby, our younger sister, was not here. She was his baby girl, the child that always took his side. But with Mom being gone and his being sick, a part of him knew there was a possibility that this time she wouldn’t.
Shelby didn’t know that we were here, or that moving Dad to a nursing home was an option we were considering. Finals were next week and we decided it would be best not to add to her stress. Last fall, Mom passed right before her finals and she had to repeat the semester.
We glanced at each other behind Dad’s back and exchanged a nod that meant we should give him some time. He hadn’t flat out said no, and his considering the idea seemed like a good sign.
Maggie stood up first, then Paul. “Sleep on it, Dad,” Maggie said. “We’ll talk about it some more in the morning.”
Inside, we shared a bottle of wine.
“What do you think he’ll decide?” Maggie said.
“It’s hard to tell, but it’s clear he’s conflicted. I don’t think he wants to be put there, but I don’t think he wants to be alone here either.”
“Maybe we should have called Shelby.”
“You know what she’ll want to do,” Paul said.
Now that school was going to be out for summer, Shelby would suggest that she come move in with Dad, just until fall semester starts. But we both knew that if we let her, she wouldn’t go back. And we wanted her to have the education we missed out on.
“We’d have three months to warm her up to the idea of Dad going to Glen Oak. And when she sees how sick he is, when she really has to deal with it first hand, we won’t even have to really convince her. She’ll know for herself that it’s best.”
“I think you have our sister confused with someone else,” Paul said. “Remember how guilty she felt for not being around when Mom died? She’s not going to let that happen again with Dad.”
“And Dad won’t let her drop out of school to take care of him. He’d drive himself to the nursing home before it came to that.”
And that’s how we knew that Shelby was what we needed. Shelby, whether she agreed with it or not, was the only thing that would get Dad to go to Glen Oak.
We picked up the phone and dialed.