Notes on Stories I May Never Write
1. A hitman flies to a particular city to whack some evil corporate menace, only when he arrives, the rental car place doesn't have the black Towncar he specifically requested. Instead he ends up with a tan Ford Taurus, which puts a damper on his hitman style and really ruins his whole trip.
2. An alien discovers that his family crashed into earth more than one million years ago, somewhere in northeast Africa. Since time means nothing to aliens, it was conceivably his grandfather who took part in the crash and it has been a cover-up ever since. During the time it took them to repair their ship, the aliens were approached by a bunch of Australopithecus cave dwellers. The monkey men stared at the long thin aliens with awesome reverence. Then the aliens fixed their ship and left. However, this particular alien finds out that his family's little crash created a sense of other, higher, godlier beings for these monkeys, and it evolved the monkeys closer and closer each day to the noble, intelligent, alien form. And now these monkeys are humans and they are killing each other each day over various versions of this brief encounter with his alien people, which they are all calling "God," and he has to go down and fix the mess.
3. A pharmacist goes to work everyday supplying medicine to a bizarre assortment of wounded characters. The manic depressive, the depressive, the manic, the chronic pain patient, the junky with the false prescription, the old lady, and the massively fat diabetic. When she gets home, the pharmacist drinks two or three glasses of wine. The pharmacy assistant smokes weed in his car during lunch breaks. There is a culminating event in which all of these characters is in the drugstore at the same time and the manic flips out and takes everyone hostage. During this period they all come to the realization that everyone uses some medicine to help them make it through the night. The manic surrenders and everyone is a bit wiser about his or her own relative addictions and place in the world.
A Good Lie
Doc told me meet him out on the first tee at 5 a.m., before all the regular country clubbers get there. That's how we get a free round. Doc's lead maintenance at the place, so he gets the run of things pretty much.
I got there about 4:45, fresh with a set of clubs that I got me in a barter for old stereo speakers a week back. Two of the clubs were real good, like Big Bertha or something. The speakers were an extra set of Sanyos, so it didn't matter much. The set came with a bunch of different balls and tees, some of them real new looking. I told Doc I got me a set of clubs and he said come on out early and we'll get a game in.
When I got there the gates were locked, so I just got the clubs out and started swinging in the parking lot. The three iron felt real nice in my hands, just cutting right over the top of the asphalt. Felt like you could really rip the hell out of something. The putter didn't feel so good. It was too little in my hands, like some goofy golf thing. It felt like I damn near had to touch my toes to get the thing to reach the ground.
I could see Doc's truck coming up. When he got to me he leaned out and hollered, "Well, well, look at Johnny on-time! Don't wet your grampers, I'll get us moving here soon."
He unlocked the gates and we went straight up to the first hole. The course was empty and sprinklers were going along parts of it, making the whole thing look like something out of a movie. A movie about lawns in heaven. Doc said, "We got enough time to play nine if we don't shit around too much."
Doc teed up first. He lit a cigarette, inhaled, and then set it in the grass as he lined up the driver. Then he reared back and got a hold of it. The ball went straight for a while and then took off to the right real bad and smacked a mesquite tree which sent it back down the middle of the fairway.
"Haha! That dog'll hunt!" he said, and then put his cigarette back into his mouth. "Your turn, Arnie. Ready golf."
It had to have been ten years since I last hit, so I was nervous all of a sudden right after I teed up the ball. Damn near had to hyperventilate. I took one practice swing just to shake the cobwebs. Making sure to go real slow on the backswing, I ended up making pretty decent contact. Couldn't see where the hell it went though.
"Oh, that's real nice, that'll do just fine, not bad!"
"I lost it."
"No, you're OK. You're right up there on the left of the fairway, not bad at all!"
We walked up the start of the fairway and Doc pulled a beer out of his bag for the both of us, Coors, and it tasted goddamn majestic. The air was kind of dewey and rolling across the grass, so it just felt like being alone and walking out in nowhere.
"So how's the married life?"
"Not bad. Sandy OK?"
"Sure. We're thinking of going down to Monterrey in a couple weeks."
"Monterrey, never been there."
"They say the cooking is real good."
"What's that, like nine, ten hours drive?"
"Twelve."
"Better be good food."
We got up to Doc's ball first. He took a look at it and said, "You think that's two-fifty from here? I'm not sure, we're too far out from the markers. Ah, to hell with it, I'll just give it the three." He took a couple warmups and then hit the ball nice and square, and it went straight at the green and bounced about fifty feet short.
"Hell of a shot," I said.
"That's what I'm trying to do."
When we got to my ball it was on top of a drainage cover.
"Kick it out on the fairway a bit. We call that a provisional."
I took my shot and hit way under the ball, so it went about fifty feet. I'm not by nature an angry person but I really wanted to break the goddamn club over my knee for about a second just to get back at it. "Chili-dipped it," Doc said.
