What to say? [A work in progress] by Andrew Reid

Okay, my audience is: general public. But, more specifically, literary types, reading for artistic merit, for insight, eloquence, intelligence, ingenuity.

Good audience. But not exactly economically expedient, eh?

I don’t even acknowledge such a concern.

Granted. Well, next you need to consider how to best convey your thoughts to such an audience.

Appeal to the admiration for language, substantial thinking, communication, that I myself experience when presented with good writing.

How?

Think first. Think until I encountered an especially titillating train of thought, express this thought progression either with tape recorder, or by typing it out, or writing it out (imagine!)

And then?

Develop a hypothetical situation that would convey this theme to readers, providing background, familiar circumstances and personalities, images, that can eventually be used as supporting evidence for whatever point is being made. And it could be simple. For example, one of the major themes of A Sometimes Great Notion, by Ken Kesey, is that everyone has a role he must fill, or a lot he’s stuck with, as Joe Ben would have it. Another is that everyone tries to bring down the successful, the big man. Or, alternately, everyone needs a scapegoat to rest his problems upon. 600 pages to say that. He makes a strong argument, sir.

Sure. And how would you go about imagining these familiarities that also serve as collaborating evidence for your hypothetical hypothesis?

Well. Constructive, focused thinking, for one. I find drugs sometimes aid in the creative side of things, but proceed to cloud any kind of organized writing.

Do you consider this disorganized?

Not really. Although maybe a little bit cloudy. A clear mind is hard to come by, I find. I presume it would be greatly facilitated by peace of mind, and peace of mind by some sort of premise to deal with your hassles (such as bills, school, work, love). My first task is probably to find peace of mind somehow. Then again, maybe peace of mind makes for boring writing.

What do you think?

Maybe get all the ideas down while there’s plenty of fuel for them. Communicate them more properly when things have settled down.

Would you rather they settle down?

I think I would.

Wouldn’t you also like to make a name for yourself as a writer?

There are those vague aspirations, although the admission of it kind of eliminates the illusion of effortlessness.

Not necessarily.

Whatever the case, I want to write now! Really don’t want to wait.

Take some time. Do it right.

ii.) Themes.

Themes:

...we need our environment to be absolutely familiar. Anything unfamiliar is a potential threat and we fear it. So we pick on the different boy in the class. But is this the reason? Possibly we pick on the boy because he is the lesser of many threats, and in order to feel secure we must place ourselves on a higher hierarchical rung than at least one other person, ideally everybody. But we are also capable of realizing that by forming friendships or alliances with others we can at least assure we’re not alone in the web, and prevent others from pushing us down. Even friendships, however, can be hierarchical. One boy or girl will dominate the other. Even this is not static, however, as the dominant in one circle may become subordinate in another, depending upon the makeup of that circle. (This is becoming less of a theme and more of a rant, but ranting is what I’m aiming for I think).

Which introduces another point. It is helpful to be knowledgeable of a subject before tackling it.

Which is why I’m in school, I think, to a large degree.

[A Bachelor of Science Degree, I think (how stupidly funny!)(so stupid that although it occurs to most readers, most are loathe to admit or (God forbid!) voice it)]

Theme:

People “alter their minds” to escape problems, distract themselves (from what?), to explore themselves, to experiment (people are experimental creatures), as merely another way to avoid the thought of death.

Notice also how Hank follows his father’s example as a strictly independent person, whereas Joe Ben, disgusted by his own emulation of his father, invited a marred face as his opportunity to escape this progression. Neither seemed to have a choice. Although Joe Ben ended up as his father (in the grave), and Hank took the choice when given it (like the loner in the anecdotal aside near the end). Discuss this somehow, somewhere

Great, but back on track.

What is “experience life”? As in “I want to experience life first.” Can’t I experience life by spending my spare time writing? Don’t I already have a lifetime of memories, anecdotes, ideas, humorous moments, love, loss, happiness, sorrow, et cetera? I’m beginning to appreciate that I don’t have to go out of my way to experience life, as many people (my not-so-former self included) seem intent upon doing. I’ll experience it one way or another, in fact I have no choice. And everything is a novelty even in situations seemingly unchanging. People change attitudes continuously. Maybe a man sticks to what has worked for him in the past, but the world is never static, and rarely does he find himself so completely at ease that he does not see the need to adjust this-or-that, experiment with different approaches to whatever foreign stimuli and circumstance he finds himself in.

Theme:

We experiment to better understand. We need to understand because things we do not understand are potential threats. This, I think, is the basis for curiosity. Personality is the accumulation of our experiments. Emotion is our means of gauging the success or failure of a given experiment. Successful experiments are repeated, unsuccessful ones are avoided. The magnitude of success or failure (i.e., emotional response) determines the likelihood of certain behaviours to be performed (repeated). In this way as well, certain behaviours become dominant, and decrease the need for further experimentation, especially in the context under which the experiment was successful. Some such behaviours can prove quite maladaptive (i.e., the tendency of a depressed person to seek comfort in the pity of others), and difficult to replace with more adaptive behaviours, since experimentation is also costly: costly because, besides eliminating potential threats, it can also expose new potential threats, or better define real threats. One such threat is not to individual survival, but to reproductive success, which is a more pertinent threat, biologically speaking. So, rather than risk losing a mate, a person may develop a “clinging” personality, finding much anguish but some success in this approach. Another may find it expedient to forgo attachment altogether, this having at one point resulted in pain and anguish (bad feelings), and assume a promiscuous approach. Another may have found a girl, fallen in love with her, married her, raised a family, and died having never known such things as unrequited love or loss. (Have such men trodden the earth? I have met one or two, I think. But there’s still that lingering pessimist who’s seen a few things and can tell you that never has he encountered a man who has probably not felt the desire to experiment with other women. Just to see. Is this also a reproductive adaptation? Or a social one? Once one could judge a man’s success by the number of wives he possessed. I differ with that pessimist. I have known such love and expect to again. And I have seen it, it happens when one’s mate ceases to become a threat. Such trust requires some experimentation, and reciprocation). Yet another may decide that the type of mate he desires (and he does not allow himself the possibility that he would have to settle for less) is one who admires his proud, silent approach. Is that it? Or is he merely afraid to risk the threat of rejection, which can quickly undermine the shaky premises upon which his personality is based. And the former is his rationalization of such behaviour. We can rationalize anything, given premises. And we have an amazing capacity for accepting premises based upon little experimentation, or upon the reported experimentation of others, the details of which we are entirely unaware.

Is that a theme?

There are some themes buried in there, I think.

How’s aboot:

Ask yourself a question. Pretend its an experiment you’re designing (see Keppel et al). Ask the question, maybe formulate a hypothesis (but why hypothesize? Why do we feel it’s necessary. Seems to me kind of foolish. Yet I seem to realize that, when done right, it can be mighty helpful... But why bother? Why not ask a question and perform the experiment, move on? Systematically, of course, but minus the “I think this is going to happen!” Why not just do the experiment and see what happens? Who invented this idea of hypothesis, I wonder? The Greeks? The Germans? The English? Descartes?).

Anyways, form a hypothesis, or not, but at least ask the question and give ‘er. Easily fill three-hundred odd pages pursuing it, digressing here and there to elaborate upon the props you’ve imagined to help provide examples to supplement the theory. We learn by example. Only after the example can we formulate a theory. Obviously, perhaps.

The problem remains: we need a good question. Something striking. Something we could fill pages with and not tire of it. Hmmm.....

(It’s too obvious, see. This very little pseudo-dialogue, addressing just such an enthralling question. What was the question, again?)

The question was: how to get off your ass and write a novel. Or short story. Or extended poem. Je ne sais pas. Just something I can look at and not say, “Man, what kind of poor effort is this? Crap.” Could be I’m too self-critical. Could very well be.

And consider Lee: every deed motivated by pure selfishness. But, of course, it’s only that he’s very blatant (and in a way honest) whereas the other characters act upon identical currency while creating elaborate pretences to suggest otherwise. Fascinating.

Ah! People. So, notice how we play incredibly complex games every moment of our lives, with ourselves, with our neighbours, with our lovers. Especially our lovers, there’s so much desire there. So much self-interest, and self-interest becomes inextricably intertwined with his or her interest, so much so with some of us that it dies very hardly, and so you’ll be playing games with the lover you meet five, ten years later, resuming those little emotional chess-matches, often adding new players who themselves are likely to be snagged by it, and ahhh... It can get ugly. Right awful.

How about that for a theme? Only, it’s too abstract, too formless; How can it possibly be put so as to assume any sort of consistent form? Any sort of common, general reaction, acknowledgement, appreciation?

That, my friend, is the craft of the writer.

But some things we can only imagine. Maybe the tools are lacking? If sculpture can advance with technology, so can writing with sophistication. Or am I merely reflecting the same ole’ damn thing? Are we any more honest with ourselves today as was, say, Tolstoy? Few of us come close (Ken Kesey, I would venture).

So, hey. I suppose we can put the love theme in, but if that’s filler, we need skeleton. To give it form. Another big theme. Something vastly disparate, I hope, because it’d be a thrill to connect such distant points of the psyche...

Theme:

A man needs to be heard.

(There, nice and simple).

They always stressed “conflict”, as I remember, in English class. There must be conflict for a story. Well, why not? But can’t the conflict grow from the theme? Good conflict: every man needs to be heard, but who’ll listen? Everyone doing their darndest to get their voices heard, their message out. But nobody to listen. Or if they do, it’s merely to facilitate being heard (more human games again). So, conflict is man vs. man, one of whom shouts louder, the other having no choice but subtlety...

Well? Okay, now we’re ready for specifics of a sort. Not all our particulars, but who’ll be our hero? What’ll he/she be up against? Will there be numerous heroes? Will everyone be a hero of one sort or another? Everybody is likely a hero in his own eyes.

