...It occurs to me today, as it does each morning when I get up, that I might die before I finish this book. And I want to know what happens, but just can't get the pages turning fast enough. The same thing happens at work. I want to say things, do things, get finished with things...all because of this inane fear that I'll one day walk past that cradling tree, step off the curb, where there's NEVER a bus, and there will be one.
And I wonder who will come to pay respects, and who won't. And I wonder who will do Marvin's job, and who will read my will, and who will care...
Maybe this is what reading a book about a life of loss and embalming gets you...
Instead of "The One She Knew as Cowboy", I'm going to recommend a different title. I think...it should be Awkward Pause. Because that's what we do...it's what Marvin does. It's what we ALL do...pause after pause after...you get the picture.
And we HOPE, goddamn we hope that somewhere between those pauses, there's some sort of connection, some sort of moment, that doesn't stop as quickly as it started, that plays like a song on repeat, with just that bare minimum pause as it restarts....that pause that let's you breathe, but then plunges you right back in to the moment.
Marvin spends the whole book...well I'm guessing, since I haven't finished it, searching for that moment. Which in turn makes me think about me, and how I stopped looking, instead relishing in the pauses...but that doesn't work, does it?
It's then that I realize that I've been staring out into the five o'clock darkness for close to thirty minutes. Michael's beeping me on my cell, reminding me that we're going out...five minutes ago, actually. And then I'm grabbing my jacket and hitting the door, walking under the cradling tree, stepping off the curb...
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
...WIP more middle chapter...
...Marvin is not a misanthrope. That was what I realized, as I sat down to consider, for the umpteenth time, beginning to write the review for the packet on my desk. I hadn't finished the manuscript, which was normal for us. The idealogy of our office was very much that if you could make it halfway through whatever it was that came across your desk that day, it was not only a good day, but the story might even be half good. The problem was, of course, that I wanted to. Marvin is someone that I needed to understand. And like good fiction, or whatever this was, it had made me see things in my life that were connected to it, maybe even satirized by it. It's not that he hated people, it's that he wanted. And when he realizes, throughout his story, that it's not acceptable to want, to need, even, because it's never reciprocated in the way that he wants, he comes off as this arrogant prick. The most convincing scenes that I'd seen so far had been in his embalming room. I can see of course, how an undertaker, mortician, if you like, could be seen as a misanthrope. We've got the whole 6 Feet Under ouvre to signpost that for us, but that isn't what he's selling. He just doesn't see people as individuals. Not very often at least.
Michael walks by my desk, asking if I'd like another coffee. That seems like code for, "how did it go?" so I slowly manage my way from my cubicle to the coffee staging area, sliding in next to him, and staring directly ahead into the shoddily printed notice above the sink, letting us know that our mother did not, indeed actually work there with us. There was a small note at the bottom, penciled in a vaguely familiar hand, "Your mom is hot". I can't think of anything to say about that.
Michael looked over at me, and I said, "it was wierd. that's all."
His eyes strained to come out of their sockets, like they always do when he really wants more, but can't ask for it.
I give in. Too easily perhaps, but he knows me. We've been stuck in our respective cubicles doing this job for close to 3 years now. "Remember the dispute of '05?" We would really like to be secret agents, or ninjas even, but neither of us could afford the training, or to stay in the sort of shape it takes to do such jobs. He nods in assent. "Well it was nothing like that. In fact it was more along the lines of the last time we went out after work, and you got picked up, taken home, and..." I trail off. His jaw drops.
"..." His silence is just what I wanted. And expected. "Going to see her again?" I turn to leave. He's broken all protocals with that one. Never. Ever, do we use the pronouns in these stringent coffee pot times. I look down and realize no one had even made coffee. This is the worst moment of our spy careers. "You have plans after work?" I nod in the negative.
"See you then."
Marvin is not a misanthrope. What he is...well I'm not sure. There's a traditional triangle in the story. Marvin, Sue, Jennings. Growing up, somewhere in middle America, just like the song, and Sue falls for Jennings. Marvin has so much soul in him, and wants so much to be with Sue...and yet, there's nothing there. She cares about him, sure. It's her that says, "Marvin, they're all different ones," trying to lead him out of what I think readers will construe as his hatred of mankind, but when he sees them, on his table in the back room, needing to be dressed and made up in ways that they probably never would have in life, they are the same...and his response, "they're all fading into one", well that just shows what he sees. I'm reminded of a course I took at the university. Michael was there, and I wonder if he remembers the talk of screens, and acts and scenes. No one will give a crap if I write those things, so I don't.
