SAM, nine, is lit center stage. SAM is quite short. He holds a piece of paper. He is quite nervous and his way of speaking makes it clear he is reading from the paper, pausing at awkward times or running together sentences.
SAM
This is my report on what I want to be when I grow up and the challenges I might face. When I grow up I want to be tall. I will be six-foot-five-inches, and when people meet me they will say things like, “wow you are tall, how is the weather up there.” Sometimes I will even hit my head on things because they are low to the ground, or else I will have to duck when I walk up stairs in people’s basements. Sometimes I will play pick-up basketball and I will be okay at it and no one will say, “Sam you are too short to ever be good at sports, just go home.” When I visit my parents for Thanksgiving my mom will ask me to get cans of cranberry sauce from the top shelf for her and I will not have to stand on a chair, and afterwards my mom will hug me and tell me she loves me and my sister the same amount even if my sister is pretty and good at sports and I have early onset backne.
SAM pauses then continues.
SAM
One challenge I might face when I grow up to be tall is that I will lose all my friends. It will be sad. I will be too tall for them, and it will make me sad to lose them as friends but I will be tall and they will be short so what can you do. I will make new taller friends, and we will all play pick-up basketball together, and they will say, “Sam, you are so tall and handsome and the way you only listen to soundtracks from anime is cool.” And I will say, “yes, we are all tall and we all love anime soundtracks.” And they will say, “That is true. Let’s go to Dave & Busters for dinner.” And after that we will go to Dave & Busters for dinner and Eva, the girl that I like from Ms. Valnetto’s class, will be there. She will be grown up too, and she will say, “it is okay that you spilled popcorn butter on me at Maia’s birthday party, I did not mean those things I yelled at you about how ugly and weird and short you were.” I will shrug it off and ask if she wants to watch me play skee-ball, and she will say, “okay,” and I will be tall enough to put the ball right into the hundred hole, and with all the points I win I will get two stuffed animals that are Mr. Resetti from the Wii game Animal Crossing, and I will give one to her, and she will kiss my cheek. That was my report on what I want to be when I grow up and the challenges I might face.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Investigation Reveals Fatal Error in 2006 Mission Quinoa Order
MISSION PARK - A recent investigation at Mission Dining Hall revealed an error in an old order for quinoa, the Mexican grain known for being rich in protein and fiber. Investigators report that the mistake in the order - placed in October 2006 - resulted in a surplus quantity of quinoa in the magnitude of ten thousand. This slip-up proved fatal when the quinoa, delivered too quickly, ended up crushing a Mission chef.
"We were hearing a lot about quinoa," a dining hall source reports, "so we thought we'd try to order some for a dinner to see how people liked it. Well someone must have typed a bunch of extra zeroes because we ended up ordering like five truck fulls of the stuff. We were knee deep in quinoa for a week. One of the chefs drowned."
Investigation revealed that the surplus quinoa was eventually stored in empty singles in Dennett Basement and has been served ever since.
"Sometimes students come in joking and acting surprised about the quinoa," the source said. "For me, it's no joke. I still have nightmares."
"We were hearing a lot about quinoa," a dining hall source reports, "so we thought we'd try to order some for a dinner to see how people liked it. Well someone must have typed a bunch of extra zeroes because we ended up ordering like five truck fulls of the stuff. We were knee deep in quinoa for a week. One of the chefs drowned."
Investigation revealed that the surplus quinoa was eventually stored in empty singles in Dennett Basement and has been served ever since.
"Sometimes students come in joking and acting surprised about the quinoa," the source said. "For me, it's no joke. I still have nightmares."
Sunday, August 25, 2013
GHOST STORIES
0.
After there are rumors of ghosts in the canoe shed by the lake, my best friend and I sit on the dock on a night with no moon. I say to him, I do not believe in ghosts, and he says, neither do I, except for here.
1.
At the end, my best friend stumbles into the woods with his best friend (a young woman) and they have tearful sex. She loves him and he does not love her but he says anyway, I love you, because he has had too much to drink and because in that moment it seems easier and maybe even as exacting as what he really means. Except now she has ghosts of her own to deal with.
2.
I sit in the parking lot drinking with a different friend, one from high school. I say, man, what a summer, and he says, you have become a reminder of what I once was and so I'd like this to be the last time we see one another.
3.
In the morning I wake up on the shore with a monster headache and a gritty mouthful of sand, and Stephen, a maintenance guy who has been here forever, is pulling up lane lines at the end of the dock in the yellow morning sun. He has gray hair and a heavy Maine accent, and when I ask him if he believes in ghosts he just spits into the lake and says, I guess I do.