Will he be down-to-earth genuine? Or surreal and somehow impossible (but I can’t exactly put my finger on it...)? Larger-than-life?

I like down-to-earth myself?

The hell are you, anyways.

Stick to the dialogue at hand.

Sure it’s a dialogue?

Now, okay, down-to-earth genuine, peut-etre.

Right. Something resembling myself or not?

That might get you caught up. That may be what’s been catching you up. Makes you concentrate too much on making yourself heard, less upon the question at hand, no?

That, and/or the lack of any structure, any systematic planning.

Well, fix that.

I think, perhaps, that the theme at hand would be better served by a stranger. Yet, for pragmatic reasons, it needs to be someone familiar.

Well Christ, haven’t you met a million people already?

Yeah. I bet a picture of one would help me focus. [glances at a wall full of photographs]

Ah ha!

[duo adjourns the conversation, with a “to be continued” tossed out jovially. Go to bed.]

iii.) Planting the seed for fiction.

[a man is seated on a toilet in a public restroom of the Smallwood Student Centre, MUN, St. John’s, NFLD, Canada. Wondering if, indeed, he can consider himself worthy of that label, for didn’t the traditional man have at least one woman, and a clear occupation, and two metaphorical feet to stand upon? Didn’t he have enough peace of mind that such thoughts as constantly plague our hero seldom glanced through his own tranquil mind? Didn’t he know how to react to his environment, wasn’t he comfortable with the way things were, and weren’t the way things were much easier to define, and didn’t he have a great tight circle of friends and enemies who were also his family? Didn’t... but he quells that particular line of thought, realizing its potential to drive a man to the edge of a cliff, of which there were an abundance within walking distance. The fool follows such rocky paths to nowhere. And our hero is no fool, or so he persists in fancying.]

He examines the various markings on the walls of the stall, brushed out by some disdainful custodian, but still quite discernable. Some of them are of his own doing, from those times when expressing his anonymous thoughts proved simply too irresistible a temptation. Besides, he considers, is it really so much of a sin, even if one of the foreign remarks is a crude response to another rather pathetic effort at a dirty limerick which lacks the rhyming scheme required of a limerick (any way he tries to distort the language), and is, in any case, more stupid than dirty. Dirtiness, he muses, can often be very artfully accomplished. He can perceive no such art in this.

The response reads:

Pretty clever you immature bastard

now go home, it’s past your bedtime.

He nods at that. People love to be heard. Or, perhaps more accurately, they love to be respected. So, bearing that in mind, is it such a sin?

He begins to realize that this question opens up a Pandora’s box of morally philosophical questions, and gives his head a shake. Not on a Friday afternoon. He has other concerns. Like the man question, something that certainly won’t be resolved by thought, but possibly by deed.

Not to mention the fact that he has a funeral to attend.

So his old aunt Rachel has passed away. And all he can think about is her proud old husband Richard the Third. Third signifying three Mitchells with the name of Richard, along with a proud and interminable tradition which is certainly not lost upon Richard Senior, nor his eldest son Richard the Fourth. The old man has apparently been adept, thinks our hero, in instilling whatever sacred principles that accompany his house, to his eldest of offspring. Passed down through generations like a sacred heirloom, wrought by some ancient dignitary who might as well have been named Richard too, looking about him and finding himself (along with his progeny) quite above it all.

Richard the third was an [older, greying man], but of course would never in his wildest dreams (and oh how wild they must be!) even faintly imagine the thought of admitting it, or allow age to be anything but a source of ever-increasing dignity and respectfulness – the world was beginning to lack such dignified people, our hero (name to be decided later, Pete for now) noted gravely and found himself surprisingly saddened by this fact. His uncle, a lawyer by profession, and more active in his advancing years than he’d probably ever been, could scarcely be found if not in his tall, blue pinstripe suit, ever smart, ever dignified, proud of what a remarkable existence he’d forged out of life, entirely confident that he couldn’t really have done it any better, although, maybe, just maybe, you could have gone a little further, Richard boy. But you’ve done rather well nonetheless. And he stood here now, looking grave but no more so than usual, as the pallbearers shifted the coffin slowly toward its final resting place, and Pete could not remove his eyes from the man, feeling both fearful of and captivated by him.

He hadn’t seen his uncle in some years now, despite always meaning to visit the ever-fascinating family of his aunt Rachel, his father’s sister, such a stoic lady, but kind too, in her strict sort of manner. He had always liked the family, without being drawn to it, rather more as an elegant piece of artwork whose strange beauty he could certainly admire, but in no way relate to himself. To be sure, he’d never come away unhappy from the ancient gem of a house that had served as the Mitchell home for countless years. While in their venerable company, alone with them and their two sons and daughter, for supper, as he had been the last time he’d seen them, he would have no choice but observe the intricate and extraordinary nuances that comprised that intriguing man-woman-offspring relationship. Paul was ever the student of human behaviour. Helpless to ignore it, he would be seated at the table eating his meal, and observe the rather abrupt, intelligent, and somehow highly structured conversation, with the eldest son participating confidently, and the younger two mumbling short, polite answers to whatever predictable questions their parents, seemingly at random, directed at them. Although he himself was an active, albeit cautious participant in this conversation, he felt more like the scientist sat behind a two-way mirror, observing this amazing display of human interaction, making countless mental notes, hopelessly seduced by the intricacy and novelty of it.

“Smith succeeded in securing the case of the Crown vs. Mcarthur,” Richard might say, as business was typically granted priority in the discussion. He would direct such a comment at his wife, and possibly Richard Junior – reasonably enough, since Pete and the others really had no background on the topic. He did notice, however, that his uncle would never fail to mention the Crown in reference to cases, whereas most Crown Attorneys did fail, and purposely so, as it was generally unnecessary. Possibly he saw such an omission as some sort of break with propriety, and tradition, both very integral parts of the human existence, in his opinion.

“He’ll have a difficult time of it,” Rachel would reply, having, as a rule, intimate knowledge of her husband’s affairs.

“I’ve yet to observe Smith worried about difficulty,” the son, Richard the Fourth, himself an up-and-coming young star of a litigator, would remark humorously.

“The case as yet has much to be revealed, before I can make a judgement upon it,” observed Richard the elder, ever scientific.

Rachel shrugged. “I’ve seen a lot of cases. By now I can tell which way a case will go. Isn’t this an exact replica of Crown vs. Baker?”

“It is,” agreed the elder, with a thoughtful nod. “As far as I can recollect.”

“Surely you remember that Crown lost that one.”

“Being the Crown Attorney in question,” replied Richard, appearing somewhat bothered by the reminder, “I am certainly aware of that much, my dear.”

“It was a long time ago, in any case,” his wife would remark, with the very slightest trace of a smile (which only people who had spent some time with the family would perceive). “But it seems an identical case, for some reason.”

“Woman’s intuition,” Pete might interject, at this point, with a casual sort of humour, that they would condescend to allow in him, the interesting young cousin with whose career they also made themselves well acquainted.

“Perhaps,” Rachel would reply, in a voice that suggested she knew better. On the other hand, Pete would notice something, some small, barely perceptible fraction of her practiced expression, that told him that, in the heart she would never bare to her husband, for fear of losing the dignity that was of such great importance to this family, she actually did harbour a strong belief in such illogical things. A whole world of spirits, he imagined, existed in that head of hers, in her dreams and moments of weakness, that would never be expressed to the human ear, never become part of that wonderful world of human lore, that seemed to shrink with each passing day, as less and less beautiful individuals ventured to challenge the merciless forces of science and organized religion.

And they went with her now, thought Pete, as he averted his glance for the first time from the proud figure of her husband, to the coffin now being lowered into the earth, all of her ghosts and faeries and magic, all the wonderful creatures of the human fancy, dead and gone and might as well never have been.

Had they given her pleasure or pain? Or both? If so, then maybe they lived in the people she had touched in her lifetime, in her way. And maybe they lived in her children too, and not merely the younger two, with whom he shared somewhat more casual relationships, but Richard the Fourth as well. Perhaps in him most of all, Pete mused, setting his eyes now upon this son. He is certainly most like his mother.

This sort of thought, he mused some more, is what makes a beautiful eulogy, really being able to express this intriguing lady in genuine terms to onlookers, to inspire some appreciation of just exactly what had been lost here. Not just another name, a face that will fade with time and senility, but something intimate and amazing about Rachel that would stay with them forever, that they would recall in their most reflective moments, and understand just what a toll death was taking upon the collective human spirit, in the ignorance of humanity.

But he would never have the chance to utter it. The eldest son had given the eulogy, an eloquent, appreciative, and touching speech, in its own way. And who knew what wide array of little details served as the stuff of his relationship with his mother; certainly allowing him much more insight and acute sense of loss than Pete himself.

In appearance, Richard the younger was strikingly similar to his father, with the straight Roman nose accentuating a tight, well-proportioned face and finely combed black hair which, had it been grey, he could easily have swapped with Richard Senior, nobody being the wiser. Yet, when animated (in the limited Mitchell sense of the word), he was entirely Rachel. From the minute signals in his expressions that invariably left one pondering, what is it about him? (the old man did not inspire such uncertain curiousity), to the good-natured firmness and surety of character that had earned him the solemn respect he enjoyed amongst his colleagues – Pete had had occasion to observe both the young man and his father in their professional environments as well. Between himself and the eldest son, there had always existed an aloof acceptance, even the odd intimate encounter, which made Richard that much more an alluring mystery to him.

“Your studies are going well, I presume?” he had inquired of Pete at their most recent encounter, having met by chance at a play the summer before, a dazzling young woman stood smiling, as if entranced, at his side. His manner was at once offhanded and sincere.

