Souvenir

My 11-page screenplay - check it!

Reality Check

Rod and I wrote this short script:

Click here to read the "Reality Check" script.

Wedding-Night Jitters

There was a contest I lost. Entrants had to write stories of 875 words or fewer in 24 hours based on the following prompt:

Strong waves pounded the dark sand just a few yards away. Hidden by beach grass, they embraced, relieved to finally escape their wedding guests. His poetic whispers suddenly ceased as he leaned back, and said, "There's something I need to tell you..."

This is the story I wrote:

Relieved to have finally escaped our wedding guests, I whispered, "There's something I need to tell you – I’ve been with a woman.”

“Since we’ve been together?”

“Since we’ve been married.”

“How?”

“Your mom cornered me in the bathroom.”

“Again?”

“Huh?”

She turned and stalked back toward the reception.

I followed her into the bright room and the sight of dancing guests. She went straight for the head table, beside which stood her mother. As my bride confronted her, her mother’s tongue fell like a just-shot seal from the ear of the catering boy.

“Mother! How could you?”

“He’s 18,” she said as she turned to the caterer boy. As he started to shake his head, she pushed him away.

“Not him. Him!” she said, looking at me.

“He’s definitely 18,” she said, giving me raised eyebrows and a slight smile.

“I thought you said this would stop.”

“And it would have, had he stopped it.”

“You’re my mother – you’re supposed to love me!” she said, ignoring the reference to me.

“And I do. That doesn’t mean I can’t love others.”

She winked at the DJ, who nodded to her with a smile.

My new wife turned away and headed toward the door, storming right past her grandmother, who was whispering into the ear of her dance partner, the cake girl.

On the way out, the priest managed to waylay her.

“My child, why are you so distraught?” He asked. “May I provide some counsel?”

“Yeah – do you know a good divorce lawyer?”

“But, my daughter, you’ve just been joined in love in the house of the Lord.”

Looking at me, she said, “He just made love to my mother in the stall of the bathroom.”

He looked at me.

“Oh, God – son, but, why?”

“The cloakroom was occupied.”

The father looked at us sheepishly.

“Young David and I have a special relationship.”

“I understand, Father. You are forgiven,” I said, mercifully.

“My nephew David – the ring bearer?” she said, making it about her.

“He bore more than that this evening,” I said

The father and I shared a knowing smirk.

The priest addressed her once again.

“Let us not get sidetracked. The issue here is forgiveness. Dear, can you forgive him for what he’s done?”

“No.”

“My son, can you forgive her for not offering forgiveness?”

“Yes,” I said, confident that I could.

“Well, then, there you go,” said the father, smiling at her. “I think my job here is done.”

She just stared at him before starting to walk away. Then she hesitated and turned back.

“And, Father, I don’t want you corrupting young David anymore.”

“Any more than what?” he asked.

A low growl became audible that seemed to originate deep in her throat. I shrugged to the father. He shrugged back.

Women.

He had chosen a life without them, and I was really beginning to see why.

She slugged him in the gut before she turned and marched out of the reception toward our car – in which her family had arrived. I followed her. Some might think this tactic folly, but our limo had long since left. She was my ride home.

She opened the unlocked door but realized she didn’t have the keys – her dress didn’t even have pockets.

Women.

In one final, humbling act, she turned to me.

“Give me the keys.”

But I didn’t have the keys.

I shrugged.

She reached into the back seat and grabbed her grandmother’s non-dancing cane.

She swung.

I ducked.

She came at me again.

This time, I sidestepped it and caught her in my embrace. I would hold her until her mind was calmed by remembered love.

She caught a bit of my ear between her teeth and pulled in quickly alternating directions.

I released her in the hope that she would release my ear in kind.

She didn’t.

I socked her in the gut.

She only bit harder.

“Listen, dear, we have an untenable situation here.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I find it very tenab-“

I pulled my ear from her vice-like bite. I couldn’t feel it, so I reached up and felt it. It seemed to still be there, though with my lover’s bite impression firmly embedded in it like some crazy love tattoo.

