| Writing Samples - Novels "Dear Me" Opening |
© 2003, by Glenn A Bruce The following “letters” were actually entries in a journal I kept in a mostly-failed effort to keep my self, before I found out I wasn't worth keeping. Every word is true. Probably. Dear Me, It's foggy outside, some rain - the sky had been promising all day - it's quiet, a quiet rain - and it's quiet inside - the old house is still and sturdy - my old rocker waits patiently - or to be more literary, my rocker waits, old and patient - I like that better - taking the time, now - but it, the chair, will have to continue waiting, nonetheless - I have things to do, ideas to jot, concepts to float - my life to unfold I've been many things in my life, including open - but I have not cut to the bone, as I intend to do, now - to surgically alter the body of my memories, to reconstruct my afflicted parts so that I am finally free to walk tall and unafraid into my future - alone or conjoined - unworried about how my past looks, to me or anyone else - not that there's anyone to care - I mean, it doesn't really matter anymore - after all, this future that I have, or at least face, is nothing special - in fact, it is probably nothing - period - long end of story - so, like I said, it doesn't really matter Well, that's not true - it does - there's just nothing I can do about it - not now. Chapter 1 Lawrence Obemeyer was thirty six years old when he walked from his seventeenth floor accounting office, took the elevator down to the ground floor, went into the little overpriced snack and magazine shop just past the mail drop, and bought three packs of gum: two Juicy Fruit and a Big Red. He put all fifteen sticks in his mouth, walked across the street to the cleaners, checked his winter overcoat in for spring maintenance, then turned and ran, unhampered, into traffic, timing his rendezvous with the twelve-fifteen midtown bus perfectly. Lawrence Obemeyer died with a smile on his face. No one knew why. I did. Chapter 2 Arthur Mencken—no relation—was once quoted as saying: “Danny, I think everyone should be dead except me.” At the time, I didn’t think he was serious. To be fair: I didn’t take much of anything seriously, Back Then. But, still: My mistake! Chapter 3 Arthur Mencken was born in Topeka, Kansas. Maybe that was it. Three days later, Arthur’s unhappy little family returned to Boston, where his father, Joe, was from. Three days after that, he, Joe, had Arthur’s mother, Mona, committed to a state mental facility in Mississippi, where she was from, so that she could be near her family, which was very thoughtful, all things considered. Three days after that, Arthur’s father remarried. Six months later, however, Arthur’s new stepmother, Shirley Laverne Tabasco-Biscuit—Tobacco-Nosebite or Toler-Nesbit or something—divorced Arthur’s father (just plain) Joe, took young Arthur, my friend-to-be, and remarried, this time to a loud, barrel-chested science teacher named Arthur, which was both a complete coincidence and a monumental misfortune since he and his newly acquired step-stepson looked nothing alike— unfortunate because, despite their complete and perpetual lack of any remote physical similarities, people, many people, called my (then) future friend Arthur: “Junior.” That may have been it. But even more unfortunate, is that when all of this started, my friend Arthur’s biological mother did not contest custody. She willingly signed her baby over to Arthur’s father Joe who left his infant son with Arthur’s stepmother Shirley and her new husband Arthur Mencken (Senior)—who never wanted kids to begin with—so that he, Arthur’s biological father Joe could go off and be an abstract-expressionist painter who never sold anything but Term Life Insurance. (All of) which, gave my friend Arthur Mencken (Junior) the distinct feeling that: No one wanted him. So, if none of the above was it: That definitely was. Chapter 4 Seven years later, the three of them, Arthur’s new family moved to Miami. The town, nor us, would never be the same—nor the world, nor anyone. In September of that year, almost 1960, he, Arthur, entered my second grade class—which is more or less where this story begins—Mrs. Polymer's class. At least that's what we used to call her. I can't remember her real name anymore; something like, well, like Polymer. I do remember her first name. It was Jean. I remember that because that was my mother's first name. In my youthful naiveté, I thought that since Miss Polymer had the same first name as my mother, I would like her. I was wrong. I hated Mrs. P. We all did. Especially Arthur. He said he wished she was dead on the first day of second grade, and he didn't even really know her, yet. But, this—as we would later come to find—was Arthur in a nutshell. Only: Without the shell. My mother died when I was 19. By that time, I had probably wished she was dead at least twice, maybe ten times. I had been a teenager. But then she actually died. I still miss her. And I'm going to be sixty-five. Maybe. Chapter 5 Arthur came up with the idea of calling our second grade teacher “Mrs. Polymer.” It might prove that even weird little social deviant kids can be creative. But in this case it merely showed that he, my newest friend Arthur Mencken, wanted to be a scientist and had a vague idea of what a polymer was. It was more than I had. To me, to all of us kids, the word just sounded funny and we had a vague idea that it was an insult of some sort. Probably. But I (we) shouldn't have laughed at anything Arthur Mencken ever said. I (this) was just setting a bad precedent. But what did I know! I was seven and small for my age. Pomillor, that was it: Jean Pomillor. The