After there are rumors of ghosts in the canoe shed by the lake, my best friend and I sit on the dock on a night with no moon. I say to him, I do not believe in ghosts, and he says, neither do I, except for here.
1.
At the end, my best friend stumbles into the woods with his best friend (a young woman) and they have tearful sex. She loves him and he does not love her but he says anyway, I love you, because he has had too much to drink and because in that moment it seems easier and maybe even as exacting as what he really means. Except now she has ghosts of her own to deal with.
2.
I sit in the parking lot drinking with a different friend, one from high school. I say, man, what a summer, and he says, you have become a reminder of what I once was and so I'd like this to be the last time we see one another.
3.
In the morning I wake up on the shore with a monster headache and a gritty mouthful of sand, and Stephen, a maintenance guy who has been here forever, is pulling up lane lines at the end of the dock in the yellow morning sun. He has gray hair and a heavy Maine accent, and when I ask him if he believes in ghosts he just spits into the lake and says, I guess I do.
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
The Collector
You find a Hawaii quarter in the parking lot
outside your job and decide to collect every state.
You start by only sorting through the change
you get each day, but before long
you’re at the bank trading in twenties
and hundreds, spending afternoons and weekends
pawing through grimy tupperwares full of coins
and wading around in fountains
at the mall. You call your friends and tell them
to be on the constant lookout out for Idaho and the Dakotas.
Your wife leaves you, your daughters
break off all contact, you quit your job
and sell your clothes and start holding up coffee shops
for their tip jars.
outside your job and decide to collect every state.
You start by only sorting through the change
you get each day, but before long
you’re at the bank trading in twenties
and hundreds, spending afternoons and weekends
pawing through grimy tupperwares full of coins
and wading around in fountains
at the mall. You call your friends and tell them
to be on the constant lookout out for Idaho and the Dakotas.
Your wife leaves you, your daughters
break off all contact, you quit your job
and sell your clothes and start holding up coffee shops
for their tip jars.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
THREE LOVE POEMS FOR ALYSSA
1.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
IN ENGLISH CLASS
I will write a love poem for you, Alyssa,
dark-haired girl
who sits across from me in Comparative Literature,
one that will appeal to your English major sensibilities,
one that explores your adorable quirks I notice during class
that endear you to me in a way you will find loveable
and not creepy.
I will write,
Alyssa, I like the way you nervously chew
on the drawstring of your favorite maroon hoodie,
I like the way you sit low in your chair
with your fingers on the front of your throat,
and I like the way you read passages of Jane Eyre
aloud in class, slow and soft –
“how strange it was that I could not unlove you
merely because you had ceased to be near me” –
as if the words are your own
and you are sharing them with me as we walk
through the snow back from our first date
during which we discussed such subjects as
women in 19th-century literature
and the fleeting beauty of weather and nectarines.
2.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
AFTER THE END OF THE WORLD
Last night in the cold
on the balcony in the lodge,
I considered how beautiful you looked
as you picked off the zombies
attempting to claw their way
through our makeshift barriers.
And as you efficiently dispatched the horde,
as our fingers occasionally brushed tips
when I handed you ammunition,
I thought about saying, “how wonderful and terrible
it is that we found each other here, after the world’s end,”
but for fear of distracting you I did not,
and instead admired briefly the moon
shining through the broken windows
and illuminating with pale and delicate light
the maroon hood pulled low
over your eyes,
and your singular way
of handling a firearm,
so darkly,
and with such precision.
3.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
IN THE VACUUM OF SPACE
Finally,
I float aimlessly in the void
after the heat death of the universe
and find that, after a hundred trillion years,
I cannot unlove you.
It is very dark.
Except today
I spot a speck on the edge of the infinite horizon –
one that might be getting closer
and that is the same color
as your favorite sweatshirt.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
IN ENGLISH CLASS
I will write a love poem for you, Alyssa,
dark-haired girl
who sits across from me in Comparative Literature,
one that will appeal to your English major sensibilities,
one that explores your adorable quirks I notice during class
that endear you to me in a way you will find loveable
and not creepy.
I will write,
Alyssa, I like the way you nervously chew
on the drawstring of your favorite maroon hoodie,
I like the way you sit low in your chair
with your fingers on the front of your throat,
and I like the way you read passages of Jane Eyre
aloud in class, slow and soft –
“how strange it was that I could not unlove you
merely because you had ceased to be near me” –
as if the words are your own
and you are sharing them with me as we walk
through the snow back from our first date
during which we discussed such subjects as
women in 19th-century literature
and the fleeting beauty of weather and nectarines.