Pete shrugged. “Tolerably so. And your burgeoning career? I’ve heard great things.”

This remark was rewarded with one of those rare half-smiles he had also inherited from his mother, the receipt of which Pete suspected was a precious commodity. He returned the gesture to show his appreciation of this. “I have little to complain about at the moment, I suppose,” Richard replied with a mild hint of humour. “Except that you should really grace us a bit more with your presence at the house. We always enjoy your company.”

“Oh, I know! It’s always here,” said Pete, indicating his head, “but I can be pretty absent-minded at times.”

Richard nodded, certainly having no conception of such a thing. “Why don’t you come around this Sunday. Mother would be pleased. We all would.”

“Yeah, certainly!” said Pete, with enthusiasm. “Ah, but you might want to call and remind me.” He tapped his head once again.

Detected another glimpse of colour in his cousin’s dignified visage, who answered, “Then I will.”

And he had, although Pete had forgotten all about it and gone out with friends, missing the call and the invitation. The memory of it now filled him with an acute, thankfully transient horror. At having missed that opportunity he would never have again. His enigmatic aunt at rest beneath the earth, and those who had known and loved her, in idiosyncratic but genuine ways, slowly following their paths away from her, once and for all. A crowd so effused with pride that tears had no chance whatsoever to emerge.

He sighed, a puzzle so wild and complex that all he could do was sigh.

And now we have to establish exactly where we’re going with this...

Well, nowhere, really. Just like to develop some characters a little. You’ll agree that this will help predict how they will react when presented with certain, uhh, stimuli – by which I mean circumstances, dilemmas, et cetera.

Mmmm. Indeed. Use your still meagre knowledge of psychology, eh?

[The aspiring author nods, suddenly introspective. “Indeed,” he replies, absently.]

To tell the truth, I’m quite interested in how the two younger siblings figure in. It almost seems as if you were neglecting them on purpose...

Possibly. Plus, you need to have women.

Or will they merely draw you back into the self-emulating habit?

Hardly. But probably, all the same.

[And he starts again...]

Jill, the daughter and youngest of Richard’s progeny, was his own age. A lovely girl, pretty, quiet, but with such a subtly seductive suggestiveness about her. She had a funny habit of inserting herself into the family conversation, at random intervals, and quite without warning, with a little sarcastic this or ironic that; humour that her parents appeared not to contemplate (although she must have gotten it from somewhere, he would reason).

“He merely entrances the court with his Mitchell charm,” she would remark suddenly, as her contribution to a curt appraisal of the practicing style of Richard the Fourth by his parents.

In acknowledgement, her father would rest the sternness of his eyes upon his daughter for a moment, who would reciprocate with equally steady determination, both defiant and respectful. He father, as a result, seemed almost playful, a shocking illusion. She would eventually turn to her cousin, with a roll of the eyes so slight that only his anticipating eyes would notice, as if to say, “You see what I’m up against.”

He did see, and to indicate it, he’d flash her a timid grin.

Jill mesmerized him most of all.

So he had been quite surprised to run into her downtown one night, running up to him and laughing, “Pete! My God what a pleasant surprise!”

It was very much a pleasant surprise. They sat and had the most uninhibited, passionate conversation he’d ever had with a member of that family. More so, in fact, than any conversation he could remember. And all the while he wondered whether he were dreaming this, what he imagined one of them would say and do, released somehow from the iron grip of the Mitchell code of proper conduct, from the floodgates holding back a soul bursting with enthusiasm, intelligence, passion. But immediately came to the realization that he could never have imagined this.

“Man, you don’t know how good it is to actually talk to you!” she exclaimed suddenly, her eyes glowing, hands flailing in emphasis. “I mean, the folks are the best people in the world, don’t get me wrong. But how in the world would Daddy react to this!?” Sweeping her arm to indicate the place crawling with glistening bodies, moving nicely to the invigorating progression of trance beats.

“Yeah, but your father’s a blindingly intelligent man, Jill. I think it’d surprise you how much he knows and understands things like this. Or, at least, he understands in his own way, not as someone who’s experienced it, but as a keen observer and scientific logician.”

She’d shake her head and laugh. “Sure, he’d chalk it all up to ‘those dens of sexual confusion’ or some such theory, and put it out of his mind. He’s very big on Darwin, you know. But hardly a scientist, the way he goes about generalizing everything novel that encroaches upon his little world, his only evidence being some article he read in the Globe or Maclean’s. I’ve been around enough to know that that’s not good science.”

“You’ve got a point,” he conceded, smiling broadly.

“What’r you smiling at?” she’d ask with a smile of her own. “I happen to have a very good grasp of my family, especially Daddy. Listening in polite silence gives you great observational skills.”

“Oh, I agree!”

“Oh? And what have you noticed about me?”

“Enough to see that you suit this place. But then, you’d suit any place.”

She laughed loudly. “Such flattery, Pete. I never knew.”

“Yeah I picked it up in the struggle to get a word in edgeways at my folks’ parties.”

“I’ve been to one of those! Your dad sells insurance, doesn’t he?”

“Dad sells everything.”

She nodded happily, glanced around, and suddenly leapt up, bouncing. “Dance with me!” she entreated him. He could not refuse.

[Our partner in dialogue, after a few tokes, stops him.]

So what, you fall in love with the cousin?

Hey, hey, it ain’t me. And what makes you suggest such a preposterous notion?

It’s scandalous. And also has the potential to introduce some deep psycho-socio-political questions into the foray.

Foray?

Well, of course. Do you expect it to be anything but?

I don’t know if my audience would appreciate a foray.

Why not? All you have to do is present it to them in a skilful way. It’s all very much in the presentation, I imagine.

It’s an idea I’ll let simmer...

She came up to his side now, as they walked back up the main path of the cemetery, and grasped his hand. He turned to her and smiled warmly. “How’r you doing?”

She shrugged, her eyes quite red – from invisible tears, he supposed – her lips colourless. And let these pretty eyes communicate everything.

He didn’t know what to say. Maybe, you should come over to my place. I could comfort you. But what the hell was that? He might say, do you think they’d want to hear some guitar? People are soothed by guitar music. No, to say anything would be inappropriate, he was certain. These were the Mitchells, gathered together by a vigorous emotion that refused to communicate itself. He could only go along. Follow that code he suddenly realized he knew almost intimately.

The holding of hands was as overt an expression of weakness as they came. But later, he thought. Later he would know just what was running through those voiceless heads, or at least one of them.

They got into their vehicles, Pete riding with Jill, John, and their father. Rolling forward, nobody spoke, and this silence covered them like a mist, and stayed this way until they turned onto the street, when Richard’s steady tenor obliterated it.

“You’re coming to the wake, I presume, Peter?” came this great voice, so unexpectedly that its target was startled for a moment.

“Oh, yes, certainly,” he replied, and from whence it had been so mightily banished, silence crept cautiously down upon the car again, covering them with a nervous comfort.

Only to be annihilated once more. “It’s been too long since you’ve been in our home,” Richard noted. “Your studies are almost completed now, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes,” he nodded, not entirely sure how to navigate this topic. “Done in April, although I may come back to do my thesis.”

“Honours thesis?”

“Yeah. It’s an idea I’ve been entertaining.”

“Which means you’ll have a Honours degree in Biology. Are you considering medical school?”

“Not any more,” said Pete, but stopped short of discussing marks, workload, lifestyles, and other unmentionables.

His uncle nodded. “Research, then?”

Pete hesitated. “I’d like to travel a bit. See the world.”

Richard gave a short laugh. “Travel? To Europe, you mean?”

“Yeah, maybe. Ireland, especially.”

“I’ve had occasion to read your newsletter, you know. Do you have any aspirations in that direction?”

Pete’s eyebrows shot up suddenly, both pleased and intimidated at the idea of his writings being subject to the scrutiny of such a man as his uncle. He hesitated again. “I don’t know. It’s something I enjoy, to be sure.”

His uncle nodded again. Pete was gradually filled with an intense desire to know the man’s distinguished opinion of his ideas, his project, the fruits of his pride and intellect. His uncle, however, offered none; left no clue, in fact, as to whether he harboured any opinion whatsoever on the matter. Instead, he said, “I should like to discuss these affairs with you next time you’re by the house. Sooner rather than later, I should hope.”

Pete smiled at this, despite his vexation, warmed by what he recognized as Richard’s genuine magnanimity, one of many endearing traits possessed by the man. He would certainly discuss his affairs with him. He should like nothing better.

He also noticed a little smile creep onto poor Jill’s bereaved face before her sense of loss could banish it. Such subtle signals spoke volumes where few words were uttered.

iv.) The plotting of a plot.

...As much as I want to go in that direction, for now. So now where?

Well, there’s theme. There’s some characters. We need a plot. I can see one conflict forming already, though.

Aye, although the jury’s still out on that one. A plot has to deal with the subject at hand, set the reader’s attitude and be an illustrative example of the abstract questions we’re dealing with.

Falling for the cousin addresses many issues, like I said.

True. But is there a main plot? Because if that’s the main plot, I don’t see how our themes can be facilitated by it.

Look harder, maybe. What’s wrong with that as the main plot?

Well, I’d like to focus somewhat on the old man too. Because “a man needs to be heard”. So how does this proud, dignified individual choose to make himself heard? In a court of law? That can hardly be sufficient. But, being a still very actively professional man, he is in contact with many people on a daily basis. Does he tell them what he wants to say? Does he not want to say anything more than what he does say? Or is there a voice of passion screaming to be heard; or has this voice been all but extinguished through years of neglect? Did he share intimate moments of weakness with his wife? Or she him?

