EXCERPTS - FICTION

Chamber Music

Sun, 16 Aug 2009 19:44:41 -0400

Published in RiverSedge (Volume 23: No.1, Spring 2010). A man’s mind wanders during a musical evening in honor of Mozart’s 250th birthday.

EXCERPT:

Wedged between two strangers on the sofa, I stared up at the soprano, hoping she would be an improvement over the violinist who had just plowed his way through one of Mozart’s sonatas. Imagine turning your apartment into a salon for the evening! A wonderful urban experience? The sort of thing they just don’t do out in the suburbs? Or some sort of Woody Allen joke—pretentious people unaware of their pretensions? Was this woman a good friend of the hosts, or just someone who wormed an invitation out of one of the guests? And what would Wolfgang have thought of all this—strangers in a foreign country, one that barely existed in his day, gathered together 250 years after his birth to perform his work in honor of his birthday?

The soprano flashed a troubled look at the pianist, perhaps fearing that this amateur might not provide the proper support for her performance. Or was she the novice, using the evening as a practice run for other occasions? Her outfit added to my confusion. Weren’t artists supposed to have a heightened sense of style as well as great self-awareness? The tight top, with its patterned sequins, was certainly festive enough, but it bulged in several places, presenting an unwanted distraction, though also promising some comic relief should her performance prove to be unendurable. She nodded to the pianist before turning to the audience, looking heavenward, and closing her eyes while the earnest accompanist labored his way through the introduction to the aria.

And then I noticed something familiar in the singer’s expression. I thought of my mother, who also seemed transported whenever something momentous was about to occur. At the theater, I would look over at her as the lights were dimming and know by the look on her face—the closed eyes, the sly smile—that this mattered, that being taken to see a Broadway play at the age of twelve, thirteen, fourteen, was something special. As were all our outings. Like our visits to that special place in the Bronx. What was it called? Freedomland—a theme park before that term was ever coined, one set to rival Mr. Disney’s kingdom out in California. With even higher aspirations, this park presented the entire panorama that was—or professed to be—America.

“Look, son, it’s shaped like the map of the United States,” she declared, holding out the special insert from the Sunday newspaper. I boasted about our impending visit to this wonderful new land to all my neighborhood friends, tirelessly reciting the list of the attractions I intended to visit. Most enticing of all was the horseless carriage ride in Little Old New York. Any child over four feet tall or the age of twelve could drive their own gas-powered vehicle through specially-designed roadways meant to simulate country lanes. Like a cannonball, I raced ahead through the gates of Freedomland, only to be summoned back by my mother.

“Hold it right there! This is a big place. You have to stick with me; otherwise we’ll get separated—and then where will you be?” Did she ever stop to think I might not mind being off on my own in such a splendid setting? Taking my hand, she led me through the streets of Old New York, where I tried to ignore my shackles and imagine myself back in those long-ago days on display all around us. The illusion was shattered when I spotted a candy store selling some of my favorite contemporary candies and broke free to make a selection.

“What are you getting there?”

“Turkish taffy! ‘Oh, oh, oh, it’s Bonomo’s!’” The jingle still brought a smile to my face.

“You already have a mouth full of fillings. Put it back; I’m not paying for that.”

“But I’ve got my own money!”

“Let me get you a Clark bar. It’s a little better, at least.” I reminded her that she promised we would go to the horseless carriage ride, but she insisted on trying out the Great Lakes Sternwheeler first. Passing the Chicago Fire, the buildings an ashen mess from the previous half-hourly performance, we boarded the steamboat and set off across the mock Lake Michigan—or was it supposed to be Lake Erie? On the shores of what probably should have been Ohio or Pennsylvania, I could already make out the roadways surrounding Little Old New York, reassured by the sight of other boys my age, each the master of his own vehicle.

“How many?” the attendant asked.

“Two cars—one each,” I volunteered, my mind already traveling down imaginary highways at record speed.

“No—just one!” my prisoner insisted. “We’ll share.” In an unusual feat of courage, I insisted on my right to drive, being just over the age of twelve as well as closing in on five feet. She relented, a sign that perhaps it was a new world after all—though, sitting on the sofa now, I cringed at the memory of her constant directions throughout the drive. Not to mention the ones she continued to give me years later as well as everyone in sight at the nursing home right up until the day she died. And then I heard the soprano’s voice. A siren’s voice. The voice of an angel with long blond hair and white veils flowing as if in a wind tunnel or high atop a mountain. Freed from the body with the sequined top and the unsightly bulges, the voice was everything Mozart must have had in mind as he slaved away on his opera.

“Brava!” In a rush to be the first to show my appreciation, I dislodged myself from the sofa and leapt to my feet, discovering too late that no one else in the audience shared my enthusiasm. Finding the singer at the buffet table moments later, I asked her what she was planning to sing next.