2.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
AFTER THE END OF THE WORLD
Last night in the cold
on the balcony in the lodge,
I considered how beautiful you looked
as you picked off the zombies
attempting to claw their way
through our makeshift barriers.
And as you efficiently dispatched the horde,
as our fingers occasionally brushed tips
when I handed you ammunition,
I thought about saying, “how wonderful and terrible
it is that we found each other here, after the world’s end,”
but for fear of distracting you I did not,
and instead admired briefly the moon
shining through the broken windows
and illuminating with pale and delicate light
the maroon hood pulled low
over your eyes,
and your singular way
of handling a firearm,
so darkly,
and with such precision.
3.
LOVE POEM FOR ALYSSA
IN THE VACUUM OF SPACE
Finally,
I float aimlessly in the void
after the heat death of the universe
and find that, after a hundred trillion years,
I cannot unlove you.
It is very dark.
Except today
I spot a speck on the edge of the infinite horizon –
one that might be getting closer
and that is the same color
as your favorite sweatshirt.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Unsolved Problems in Ancient Philosophy
And so two women came unto King Solomon with a baby, see. And the first said, last night in her sleep this other woman smothered her baby and then took mine to replace it, and when I woke up I was holding a dead child that was not my own. And the other, you know, the other said that's not true. This is my baby. The baby you are holding is mine.
And the king said unto them, fetch me a big sword, that I may cut this baby into two pieces, and that you may each have half. And the one woman spoke and said, okay that sounds good, and the other spoke and said, no, just give her the baby, she can keep it, just please don't cut the baby in half.
And so the king knew this second woman was truly the mother and of course he did not have to chop a baby in half.
But can I bring up something really quick, which is what is this first lady's deal? What would you have to be feeling to sneak into another woman's house and steal her baby because yours died? When does your sadness turn to that, like, sick determination? You're just crying in the night and you think, I need a baby, any baby. And then at the end of the story, when she realizes she's never going to get this baby, you know. What kind of horrible spite would you have to feel to want someone else's baby cut in half? What does this woman want with half a baby?
And the king said unto them, fetch me a big sword, that I may cut this baby into two pieces, and that you may each have half. And the one woman spoke and said, okay that sounds good, and the other spoke and said, no, just give her the baby, she can keep it, just please don't cut the baby in half.
And so the king knew this second woman was truly the mother and of course he did not have to chop a baby in half.
But can I bring up something really quick, which is what is this first lady's deal? What would you have to be feeling to sneak into another woman's house and steal her baby because yours died? When does your sadness turn to that, like, sick determination? You're just crying in the night and you think, I need a baby, any baby. And then at the end of the story, when she realizes she's never going to get this baby, you know. What kind of horrible spite would you have to feel to want someone else's baby cut in half? What does this woman want with half a baby?
Monday, December 17, 2012
The Ancestor
We lay on the turf in the cold and the dark. We lay bundled up with hats and scarves and gloves, we lay close but not touching. It was a meteor shower and we lay there together, in the dark, in the cold.
Elisabeth, I said.
Yes, she said.
The sky was falling.
I have been thinking about this a lot lately, I said, about the idea of being dead. Like I'm not worried that I'll die tomorrow, but I just think about that one day I won't be alive, you know. And like what that will be like, because it will be forever. Infinity years of my being dead, and that'll be it. Life will go on but I just. I won't. I won't go on. I'll be gone. I have been up late and very anxious.
She took a deep breath and then let it out and her breath was tiny icicles in the air.
We saw that dead raccoon on the way over here, she said.
I turned my head to look at her.
I'm just saying it could be worse, she said, still staring at the sky, and then she took my glove in her glove and I looked back up as well. I don't think what she offered was much in the way of comfort, but it was something to think about, at least.
Elisabeth, I said.
Yes, she said.
The sky was falling.
I have been thinking about this a lot lately, I said, about the idea of being dead. Like I'm not worried that I'll die tomorrow, but I just think about that one day I won't be alive, you know. And like what that will be like, because it will be forever. Infinity years of my being dead, and that'll be it. Life will go on but I just. I won't. I won't go on. I'll be gone. I have been up late and very anxious.
She took a deep breath and then let it out and her breath was tiny icicles in the air.
We saw that dead raccoon on the way over here, she said.
I turned my head to look at her.