“We don’t have to be enemies,” I ventured

Her eyes lit with a ferocity I’d not known possible. They seemed luminescent, outshining the weak light of the moon.

“But we can be,” I offered as I backed up.

She came at me again. Instinctually, I dove into the car and slammed the door, locking it.

Even in that state, with my ear in that state, I thought I’d heard something jingle when I’d slammed the door. It was either coins or…

I reached into the door-side container to find the rage of the moment – the keys.

As she banged the glass inches from my face with the newly recovered cane, I decided we needed some time apart – things had been going downhill ever since the wedding.

My last memory of her, as she faded in my mirrors from the red of the taillights to the dim blue of moonlight, was the unmistakable sound of cane flung against trunk.

4 a.m.

I look at my phone - it's 4 a.m. I don't even know what to do with 4 a.m. Sure, 4 a.m.'s OK if you're about to fall asleep. Or if you've just woken up and in the mood to work - nothing else to do at 4 a.m. but work or sleep. But what if, like me, you've already tried working. You've already tried sleeping. Neither works - what then?

Then you just sit there and get irritated by the irregular sound of the blinds being cleaved by the wayward slab on the air conditioning vent. Like a snaggletooth with less charm, or a persistent cowlick, the moment you let it irritate you, you've set forth on an irreversible spiral into madness.

And why is there stain on my glasses? A filthy, grimy smudge. Can't they keep themselves clean? I clean myself every day - is it too much to ask that they do the same? I bought them. I keep them safe in their little case. Is it really too much for them to show some appreciation? Some common hygienic decency?

And why is the earplug in my right ear not as good as the one in my left? I wouldn't even need earplugs except for the stupid sound from the stupid blinds because of the stupid broken AC vent. But of course it is and they do so I must, to keep me from going insane, but now there's more noise coming into my right ear than my left, and that's a recipe for lunacy if I've ever heard one.

What am I supposed to do? Eat? I just ate. It's getting cold in here. But you know three seconds after I turn down the AC, it's going to be too hot.

If only I had something to distract me. If I had worked all day under the hot sun, or in the dark mine, then I'd be too exhausted to worry about this stupid stuff. But no, I had to spend the stupid day in the stupid coffee shop, typing to stupid people online while trying not to make eye contact with the lady in sunglasses sitting next to me.

"Sunglasses?" you snicker? "How can you know if you're making eye contact with someone in sunglasses?" you laughingly question? Well, I'll tell you - when you know the person is hungrily stalking you as a lion a lame gazelle, waiting for the slightest opportunity to strike…up conversation.

And, yeah, OK, maybe I did the same thing with the cute blonde girl on the plane, but that's the price she pays for being cute. I'm not cute, I'm just there, and the conversational predator next to me would as gladly prey on my momentary unabsorbedness and careless gaze placement as she would the next guy's. It's just I'm the easiest pickins 'cause I'm the closest target.

Life is brutal.

Overcast

It was the beginning of a new semester at the University of Pittsburgh, and the first week, which was also the first week of September, looked as if it had been misplaced from somewhere in late October. The drizzle, chill, and wind forced the girls to hide their wares underneath oppressive layers of fabric. It was as if the dance of the new semester had undergone a theme change at the last minute, from “Basking in Nature and Each Other’s Gazes” to “Shelter from the Elements”.

Happy to be inside, under the comforting fluorescent lights of the engineering building, the large windows in the hallway functioned for me much like my head as it poked out from under the covers on a cold night – enhancing my comfort by showing me what I was one down comforter (or, in this case, a double window pane) from enduring.

I sat at my desk, trying to muster some forward momentum on my attempts to write a program to quickly model light-diffraction. In fact, it was already quick. The problem was that it was nowhere near accurate. As I sat there, hoping the success I felt at having turned on the computer would carry me forward to something even greater, I heard her.