And what events led to his current disposition and manner? Was he once different? Young? Did he at some place and time decide that he would build a fortress against his doubts and fears and desires, or was this fortress simply inherited over the ages, and now passing smoothly to his eldest son...?

There’s a bit of plot, if you play with it. A good start. A mound of clay, begging to be crafted into a thing of great intrigue and mystery and perhaps beauty as well.

And now I’d like to get away from that, put our hero someplace else for a time... Let him develop.

The third time the alarm clock crowed out its incessant wake-up call, Pete looked up and suddenly flung himself out from under his covers. Into the cold, sober morning. The clock, innocent as ever, informed him it was 10:15. Fifteen minutes to be up and out of the house. A damn fifteen minutes. He calculated scenarios in his head. Shower. Nope. No time for it. Eggs and ham on an English muffin? No time, damn it.

Last night he had, he remembered, ran the idea through his head, of cooking the egg and ham there and then, putting it in the fridge so that it had merely to be microwaved for a groggy morning minute to enjoy. Somehow this notion had never reached implementation. There was no English muffin awaiting his ingestion when he opened the fridge. It would have to be cereal. And some orange juice. No coffee. No time for such luxuries.

But he did allow himself the luxury of washing up. Such hygiene is imperatively necessary, as his mother would say. His face looked drawn in the mirror. Drawn, but still handsome, he assured himself, examining all angles. He watched himself brush his teeth, running the words over in his head, that asshole won’t take my world away. And nodding back at himself in stern affirmation. Then looked into the eyes, which betrayed the leaking sense of anxiety that crept unbidden into his head at the thought of “that asshole”. He gave it a half-violent shake, then looked amusedly at the creature he was, reflected in a toothpaste-speckled mirror.

And without warning began to hum the song, number forty-one, something he’d been practising on guitar.

The microwave read 10:24 when he checked it. Much better than 10:26, he reasoned. Loads of time. And poured up some cereal. Probably could have made some coffee, he laughed aloud to himself, somewhat resentful at this most recent example of the little cruelties of existence.

But who to blame?

None of his roommates were up, and he cherished this fact. And throwing on his hat and coat, tossing his bag over the shoulder, struggling into boots, he was out the door and into a foot of snow.

Around thirty centimetres had precipitated from last night’s sky. It was very white and very cold out, his breath condensing in funny patterns before his eyes. Despite the natural beauty of the scene, he moaned. The way to school was a twenty-minute trek through this lovely foot of snow, and a relentless, frigid winter wind biting away at his face throughout its entirety. The sidewalks had not been ploughed, and the banks created by early ploughs were, to his dismay, not strong enough to prevent the majority of his footsteps from breaking through. This forced him to walk at the edge of the road, feet immersed in filthy slush, traffic soaring by inches from his poor frostbitten husk, its constituents warm in their vehicles and still drowsy, driving to the intolerably cheery sounds of morning radio-show hosts, oblivious to a world apart from the road in front of their bleary eyes, annoyed by the audacious pedestrian who dared venture into the domain of the automobile.

“Must write something about this shit,” he mused.

But he braved all of this, wiping irritably at a runny nose with frozen fingers, one foot in front of the other, all the way to the warmth and anxious hypervigilance that served as his place of learning.

[My counterpart is grinning widely, and I can guess why.

“I suppose you’ve abandoned the notion of not using yourself as the hero?”

And I can only shrug, helplessly. “Not exactly,” I say, unsure of how to substantiate this claim. I pause for a moment, in the gracious aura of his interminable patience. Then, I know: “Me, to start I guess. But from here, it’s all conjecture. All speculation, imagination, and possibility.”

“Haven’t you tried that before?”

“Well, maybe. But not with such a structured outlook. From this character, who bears an admittedly high resemblance to myself, I have a base to go on, a mould to work with, a canvas to splash all sorts of paint onto. Such a medium,” I gasp, choked with self-induced enthusiasm, “an artist cannot go without.”

He nods, amused. “Fair enough. But arguments are one thing; implementation is quite another.”

“Feel lucky,” I grin back at him. “You could have got the trade-mark, You write what you know about.”]

Still I am stuck. We need to define the hero’s surroundings, the setting. The university, the home (which has already been touched upon slightly), the circle of friends and associates. The atmosphere of the various environments that facilitate his daily motions. The character himself is also as yet only sparingly portrayed. What are his habits? Love interests? Enthusiasms? Motivations? (Remember, we all want to be heard, and he is no exception).

What various devices has he assumed or innovated to amplify his voice for the world’s benefit?

He is a writer.
He is reserved with strangers.
He is open with friends.

especially those people in whom he perceives similar interests, passions, confusions, intelligence of dialogue, etc.

He seeks beauty (why?).
He is fascinated by human behaviour.

He studies Psychology
Minors in Russian

He seeks novelty (why?).

Has overwhelmingly eclectic tastes; aspires to the “Renaissance man” ethic

However, we need a foil. A best friend, somebody with an altogether different character, yet somehow sharing a great affinity and similarity of spirit...

He is a Biochemistry major.
He is reserved with strangers.
He enjoys comfort of familiarity.
His life is a dichotomy

Girlfriend, etc.
Vices, friends, etc.

Seeks to avoid or resolve any disputes that arise in life (passive).
So, is satisfied with the systems in place, takes love and occupation as a matter of course; simply wants the means to play the game and enjoy it, seeking neither to win nor lose.

I could write more. But it’s a good start. Needs much revision, of course, before I can predict behaviour in given situations with any kind of accuracy...

I need to create the other characters. This will require a different state of mind and presumably some pot as well.

We need foils for the old man and the cousin as well.

A love interest or former love interest might serve well...

Also needs to be heard
Finds niceties tedious; likewise things that don’t concern her
Prefers romance to the “housekeeping” required of a relationship.

Saw her the other day. She looked great. I wanted to go up and embrace her and tell how good it was to see her. But I was anxious, for other reasons, so I avoided her instead. Walked right through the library lobby, eyes straight ahead, so she couldn’t later accuse me of having detected her presence. Not in a court of law, anyways. God knows why. I suppose I just don’t need to be told what I already know.

But she’ll make a good mould.

Although, if after four years I can only think of three attributes, and these quite superficial and inaccurate, something is amiss. But what can I say? How can I describe to people what is still such an enigma to me? Yet I bet I can predict her with startling precision.

Horrible at making up her mind.
Nervous laughter.
Behaviour/conversation dictated by a certain “controlled” capriciousness

Now, I guess I’ll carry on; build these folks up as it comes to me.

V.) Lisa.

He wandered out of the lecture hall alongside the crowd of noisy students, some discussing with enthusiasm seldom utilized in academic pursuits whatever remarkable events had occurred this week within their circle of friends and acquaintances, others with austere expressions wrapped intently on their naive faces, bent on attaining whatever neatly scheduled destination was next on the list of life events. He was eager as well. Physiological cues symptomatic of the anticipation of a love interest surfaced; he was no stranger to them. At the same time, they elicited annoyance, and caution. Why?

Because, a wary voice cautioned, you learn ways to prevent the inevitable disappointment that such excitement brings.

Well (another voice, full of resolve), you close your eyes and you might as well call it a match. On the other hand, a hundred of these little disappointments are worth the rare, unexpected moments of pure happiness she’s capable of providing. Go with that.

Aye. In learning they’d call that variable frequency, variable ratio. And he nearly skipped along the hallways to press his bar again.

At the same time, his eyes darted anxiously between the windows and the faces of passers-by. One face he did not want to see. Another he very much did want to see. Each new face, consequently, was an adventure.

Fuck that, said one of the voices, or all of them together. Then they argued, beyond his control, the merits of violence, the consequences, the possibilities, pros, cons. Weary of all this cognition, he simply concentrated on navigating the human traffic, the maze towards a much-cherished goal.

Lisa was waiting for him, gave him a small (wonderful!) smile, and said, simply, nonchalantly, “Hi.”

* * *

And now, plot?

I want to put our hero at the helm of an outspoken, leftish (but not extremely so) publication – an eclectic collection of poetry, essays, articles, investigative features, fiction, and artwork, among other things. I would like particularly to go into the details of how this little venture was advanced. I want to speculate, criticize, and alter so that its existence is as possible and plausible as having a coffee in the morning...

vi.) Pursuits

Peter liked to have his nose in as many things as possible, often to the extent that his commitments would exceed his motivation to follow through upon them. Classes were among these interests, and having approached them with genuine intentions, their novelty soon faded and was replaced with the notion of developing sophisticated software to fit a certain niche market about which his knowledge was considerable. The software itself, requiring some degree of self-instruction in the use of Visual C++, soon took backseat to this necessary prerequisite. Refreshers in linear algebra, calculus and graph theory also presented themselves as new and imperative pursuits, as did a course in computer graphics, which itself required lower-level computer science classes. Having leaped, both feet, into these, he soon lost interest, and decided to put the whole entrepreneurial venture on the shelf for a while, pending the accumulation of more and more experience and training.

His desire to write a novel was placed beside it, for similar reasons.

If all this exasperated him, the thought of Lisa sent it scattering for shelter. He had no logical sequence of events and prerequisites worked out for the resolution of this particular dilemma. Despite devoting considerable energy to it, he had not the slightest semblance of a plan in this respect. He had only sensuous glances, little laughs, innuendos, other various scraps of hope to go on, which kept him dangling on her line, eyes fixed hungrily for whatever he expected to find. In relation, everything else was quite sensible and comprehendible.