redheaded kids called her Mrs. Pomegranate. Odd, since pomegranates are red. Oh, and did I mention: Arthur was a redheaded kid. He told jokes no one laughed at, wore black glasses, ate peanut butter and baloney sandwiches for lunch—every lunch—dressed funny, and never got picked for anything at P.E. because he threw like a girl. As a result: By seventh grade, Arthur was wishing most people were dead. By tenth grade, our first year of high school, he, Arthur Mencken, made his immortal statement and I laughed. We all laughed! Little did I (we) know, he, Arthur, was one person off in his count: Me. Chapter 6 Artie Anslow, another of my friends, was born in Atlanta. That didn’t last, either. Artie only spent a few days in that fair Southern city before his parents shuttled the family further south (kind of North, really, at that time, in a figurative sense) to Miami (then called a suburb of New York), where I also met him in elementary school—third grade in his case—when his family moved into our school district (yet to be a suburb of Havana). The first thing we noticed was that Artie loved bows and arrows. Really loved them. He was obsessed. Artie had catalogues and books and pictures and drawings and wore shirts and shorts and hats with arrows all over them—some embroidered. Underwear and socks. At the time, we just thought he just liked to play Indians more than Cowboys; but this was not the case. Artie was consumed—to the point that, later: At the tender age of thirteen, before he’d even learned to masturbate properly, Artie set a world's record for most number of consecutive bulls eyes. Two years after that, he won a gold medal in the Olympics, the day before his sixteenth birthday. So, Artie Anslow wasn’t just a white kid who liked bows and arrows: Artie was an archer. Ironically—or not, I’m still not sure—Archer was Artie’s mother's maiden name: Annabelle Archer. She married Alan Anslow, and they had little Alice—she died at birth—then Artie. They didn't name him Arthur, but Artie, right off. It made him a hostile little bastard. But a damn good shot. Artie Anslow could have shot the stem off the apple on top of Billy Tell's head! He was that good. But his talent was for naught. After all, once you win Olympic gold, where can you really go with archery? Wheaties? I don't think so. Wheaties is for handsome well-known types with memorable names. Strong one- name names like Michael, Wayne or Pete, with glamorous non-alliterative sports like basketball, hockey and tennis. Football! (American football.) Not archery, not Back Then. (Too…Olympic; ergo, too not American.) Not Artie. Not Artie Anslow. Not: Artie Anslow the Archer, son of Annabelle Aisel—I don’t know; don’t ask me—Archer-Anslow, mother of dead- at-birth Alice Ainsly Anslow, and Alan Arthur Anslow III. Not on a box of cereal. Though Artie was good-looking, very good-looking, his personality needed extensive reconstructive surgery. Which, he never got. We all suffered for it. That said, I'm not saying Artie didn't have his moments; he could be a very sweet guy. He was exceedingly generous with excellent deportment, always brought something interesting to potlucks, and was one of the few people I knew who could wear a hat successfully. It's just: You had to watch him. In The End, it didn’t matter: Artie went straight to Hell. He didn't go alone, of course, or on his own volition. Arthur sent him there with everyone else. Only, first. His best friend! Well, almost first. There was one ahead of Artie. But Artie was second. That's almost first! Close enough to first when you're The Best Friend and should be last. Only, that was me. After the eight billion others. Chapter 7 I was curious as a kid. I just was. For instance: I always wondered what went on at the Masons, Elks and Mooses. Always! Then, I became a Junior Woodchuck or something back in fifth and sixth grade. To my great and lasting disappointment: Nothing much happened. We had meetings once a month where we tied knots and ate cookies, learned some meaningless, but somber, oaths which none of us had any intention of honoring, and talked about civic responsibilities such as helping old crippled ladies across the street even if they were cranky and didn’t want to go. Twice a year we went on a picnic, at a local park, usually at the beach and, once a year, we went camping. In the wilderness. Yes. The first year I was stranded out there with my fellow junior varmints, David Elks—no relation—went skinny-dipping in front of us new kids. It was a little weird because he was older and had pubic hair; but otherwise, this wanton display of pending maturity seemed fairly harmless. (Although he did threaten to kill any of us younger ones if we told.) Oh yeah, and he had a hardon—which made us all laugh. So, I've always wondered: Do Elks and Mooses and Masons go skinny-dipping and threaten the new old men with death if they tell? And do they get hardons just before that? Can they? You have to wonder. You can’t not! To further cement my premise: Artie Anslow's dad Alan, Alan Arthur Anslow, was a Mason, or an Elk, or a Moose, or a Senior Woodchuck, or some damn thing. Something had to explain it. Alan was a doozie. A Grand Hoo-Hah, or something equally sinister and, might I add, ridiculous. (And I’m not even talking about the headgear.) Grown men! Poor Artie never stood a chance. So, of course, when we went camping the next year, Artie was the naked one. He had a raging hard-on. Chapter 8 “Cleveland, Ohio, is an awful place, an absolutely dreadful place.” My friend Denise used to say this of her birthplace. You couldn't prove it by me—Cleveland, that is. I was there only one time, back in the mid-seventies—the