I'm just saying it could be worse, she said, still staring at the sky, and then she took my glove in her glove and I looked back up as well. I don't think what she offered was much in the way of comfort, but it was something to think about, at least.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
NOTES
Notes found on the yellow tiled wall of the rest stop bathroom read as messages from beyond, as warnings to humanity. THIS IS THE END, written in green sharpie, WE WERE WITNESSES TO OUR OWN LIVES. WE LISTENED TO OUR SPORTS EQUIPMENT, WE HELD OUR OWN AGAINST THE GLOWING ASH. IF YOU FIND MY BODY, BURY IT WITH A TUBE OF CHAPSTICK AND A CRAYON THE COLOR OF THE MOON. I COULD HAVE LEARNED TO PLAY THE BANJO AND INSTEAD I FOUGHT WITH DOGS AND TOSSED EMPTY FORTIES OFF OF THE OVERPASS. I ATE GRAY STEAK. I SAT WITH MY HEAD DOWN IN THE DARK LIBRARY AND LISTENED TO THE HOT RAIN SIZZLE ON THE CEMENT, THINKING OF MY FATHER AND HIS ACCIDENT WITH THE FAX MACHINE.
Thursday, November 08, 2012
TOO MUCH TOO OFTEN
Once in a great while, a track that samples Adele's "Rumour Has It" and The Dub Pistol's "Cyclone" comes to the internet. Such a track is "TOO MUCH TOO OFTEN".
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
New Weather Stories
Dark clouds were rolling in, we could feel it on campus. The wind was picking up, and while professors made up excuses to cancel classes and went to be with their families, the student body was less than hunkered down. Frantic administrative emergency emails were sent out and then sort of just stopped coming, but we did not concern ourselves with what this might mean. The air smelled sweetly of inevitability, and the buzz about the student center was faint but pulsing.
"I think this might be the real end," Jesse said to me as we shared a cigarette in his car with the windows up. We regarded the horizon, which was gloomy and approaching fast.
"Yep," I said, and then, because we were young, "should we hit up the liquor store?"
Jesse smiled, resigned. A storm was coming, and when it hit we would all dance close to the windows.
"I think this might be the real end," Jesse said to me as we shared a cigarette in his car with the windows up. We regarded the horizon, which was gloomy and approaching fast.
"Yep," I said, and then, because we were young, "should we hit up the liquor store?"
Jesse smiled, resigned. A storm was coming, and when it hit we would all dance close to the windows.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
New Love Stories
We had just moved into a small apartment at the bottom of the ocean.
"I'd just like to go over some household expectations," you announced. "For instance, I expect you to clean the jellyfish out of the pipes. Also if we spring a leak I expect you to let me die first as I don't think I could handle drowning down here alone."
I nodded, this all sounded pretty reasonable.
"In return," you said, "I'll cook fish you catch. Healthy-looking ones at least. And I won't complain about how long the commute is by submarine."
That night we made love by the light of the anglerfish. It was a hassle that I'd need to pick up oxygen tanks every day until the algae farm started working, but the moon sure looked pretty nice reflected in the water's surface.
"I'd just like to go over some household expectations," you announced. "For instance, I expect you to clean the jellyfish out of the pipes. Also if we spring a leak I expect you to let me die first as I don't think I could handle drowning down here alone."
I nodded, this all sounded pretty reasonable.
"In return," you said, "I'll cook fish you catch. Healthy-looking ones at least. And I won't complain about how long the commute is by submarine."
That night we made love by the light of the anglerfish. It was a hassle that I'd need to pick up oxygen tanks every day until the algae farm started working, but the moon sure looked pretty nice reflected in the water's surface.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Wade's Dad's Basement
Alex Bauer comes up with the idea in Wade’s dad’s basement, which is dim and dank and thick with the smell of spilled beer and packed bodies. He’s heavily buzzed but the thought is clear: he must lose his virginity tonight, and, maybe and troublingly more than that, the whole thing must be a story worth telling.
And though he’s enjoying this metaphor that the idea was created in this basement like so many single-cell organisms from the primordial ooze, the fact is that it is not from thin air. It was prompted by a photograph hung on one of the brown paneled walls - a portrait of Wade and his father sitting together, on Wade’s knee a football and on his shoulder one of his father’s meaty hands, both of them looking off into the distance past the camera, as if the photographer had just happened to catch them in the park holding a football and wearing matching sweaters and watching the sunset together. Alex might have called it pretty gay if he were a little less taken by it.
Because somehow from the portrait it is only a small step in Alex’s memories to the day in second grade when, for show and tell, Wade came in with a shark tooth and announced proudly to the class that it belonged to his father, who, while surfing once, had been attacked by a Great White. “It bit him in the shin!” Wade explained, trying to mimic the action by randomly grabbing at and thrashing around his own leg, “but my dad fought it off and when he got to the hospital the doctor found this stuck in his bone. He walks with a limp now but he gave me this when I was little to keep.”
Alex realizes he has been staring at this photograph for longer than he can remember and goes to grab another beer.