The only aspect of his activities that could reasonably be called grounded was The Conformer. This being the “intellectually provocative” (or “insipidly sensationalist”, depending on the critic) newsletter that he had spearheaded to considerable success on campus, throughout the city, and even, through an ever-expanding web of online acquaintances, elsewhere in the world. This project was one that, following a remarkable display of energy on his part, had found a wave, as it were, suddenly pulling him along with it, having no patience for the usual languid neglect with which he would inadvertently treat the majority of such projects. Editing, organizing, writing his own editorials and other such tasks consumed more of his time than he had imagined, in the ideal that had inspired him to initiate what had become a haven for many young talented and intelligent individuals. But he devoted the time and energy gladly, eager to meet the expectations of the publication’s writers and readers alike, many of whom he’d never even met and might never meet in his lifetime.

[Think: His voice is heard and appreciated by his many readers, but lo! His only concern is that Lisa hears it, but Lisa has little interest in his projects or his voice, unless it concerns her. And in that respect he is at a loss for words...

So his interest in the newsletter slips...]

“Listen,” he’d shouted over the band to Lionel, one Friday evening at the Breezeway. “I want to get a publication going. I need a bunch of writers for it.”

Lionel replied with drunken enthusiasm, “That’s a great idea. We could blast the establishment! Be like John Lennon, or Vladimir Lenin.”

“Yeah. You can be the communist propagandist. The position’s still open.”

“Is it!” he’d laughed. “How much does it pay?”

“Payment is the satisfaction of having struck a blow for whatever cause you’re advocating at the time.”

“Ackk. That won’t feed the wife and kids.”

“Lucky for you, then.”

“Right. Email me.”

A dozen or so such informal meetings, and he suddenly had a staff of sorts. He set up a crude website, a new email account, and began to follow up on inebriated promises. To his surprise, he was rewarded with thirteen essays on topics varying from the successful implementation of Marxist ideals in the small social context, as promised, to the best (and worst) methods of cultivating cannabis in one’s basement. He’d also secured five lovely works of poetry, a short story, two articles on recent advances in biochemistry and computers, respectively, three pencil etchings, a half-dozen ads for an assortment of drinking establishments around town, and some music reviews from his friends at the student newspaper. He proceeded to write two of his own stories, including one centred around a wonderful interview with Father Mackey, a good-natured colonel in the Salvation Army, and a lengthy editorial, his crowning touch, as it were, attacking the capitalist establishment with references to both the state and direction of health care in the country, and the deplorable treatment of Iraqi civilians by Western interests. He buttonholed Lionel, who had a car, and spent a day driving around town, taking two rolls of film worth of pictures, which he developed and scanned into his computer to be incorporated into the affair.

The actual publishing of the newsletter was another matter, one which required money. Having absolutely no source of funding – the ads were placed free-of-charge, in the hope that they might help authenticate the newsletter and attract readership, and the student union required an entire semester of ratification before it shelled out the meagre funding it allowed its societies – he was forced to rely on his own pocketbook; not a sound reliance by any means. So he shelled out the printer’s fee, even opting for the dear luxury of a coloured front page, and in a few day’s time had a stack of 1,000 crisp newly printed newsletters before him on the desk. He spent three hours carefully examining every aspect of it, picking out minor imperfections here and there, typos, oversights, formatting errors, and (worst of all) grammatical mistakes. He noted them all on a sheet of paper.

Finally, he held a copy out in front of him, smiled happily, with an ecstatic feeling of satisfaction at having actual proof of the efficacy of human enterprise, and the pride a man feels when his voice has been listened to, if even by nothing more than a hypothetical audience, and he called up Lionel.

* * *

[so I need to establish more MOTIVES. His motive, according to the theme, is to be heard, to be listened to. So is his infatuation with this pretty young girl, who simultaneously inspires both ecstasy and misery, merely part of this motivation? To be listened to by this girl? Is it perhaps that having some claim to this girl will inspire others to listen to him? Is it to banish loneliness, or is loneliness just a term to describe the lack of being heard? Clearly the fact that many genuine people do listen to him is not enough for him; he feels as though such earnest respect and attention as he needs requires that he have this girl. Otherwise, despite everything, he is a failure.

And what are her motives? We haven’t even discussed her. It’s not an easy task, you know. Clearly she seems selfish, but she’s not without compassion, or love, or humour. She is, in fact, rich in these traits. Her biggest fault lies in her indecisiveness, as if she is utterly terrified by the idea of making a bad decision, that might take away forever a certain road that is currently open to her. Which is true. She stands at crossroads, hesitant to take either for fear of losing the other, this hesitation often extending to matters as trivial as what to eat for supper. Maybe go down one path, turn back, stroll down the other for a while, then sprint back to fall at the signpost again, breathless and thoroughly confused.

Why did he have to be one of those roads?? He himself had no trouble choosing a path; the trouble lay in the path itself. The metaphor is somewhat confounded when two roads try to follow one another... I shall return to this question.]

“So?” he said, with anxious joy. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I want a pita.” They drifted towards Extreme Pita. “No,” she said, stopping, a look of consternation upon her pretty face. “I want a salad.”

“Salad!” he laughed, smiling at her.

“What? Why can’t I have a salad?”

“Oh, you can have whatever you desire, my dear,” he laughed again.

“Then I want a salad.”

“Good. I’m gonna get a sub.” He hesitated. “We should really just go to a restaurant.”

“Okay,” she said, shrugging as if with indifference.

“Yeah? Let’s do it.”

They walked down the stairs together, maintaining an arbitrarily chosen distance. It was impossible for a stranger to discern their relationship, a fact which wasn’t improved by their own lack of comprehension; they drifted together as if propelled by some undefined, otherworldly force.

“We’ll go to Pasta Plus,” said Pete, determined to maintain conversation.

“Okay,” was her casual reply.

Silence inevitably followed. By some benevolent twist of fate, which he reflected upon with some irony, a taxi was waiting for them outside, and once they were seated he renewed his attempt to communicate with her.

“So, what’s new?”

She inhaled, apparently exasperated with things. “Nothing, really. I applied at Chapters.” This was followed by her short, nervous laugh.

“Ah, good. Didn’t know you were looking for a job.”

“Yeah, neither did I. I just need something to offset the monotony, you know?”

He nodded, truthfully. “You have time for a job?”

“Sure. I’ve got lots of time.”

“Must be nice.”

“If it was nice, I wouldn’t be trying to fill it, would I?” She laughed again, as if to attenuate the sarcasm apparent in her voice, which she had not intended. “You know, man?”

He joined her laughter, and felt for a sudden fleeting moment that elusive intimacy between them, that he so cherished. The next few moments of silence were wonderful and gave him much pleasure, and bolstered by such emotion, he took her hand in his. She smiled, briefly, and offered no resistance. They rode thusly, and, terrified to advance this acknowledgement of affection any further, for fear of losing whatever ground had been made, fell to discussing frivolities and gossip.

***What? Start something***

[conflict? Well, the “he” in Pete’s morning soliloquy. Who’s this asshole? Well, we’ll suppose Peter ran into some trouble at the bar last week. Was shoved out of the way (verbatim, why not?) by some guy and, in retaliation, threw his drink at him. Became totally dissociated from himself as the guy’s angry eyes approached, impending trouble! It was broken up, but now a great deal of his cognition is directed, against his will, at constantly monitoring the horizon for this enemy, this threat to homeostasis. And against his will, considering all the possible and likely scenarios this little social interaction would assume, if any. Avoiding the bar, avoiding the computer lab, where he’d seen him, or something resembling him. Experience, against his will, sudden rushes of crazy anxiety, adrenaline, cortisol, noradrenaline... when perceiving, for a fleeting moment, this antagonist in some other person, walking by. The anxiety would linger; something had passed (a simple biochemical reaction, he reasoned, but even armed with such scientific consolation it was harrowing). He would wonder, in more rational moments, what part could this guy – a stranger, an asshole – of all the people in this place, have to play in my life? Unreal.]

vii.) More about character formation and other philosophical concerns.

[Advance: Richard Junior. His career; the means by which he has found opportunity to effectively voice himself to society. His pastimes (know any clubs that lawyers frequent?*). His love life. ]

* What I should do, I say, shaking an excited finger, is get out there and research some of this shit. Really go places with the express purpose of observing it more objectively. Is that possible? Do I have so much determination? Where, for instance, do young, rising lawyers congregate, if at all? Does Richard Junior congregate? With what sort of crowd? Or is he actually a romantic, spends the majority of his free time with that alluring girl that Pete had seen beside him. She did seem quite smitten, I note. I’m digressing all over the place. No organization to this thought at all. It’s no wonder I can’t get by. I’m like the guy in Momento who has no long term memory consolidation; only working memory and previously formed long-term memory to work with... what was I saying? You need to concentrate with his level of intensity. Don’t let yourself relax. With such sustained high levels of stress (hormones such as cortisol and epinephrine), he’s sure to die young... But, anyways, to return to the original point, Maybe I need a role model. On the other hand, I’d rather construct our secondary hero to fit my needs. (Which are...? Advance the theme of needing to be heard, and also, um...

[note: we, humans, need to communicate; why? One reason is that our communication makes socialization possible, like wolves and monkeys, who also have a language of calls, body posture, interaction. On another level, we need to voice our concerns, determine our relationship with others (what’s allowed, what isn’t i.e., touching, confiding, imposing upon, et cetera), establish organized strategies for communal enhancement of individual interests. But we communicate further... always with some personal end in mind, regardless of the love we feel for the other organism... we communicate in the hope, maybe, that our voices will be carried on, past death, in the minds, upon the lips, and into the ears of others... We, or some of us – perhaps the generalization is a bit ambitious – have a compelling desire to grant purpose to all of our experiences, our adventures, the brilliant chains-of-thought that may otherwise simply disappear with our memory loss and eventual demise. Purpose where there simply ain’t any. Reason, sure, but if purpose exists, its complexity continues to elude me...