My next shot wasn't quite as bad but it wasn't quite good neither. It hit a sandtrap right in front of the green and rolled down into a little pool of water settling in the back. "Must be the club," I said.
While we walked up to the green I got to thinking about a lot of things. Like I wasn't really playing a game but just walking out in the clear and open with all of these ideas in my head. I can't much describe the feeling but it felt like a big deal at the time. I looked over to Doc and said, "This is the life right here."
"You got it, old timer. This is the place to get away."
Doc's third shot was a beauty. It went way high up in the air and then spun back on the green and landed about six feet from the hole. "How often do you get out here?" I asked him.
"About three or four times a week. The best time, other than now, is after closing time in the summer, when it still stays light till about eight. You can usually get in at least nine after all the Richie Riches leave."
"You're a hell of a guy, Doc, for letting me join you."
"You won't be thanking me once you see your ball."
Doc was right. I was lying in a hole full of water and mud in the middle of the sand. I reached in with the head of my wedge and pulled the ball out of the water and set it higher up in the sand.
"How you do this again?" I asked.
"Hit an inch or so behind the ball so you can get some sand underneath it and kick it out."
I took a couple practice swings in the sand even though I know you're not supposed to. I wanted to make this one count. When I hit it right away I knew it felt right. A bunch of sand kicked up and I watched the ball float up and bounce right off the green. It rolled real slow and kept rolling until it looked headed straight to the hole.
"Oh, oh, yes, yes, YES, YES!!" Doc was yelling the whole time.
And then it dropped. You could even hear the rattle in the cup.
"Heat seeker!" I said.
"That's one hell of a shot. You might as well quit now," Doc said. He shook my hand and laughed. It felt like a million bucks. Got me a par and didn't even have to use the putter.
Delusions of Honesty
Over the weekend, Stanislaw had taken to wearing his rapier in public, and it was causing a great deal of commotion at Herbert Hoover High School on Monday morning. Caterwauling greeted Dean Keating as he entered the front office - "He came in wearing a SWORD!", "He was threatening you to a duel!", "Mr. Buckner is here and he's furious!"
Visibile behind glass, Stanislaw sat alone in the detention room, drumming a beat onto the table, dressed very much like an eighteenth century pirate. He noticed Keating and waved, patronizingly. Keating exhaled deeply and walked into his office, where sat Principal Buckner, holding aloft a large fencing sword. He bellowed - "EXPULSION! That is now our only option. He has outlived his stay at my school."
"Please let me talk to him."
"Talk to him?!" Buckner thundered, "He is beyond talk. He must be taken very seriously and we must stop him before his crimes can multiply."
"Sir, he is having problems."
"Thank you doctor! I couldn't tell, what with the pirate vagabond look coming back in vogue. It's totally preposterous."
"His brother just died in Iraq."
Buckner harrumphed and set the rapier on Keating's desk.
"This I was unaware of," he mumbled. "Huh. Well, I'll let you talk to him and then we'll see if a suspension isn't enough for now. But I'm still convinced the sooner we're rid of him, the better." Buckner stood and marched out of the office.
Keating made his way to the detention room, where Stanislaw had taken liberty to partially disrobe and sprawl across the table. "Get your stuff and come to my office, please," he said.
"
I want to know why I am being held against my will - is this Guantanamo?"
"You brought a sword to school. Now get up, let's talk."
"Our enemies are innovative and resourceful... They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.
Know who said that?"
"Yes, I do. And he never brought a sword to class at Yale. Now get your stuff, get fully dressed, and come into my office please."
Stanislaw sat up.
"Don't you understand that insurrection is near? Where's that philistine fucking retard Buckner? Where is my property?"
"He's gone, let's go."
They went into Keating's office and he closed the door. Stanislaw sat down across from the desk and reached for the rapier. Keating snatched it away and placed it in the corner of the room before seating himself in the executive leather chair. "That will remain there," he said.
The two stared at each other.
"How's life, Stan?"
"Don't call me that."
"C'mon, Stan. Stan the man."
"Stan is dead. Only Stanislaw now. The first condition of immortality is death."
"So let me get this right - you're a revolutionary poet who dresses like an extra from Mad Max. Am I missing anything?"
"Some like to understand what they believe in. Others like to believe in what they understand."
Keating took out a pad of paper from his desk.
"Let me write that down," he said, "That's special."
"More where that came from. How about this one - 'Forget this Great Depression - let's all go to Europe!' Know who said that?"
"Let me guess - Bob Hope?"
"Wrong. Herbert Hoover, our fearless shiteating namesake. When can I have my rapier back?"
Keating made note of this expletive - the young Stan Jankowski's second in as many minutes - on his pad, and looked up at the teenager with something resembling pity.
"Stan, I'm sorry about what happened to your brother."