****
In middle school his class did a report about an interesting story told by their family. His peers told stories about rings made of melted down gold coins from old villages in Eastern Europe and about escape from concentration camps and about international chess championships. Alex’s story went like this - my dad grew up in Troy, New York, on a farm. His family used to breed golden retrievers until there was a fire one day when my dad was at school. The door to the kennel was held open by a rope, and, see, the rope burned first and so the door shut and the dogs couldn’t get out. My dad says he heard the sirens at school and wondered what they could be for, and then when he got home his family was out in the backyard, his mom crying and his dad sort of just staring at the burnt ground, and when he ran back to see them he looked around and said, “where are the dogs?” and his brother said, “they’re dead, stupid.”
The story wraps up to a horrified silence broken only by the quiet sobbing of a girl in the back row. After class one of Alex’s friends come up to him, grinning. “Jesus, Alex, that was brutal. I expected it to be like, ‘oh, but my grampa saved them all,’ or like, ‘my dad ran straight home and into the fire,’ or something, but, yeah, seriously.”
Alex doesn’t know what to say except for, “yeah, that would have been a good story.”
****
He feels at least some confidence that he could make a move on Sarah. He knows her through marching band - he plays trombone, she is in the colorguard - and he likes to think they have always been kind of flirty in a classic marching band way. He also maybe thinks those stereotypes about the colorguard must exist for a reason.
She is standing by the punch.
“Hey Sarah,” he says.
“Hey Alex,” she replies.
This was roughly as far as he planned in the conversation.
“How are you liking the party so far?” he asks.
She looks around a little. “It’s pretty fun. I came here with Mariah but I don’t know where she’s got to, I think I saw her dancing with someone upstairs earlier, I’m not sure.”
“Hmm, yeah,” Alex replies thoughtfully.
They stand there for a little bit and sip from their drinks and nod. Someone yells something about shotgunning. Alex is glad for this. “You want to come shotgun, Sarah?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ve never done it before,” she says, “plus I kind of hate beer.”
“You should at least come spectate.”
“Yeah, I guess I could do that.” She finishes her drink and holds her empty cup down in her right hand as he grabs a beer and leads her out the back door.
****
Alex has this recurring dream.
In it he is a proper adult – in his thirties or forties maybe – and he gets home from his job to see his own teenage son working on homework or something and the looking up to ask Alex to tell a story about his youthful excapades – except Alex can’t think of anything, until, suddenly desperate, he launches into Wade’s dad’s surfing story. His son is totally impressed.
****
He is the dark horse candidate to win the shotgun and so he comes in fourth or so, but it was cold out and he got Sarah to put on his coat so that in itself is a small victory, at least. They are the only ones left standing outside as he picks up the empty cans and tries fruitlessly to throw at least one into the recycling bin a few yards away.
“That shotgunning was a good effort,” she offers vaguely as he picks up all the missed cans. “A lot of those guys still had beer left in their cans when they dropped them.”
“Hey, hey, it’s not a competition. We all won because we all drank a beer.” This is a joke Alex made at a party about a year ago – people thought it was pretty funny and so he has made it shamelessly at every opportunity since then. Sarah laughs.
****
In Wade’s dad’s living room they dance facing each other and close together in a way that Alex takes as a good sign. She hangs onto his neck and closes her eyes to the music; he holds her around the waist and smells her hair. He is pretty drunk.
“I turn eighteen tomorrow,” he shouts.
She leans a back a little and he can see her say, “what?”
“Yep, it’s true.”
“No,” she says, “I mean, I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
“Oh, sorry, I said I turn eighteen tomorrow.”
She smiles, “Wow! Happy early birthday!”
He is worried they might just start standing there.
“So, yeah,” he offers.
They just stand there.
He clears his throat. “You want to, um, you want to go check out upstairs? It might be a little quieter.”
She glances around and nods.
****
They sit on Wade’s sister’s bed for a little and talk about marching band. Alex says some funny stuff and Sarah laughs, and then they start kissing and he takes off her shirt and she takes off his shirt and they lie down and kiss except when he reaches for her belt she pulls away and puts her hand on his chest.
“Hey, I don’t think- like, maybe not,” she says in an embarrassed way.
“Oh, I’m really sorry,” he says quickly, moving off her. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s no problem. I mean I’m sorry, I just don’t really feel like, you know.”
“Yeah, sure. It’s totally fine.” He goes to sit up but in moving he put his head under part of the headboard and so he accidentally smashes his face into it. Sarah lets out a little shriek.