From her cough, I could tell she was attractive – maybe 5’4”, 115 lbs, long black hair, white skin, a longish, beautiful face, a pretty-but-conservative dress. Maybe smart. Maybe a bit of a sorority girl. But dignified, as those things go.

I headed down the hall toward the water fountain specifically to see her. I turned the corner, and there she was – 5’2”, maybe, light-brown skin, ringlet-curly dark hair with blonde highlights. Freckles. Cute. Perhaps quite a distraction if she had some personality to her. But not someone to make me fall all over myself. Unless I thought about her to much. Or she smiled at me.

In the past, each had proved critical mass.

I continued past her down the hall toward the water fountain, filled up the water bottle I’d brought with me, and headed back, by which time she’d vanished.

Five minutes later I sat fully hydrated in front of my computer, the code of the modelling program confronting me. I decided I should probably check if Jose was in yet. I walked across the hall and knocked.

“Come in,” he said.

I did, and, to my utter shock, found that my view of Jose was blocked by ringlet-curly highlights, sitting quite boldly on the desk of my colleague and newly former friend.

How did she know Jose? And why was she sitting on his desk, dangling her foot off the side like that? How had he kept this secret from me? More importantly, why?

He’d been hiding her, obviously. Jealously guarding her – secreting her away, when a creature of her beauty and grace deserved to be free to roam the entire engineering department unhindered and uninhibited. He deserved, nay, required a harsh rebuke and severe reprimand for his greed and arrogance.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, man,” he said.

“Hi,” she finally decided to say.

“Hi,” I responded

He looked at me, slightly smiling. Waiting. She looked at him, then back at me. I looked at him, then at her.

“Oh, haven’t you two met?”

Come, come now, Mr. Bond – you know as well as I that we’ve never before exchanged so much as a glance.

“No,” I said.

She shook her head.

“Zoraida, this is Sam.”

We shared our assessments on the acquaintance-making that had just occurred, (and, in what was perhaps a sign of our compatibility), assessing it identically – as nice.

There was an enchanting confidence in the way she spoke. Her speech accented undeserved final syllables just often enough to deny a listener’s attention any rest. I didn’t know if it pointed to her accent or her personality. Maybe the interplay of the two.

I excused myself when I felt things were getting awkward, which is usually well after things had actually gotten awkward. I returned to my desk and busied myself with tedious work, going over the simulation’s code and making sure all instances of the old equation had been replaced by the new one and that no doubling factor remained anywhere.

I got a reprieve with lunch and a couple afternoon classes, then returned to finish changing the code. I had little realistic hope that this latest attempt would result in any kind of breakthrough, but, as always, there was that rather significant bit of unreasonable hope that the first run would miraculously yield exactly the pattern we’d been looking for, and, at that point, I was too tired to even try to suppress it.

The first run yielded an error message, and I decided either I or the computer had to go, and the machine seemed firmly entrenched.

I stopped for a bagel on the way home and saw Jose in the cafe. He told me to sit with him. It felt awkward – I was sure I stunk of jealousy and that my eyes accused betrayal. As I looked down to sit, I told myself, “When you look at him again, just pretend he’s a normal person, not the traitor he is. But my brain was too smart to believe that, and I was sure my feelings were tattooed on my hot face and my thoughts telegraphed through my every pained action and muted reaction.

Luckily, he spoke first.

“So, how’s it going, Paleskin? Looks like there’s a storm coming, eh?”

I looked out the window at the sky, which had finally switched from overcast to dark.

“Yeah, well, you can’t always believe what you see,” I said.

“Hmm… you seem very wise today.”

“Clouds bring me clarity.”

We talked for a bit – Family Guy and international politics – the usual. Finally, he stood.

“Well, I should get going.”

“I’ll join you.”

We exited the café.

“So, this Zoraida…” I started.

He smiled. Turned. Looked at me. Lost the smile. Raised his eyebrows.

“Yes?”

“How… how long you known her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a year. We TA’ed Circuits 101 together two spring semesters ago.”