END OF EXCERPT

HOME

The Church

Sat, 16 May 2009 19:55:21 -0400

Published in Limestone. (Summer 2009) Despite his intention never to set foot inside a church again, a man finds himself peeking in at a most unusual congregation.

EXCERPT:

I had no intention of ever setting foot in a church again—apart from the occasional wedding or funeral, of course. I suppose I could blame it on the traffic lights. When traveling across Manhattan by foot, I’ve learned that you can sometimes progress diagonally without ever breaking stride if you let the traffic light at each corner decide for you whether to continue eastward or downtown. In this way I found myself walking down an unfamiliar block in the Garment District, one with a church in mid block. Did I even notice the church as I approached? Hard to say. Still, the pull of the music was undeniable. And so I climbed the steps just to take a peek inside. But lo and behold, when I reached the top step, the door opened, and a young man held out a program.
“Come inside, brother. Come and hear the message.”
“No, thanks,” I replied. “Just curious.”
“There’s no charge.”
“Well, maybe just for a minute.”
“Amen.”
I sat down in the last pew, already calculating how to make my escape. Looking around the room, I noticed the familiar wooden rafters and ceiling moldings from the Baptist church I had attended in upstate New York as a kid. I shuddered at the memory of the day I was baptized—not at birth, when more barbarous denominations stamped you with the indelible sign of the church—but at age thirteen, an age when there could be no denying that you had accepted membership voluntarily. My inability to swim and fear of water made me unusually nervous that day, causing me to slip when Reverend Bradley lowered me into the pool behind the altar. The loud splash followed by the sight of my bare feet shooting up into the air caused the congregation to laugh until my coughing fit made them realize I could have drowned. I got the last laugh when I sent the congregation an open letter of resignation during my freshman year of college and simply assumed that anyone who took my letter and its carefully worded skepticism seriously would follow suit and abandon the church, too. My assumption seemed validated when the church was forced to sell its premises to an Armenian orthodox congregation some years later.
So what was I doing in church now? The music—that’s right. Simple curiosity. Free entertainment on a Saturday night. I’d heard this kind of music on TV many times, of course, but never in person. The raw emotion on display as well as the feelings welling up inside me were startling, almost frightening. But what were they singing exactly?

END OF EXCERPT

HOME

Chrysler

Fri, 21 Nov 2008 10:15:20 -0500

Published in Lullwater Review (Volume XVIII; No.II, Fall 2008). DESCRIPTION: A man is torn between his infatuation with the Chrysler Building and a rocky relationship with his girl friend—not to mention indecision about whether to become a writer after all.

EXCERPT:

Marching through abandoned midtown canyons, a man on a mission, he turned a corner and discovered the audacious tower rising above him, shimmering in the morning sunlight. Stunned by the sight, he thought of his own failed effort to stand up to bullies back in junior high school as he watched the tower’s futile attempt to assert itself in a skyline dominated by the mass and majesty of the Empire State Building nearby. Yet still it persevered, this gray-white monument soaring proudly 77 stories high. This stylish pillar with the dazzling silver crown and bizarre ornamentation. This fanciful symbol of progress as well as of days gone by. This Chrysler Building. He awoke from most of these dreams with an erection.

Why does Christine keep doing this to me? Whenever I set aside the time to see her—time I could be spending speed-reading books at Barnes & Noble, nursing a tall latte at Starbucks, or deciding to become a writer after all—she invariably calls at the last minute to cancel our date. Always some story about having to work late or needing to be alone after an exhausting day at the office. How many times can I allow myself to be stood up in this way before it all becomes humiliating?

Of course, no one says I have to sit here and take it. There are other women in the world, I’ve been told. As there have been other women in my life, I dimly remember. But I’ve been with Christine for almost three years now, and if I’m anything, I’m loyal. I just have to figure out how to get her to stop taking me for granted. After I finish organizing my CD collection, that is.

The ticking of the clock on the wall of the reading room at the New York Public Library grew ever louder, echoing the tapping in his head. He nevertheless continued with his noble work, poring over documents piled high on the long, heavy, mahogany table, all the while unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched. Looking up from a set of blueprints, he locked eyes with the source of his concern—a shabbily dressed old man staring provocatively at him from directly across the table. The man’s ominous face broke into a toothless smile, one reminiscent of the ugly grin of the boogeyman that roamed the woods of his childhood.

“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

Although his mother had taught him not to talk to strangers, he muttered, “Pardon me?”

“The Chrysler Building. She’s my favorite.” The odd grimace melted into something more benign.

“Yes,” he responded, turning back to his work, determined to let no one dampen his fascination with the layout of the building’s elevator shafts.

“Are you a member of the Chrysler Legion? We meet monthly.”

He recoiled when a flyer was forced into his hand like an unsolicited bonbon. Despite his revulsion, he appreciated the glossiness of the paper stock as well as the quality of the printing. His focus was finally drawn to the text. “A group of citizens devoted to the preservation and celebration of America’s favorite skyscraper.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not a joiner,” he responded, pushing the flyer back in the man’s direction while plotting his escape.