And yet there are those, it seems, who are perfectly content merely to experience. We need a foil. Someone who could simply care less whether his life was known by anyone else at all... Then again, he enjoys the companionship of good, close friends, and a girlfriend to share it (some of it) with as well.]

“I still need a story for this week,” he mused, picking at his salad.

“You can interview me!” she suggested, smiling.

He nodded. “That would certainly be a crowning touch.”

This comment, perilously close to an outright compliment, provoked yet another nervous silence. They nibbled, struggled for the words that seemed so necessary to the moment.

Marvellously, she was the first to break this silence. “It’s funny you have to look for a topic to write about.”

He laughed, elated by this comment. “Isn’t it? You’d think writing was a way to communicate things that are on your mind, not something you think up to write about.” He paused, perplexed by this new paradox. “But maybe it’s just a matter of coaxing yourself into giving serious thought to a matter you’re bound to have an opinion about. Like,” – he sought frantically for a ready example – “like that waitress there. What do you thinking about people serving other people?”

She shrugged. “I think she’s happy enough. She makes money doing it. She chooses to do it. She’s happy. I’m happy.”

“But does she choose?” he challenged, enthusiastic now. “Or does she have no other choice? Maybe she’s a single mother with three kids at home, and this is her only source of income. Doesn’t mean she wants to be here. Just that she has no other choice. If she seems happy, maybe it’s because she’s decided not to let it get her down, or at least for anybody else to notice that it does.”

“Maybe,” replied Lisa, with a grin, “she’s a student and this helps her pay for school.”

“True. Wanna ask her?”

“Yeah,” she laughed, wholeheartedly.

Oh to hear her laugh wholeheartedly. I am blessed.

He nodded again. “Let’s not.” – paused to let the moment’s carefree ambience bathe him – “Anyways, the point is that you had an opinion about it, when I brought it up.”

“Nah,” she shrugged, still grinning. “I don’t really care.”

“Ahh. Of course not,” he grinned. They were both grinning, helplessly, under the influence of forces much greater than they.

This subsided, and their faces assumed a sudden serenity. “We should do this more often,” said he.

She smiled, slightly. “Yeah, we should.”

He had an idea.

“Maybe you’ll like my next column.”

“I like all your columns, Peter.” She sighed, feigning exasperation.

“I wonder if you even read them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You might want to read this next one, that’s all. Really read it, I mean.”

“Whatever. I read all of them.”

He nodded, obviously unconvinced.

“My God,” she said, some genuineness in her tone now.

He changed the subject by means of a short laugh, his mood now comical and careless. “I sure am full,” he remarked.

This elicited no response, Lisa now suddenly thoughtful. “Did you like your salad?” he asked.

“What? Oh, yeah. My salad,” she returned, in a distracted manner that seemed somehow contrived.

All at once the magic had disappeared, as if of its own volition.

* * *

Rachel’s absence at supper screamed to be acknowledged. The screams became anguished shrieks as it was evident they would be hard put to find an audience in Richard Senior or his eldest son, who bantered on in their usual manner about the finer points of contract law, or the philosophical bases of the Geneva Convention. Jill attempted none of her usual interjections, preferring to conduct her own conversation, in soft, solemn tones, with Pete.

“I read your newsletter the other day,” she told him.

“Yeah?” he asked, overjoyed.

“Yeah. It’s pretty decent. Ah... listen.”

“Wha?”

“I got some poems I’d like to show you.”

“Poems? You write poetry? That’s excellent!”

“Yeah, I’ve always written poems. I have pages and pages. Not that any of it makes me in any way a poet.”

“I doubt that,” he replied, flashing her an enthusiastic smile.

“Have you been downtown lately?” she inquired, as if this were a smooth continuation of the previous subject.

“Me? Nope, not for weeks. Too old for it,” he grinned.

“Old!” she laughed, drawing all eyes to her.

“What’s that?” asked Richard the Junior, appearing cautiously amused by what might have been, for all Pete knew, the first real laughter this house had known for some time.

“Pete says he’s too old to go downtown.”

Richard smiled. “Well, so he is. There comes a time when a man must grow up and shoulder life’s responsibilities,” he said, good-humouredly. “You might learn by example.”

“Ha!” she retorted, obviously delighted by this sudden spontaneous bout of humour.

Even Richard the Senior gave a short laugh.

But then he returned to his meal, offering no comment, and the table quickly returned to a state of normalcy.

“John’s always at his girlfriend’s these days,” she whispered to him then, without warning. “I don’t think he enjoys being here.”

He nodded, and was silent for a second. “Do you?”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

This statement struck him as being oddly true, that these people and this place were necessary components of her character, of her sense of self, whatever life she may lead outside these walls. He found himself gazing intently into her eyes, and only after an agonizing moment of reluctant joy did he pull his own eyes away, feeling an inexplicable anger and not a little confusion. “I believe it,” he whispered in reply, glancing distractedly at Richard Junior, who was elaborating to his father upon the semantics of an upcoming convention in Halifax, at which he would be a key-note speaker. He glanced back, only to discover her pretty eyes focused with a similar intensity upon him.

They laughed, silently.

“Let me show you that poetry,” she suggested.

* * *

Lionel seemed distracted.

“Your shot,” Pete advised him, but was somewhat absorbed in his own thoughts.

Paolo more than compensated for their lack of conversation, however. “Did you guys see that movie, From Hell?” he inquired in his South American accent. “It was good, mang.”

“Yeah,” nodded Pete, offhandedly. “Pretty good.”

Lionel concentrated on his shot.

“It was preetty graphic though, mang. You know what I mean? There was some preetty sick shit in there.”

“Realism,” Pete remarked, with a vacant sort of smile, watching Lionel pot the five-ball. “Good shot.”

“Yeah, well I see what you mean by reelism, mang, but steel.”

“No stomach for the guts and gore?”

“I dunno mang. It’s gross. Like when they show all that blood, and her... I doen wanna see that shit, mang!”

“Ah, well. Shit happens.” Still gazing at the table, he exclaimed, “Fuck, Lenny. You been practising?”

Lenny snorted, without looking up. “Don’t be too worried.”

“How come you call him Lenny?” Paolo wanted to know. “Isn’t his name Lionel?”

Pete shrugged. “Think it started with a joint, ultimately.”

Paolo laughed, grinning broadly at this reference to residence’s second-favourite form of vice. “Yeah, you guys like the weed, eh?”

Pete couldn’t help but laugh back. “We don’t mind it.”

[Who is Paolo? Where is this going?]

viii.) His cousin, Jill.

His cousin’s bedroom, which she kept immaculate as a matter of course, had always had a faint aroma of sandlewood, for as long as he could remember. The odour itself, passing his nostrils from some room in residence, or some craft shop, would recall to him specific incidents from childhood, imagining she was the teacher, and Pete and John her pupils. She had always loved to assume the position of authority, in whatever activities they would decide to engage themselves, which position was rarely opposed by her two younger playmates, being rather agreeable young boys, who were quite aware that the girl rarely abused her authority. If no such position existed, she would promptly invent one. Over her older brother Richard, however, she had very little control. Attempts to command Richard were seldom successful; the boy would, with great ease and calmness, simply reverse the tables and, strictly through persuasive measures, convince everyone of his superiority. This trait, mused Pete, had remained into his adult life, and was one of his greatest assets. Nonetheless, there existed a very tangible respect and intimacy between sister and brother, and Pete suspected that there was little this family would not do for one another.

“Ah!” she exclaimed with exasperation, collapsing onto her bed. “They both need more of that laughter.”

“How are they taking things?”

“Just like you see it. From day one, hardly a mention of it; one enormous conspiracy to ignore the fact that they’re torn up inside, and don’t have a clue how to deal with it.” She sat up, her face sad and beautiful, solemn eyes piercing him. “None of daddy’s dignified idiosyncrasies have prepared him for this.”

“Well, how are you taking it?”

“Me? Well, badly, of course. But at least I can acknowledge it. At least I can cry a little bit and talk about it and eventually come to some terms with it. But those two. They won’t even hear of it. They’re men. Pride and propriety and chauvinism – and death is, like, something that’s been incorporated into the Miller philosophy, but it’s an abstract idea, like freedom, and liberty. They’d rather not have to face the thing, minus all of the rituals and pretty words we’ve designed to put such ugliness out of our minds. They’d rather not have to face anything that doesn’t assimilate into their staunch idealism. You know what I mean? And so you can’t talk to them. Believe me, I’ve tried. ‘No point dwelling on what can’t be helped,’ says daddy, so very wisely, and leaving no room for argument, as usual. And John, well he just runs away from it all. He’s just as bad, in his own way.”

There were tears in her eyes. “That seems to upset you more than anything,” said Pete, gently.

She smirked, then shrugged, quickly wiping her eyes. “Well,” was her only reply.

Pete sighed, glanced around the room, its pink curtains, plush white carpet, Victorian-style furniture, nothing out of place. Must be second-nature to her, he thought, conjuring up with some amusement an image of his own junk-strewn living quarters. There were plenty of flowers, too. Set out on the furniture in expensive glass vases, with colourful cards and ribbons attached – roses, tulips, other sorts he could not name. They gave the room a cheerful appearance, perhaps as an attempt to offset the sorrow that predominated in the house, despite pretences to the contrary. It was usually the opposite: the sterile feel of the room had always been countered by the carefree imagination of the children who occupied it. “Remember,” he said, with a smile, “we used to try and play hide-and-go-seek in this house? I always complained; there was never anything to hide behind.”

This brought a little smile to her face. “Yeah, and one day John scared the shit out of mom, jumping out at her from the linen closet. That was one of the only times I’ve heard her raise her voice, you know.”

