I brush against
the strain of tense
muscles. The hol-
lows of your knees.
Your ease of twist.
The grace of hon-
ey pouring in-
to the jar. Prick-
ly pear I peel
in silent prayer.
Dry, plump skin. Fang
marks. Juicy fing-
ers. Bob in the
bowl—turn around.
Moisture shimmers.
We are eating—
I am being.
Return to my
senses. See the
setting, smell it.
A dream no more.
Sauce everywhere—
an avalanche.
Just my sort of
a miracle.
I brush against
the strain of tense
muscles. The hol-
lows of your knees.
Your ease of twist.
The grace of hon-
ey pouring in-
to the jar. Prick-
ly pear I peel
in silent prayer.
Dry, plump skin. Fang
marks. Juicy fing-
ers. Bob in the
bowl—turn around.
Moisture shimmers.
We are eating—
I am being.
Return to my
senses. See the
setting, smell it.
A dream no more.
Sauce everywhere—
an avalanche.
Just my sort of
a miracle.
Bert had a nice way about him in bed, but he was moving into territory reserved for years Elsa had yet to experience and at this time did not want to explore. His manners were nice, his eyes pleaded when he didn’t speak. She pleaded, too, but far more openly. There were moments when that felt wonderful.
So, needless to say, she cut him loose.
Elsa tells herself that she will never give a fuck again. She painted it in red spray paint on a wall outside the wood chip factory. She prays in the direction of the wood chip factory when she feels good again. When she drives to work or school she has to pass the wood chip factory and blesses her forehead, chest, and stomach with a light tap from her right index finger. Elsa prays that she will find the strength to be alone.
She keeps a bottle of the worst whiskey in a cabinet in her bedroom, which remains locked at all times. Her roommates, Poe and Mary, would steal her whiskey. They are in a relationship of proximity with one another and Elsa does not trust them to give each other reason, as they are like her in the way of sense. She keeps only one bottle at a time and does not purchase the next until she is done with the extant whiskey. This is a rule that must be kept.
Elsa walks to her classes in denim pants and large sweaters, regardless of season. She doesn’t know any other way. She attends her Poli. Sci. class at nine o’ clock in the mornings of Monday and Wednesday. Bert is in that class and she does say hello to him but only because it would be rude not to. Bert says hello back and seems to portray the very model of masculine stoicism. Elsa accepts this because he will not pester and she will be allowed to concentrate on classes.
In Poli. Sci. the professor’s name is Klein, and Elsa wants to fuck him. She recognizes it as attraction and considers the reasons to herself until he is done pronouncing and declaring before her and, in her imagination, for her. She does not say goodbye to Bert.
Work for Elsa is about pizza. She does not make the pizza, but she does ring up the pizza. Mexican men in the kitchen make it. One, named Alberto, thinks she would be a nice girl for his nephew, whom he calls Humberto. Elsa does not show interest but wonders what he might be like as the nephew of a pizza man.
Elsa goes to work for four hours on Mondays and Wednesdays. She gets asked about the tattoo on her neck frequently, and always by boys. She tells them it’s a dove. She neglects the most interesting part of the story, which is that she got the tattoo to impress the tattoo artist.
Now you know things about Elsa.
She speaks to her manager like he’s the prince of thieves. Respect, but no trust.
-I’m not going to be able to close next Monday.
-Why?
-I have an appointment at the doctor’s after class. I’m sorry.
-One week’s notice? You know to give me two weeks, Elsa.
-Yes. It just came up suddenly.
Her manager shakes his head and brings out a worksheet in triplicate held down by a clipboard.
-You’ll have to ask Allyson to work a double.
-I do?
-It’s your problem to resolve.
Elsa nods and walks out to resume closing the register. She counts the twenties, the tens, the fives, the ones, the fifty cent pieces, the quarters, the dimes, the nickles, and the pennies. Her register is good.
She calls Allyson to ask her if she will please cover her shift the following Monday.
-Yes. I know. I can’t change the appointment. I understand that I owe you. Okay. Bye.
Elsa drives home and opens the cabinet. She sits in bed with her headphones over her scalp and falls asleep when all the whiskey is vanished.
You don’t know this, but Elsa dreams. She dreams that she is running from people and animals. She is always running somewhere and they follow her everywhere so she runs on. She runs from one side of the country to the other and always with different people behind her. She is sometimes wearing a red robe and sometimes nothing at all, except not naked but a floating head, still running ahead of her pursuers. When she stops dreaming, Elsa goes back to sleep.