"In a war of ideas, it is people who get killed," Stanislaw recited.
"And I understand that you're going through a rough period..."
"Your ignorance is encyclopedic."
"... but it's imperative that I state that we can't really have you dressing this way, and we certainly can't have you bringing weapons to school."
"Just because I wanted a duel? Do you know that men used to wear these everywhere? Rapier literally means 'dress sword.' It was a status symbol."
"Well, now it's called a lawsuit. Or worse."
Stanislaw titled his head back, feigning great exasperation.
"You know, I know who you're quoting," said Keating, "I was halfway educated once upon a time. Stanislaw Jerzy Lec. I took an Eastern European Literature course sophomore year... how about, 'Mankind deserves sacrifice - but not of mankind.'"
"Is this where you tell me that you see a lot of yourself in me, and you want to help me reach my potential? Because honestly..."
"Not exactly. But to torture a man, you have to know his pleasures."
"Stop appropriating my favorite shit, man!"
"Look, the point is, I know you're a good guy. Exceptional student. You even ran track last year, right? This is a tough time, and the questions don't ever get any easier. And I want you to know, I know what it feels like for you."
Stanislaw stood fiercely upright, thrusting his chest forward.
"Gimme that sword back so I can thrust it into your dead yuppie heart."
He lunged forward, quite unprepared, and Keating grabbed the boy by his shoulders, easily wrestling him to the floor. They wrestled awkwardly into the wall, and back near the chair that Stanislaw had leapt from. While they clenched each other aside the desk, Keating said into the boy's ear, "I lost my brother in Vietnam, 1971." It sounded like something from another voice, something he hadn't practiced saying in a long time. Stanislaw let go.
"That's right," Keating said, brushing wrinkles from his shirt.
Stanislaw stood up. "I don't believe it." he said.
"Do you think you're the only one that's lost anything?"
"Whatever."
"You want to hear one of my favorite quotes?"
"Not really."
"It goes like this. 'If everyone demanded peace instead of another television set, then there'd be peace.' Guess who said that? Lennon. The singer, not the reformer."
"Imposter," Stanislaw looked right into Keating's eyes. "Are you lying to me?"
"Want to hear another quote? It goes 'you're expelled.' I'll give you one guess."
Stanislaw the boy pirate had reached a standstill. He sat down and put his head in his hands out of frustration, but suddenly tears erupted from his eyes. They were everywhere. They came before he could stop them. For some ridiculous reason, all that came to his mind as he cried was the time his brother Jake had, in a rage, thrown a basketball at him from point blank range over a disputed foul call. When he had tried to catch the ball, one of his fingers snapped back straight and broke, tearing two ligaments right off the bone. He could only remember this awful moment for the reaction on his brother's face, a look that he would never forget, a look as vacant and helpless and dumb as slaughtered prey. It shattered his glory.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Keating.
Stanislaw didn't look up.
"I think it's important that you articulate your loss, Stan. You don't just let it build."
"He was an asshole. OK? My brother. He wasn't a great warrior or anything like that. He was just another fucking guy. An idiot following orders."
"Most of us are."
"Well, that's not how it's going to be for me. I'm embarassed for him and for the whole system. Nobody has any idea what's going on."
"I tell you what, mix in some normal twenty-first century clothing, ditch the fantasies you are hiding behind, and become your own person and not just a memorization of someone else. Then you can judge."
"Better than listening to people today. Who are people supposed to be today?"
"You want to talk, come see me. You'd be surprised how much I hate people too. Now in the meantime, please do your best to assimilate, at least until the end of the day. You can pick up your sword after school."
He stood to leave and right before he was at the door, Stanislaw said, "Don't forget.
A dream will always triumph over reality, once it is given the chance. I like that one."
One of Many
A - "The
skill is knowing what not to say, and when not to say it. Take all of those things in your head, line them up, and look them straight down the row. What am I gonna say? What testament am I gonna leave? Writing is no rare skill. It may take a bit of mathmatics, but only subtraction. All of those trillion things that just flashed through your head right now - you subtract and subtract and you get the essence of what you really need to communicate. And once you're there, you'll see where you want to go, what you want to say, and the sentences will be plain and clear."
B - "What do you want to say?"
A - "I think what everyone finds once they get past all the words is something akin to compassion. You find yourself alone, you're scared, and you move past all associations and defenses and head right into that core of yourself, and what do you see? You see everyone else, everything else. And your relation to that."
B - "Why be compassionate if nothing really matters? I may not find that path for myself. If we don't have a proven end, aren't all means justified? What if my relation to things is to steal them?"
A - "You'll see, once you live a little bit longer, how real ghosts are. Your choices follow you forever. Your words never die. There are a billion ugly things I haven't said, and a billion I have, and I'm much happier with the former. Never underestimate the power of silence."