“Whoa, fuck,” Alex says, succeeding in sitting up. He puts his hand up to his eyebrow and feels blood. Sarah sits up. “Holy shit, Alex, are you okay?” “I think so, yeah,” he says. He goes to stand up but moves too quickly; his face throbs and he reels, knocking into a bookshelf. A lamp falls and breaks. He swears again, steadies the furniture, surveys the damage of the lamp, and then looks to Sarah.
She has her hands over her nose and she’s laughing helplessly. He says, “what.”
She just keeps laughing. He swears and gets back in bed.
****
At eight thirteen Alex’s phone beeps loud because it is out of batteries. He sits up and squints his eyes for the bright. His lips are cracked and his head is pounding. Sarah is lying face down next to him, snoring a little.
She rolls over and sniffs as he stands up to pick up the broken glass on the floor.
“‘Morning,” she says, smiling.
“Hey,” he says.
****
Outside her house in his car, Sarah puts back on her scarf. “Thanks for the ride, Alex,” she says, and then, reaching out to brush the cut on his forehead, adds, “you should put something on this, too.”
“Is it noticeable?” He asks, pulling down the mirror.
“Uh, sort of,” she confesses, “but at least it makes kind of a good story.”
****
Over his morning coffee, John Bauer notes his son pulling up to their house in his car and throwing up in the snow next to the mailbox. He stands up when Alex comes in the house and tries to greet him without grinning. “Hey, happy birthday bud! How was your Friday?”
“It was fun I guess, you know, pretty chill.” Alex manages weakly. After his dad just looks at him Alex adds, “I guess I drank a little too much.”
John smiles. “You know, I think the first time I ever threw up because of drinking too much was on my eighteenth birthday too.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Any other excitement?”
“You know this girl from school and I were talking and we sort of hit it off, I don't know. I think we might go on a real date maybe.”
“Hey, that’s great!” his dad says. “Tell you what, why don’t you go take a shower and I’ll make you a nice greasy omelet as an appropriate congratulations. They’re perfect for soaking up that excess ethanol.
“Mom says when you were in school that’s all you would eat,” Alex says.
John grabs a pan from the cupboard. “Oh, please, what does she know? I won a thousand bucks in a baking contest one time in grad school.”
“What?”
“Yeah, you didn’t know this? My sophomore year a frat on campus had a baking contest for a holiday party and I brought Apple-Eggnog pie. The recipe was my own invention. It won out over, among other things, straight weed brownies,” he says, chuckling, “I imagine it helped that the judges ate the weed brownies first and my pie a little later, probably.”
Alex has not heard this story before. “Wow, dad, that’s sick.”
“Yeah, it was sort of silly.”
“What’d you spend the money on?” Alex asks.
“I think I just put it in the bank,” his dad says, “I know, not that exciting.”
Alex gets up. “No, that’s kind of cool actually.”
****
When Alex gets upstairs he goes to take off his pants and feels something in the pocket. He pulls it out and turns it over in his hands and one of the small memories he lost last night comes flooding back.
He had woken up in the middle of the night needing to go to the bathroom in that sort of still drunk way. He wandered down the hall and accidentally opened the door to Wade’s room, where Wade was passed out naked and alone and snoring loudly. Alex was about to close the door when he saw the shark tooth.
And there it was, just as he remembered from the night before: the tiny seam of plastic that went around the whole tooth – the type of seam formed when something is mass-produced by means of a mold.
The tooth was fake.
****
Alex has the dream again that night except this time he doesn’t panic. He tells the story about his son’s grandfather’s baking contest, and how he found out about it on the day he got that weird scar above his eyebrow.
Because somehow from the portrait it is only a small step in Alex’s memories to the day in second grade when, for show and tell, Wade came in with a shark tooth and announced proudly to the class that it belonged to his father, who, while surfing once, had been attacked by a Great White. “It bit him in the shin!” Wade explained, trying to mimic the action by randomly grabbing at and thrashing around his own leg, “but my dad fought it off and when he got to the hospital the doctor found this stuck in his bone. He walks with a limp now but he gave me this when I was little to keep.”
Alex realizes he has been staring at this photograph for longer than he can remember and goes to grab another beer.
****
In middle school his class did a report about an interesting story told by their family. His peers told stories about rings made of melted down gold coins from old villages in Eastern Europe and about escape from concentration camps and about international chess championships. Alex’s story went like this - my dad grew up in Troy, New York, on a farm. His family used to breed golden retrievers until there was a fire one day when my dad was at school. The door to the kennel was held open by a rope, and, see, the rope burned first and so the door shut and the dogs couldn’t get out. My dad says he heard the sirens at school and wondered what they could be for, and then when he got home his family was out in the backyard, his mom crying and his dad sort of just staring at the burnt ground, and when he ran back to see them he looked around and said, “where are the dogs?” and his brother said, “they’re dead, stupid.”