She rises in her bed with her lips dry and acrid. She removes the headphones before she sees that it is noon and she missed her morning English class. With little time to shower and drive to school she forgoes school and drives to the liquor store for one more bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey and drives away with two more. She returns to find Poe on the living room couch, playing a video game.
-What is that?
Poe’s eyes remain fixed on the screen as he explains that this is a new game from Japan in which he must successfully date a girl and win her heart.
-Do you have sex with her in the game?
-Yea, but it’s about getting her to love you. Then you have sex.
-What if you just want to have sex?
-That’s not how the game works. If you do the wrong things you fail and start over.
Elsa walks into her room and places one bottle in the cabinet. She takes a towel from her closet and enters the bathroom to run a bath. When the foam is well above the top of the tub she removes her clothes, holds the other bottle of whiskey in her hand, and slides in. The water envelops her. She rests and rubs her free hand over her belly until she dreams again.
Bert had a nice way about him in bed, but he was moving into territory reserved for years Elsa had yet to experience and at this time did not want to explore. His manners were nice, his eyes pleaded when he didn’t speak. She pleaded, too, but far more openly. There were moments when that felt wonderful.
So, needless to say, she cut him loose.
Elsa tells herself that she will never give a fuck again. She painted it in red spray paint on a wall outside the wood chip factory. She prays in the direction of the wood chip factory when she feels good again. When she drives to work or school she has to pass the wood chip factory and blesses her forehead, chest, and stomach with a light tap from her right index finger. Elsa prays that she will find the strength to be alone.
She keeps a bottle of the worst whiskey in a cabinet in her bedroom, which remains locked at all times. Her roommates, Poe and Mary, would steal her whiskey. They are in a relationship of proximity with one another and Elsa does not trust them to give each other reason, as they are like her in the way of sense. She keeps only one bottle at a time and does not purchase the next until she is done with the extant whiskey. This is a rule that must be kept.
Elsa walks to her classes in denim pants and large sweaters, regardless of season. She doesn’t know any other way. She attends her Poli. Sci. class at nine o’ clock in the mornings of Monday and Wednesday. Bert is in that class and she does say hello to him but only because it would be rude not to. Bert says hello back and seems to portray the very model of masculine stoicism. Elsa accepts this because he will not pester and she will be allowed to concentrate on classes.
In Poli. Sci. the professor’s name is Klein, and Elsa wants to fuck him. She recognizes it as attraction and considers the reasons to herself until he is done pronouncing and declaring before her and, in her imagination, for her. She does not say goodbye to Bert.
Work for Elsa is about pizza. She does not make the pizza, but she does ring up the pizza. Mexican men in the kitchen make it. One, named Alberto, thinks she would be a nice girl for his nephew, whom he calls Humberto. Elsa does not show interest but wonders what he might be like as the nephew of a pizza man.
Elsa goes to work for four hours on Mondays and Wednesdays. She gets asked about the tattoo on her neck frequently, and always by boys. She tells them it’s a dove. She neglects the most interesting part of the story, which is that she got the tattoo to impress the tattoo artist.
Now you know things about Elsa.
She speaks to her manager like he’s the prince of thieves. Respect, but no trust.
-I’m not going to be able to close next Monday.
-Why?
-I have an appointment at the doctor’s after class. I’m sorry.
-One week’s notice? You know to give me two weeks, Elsa.
-Yes. It just came up suddenly.
Her manager shakes his head and brings out a worksheet in triplicate held down by a clipboard.
-You’ll have to ask Allyson to work a double.
-I do?
-It’s your problem to resolve.
Elsa nods and walks out to resume closing the register. She counts the twenties, the tens, the fives, the ones, the fifty cent pieces, the quarters, the dimes, the nickles, and the pennies. Her register is good.
She calls Allyson to ask her if she will please cover her shift the following Monday.
-Yes. I know. I can’t change the appointment. I understand that I owe you. Okay. Bye.
Elsa drives home and opens the cabinet. She sits in bed with her headphones over her scalp and falls asleep when all the whiskey is vanished.
You don’t know this, but Elsa dreams. She dreams that she is running from people and animals. She is always running somewhere and they follow her everywhere so she runs on. She runs from one side of the country to the other and always with different people behind her. She is sometimes wearing a red robe and sometimes nothing at all, except not naked but a floating head, still running ahead of her pursuers. When she stops dreaming, Elsa goes back to sleep.