“Yeah, she really gave it to him that time. I remember that.”

“Didn’t play much hide-and-seek after that incident.”

They both laughed.

After a few moments of pleasant silence, she spoke once more, her lovely voice an enchanting transition from one tacit state-of-being to another. “So, you want to see my poems?”

“I would love nothing more,” he replied with a grin.

* * *

ix.) His friend, and fellow writer, Lionel.

[Lionel?]

He first met Lionel his second day in residence, both consuming beer at breathtaking rates, through funnels, from bottles, cans, glasses, all manner of containers. Lionel was what they called “buck-frosh”, having lived already one semester at Bowater; this granted him some small authority over “true” frosh, but none whatsoever over seniors. Such distinctions, however, meant nothing to him. For Lionel, it was all about pot-smokers versus non-pot-smokers – two separate worlds – and he found little appeal in the latter category. With such a disposition, he traversed the groups of frosh, seeking out likely suspects for potential customers. It was in this business-like capacity that he met Pete, introduced himself, and suggested a little walk around the back of the building, “with a few of the boys.”

They got along well ever since.

He was instantly fascinated by residence, by the circles of friends that pre-existed and the circles that were forming themselves before his eyes, people just lumped together from random parts of the world, taking stock of the situation, seeking out the neighbours they liked, or stood to gain some advantage from associating with, avoiding and discussing those whom they disliked or feared or envied. Doing what humans are best at. He wanted to be a part of it all, wanted to be a member of every circle of friends, wanted to taste the various essences of this microcosm of human nature. Not too much later, without making any connection whatsoever, he decided to change his major from English to Psychology.

He’d also met Lisa, earlier that second day, while still entirely lucid. There was a chemistry there he hadn’t even imagined, or hoped, he’d ever find again.

[Okay, we need to move something along. Characters need to move. Isn’t that right? Can’t exactly just stand around the whole time. Who learns anything that way?

Also, why is Lionel distracted? How is his girl situation? Boy situation? Drug/life situation? Why does he write, and how, and what?

Appropriately enough...]

“Sometimes,” said Lionel, after Paolo had made his exit, “I don’t think I’m explicit enough about my feelings.”

Pete laughed, despite himself. Seeing that his friend was serious, however, he assumed a similar demeanour. “Is that what’s bugging you?”

“Who says anything’s bugging me.”

“I dunno, me?”

Lionel grinned, then bent to sink his third ball.

“At least you’re not too explicit,” remarked Pete. “I prefer your attitude to, say, Jerry’s.”

Lionel laughed. “Yeah, it’s a pity I’m not attracted to you.”

“That’s a lie!”

Lionel, have finally missed a shot, handed the cue to his friend.

“Anyways,” the latter continued, while lining up his own shot, “girls dig a mysterious, introspective kind of guy.”

Lionel snorted. “Do they?”

Pete missed the shot, straightened up, looked over at him. “I’m honestly talking through my ass on this subject. Don’t heed any advice I might cruelly send your way.”

Lionel grinned. He drank some beer.

“I’ve got a new poem,” he said, presently. “Wanna see it?”

Pete raised his eyebrows from behind his own beer. “Of course.”

“It’s dark-ish.” He paused. “You ever get that sudden feeling that something’s missing?”

Pete considered this, nodding slowly. “All the time,” he eventually replied.

“Well, that’s what inspired it. Only... well don’t get the wrong impression. It’s not me whining about a cold, cruel world or anything like that. I passed that phase, for the most part. It’s more introspective, more honest, like.”

“Well you know how I love candour,” said Pete, smiling warmly.

“I thought you loved glamour.”

Pete flashed him a mock frown. “Don’t start.”

“Fair enough,” shrugged his friend. “Is it my shot?”

* * *

[Something threatening his newsletter? Lack of funds, perhaps? Could make an honest statement about the state of student affairs. Why, for example, isn’t there better and/or cheaper access to printing services? Shouldn’t we encourage our “best minds” to communicate with the general community, rather than sequester them in exclusive elite circles?

Or does he himself threaten it? Now that it’s in place and working smoothly, it’s suddenly lost the appeal a challenge lends an enterprise. It’s now more of a burden than a boon. Furthermore, he has a love life (of sorts) to contend with, demanding no small fraction of his energy...

And what sort of factor does his attraction for his cousin comprise. And how does he deal with it? Can’t he just shove it aside and forget it convincingly, simply by convincing himself of its utter futility? Social convention seems to work strongly in this area of human intercourse. What sort of influence is strong enough to overcome an incest taboo? Consider, for instance, the (supposed) low occurrence – prevalence, if you will – of such an affair in society.

Or can this persistent desire be entertained, and at the same time hidden from the grave disapproval of society’s eyes?

And what about Lisa? He seems more interested in impressing her further than signifying his intentions to her. She should know his intentions. How obvious does he need to be? How explicit, in Lionel’s words? And yet, since he’s certain she already knows them, her failure to act causes him further hesitation to stick his neck out, so to speak.]

x.) On to matters of intimacy, emotion, and confusion, or: here’s where it gets fun.

“It’s a sad state of affairs, Tommy, and all the fresh air in the world won’t make a lick of difference,” exclaimed a shabby Ewan McGregor, brandishing a flask of something, on the television screen. Peter nodded in enthusiastic agreement. He repeated the line, attempting to mimic the Scottish accent.

“You know all the lines,” said Lisa, sat beside him, amusedly.

“I do,” he agreed, continuing to nod.

She laughed, briefly, candidly.

Her candid laughter dissolves the world for a while, he thought, pleasantly, allowing his body to relax. He suddenly rested his head on her shoulder, resentfully aware of the sharp anxiety this minute gesture induced in him.

Moments caressed him.

She slowly placed her hand on his head, kept it there, tensely, as if engaged in a frantic internal debate concerning its fate. Which, it proved, was for it to remain there a while, as her turmoil raged on in endless circles of indecision, a rigid but potent show of affection whose meaning hung thickly upon them. But it was a beautiful feeling nonetheless. He was suddenly glad to be lucid and simultaneously content. It was a rare occurrence, and much more intoxicating, after its own fashion, than most narcotics could be. He no longer recited the lines of the movie. He simply sat there, eyes glued to the television, trancelike, head on her shoulder, caressed by uncertain fingertips, acutely aware of the unnamed forces that pinned them down there, paralysed there, happy there. Happy that, so long as this movie lasted, so would this moment. Happy to have that little assurance of time against everything else that (theoretically) existed, and demanded to be recognized by these two dissident souls.

The movie eventually ended, as did the credits, and the moment, in acknowledgment of these unavoidable cues, rapidly dissipated as well. His feeling of elation, however, persisted long past her brief parting kiss, and he let the trance carry him deep into late-night programming, hesitant to do anything that might attenuate it.

And, pesteringly, why did she go home? But the idea of this seemed irrelevant somehow. She just did. It happened, as natural as anything could be, and why not? It was the feeling that mattered. This wonderful aura of carefree elation. What could be better?

You mustn’t question it. Merely enjoy it.

* * *

“I had an idea,” said Pete. “It was a great idea. The thought of writing it down, expanding upon it, putting it before appreciative eyes, was exciting. But...”

“But?” asked Lionel.

“But, I don’t know. It doesn’t seem so great anymore. In fact, whatever meaning I found in it seems lost now.”

“I don’t get it. What was the idea?”

Pete shrugged. “It was something about love, and candour, and solving the world’s problems, you know...” He grinned.

“Ah, emotion. That’s all.”

“Yup. Except it seriously made a lot of sense. Somewhere between the conception and putting it on paper, however, I’ve had a different perspective on it.”

“Okay. So are we gonna have a column or not?”

Pete glanced at his friend. “Good question. You have any ideas?”

“I’m full of ideas.”

“Good. I don’t feel like I’m in a writing mood right now.”

“Well, you could always take up drawing.”

He laughed. “I think I will. Tell Brenda she’s fired.”

“Ah, no. Tell her yourself.”

“I’m no good at that kind of thing. You’re the asshole,” he added.

Lionel smirked. “I love you too.”

Pete picked up the phone, listened to the dial tone for a moment, looked at it, somewhat puzzled, replaced it. “Don’t even know why I did that,” he said.

Lionel looked amused. “I think what you need,” he said, reaching into his drawer and producing a rolled joint, “is one of these.”

Pete grinned. “That,” he replied, “is part of the problem.”

“Nonsense. It’s the solution.”

He considered this quite reasonable statement. “Okay, I’m sold.”

They walked out Lionel’s door, and down the hall. Past doors plastered with posters, notes, messages, personal cries for attention. Pete glanced at them, amused. And not even stoned yet. They got to the door, and passed a middle-aged couple, coming in, on their way to meet their son or daughter, take them out for supper, talk about their grades and how well they’re fitting in and “have you got a girlfriend now, Teddy? What!? All kinds? Whadduya mean, all kinds?”

Pete smiled at them cordially. Expressing feelings of goodwill, they thus passed, the two boys to go get stoned, the mother and father to possibly discover their son or daughter stoned. Pete expressed his thoughts as they strolled, leisurely, around back. They laughed, helplessly, for a while, found their spot, stopped. Lionel produced the joint, a lighter, and proceeded to bring them together. A brief flash of light, and then... smoke.

It was around noon.

[and so a remarkable day begins.]

She brings the door closed forcefully. Comes very close to slamming it shut, but composes herself. That’s not the way Jill Miller behaves. Not disgracefully, not her. So? Pete will hear me, she repeats, in her head, driving headlong into a cold, frantic wind. If they don’t hear, those intelligent, dignified, principled minds, well there’s always Pete to listen to me. And why not? He’s a cousin. Shouldn’t cousins be close? Confide? Make love? She balks visibly at this last notion. The absurdities that enter people’s heads! But surely I can confide in my cousin. And why shouldn’t cousins be close? Whose idea was that? And what is it about society? But she knows she mustn’t bother mulling over such rubbish. Just go talk to Pete, she reasons. End of story. I have every right to do it.