The story wraps up to a horrified silence broken only by the quiet sobbing of a girl in the back row. After class one of Alex’s friends come up to him, grinning. “Jesus, Alex, that was brutal. I expected it to be like, ‘oh, but my grampa saved them all,’ or like, ‘my dad ran straight home and into the fire,’ or something, but, yeah, seriously.”
Alex doesn’t know what to say except for, “yeah, that would have been a good story.”
****
He feels at least some confidence that he could make a move on Sarah. He knows her through marching band - he plays trombone, she is in the colorguard - and he likes to think they have always been kind of flirty in a classic marching band way. He also maybe thinks those stereotypes about the colorguard must exist for a reason.
She is standing by the punch.
“Hey Sarah,” he says.
“Hey Alex,” she replies.
This was roughly as far as he planned in the conversation.
“How are you liking the party so far?” he asks.
She looks around a little. “It’s pretty fun. I came here with Mariah but I don’t know where she’s got to, I think I saw her dancing with someone upstairs earlier, I’m not sure.”
“Hmm, yeah,” Alex replies thoughtfully.
They stand there for a little bit and sip from their drinks and nod. Someone yells something about shotgunning. Alex is glad for this. “You want to come shotgun, Sarah?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ve never done it before,” she says, “plus I kind of hate beer.”
“You should at least come spectate.”
“Yeah, I guess I could do that.” She finishes her drink and holds her empty cup down in her right hand as he grabs a beer and leads her out the back door.
****
Alex has this recurring dream.
In it he is a proper adult – in his thirties or forties maybe – and he gets home from his job to see his own teenage son working on homework or something and the looking up to ask Alex to tell a story about his youthful excapades – except Alex can’t think of anything, until, suddenly desperate, he launches into Wade’s dad’s surfing story. His son is totally impressed.
****
He is the dark horse candidate to win the shotgun and so he comes in fourth or so, but it was cold out and he got Sarah to put on his coat so that in itself is a small victory, at least. They are the only ones left standing outside as he picks up the empty cans and tries fruitlessly to throw at least one into the recycling bin a few yards away.
“That shotgunning was a good effort,” she offers vaguely as he picks up all the missed cans. “A lot of those guys still had beer left in their cans when they dropped them.”
“Hey, hey, it’s not a competition. We all won because we all drank a beer.” This is a joke Alex made at a party about a year ago – people thought it was pretty funny and so he has made it shamelessly at every opportunity since then. Sarah laughs.
****
In Wade’s dad’s living room they dance facing each other and close together in a way that Alex takes as a good sign. She hangs onto his neck and closes her eyes to the music; he holds her around the waist and smells her hair. He is pretty drunk.
“I turn eighteen tomorrow,” he shouts.
She leans a back a little and he can see her say, “what?”
“Yep, it’s true.”
“No,” she says, “I mean, I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
“Oh, sorry, I said I turn eighteen tomorrow.”
She smiles, “Wow! Happy early birthday!”
He is worried they might just start standing there.
“So, yeah,” he offers.
They just stand there.
He clears his throat. “You want to, um, you want to go check out upstairs? It might be a little quieter.”
She glances around and nods.
****
They sit on Wade’s sister’s bed for a little and talk about marching band. Alex says some funny stuff and Sarah laughs, and then they start kissing and he takes off her shirt and she takes off his shirt and they lie down and kiss except when he reaches for her belt she pulls away and puts her hand on his chest.
“Hey, I don’t think- like, maybe not,” she says in an embarrassed way.
“Oh, I’m really sorry,” he says quickly, moving off her. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s no problem. I mean I’m sorry, I just don’t really feel like, you know.”
“Yeah, sure. It’s totally fine.” He goes to sit up but in moving he put his head under part of the headboard and so he accidentally smashes his face into it. Sarah lets out a little shriek.
“Whoa, fuck,” Alex says, succeeding in sitting up. He puts his hand up to his eyebrow and feels blood. Sarah sits up. “Holy shit, Alex, are you okay?” “I think so, yeah,” he says. He goes to stand up but moves too quickly; his face throbs and he reels, knocking into a bookshelf. A lamp falls and breaks. He swears again, steadies the furniture, surveys the damage of the lamp, and then looks to Sarah.
She has her hands over her nose and she’s laughing helplessly. He says, “what.”
She just keeps laughing. He swears and gets back in bed.
****
At eight thirteen Alex’s phone beeps loud because it is out of batteries. He sits up and squints his eyes for the bright. His lips are cracked and his head is pounding. Sarah is lying face down next to him, snoring a little.