She rises in her bed with her lips dry and acrid. She removes the headphones before she sees that it is noon and she missed her morning English class. With little time to shower and drive to school she forgoes school and drives to the liquor store for one more bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey and drives away with two more. She returns to find Poe on the living room couch, playing a video game.
-What is that?
Poe’s eyes remain fixed on the screen as he explains that this is a new game from Japan in which he must successfully date a girl and win her heart.
-Do you have sex with her in the game?
-Yea, but it’s about getting her to love you. Then you have sex.
-What if you just want to have sex?
-That’s not how the game works. If you do the wrong things you fail and start over.
Elsa walks into her room and places one bottle in the cabinet. She takes a towel from her closet and enters the bathroom to run a bath. When the foam is well above the top of the tub she removes her clothes, holds the other bottle of whiskey in her hand, and slides in. The water envelops her. She rests and rubs her free hand over her belly until she dreams again.
I drove my new car home today. It’s got real voom on the highway, and far greater power than the other car. I foresee good performance and service, which comforts me in these trying times. That previous car is still in my possession and while the cash from selling it would be a much needed boon, the process is daunting. I have no desire to haggle with buyers. None of them will understand how to properly care for it, or what the car means. I will simply fix the rear diff seal, replace the cracked windshield, and keep it around until such time as I have the energy to deal with selling it. Or, enjoy the luxury of a weekend car.
What it took to get that new car here is something worth writing about. I took notes while I read short stories on a Greyhound bus to Sacramento. Jotted numbers, underlined metaphoric phrases. I regretted not taking photographs of my trip, but those can be acquired later, after the story has materialized. It makes sense that I lack patience for candid photography and demand only the choice images that aid the narrative.
What “makes sense?” That’s a puzzler. Sometimes, you can’t make sense of who a man is or what he does.
I’m a man who wants a drink. I want to get up and get it myself. This is how I get what I want. Instead, you stand. You will be right back. I sit and watch the crowds at the kayak shack while you walk away. I sit and watch you walk away. I’m going to carry you into the water and you do not know it.
I’ve been cheating. I told my writing professor/motivator that I would focus on writing entirely new stories this semester. New drive, new motivation. I told her, “If anyone and anyplace can do it, it’s here and it’s you.” When after four weeks I had only journal entries and broken sentences on paper, I stopped trying. I pulled the old PC laptop out of the garage and opened the archive I’d saved of the old blog. Waste not, want not. I just needed the stories that were five or more pages. I picked at the body and came away with the most succulent morsels. Those I had not already taken and used, of course. At least three semesters of stories ready to go. I can not bear to admit how much I need her, the class, and the one night a week in which I can simply sit, listen, comment, and read to a group of interested people. I can only hope her intuition tells her so.
My closing thoughts this evening are of you. You feign timidity out of fear of sounding stupid. Your looks matter more than you will admit. Your looks are never good enough. You like the feel of you when you lay beneath a shield of blankets. You would throw your phone into the sea to get away. Your intelligence is a burden on your psyche. You are less oblivious than you were, but remain blissfully unaware in many regards. Aware enough to see through the bullshit, though. Hatred comes easily to you, and this above all things separates us. I am average, neutral, indifferent, apathetic. My passion comes in self-serving spurts. I dwell well within the comfort of the curve. You are and will likely always be on the fringe. In your mind, in your heart, in your unbalanced soul.
I drove my new car home today. It’s got real voom on the highway, and far greater power than the other car. I foresee good performance and service, which comforts me in these trying times. That previous car is still in my possession and while the cash from selling it would be a much needed boon, the process is daunting. I have no desire to haggle with buyers. None of them will understand how to properly care for it, or what the car means. I will simply fix the rear diff seal, replace the cracked windshield, and keep it around until such time as I have the energy to deal with selling it. Or, enjoy the luxury of a weekend car.
What it took to get that new car here is something worth writing about. I took notes while I read short stories on a Greyhound bus to Sacramento. Jotted numbers, underlined metaphoric phrases. I regretted not taking photographs of my trip, but those can be acquired later, after the story has materialized. It makes sense that I lack patience for candid photography and demand only the choice images that aid the narrative.
What “makes sense?” That’s a puzzler. Sometimes, you can’t make sense of who a man is or what he does.