I look up from the blank computer screen, trying to swivel my chair just to the point where I know it will creak and draw attention to my stymied attempts at work, but not past. Success. I look past the cubicle and see her enter. This "her" is the reason for our never uttering the pronoun aloud. She should be the only one who gets that pronoun, thus, we do our best to avoid it at all costs. I stare, except in that way that I think she doesn't know I'm staring. This is the way Marvin looks at Sue, I know it. There's never a time when he just stops her and says something like, "Sue, goddammit, you are the best thing that's ever walked. There's no need for me to eat or sleep when you're around...etc etc." He NEVER does that. Why? He's no coward. The man shoves his hands into dead people for Christ's sake. He takes the bus. Cowards don't take the bus, not in Marvin's neighborhood.
I however, am a coward. And so when she walks by, I keep focusing on the way the tree that's growing next to hour office door arches up, and sort of cradles the second story window, cupping it over the top sill with one branch, and supporting it beneath with two more. It's just slipping into Autumn today, and the leaves have turned...I smile. What a great quote from the book--"the leaves are turning and so have you. And the cold wind holds you up, but that makes me the bitter one." Words from Marvin's head. This is the weekest point of the book by far, and as of now I'm still choosing to ignore it. That, is what cowards do. I hear from just behind me, "that tree is almost cradling us, stuck here in our little world of papers and desks. Have you noticed that?" That voice. Her voice. Michael leans back, just down the way from me, his eyes doing that thing again. I lean back into the computer, as if I haven't heard. Like a coward.
Michael walks by my desk, asking if I'd like another coffee. That seems like code for, "how did it go?" so I slowly manage my way from my cubicle to the coffee staging area, sliding in next to him, and staring directly ahead into the shoddily printed notice above the sink, letting us know that our mother did not, indeed actually work there with us. There was a small note at the bottom, penciled in a vaguely familiar hand, "Your mom is hot". I can't think of anything to say about that.
Michael looked over at me, and I said, "it was wierd. that's all."
His eyes strained to come out of their sockets, like they always do when he really wants more, but can't ask for it.
I give in. Too easily perhaps, but he knows me. We've been stuck in our respective cubicles doing this job for close to 3 years now. "Remember the dispute of '05?" We would really like to be secret agents, or ninjas even, but neither of us could afford the training, or to stay in the sort of shape it takes to do such jobs. He nods in assent. "Well it was nothing like that. In fact it was more along the lines of the last time we went out after work, and you got picked up, taken home, and..." I trail off. His jaw drops.
"..." His silence is just what I wanted. And expected. "Going to see her again?" I turn to leave. He's broken all protocals with that one. Never. Ever, do we use the pronouns in these stringent coffee pot times. I look down and realize no one had even made coffee. This is the worst moment of our spy careers. "You have plans after work?" I nod in the negative.
"See you then."
Marvin is not a misanthrope. What he is...well I'm not sure. There's a traditional triangle in the story. Marvin, Sue, Jennings. Growing up, somewhere in middle America, just like the song, and Sue falls for Jennings. Marvin has so much soul in him, and wants so much to be with Sue...and yet, there's nothing there. She cares about him, sure. It's her that says, "Marvin, they're all different ones," trying to lead him out of what I think readers will construe as his hatred of mankind, but when he sees them, on his table in the back room, needing to be dressed and made up in ways that they probably never would have in life, they are the same...and his response, "they're all fading into one", well that just shows what he sees. I'm reminded of a course I took at the university. Michael was there, and I wonder if he remembers the talk of screens, and acts and scenes. No one will give a crap if I write those things, so I don't.
I look up from the blank computer screen, trying to swivel my chair just to the point where I know it will creak and draw attention to my stymied attempts at work, but not past. Success. I look past the cubicle and see her enter. This "her" is the reason for our never uttering the pronoun aloud. She should be the only one who gets that pronoun, thus, we do our best to avoid it at all costs. I stare, except in that way that I think she doesn't know I'm staring. This is the way Marvin looks at Sue, I know it. There's never a time when he just stops her and says something like, "Sue, goddammit, you are the best thing that's ever walked. There's no need for me to eat or sleep when you're around...etc etc." He NEVER does that. Why? He's no coward. The man shoves his hands into dead people for Christ's sake. He takes the bus. Cowards don't take the bus, not in Marvin's neighborhood.
I however, am a coward. And so when she walks by, I keep focusing on the way the tree that's growing next to hour office door arches up, and sort of cradles the second story window, cupping it over the top sill with one branch, and supporting it beneath with two more. It's just slipping into Autumn today, and the leaves have turned...I smile. What a great quote from the book--"the leaves are turning and so have you. And the cold wind holds you up, but that makes me the bitter one." Words from Marvin's head. This is the weekest point of the book by far, and as of now I'm still choosing to ignore it. That, is what cowards do. I hear from just behind me, "that tree is almost cradling us, stuck here in our little world of papers and desks. Have you noticed that?" That voice. Her voice. Michael leans back, just down the way from me, his eyes doing that thing again. I lean back into the computer, as if I haven't heard. Like a coward.
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