She rolls over and sniffs as he stands up to pick up the broken glass on the floor.
“‘Morning,” she says, smiling.
“Hey,” he says.
****
Outside her house in his car, Sarah puts back on her scarf. “Thanks for the ride, Alex,” she says, and then, reaching out to brush the cut on his forehead, adds, “you should put something on this, too.”
“Is it noticeable?” He asks, pulling down the mirror.
“Uh, sort of,” she confesses, “but at least it makes kind of a good story.”
****
Over his morning coffee, John Bauer notes his son pulling up to their house in his car and throwing up in the snow next to the mailbox. He stands up when Alex comes in the house and tries to greet him without grinning. “Hey, happy birthday bud! How was your Friday?”
“It was fun I guess, you know, pretty chill.” Alex manages weakly. After his dad just looks at him Alex adds, “I guess I drank a little too much.”
John smiles. “You know, I think the first time I ever threw up because of drinking too much was on my eighteenth birthday too.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Any other excitement?”
“You know this girl from school and I were talking and we sort of hit it off, I don't know. I think we might go on a real date maybe.”
“Hey, that’s great!” his dad says. “Tell you what, why don’t you go take a shower and I’ll make you a nice greasy omelet as an appropriate congratulations. They’re perfect for soaking up that excess ethanol.
“Mom says when you were in school that’s all you would eat,” Alex says.
John grabs a pan from the cupboard. “Oh, please, what does she know? I won a thousand bucks in a baking contest one time in grad school.”
“What?”
“Yeah, you didn’t know this? My sophomore year a frat on campus had a baking contest for a holiday party and I brought Apple-Eggnog pie. The recipe was my own invention. It won out over, among other things, straight weed brownies,” he says, chuckling, “I imagine it helped that the judges ate the weed brownies first and my pie a little later, probably.”
Alex has not heard this story before. “Wow, dad, that’s sick.”
“Yeah, it was sort of silly.”
“What’d you spend the money on?” Alex asks.
“I think I just put it in the bank,” his dad says, “I know, not that exciting.”
Alex gets up. “No, that’s kind of cool actually.”
****
When Alex gets upstairs he goes to take off his pants and feels something in the pocket. He pulls it out and turns it over in his hands and one of the small memories he lost last night comes flooding back.
He had woken up in the middle of the night needing to go to the bathroom in that sort of still drunk way. He wandered down the hall and accidentally opened the door to Wade’s room, where Wade was passed out naked and alone and snoring loudly. Alex was about to close the door when he saw the shark tooth.
And there it was, just as he remembered from the night before: the tiny seam of plastic that went around the whole tooth – the type of seam formed when something is mass-produced by means of a mold.
The tooth was fake.
****
Alex has the dream again that night except this time he doesn’t panic. He tells the story about his son’s grandfather’s baking contest, and how he found out about it on the day he got that weird scar above his eyebrow.
Monday, September 03, 2012
Break-Up Bootleg
Sampling vocals from Cher Lloyd's "Want U Back" and The Beastie Boys' "Hey Ladies", "Break-Up Bootleg" is PAPERCUT MIXMASTER's fifth single released so far and a pretty clear indication he's running out of good ideas.
Saturday, September 01, 2012
Final Thoughts
As camp ends, things tend toward their natural extremes and the counselors begin adopting the surreal rather heavily. Temperatures during the day reach three digits and at night drop to below freezing. The best campers pass final levels at their activities. The worse ones break drinking glasses during meals and teach the director's children to swear.
On the last night a storm hits around one-thirty and the two of us jump in the lake and learn to breathe underwater. Above us sailboats break from their moorings and the water's surface becomes choppy and loud, but, here on the lake's floor, things are still. We squelch our toes into the muck and hold hands. A fish swims by.
I thought the songleaders this year were pretty okay, I say.
Yes, you say.
A bolt of lightning strikes the tall pine behind bunk four, and we can make out the screams of terrified children.
I say, would it make you uncomfortable if I said I am going to miss you considerably?
You say, no, I guess not.
I say, well.
On the last night a storm hits around one-thirty and the two of us jump in the lake and learn to breathe underwater. Above us sailboats break from their moorings and the water's surface becomes choppy and loud, but, here on the lake's floor, things are still. We squelch our toes into the muck and hold hands. A fish swims by.
I thought the songleaders this year were pretty okay, I say.
Yes, you say.
A bolt of lightning strikes the tall pine behind bunk four, and we can make out the screams of terrified children.
I say, would it make you uncomfortable if I said I am going to miss you considerably?
You say, no, I guess not.
I say, well.
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