I’m a man who wants a drink. I want to get up and get it myself. This is how I get what I want. Instead, you stand. You will be right back. I sit and watch the crowds at the kayak shack while you walk away. I sit and watch you walk away. I’m going to carry you into the water and you do not know it.
I’ve been cheating. I told my writing professor/motivator that I would focus on writing entirely new stories this semester. New drive, new motivation. I told her, “If anyone and anyplace can do it, it’s here and it’s you.” When after four weeks I had only journal entries and broken sentences on paper, I stopped trying. I pulled the old PC laptop out of the garage and opened the archive I’d saved of the old blog. Waste not, want not. I just needed the stories that were five or more pages. I picked at the body and came away with the most succulent morsels. Those I had not already taken and used, of course. At least three semesters of stories ready to go. I can not bear to admit how much I need her, the class, and the one night a week in which I can simply sit, listen, comment, and read to a group of interested people. I can only hope her intuition tells her so.
My closing thoughts this evening are of you. You feign timidity out of fear of sounding stupid. Your looks matter more than you will admit. Your looks are never good enough. You like the feel of you when you lay beneath a shield of blankets. You would throw your phone into the sea to get away. Your intelligence is a burden on your psyche. You are less oblivious than you were, but remain blissfully unaware in many regards. Aware enough to see through the bullshit, though. Hatred comes easily to you, and this above all things separates us. I am average, neutral, indifferent, apathetic. My passion comes in self-serving spurts. I dwell well within the comfort of the curve. You are and will likely always be on the fringe. In your mind, in your heart, in your unbalanced soul.
For Sale: A Dream Fulfilled.
I come from a car family. Few buses, less trains, annual planes. Transportation that was not one’s own was to be practically shunned unless absolutely necessary. This included dreaded monthly car payments. This was the stuff of chumps. You could afford it or you couldn’t.
No half-measures, as I’ve said before.
Some people recall their childhood dreams and fantasies with great relish. They fetch them from their archives as if they were children yet. Me, I had only three: become a airplane pilot, that the ground would crack open and swallow the neighborhood and school in the year 2000, and drive a Jeep. My first attempts with the latter were feeble, given the meager retail earnings I had during college. Old, busted, near-dead cars were all I could afford. A near-dead Jeep breaks your heart when you see it. They’re not meant for it.
Later, after being convinced that an old mail carrier Jeep was not a wise option, it was time to seriously buy a car. I was earning good money for the first time, saving well, and I seized the opportunity to buy a car when the time had come. A Jeep was the only option. I scoffed at suggestions of buying a sensible car, or even worse a sedan. A sedan like every other chump on the road, making payments.
I searched for a few weeks before I found this one, nicknamed Ellie on account of those tusks in the front. She only had a oil small leak and 60,000 miles on the odometer. I got him to knock $500 off the price and drove her home that first day. Since then I’ve driven from San Diego to Victoria and all points in between. The memories I have of this Jeep are far more potent than anything remembered in a house or apartment. This was my freedom and rite of passage. I owned it, I drove it, and the responsibility was entirely on me. The decisions made were my own.
But by and by things changed. The engine started to feel like it wasn’t strong enough. Not enough space in the back seat—or enough space in the back, period. I first considered changing up a couple of years ago but a big move and other expenses later I decided I didn’t need a new car. I continued with Ellie. We did alright.
My situation changed, again. I resumed my search.
A buddy of mine from Oregon also happened to be into Jeeps. All sorts of things mechanical. I told him my tale of the first Jeep and wanting something more. His first suggestion was the type of Jeep he owns.
“A Jeep Cherokee,” he said. “A ‘90 to ‘96. They’re work horses, get decent mileage, and parts are cheap. They’ll take you to the moon and back if you set them up right.”
“How’s the space?”
“Plenty of it.”
I thought on that a while. It makes sense. What I need is an older car. A simpler car. Something I could maintain without the need to stop in at a mechanic’s place on account of overly complex wiring, computers, plastic parts packed into the tiniest crevices. New cars aren’t the same. A new car would kill what remains of me.
Ellie runs fine. We get to the beach and back without so much as a stutter. She’s got a small rear diff leak that needs to be patched. Heavy work, what with the transmission lugging involved. Something I’ll get fixed before I trade or sell her away. If, I should say. The interested parties so far haven’t made a good mark on my seller’s conscience. One spelled and wrote in a tone I didn’t like. The other spoke like he would part her out and junk her.