“Where’s she been since then?”

“She studied abroad in Mexico for a year,” he said as we continued our passive-aggressive race against the weather, walking down the sidewalk toward our places in Shadyside.

“You must be glad she’s back.”

He turned to face me again.

“Why do you say that, Paleskin?”

“I don’t know – you guys seemed like friends.”

“Yeah. It just felt like you might be implying something more.”

“Would that be offensive?” I asked, looking down at my shadow.

“I’m not sure. Coming from you, a lot of things seem to be.”

“Seem to be.”

“Perception is reality,” he said.

“Well, one version of it, at least,” I said, slowing to take off my jacket – all this activity had warmed me up.

“But each of us only has one version.”

“I didn’t make the rules.”

“But you play by them.”

“Under protest.”

He gave me a look.

“Paleskin, is there anything you want to come out and say to me?”

“Sorry, buddy – I’m still not gay.”

“What?”

“’Come out.’? I know your code.”

He sighed.

“Are you ever serious?”

I looked up and felt his gaze follow mine to the bright-golden late-afternoon sun.

“Only when it’s cloudy.”

A Shocking Conversation

“I just don’t like it,” she said, staring at him with those big brown eyes under smoldering brows.

“You think I like it any more than you do? But what choice do I have?” he asked, his blue eyes wide.

“You have no choice.”

“I have but one choice – to die for my country.”

“That’s not a choice, that’s a path.”

“Yes, I have but one path – country-death.”

“So it’s not heroic, it’s just tragic.”

“Yeah, I’m a tragic hero.”

“You are tragic.”

“Heroically."

"Actually, I take it back – you always have a choice."

"Yeah, to starve or to do the devil’s work – some choice."

"Weaker men than you have chosen the former."

"DUMBER men than I have chosen the former."

"I can’t tell you what to do."

"Seems like you are."

"Well, I can’t make you do what I want."

"Not for lack of whining."

"Where’d u hear that?"

"The President of Canada."

"Canada doesn’t have a president."

"Then I declare myself President of Canada!"

"You’ll have no power."

"Neither do those Windsors, but look at all the fun they have."

"Technically, they do, but they’re only to be consulted when all else has failed."

"Like Bush!"

"I guess."

"So, that’ll be me, minus the power."

"I don’t see the point."

"It’ll be great! You can be my mistress!"

"Mistress?"

"Yeah. I’ll need a respectable wife, but you’ll provide just that hint of scandal that keeps people interested – you’ll be my Camilla."

"Your Lewinski."

"Exactly!"

" Fat chance."

"Ha ha!"

"My gosh – let the poor woman rest in peace!"

"I’m pretty sure she’s still alive."

"I should hope so – she’s sleeping on my couch."

"Oh, is that who that was? I thought it was your sister."

"My sister’s in another state."

"Which one?"

"Shock."

"What happened?"

"She fought the law."

"And the law won?"

"Yeah, the law of physics – she was fixing this one outlet – turned out it was a live one."

"Was she like, 'We’ve got a live one here!'?"

"No, she was like, convulsing."

Words

That’s what my Nana used to say to me when I’d open up a fresh tin of sardines. But she’d often doze off in the midst of her soliloquies, not colloquies – or calls o’ quay, which are like catcalls at construction sites, but 100 times worser, as are seamen to construction workers - after which she’d awake refreshed and stinking of gin. That was Nana – who was I to say anything? Only a teenage tart just then coming into my own. A pop tart, they would call me today, had I been a pop singer, which I wasn’t, so they wouldn’t – they’d have just left me alone.

A clear style is beginning to emerge from these incoherent ramblings, and that is one of a desperate debaucher. Not “dee baucher,” as Fraulein Magda used to call the meat-cutter. But a depraved human being with a fondness for base animal desires like to eat and to sire. Debased and unstable like rolling stone. Gather no moss, but at what cost?