nineteen seventies, that is—for about ten minutes. We drove up to see the Great Lake, Erie. It was dead. (Though it had stopped burning a few years earlier.) We were back in Columbus for early supper. All I really remember was the grey water—which looked more like house paint than water—and the blue haze over Akron from the tire factories. Lake Erie smelled like a sewer and Akron smelled like a recap. Welcome to Ohio, the sign had read. I think we ate at Denny’s because that’s all there was then, out by the freeway, I-Whatever. We called it The Road to Nowhere, and, in a way, it was. We stayed in a Ramada Inn where everything was red and smelled like disinfectant and other peoples’ cigarettes. And gum. (Don’t worry: Gum will not become a theme. I promise.) We had chosen the Ramada because we thought it was very upscale. Again: I was born in Buffalo; what did I know. Denise hated Cleveland simply because she was born there. It was reason enough. Her birthplace represented all the disillusionment which turned out to be her life. Had she been born in Roanoke, Denise would have hated it just as well, just as much. She would have said, “Danny, Roanoke is an awful place. An absolutely dreadful place.” And I would have believed her. I tended to believe anything Denise told me. It was easy. She was beautiful, smart and otherwise perfect. It's easy to believe people like Denise. That's why pretty people sell things that can kill you, like cigarettes and motorcycles, beer and stock options. All over the world it happens on a daily basis. It's the sole reason for movies and television, models and makeup, tight white underwear and knit shirts. Polos. And polio. Did I mention? Denise had polio. Oh sure, you're thinking, how could anyone with polio be perfect, even beautiful! But that's the beauty of it: Denise had it. Chapter 9 Millie! Now, Millie was born in... Was born in... Shit. Another foggy day - I wonder if it will ever lift - along with my spirits, which have never felt less lofty, positively elegiac - (funereal, I looked it up) - I'm as down in the dumps as a Third World pigeon - and making jokes! - maybe there is hope If there is, it is that I am learning of myself and from myself - the only way we can truly learn anything of value: inside out - who was it said “The only way out is through”? - Carlos Castaneda? - Steve McQueen in “The Great Escape?” - some fetus? Ha-ha, it was Robert Frost - I love messing with myself; I never have the energy to mess back - and it was “The best way out is always through” - but you get the point, don't I? - Shirley, I jest! - (don’t blame me, you! – I never could hold my wine!) Anyway, wise words - and it took me a lifetime to see - to remember the concept - maybe I understood it once before - it seems like maybe I did - then it went away - then it came back! - now, I'm not sure, anymore - like everything else - it's all so twisted and convoluted, tied up in knots - one thing wrapped around the other and all so tight there's no pulling any of it apart - like a wet sneaker shoelace knot, dried in the sun - it hasn't all just run together (like water and ink), it's more tangible, and bound so tightly there's no extricating one thought from another, one answer from one problem - the dilemma from the dull My inner truth feels like a long-sleeved shirt pulled from the washing machine, all twisted up, wrapped around and in and on itself, strangling itself, so tight and heavy that I have a hard time unraveling it and finding me – the real me – I’m like a wadded- up sock, inside the shirt, somewhere I can't see or find - deep in a sleeve which is turned inside-out and stuck inside the other inside-out sleeve, both of which are wadded up inside the middle of the twisted, wadded-up king-sized flannel sheet, with socks and underwear and other shirts lost deep inside it, along with cutoffs, worn pants, old underwear, holey socks - and work gloves and caps and shovels and blueberry plants and trees and my old house, the one I grew up in, and a forty-ton Caterpillar bulldozer, safety-yellow waiting to knock it down and run it over, and a serial killer and Captain Kangaroo, and too much dessert, and at least 47 old girlfriends, and Mom, and Millie, and that summer cabin I never had and the lake outside it, and my favorite ’63 VW van, and the memories in it, and the dope, and the ocean (all of it), and a rusted motorcycle that hasn’t run in years, and taking the garbage out, and all the dead people from all time It's not all that shocking anymore, not all that frightening - it's just what's in there - and hey, it all comes out in the wash! – (or the dryer – or outside the dryer, where it gets unraveled, discovered and thrown back in the dryer - and another cycle later finally comes out disengaged, unwrinkled and wearable once again - and hopefully, it still fits - because if it doesn't, I have to throw it away – or wash it again – then throw it away) So, I'm unraveling it, now - myself - the mysteries of me - of why I came to be here, and how - of what went wrong Say not that I am a pessimist! I am a realist! - I am merely facing what is, for the first time, and trying not to be afraid of what I see - things are getting much dryer and less tangled - but I had to go inside - tumble with it - wrestle with it - roll with it - that's the way I like to look at it - and that's the way I see it - from inside the dryer, looking out The world is spinning. |
| Dear Me or The History of the End of the World as We Knew It, Told As I See It, or More Accurately, Saw It by Daniel R. Olafson |
| If a thing cannot withstand humor; it is not a good thing. |
| Part One: Dear Me LETTER #1 |
| Letter #2 |