I’ve encountered several Cherokees already that look promising. Mileage at the low end of 100,000. Generally two or three previous owners. Yes, a Cherokee will do. Older and Jeep is best. Familiar, trustworthy. Ready for anything. Entirely mine.
For Sale: A Dream Fulfilled.
I come from a car family. Few buses, less trains, annual planes. Transportation that was not one’s own was to be practically shunned unless absolutely necessary. This included dreaded monthly car payments. This was the stuff of chumps. You could afford it or you couldn’t.
No half-measures, as I’ve said before.
Some people recall their childhood dreams and fantasies with great relish. They fetch them from their archives as if they were children yet. Me, I had only three: become a airplane pilot, that the ground would crack open and swallow the neighborhood and school in the year 2000, and drive a Jeep. My first attempts with the latter were feeble, given the meager retail earnings I had during college. Old, busted, near-dead cars were all I could afford. A near-dead Jeep breaks your heart when you see it. They’re not meant for it.
Later, after being convinced that an old mail carrier Jeep was not a wise option, it was time to seriously buy a car. I was earning good money for the first time, saving well, and I seized the opportunity to buy a car when the time had come. A Jeep was the only option. I scoffed at suggestions of buying a sensible car, or even worse a sedan. A sedan like every other chump on the road, making payments.
I searched for a few weeks before I found this one, nicknamed Ellie on account of those tusks in the front. She only had a oil small leak and 60,000 miles on the odometer. I got him to knock $500 off the price and drove her home that first day. Since then I’ve driven from San Diego to Victoria and all points in between. The memories I have of this Jeep are far more potent than anything remembered in a house or apartment. This was my freedom and rite of passage. I owned it, I drove it, and the responsibility was entirely on me. The decisions made were my own.
But by and by things changed. The engine started to feel like it wasn’t strong enough. Not enough space in the back seat—or enough space in the back, period. I first considered changing up a couple of years ago but a big move and other expenses later I decided I didn’t need a new car. I continued with Ellie. We did alright.
My situation changed, again. I resumed my search.
A buddy of mine from Oregon also happened to be into Jeeps. All sorts of things mechanical. I told him my tale of the first Jeep and wanting something more. His first suggestion was the type of Jeep he owns.
“A Jeep Cherokee,” he said. “A ‘90 to ‘96. They’re work horses, get decent mileage, and parts are cheap. They’ll take you to the moon and back if you set them up right.”
“How’s the space?”
“Plenty of it.”
I thought on that a while. It makes sense. What I need is an older car. A simpler car. Something I could maintain without the need to stop in at a mechanic’s place on account of overly complex wiring, computers, plastic parts packed into the tiniest crevices. New cars aren’t the same. A new car would kill what remains of me.
Ellie runs fine. We get to the beach and back without so much as a stutter. She’s got a small rear diff leak that needs to be patched. Heavy work, what with the transmission lugging involved. Something I’ll get fixed before I trade or sell her away. If, I should say. The interested parties so far haven’t made a good mark on my seller’s conscience. One spelled and wrote in a tone I didn’t like. The other spoke like he would part her out and junk her.
I’ve encountered several Cherokees already that look promising. Mileage at the low end of 100,000. Generally two or three previous owners. Yes, a Cherokee will do. Older and Jeep is best. Familiar, trustworthy. Ready for anything. Entirely mine.
An idea.
The motel television featured HBO, but no Food channel. The latter is the only channel I can stand to watch through commercials. HBO is just good about featuring something to which I can pay attention. I settled in bed and set it to the first of three HBOs. A movie called Bad Girls from Valley High was just about finished. I’d watched the beginning of it before I went to shave and shower. It featured three twenty/thirty-somethings in the roles of high school girls. Two of the three girls were dead and trapped in hell with Pinkman. The third cozied up to the perverted nutty professor.
I began to drift to sleep but noticed that the next feature presentation was rated NC-17. Adult Content, Adult Language, Sex and Nudity, etc. That was enough to keep my interest until the opening credits. They showed big name actors and the title—Young Adam—was presented in a thinly sans-serif font over a shot of shimmering blue water.