But he glances at me in that solemn, meaningful, beautiful way. And I can’t help but smile back. And smile first even, for that matter.

The wind, gradually becoming laced with particles of snow rushing at her, is relentless. She pushes against it, feeling as though she is pushing against the whole world, forcing itself down upon her. It’ll be worth it when I get there, she reasons, imaging sitting on his bed, beside him, like two best friends, discussing whatever it is to be discussed. He’ll listen. But what will I tell him? Not what’s really on my mind. Not, can I put my head on your lap, just for comfort? Just because it feels nice and I rarely feel nice these days? No other reason. Just that?

She sighs. She mentally sighs.

[and still more remarkable...]

[Pause: suppose we made this into a film, and for each of these asides, have the narrator or narrators (who remain constant) appear in different places at these intervals, just to have a little discussion regarding what has transgressed, er, transpired, and what will transpire next? They can appear in studies, at a baseball game, in a subway car, on a fishing boat. Imagination is the key, here]

[But why?

traditional answer (which is also the best answer): why not?]

[And, why the sudden present tense?

Need I answer?]

[Now, true to your gregarious nature, follow Richard Junior around for a little while...]

xi.) Adding the gay card to the deck.

[Maybe Richard Junior can be gay – why else does he not have a wife or near-wife yet? It doesn’t seem Mitchell. So he must be gay. Although that’s something the Mitchell code will not allow the notion of. But the genetics of it! The theories. Was his mother stressed? God knows what stress hormones can do to a child. Did she drink, smoke? Certainly not. Is it just a freak phenomenon? Is it just a gene, altering the expression of androgens in the sexually dimorphic nucleus of the brain? A mutation? The theories are numerous. To the point: it would be interesting (in a sadistic sort of way) to speculate on Richard’s perspective, stuck with something he could never, even if he wanted to, acknowledge in himself. Never striking it off with girls despite the fact that he could be quite a charming fellow, and handsome too. Every time Pete encounters him (which is not a frequent occurrence, if you were following), he’s got another gorgeous young woman beside him, infatuated with him. And he nonchalant, taking it in stride, confident in the knowledge that he has no problem attracting women; but none of them really did it for him, in the end.

Does he find himself admiring men, becoming aroused by them, vanquishing such outrageous notions instantly? Putting that all off, away somewhere, definitely not something to consider. Does his strong resolution to put these things out of his mind drive him to commit himself with such abandon to his work? Tackling case after case, affording himself the satisfaction of outwitting the other man; making his voice heard, clearly, authoritatively, a voice with some consequence. A voice that men listened to and feared. These small pleasures may be his only consolation. His only escape from the relentless assault of sexual desire, of the basic human mechanisms of procreating; such strong drives, so difficult to ignore. Yet this man, both trapped and protected by the iron code of principles, the implicit Mitchell code of ethics. That tacit force that both creates his inability to come face-to-face with this inconceivable libido, but also allows him to deal with such things in such a socially efficient and respectable fashion. Crazy.]

About those girls: those two pretty young roommates from Squires? They laughed at him, Pete fancied, although he couldn’t be sure. Maybe they laughed because they liked him or something? That was conceivable. But he was more convinced they had started the trend after observing his outrageous LSD-induced behaviour in the student center, with Lisa as a matter of fact. That was the first time he could remember them giggling, flashing him fleeting glances as they did so. And so, after a while he would try to catch glances at them, always hesitant to gaze too long, for fear of prolonged eye-contact. And of course, trying to catch an eye on the way by, just to show, yeah I noticed you, I’m somewhat attracted to you. But there’s something mysterious about me. You’ll have to make a move if you’re going to find out... He flirted in this strange manner with many girls, wherever he went. Lisa called him a “quiet” sort of flirter. The girl noticed things about him that he would not realize until much later, recalling what she had said, smiling. He certainly was a quiet flirter. Always flirting. Flirting with his eyes. Not always the best kind of flirting, mind you. A lot of em don’t even notice it, or recognize it as such. Such subtleties that humans employ! But he flirted with these roommates in particular. Both of them. They were often together. More than just attraction, he was curious as to what they said to one another, two shy girls that pretty much kept to themselves, unless they got drunk and flirted with strangers. But they must be saying funny things, he reasoned, because they’re always giggling, when they think nobody’s looking. He’d sometimes feel a quite bizarre inclination to eavesdrop on them, to hide somewhere and just listen to what they were saying, when they thought no one was listening. Imagine the guilty pleasure of being in such a situation! How wild! How naughty!

Crazy, he thought. An odd fantasy.

* * *

Grant was the chemistry major who edited the science section of The Conformer. Another intriguing individual, thought Pete, musing over his email. Grant was just a kid who’d always loved chemistry. From a young age he had his own large-scale chemistry experiments on the go in his basement. After he’d put in his hours (his parents were of course highly supportive of this, whereas Pete’s own folks were much more concerned with his becoming a social success), he’d come out with the boys and play road hockey and make bets on marbles and the NHL, NFL, wrestling, whatever macho sport one could find on TV, and pretty much do what a normal boy ought to do.

Far from being the ideal role model that all the parents saw in Grant, however, he was actually the first boy to do every sort of imaginable vice that was possible, for a young kid. He was the first to kiss a girl, used to chase them around while the other guys would look on in their confusion and envy. He was involved in the first fist fight they’d even seen: grade 1. He was the first to smoke grass – both the lawn variety and the more potent one. First to get laid, which, when he claimed it, nobody even bothered to question. Chemicals progressed almost naturally. He became a regular pothead, growing it in his closet in an ingeniously hidden inner closet. He kept his room shut off to his parents, who were ever pleased to leave their bright son alone with his genius and his chemicals. They had no clue about chemicals anyways. Drugs to them were a confusing subject they read about in the papers, just another component of their whole conception of “those crazy kids”, based almost entirely upon stereotypes. What did they care about chemistry? It was just something the kid was good at, and you had to encourage your kid’s talent, right? No one knew where Grant had gotten his genes from, although there were theories floating around. He’d make the boys hashish, oil, and he even got into baking brownies, and cakes and even bread; all manner of recipes, a hobby that simply fascinated his mother. Even after she’d smell the odd scent of hash, not belonging to a good muffin at all! “What’s that smell, Grant, have you got something bad in there?” “Yeah, mom, it’s n-methyl acetacylic tri-glyceride,” he answered, on the point of laughter. But that was enough for her. As for his father, if he knew about such things, he wasn’t letting on. Grant and his friends had their theories about just how much the old man wasn’t letting on about. But they wisely left well enough alone.

Now, in university, a third year chemistry major with all sorts of scholarships and a true-life mad scientist scene going on in his bachelor apartment, he also kept up regularly with the “recreational” scene, although not yet brave enough to synthesize his own drugs for profit. Still, they knew the guy. It was only a matter of time. He’d been enthusiastic when asked to be Pete’s science editor, although this may have been due in part to the mushroom tea he had consumed some hours before, coming to the Breezeway, drinking like a madman – whacked is the word. Nonetheless, he had taken the job on as if effortlessly, adding the work to his lump of duties, which he performed diligently and with phenomenal concentration, and, just like when he was a boy, when his work was done for the day, he played equally as hard. Pete was often his complicit accomplice in these escapades, as he’d always been, finding no end of fascination in this remarkable fellow.

“If anyone writes his autobiography,” Pete mused, typing up a response, “it will be me.”

“The story about the nerve regeneration is great,” typed Pete. “We’ll run with that.”

Then: “Are we planning on those little paper squares then tonight?”

Then: “RSVP. Pete.”

He clicked “send”.

When he broke up with Lisa last time, when she dumped him, in a manner of speaking (implying the existence of relationship that had never been acknowledged as such), she had asked him: “It’s not going to be weird with us though, is it? Because I’d still like us to hang out, you know?” “I dunno,” he replied, shaking his head, vastly confused. “I kind of tend to act weirdly over these things. But let’s hope I don’t, eh?”

No such luck. He recalled times, the world spinning him round in a snowbank, three stories down, wondering, should I, should I not throw something? She’ll think you’re psycho. There’s that. But at least she’ll know. (She already does know, fool. Leave it).

Whenever he did try to leave it, however, man, it would come back. She would come back, somehow, green with jealous beauty, something in her eyes. Something like hope. He would drop what- or whomever he was doing for a night in her arms. And she dangled those nights, fully aware of the power she wielded.

She still knows it now. Why fool yourself into believing anything else?

* * *

There came a knock on the door, as Pete and Lionel sat playing Nintendo, stoned out of their trees, enjoying it immensely.

Lionel opened it, and there was Jill, windblown, her cheeks red, a slight smile on her face as she and Lionel exchanged words.

“Come in!” said Pete, jumping up to embrace her. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Yeah,” she said. “Well, I’ll tell you what: I had to get out of there for a while.”

“Oh? Why’s that? Everything okay?”

She sighed. “It hasn’t changed much, if that’s what you mean,” she said, taking off her coat and handing it to Lionel. She had a seat on Pete’s bed. He sat beside her. “Well listen,” he said, “how about we get you high? We just went, but there’s always room for more.”

She laughed. “No thanks, I’ll be fine.”

She pushed herself towards the wall, leaned against in, bringing her knees up to her body.

“Well, it’s really great to see ya!” said Pete again, happily. He was infinitely pleased with her appearance. Of all the people in the world, he thought. “Let’s have a chat, shall we?”

Bring me to the top of the page again, please.