Bloom’s day. Bloomingdale’s. Which one for this culture prevails? But intellectual snobs have been propping themselves up with their judgments on others’ crass desire for basic human necessities for as long as there have been noses to look down. Perhaps longer, if you consider East Asians to have no nose, which only a quack with notions whack would ever really try to back with any kind of argument – one truly full of rage up-pent. Or an inveterate liar like Verbal Kent, but such was his bent, the merry gent, his legacy now in cement.

Though that’s still not exactly what I meant when I set to talk of things ill-sent. The first of these, the government-‘s taxes claiming your last red cent. And that scent it leaves behind, nothing like autumn leaves and fine red wine, which ‘round us right now we find, as we in this ship’s bowels dine, for once vowing to take the time to find out what the other needs – or says they need, which says it all. Not straight out, but off the wall. A carom shot, a blowing glance, a glancing blow thy lover’s lance the source of pain and of romance, the pleasure only to enhance like those crazy cosmopolitans in France. That one last chance, a wine romance, what more need thee than song and dance? But song so sweet and soft and full like Ray relaxing at the pool. You’d have to be a bloody fool to miss this chance to hear unspool melodies from the king of cool. Forty acres and a mule is all they asked the world cruel, but it declined – sent them to school – not one equipped with a slide rule. Rather, that of hard knocks – violence and cunning their only tools. Hard knocks, not knocking hard, though the latter recalls a scene in our front yard – rather, at our front door, some years before, a young man I’d come to know came calling one day just as though my parents were as liberal with me as each of us is with ourselves, hardly a feat one might expect encounter, much less assume from people strange – and strangers to him they today remain, their trust he never seemed to gain, for his search ended up in vain, his search for beauty, truth, and the humane, a quest for only the insane, for only they can find the strength to pursue to any depth or length a goal with such model-slim odds one might as well defy the gods.

Part Next:

They came in unrelenting waves, like Latinos into the construction trade or South Asians into hospitals. One after the other, like the locusts in the tale of Rip Van Winkle, or the Liliputians from Jonathan Livingston Seagull. An undeniable hunger pulled them forth – or was it a terrible fear that drove them on? No one could say, for no two shared a language. One might be desperately escaping while his compatriot, his comrade, his brother-in-arms, was relentlessly searching. Every which way but loose. Indeed, loose was the one thing they dared not be. A bad reputation would be a permanent scar – this group was all they had, and it was imperative that they keep in good stead. How a reputation is acquired when no language exists is a pertinent question, and one I’m glad you’ve asked. However, they dared not take that risk.

A little while on, when the cliff walls closed in to reveal only a narrow stream of sky above, the more cautious of them raised a cry of protest. But how does one distinguish a cry of protest from a call to persevere when one knows not the language of the protestant? Being a lone protestant in the group ranking as greatly more desirable than being alone in the canyon kept the group together and progressing.

When the stream above had turned from blue sky to black ink, finally the leader sat to think. Or so his followers may have thought. This, we have no way of knowing. But follow him still they did, stopping around him and waiting. Some reclining, others pacing. With time, more the former, fewer the latter. Soon after gravity overtook them, sleep followed.

Not for nothing had they come this far. The morning brought a renewed vigor to their march, and by high noon they had crested the hill and overlooked a valley pasture. Perhaps those who were running felt the fear in them abate. Perhaps those who were seeking found this is what they’d sought. They each of them spread out across the land, claiming their own plot, no longer part of the group, but still members of the community.

Perhaps it takes a village to raise a child. Perhaps it takes a group of confused individuals with more-or-less-coinciding goals to raise a village. The rivulet of sky they’d followed was now a vast sea supporting nebulous lily pads. The rocks, still so close as to look on, were in sharp contrast to the blanket of grass shot through by the occasional tree.

Over the horizon who knew what lay? Was it desert, swamp, plateau – the land changed so quickly here, it was hard to know. Perhaps over the horizon lay lusher fields. Maybe placid lakes abounded.

But, geez, you gotta stop somewhere.