The story revolves a drifter named Joe who works on a coal barge in Scotland during the 50s or early 60s. It’s quiet from the start and remains as subtle as a quiet dinner with extended family. Joe and his barge pal Les discover a dead woman in the water and drag her up for the police to haul away. Joe is stoic about the discovery, but so is Les. There’s a sense that they’re hardened people who don’t believe in undue reactions to life’s inevitabilities. Joe and Les return to the barge, where they also live with Les’s wife Ella and their son Jim. The seemingly benign Joe rubs his calf against Ella’s bare leg during breakfast and moves his hand toward her crotch until she eventually stops him. He later coaxes Ella outside and fucks her on the dirt path besides the barge, beneath the moonlight. Thus begins Joe’s affair with any female of significance in the film.
It was shortly after that scene beside the barge that I ran some comparisons. There’s a scene at the start where Joe presses his hand against the dead woman’s upper back, and this flashes on screen again at key points in the film. It reminded me of Jindabyne, an Australian film based on a Carver short story called “So Much Water So Close to Home.” That film also features a dead woman found in the water and discovered by a group of men on a fishing trip. The male lead envisions the dead woman’s naked body as he comes home and rubs his hand over his wife’s breasts. Joe’s wanton desire to fuck every woman he deemed present and willing then reminded me of last year’s Shame, which was a personal eye-opener and the same style of gray, subtle film with undertones of entitlement, violence, and dominance.
I connected the three in my head. I decided it was a significant moment, and significant moments are the spark of inspiration. I stood up to look for a pen. A pencil. Charcoal. A nub of food I could rub on a napkin. Nothing immediately presented itself.
Another thought entered as I scrambled to find a writing utensil.
Someone who thinks he knows.
Then more thoughts. You don’t know shit. I can do that. Uh huh. We are steeped in misogyny from the moment of birth.
I was losing focus. Focus. Shame. Jindabyne. Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows. I repeated the note in my head. I paced from the entrance door to the drawn curtain. I repeated it again, and again, and again.
The bed and the film continued as I paced. I said it aloud and snapped my fingers to the beat of my memory.
“Shame, Jindabyne, Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows.”
It went on for five minutes or until the film called my attention again. I returned to bed and repeated the note as I watched.
About thirty minutes later I received an annoying ring from the room telephone. It was just past midnight.
“Hello?”
“Hello, sir. This is Jeffrey from the front desk. How is your stay with us so far?”
“It’s fine, thanks.”
“Well, I’m sorry to bother you but we’ve received multiple complaints about loud banging noises coming from your room.”
“My room? 105?”
“Yes. We’ve received complaints from rooms 104 and 106.”
“The TV’s a bit loud I guess. I’ll turn it down.”
“Is anyone in there with you?”
“No.”
“Okay, well please keep it down.”
“Sure.”
I hung up and sat down for a moment, then dialed 0 on the phone.
“Front desk.” She had a distinctly Indian accent.
“Hi. Did someone from your desk call room 105 about noise complaints?”
“No, sir.”
“I just got a call about noise.”
“It wasn’t us, sir. Perhaps a prank call.”
“Probably. Thanks.”
The phone rung again 5 minutes later. It was the same smug white guy voice.
“Sir, I just received more complaints. I don’t know who’s in there, but you need to cut it out. I don’t normally do this but when we get this many complaints it’s ridiculous. We’re going to send someone there. Expect them in the next five minutes.”
I’m no expert on the art of the prank call, but the plot was lost to me. All I could think was someone was physically going to come by, and I was more than willing to meet him at the door with a multitool in hand.
I blurted the most base sentiment I could muster. “You know what? I lied. Your mom’s here, Jeffrey. She came over to suck my cock. She’s a pro. I bet your dad loved it until she started sucking all the strange dick she could find.”
There was silence on the line and then a click.
I returned to bed to wait for a possible knock and continue with my movie. I decided I would need to watch it again anyway. It was a quiet film that required focus on every moment to understand it. I repeated my note.
“Shame, Jindabyne, Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows.”
It ended much the same way it began. No dialogue and the beginning of another story.
An idea.
The motel television featured HBO, but no Food channel. The latter is the only channel I can stand to watch through commercials. HBO is just good about featuring something to which I can pay attention. I settled in bed and set it to the first of three HBOs. A movie called Bad Girls from Valley High was just about finished. I’d watched the beginning of it before I went to shave and shower. It featured three twenty/thirty-somethings in the roles of high school girls. Two of the three girls were dead and trapped in hell with Pinkman. The third cozied up to the perverted nutty professor.
I began to drift to sleep but noticed that the next feature presentation was rated NC-17. Adult Content, Adult Language, Sex and Nudity, etc. That was enough to keep my interest until the opening credits. They showed big name actors and the title—Young Adam—was presented in a thinly sans-serif font over a shot of shimmering blue water.
The story revolves a drifter named Joe who works on a coal barge in Scotland during the 50s or early 60s. It’s quiet from the start and remains as subtle as a quiet dinner with extended family. Joe and his barge pal Les discover a dead woman in the water and drag her up for the police to haul away. Joe is stoic about the discovery, but so is Les. There’s a sense that they’re hardened people who don’t believe in undue reactions to life’s inevitabilities. Joe and Les return to the barge, where they also live with Les’s wife Ella and their son Jim. The seemingly benign Joe rubs his calf against Ella’s bare leg during breakfast and moves his hand toward her crotch until she eventually stops him. He later coaxes Ella outside and fucks her on the dirt path besides the barge, beneath the moonlight. Thus begins Joe’s affair with any female of significance in the film.
It was shortly after that scene beside the barge that I ran some comparisons. There’s a scene at the start where Joe presses his hand against the dead woman’s upper back, and this flashes on screen again at key points in the film. It reminded me of Jindabyne, an Australian film based on a Carver short story called “So Much Water So Close to Home.” That film also features a dead woman found in the water and discovered by a group of men on a fishing trip. The male lead envisions the dead woman’s naked body as he comes home and rubs his hand over his wife’s breasts. Joe’s wanton desire to fuck every woman he deemed present and willing then reminded me of last year’s Shame, which was a personal eye-opener and the same style of gray, subtle film with undertones of entitlement, violence, and dominance.
I connected the three in my head. I decided it was a significant moment, and significant moments are the spark of inspiration. I stood up to look for a pen. A pencil. Charcoal. A nub of food I could rub on a napkin. Nothing immediately presented itself.
Another thought entered as I scrambled to find a writing utensil.
Someone who thinks he knows.
Then more thoughts. You don’t know shit. I can do that. Uh huh. We are steeped in misogyny from the moment of birth.
I was losing focus. Focus. Shame. Jindabyne. Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows. I repeated the note in my head. I paced from the entrance door to the drawn curtain. I repeated it again, and again, and again.
The bed and the film continued as I paced. I said it aloud and snapped my fingers to the beat of my memory.
“Shame, Jindabyne, Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows.”
It went on for five minutes or until the film called my attention again. I returned to bed and repeated the note as I watched.
About thirty minutes later I received an annoying ring from the room telephone. It was just past midnight.
“Hello?”
“Hello, sir. This is Jeffrey from the front desk. How is your stay with us so far?”
“It’s fine, thanks.”
“Well, I’m sorry to bother you but we’ve received multiple complaints about loud banging noises coming from your room.”
“My room? 105?”
“Yes. We’ve received complaints from rooms 104 and 106.”
“The TV’s a bit loud I guess. I’ll turn it down.”
“Is anyone in there with you?”
“No.”
“Okay, well please keep it down.”
“Sure.”
I hung up and sat down for a moment, then dialed 0 on the phone.
“Front desk.” She had a distinctly Indian accent.
“Hi. Did someone from your desk call room 105 about noise complaints?”
“No, sir.”
“I just got a call about noise.”
“It wasn’t us, sir. Perhaps a prank call.”
“Probably. Thanks.”
The phone rung again 5 minutes later. It was the same smug white guy voice.
“Sir, I just received more complaints. I don’t know who’s in there, but you need to cut it out. I don’t normally do this but when we get this many complaints it’s ridiculous. We’re going to send someone there. Expect them in the next five minutes.”
I’m no expert on the art of the prank call, but the plot was lost to me. All I could think was someone was physically going to come by, and I was more than willing to meet him at the door with a multitool in hand.
I blurted the most base sentiment I could muster. “You know what? I lied. Your mom’s here, Jeffrey. She came over to suck my cock. She’s a pro. I bet your dad loved it until she started sucking all the strange dick she could find.”
There was silence on the line and then a click.
I returned to bed to wait for a possible knock and continue with my movie. I decided I would need to watch it again anyway. It was a quiet film that required focus on every moment to understand it. I repeated my note.
“Shame, Jindabyne, Young Adam. Someone who thinks he knows.”
It ended much the same way it began. No dialogue and the beginning of another story.