What will it take to get Christine’s attention? When I faced a similar problem with my hamster, I hit upon a surprisingly effective solution. After letting Puffy out for its daily walk one morning, I rearranged the contents of his cage—his feeding trough, favorite rag, rubber turtle, and Barbie doll—and removed the art deco mobile entirely. Mind you, I resorted to this ploy only after a prolonged period of complacency on Puffy’s part. Having long since stopped performing acrobatics on demand, he also no longer leapt up, wagged his tail, or puffed up his cheeks when I came home and poked my nose into his cage. After a few of these surprise rearrangements, however, he began to appreciate me more—that I can assure you. At least he put on a good show of appreciating me. More cannot be expected from a pet.

Now that I’ve rearranged the furniture and accoutrements in my apartment, I wonder what aspect of the new layout will unnerve Christine the most when she stays over on Friday night—if she stays over, that is. If she doesn’t suddenly have to tend to a sick friend or see a long-lost relative who just happens to be passing through town. It might be the way I’ve organized the chairs in the living room, making it impossible to view the TV or hold a decent conversation sitting down. Or the way I’ve re-hung my artworks, destroying all thematic unity and establishing a visual line that would disconcert the most indifferent viewer, not to mention one with Christine’s elevated aesthetic standards. Perhaps the unkindest cut of all occurs in the bathroom, where I’ve reorganized the medicine cabinet and placed her toothbrush on the third shelf behind the Extra-Strength Tylenol and several bottles of contact lens solution.

The prosecuting attorney took a dramatic breath before reading off a list of suspects. The Woolworth Building? The Sears Tower in Chicago? The CNN Tower in Toronto? In each case, the defendant denied any special interest.

“Then why this one?” The question was apparently rhetorical, since the man launched into a review of all the traditional explanations, everything from sublimation to affectation. The judge intervened and suggested that it might help move things along if the defendant described the nature of his alleged relationship.

“Why should any explanation be required?” he began. “It’s simply the love of one human being for a unique Other. I don’t love all buildings. I don’t much care for architecture at all, for that matter. It’s just this particular one that I love. How should I describe my love? By comparison, all others seem like mere piles of stone or glass boxes. Mine is more like sculpture. The long vertical lines and repeated horizontal indentations evince the work of a caring, molding hand. Have you ever noticed the eight beaked guardians protruding from beneath the crown? Obviously put there to ward off anyone intent on inflicting harm. Have you ever gazed up its side . . . slowly, I mean? Taking it all in, as if on a magic ride? At the crest, have you ever experienced that spasm of joy as your gaze is transported over a series of shimmering waves before being thrust up toward the sun and sky? After such a brush with heaven, you can hardly be blamed for wanting to delay your return to Earth. And so I rest my case.”

Why do I still go out with Christine? I wondered about that until I came upon a notice posted on the Starbucks community bulletin board announcing a public lecture at NYU on “The Philosophy of Love.” Although I was initially skeptical, the lecturer’s analysis eventually shed light on my situation. As he described each of his 16 categories of love—most of which I don’t remember, but all of which involved a relationship between a “Self” and an “Other”—the audience began to fidget. The woman seated next to me slammed her leopard-skin notebook shut when she found it impossible to keep up. Sensing the audience’s growing restlessness, the lecturer paused to explain that the title of his talk might have misled some of us into thinking that he was going to offer an explanation of love. In point of fact, he said, it was his assistant who had changed the title at the last minute from “Toward a Phenomenology of Affective Relationships” to the one advertised.

END OF EXCERPT

HOME

Dummy Copy

Thu, 20 Nov 2008 07:29:31 -0500

Published in Argestes (Collen Tree Press, Fall-Winter 2008). A graphic designer and her editor have a much bigger problem than their disagreement over the function of dummy copy.

EXCERPT:

This is dummy copy. This is for position only. That means you’re not supposed to read this. Its purpose is just to give an indication of how the copy will look in the final document. The actual copy may look quite different. The line breaks probably won’t occur in the same places. The length of the paragraphs will vary. The mix of upper and lowercase letters will be different. There may or may not be ampersands, ellipses, or smart quotes like the ones that may or may not be here. In fact, very little will be the same other than the general sense of textiness. No, there’s no such word as textiness. I made it up. (At least I don’t think there’s any such word.) But that shouldn’t matter, because this is just dummy copy.

This is dummy copy. This is for position only. You’re not supposed to read this. And you’re certainly not supposed to edit it. Why would anyone bother editing dummy copy? Sounds absurd, doesn’t it? But that’s exactly what you keep on doing, isn’t it? Correcting the spelling, the grammar, the punctuation. Even offering alternate ways of saying what isn’t supposed to matter. You’re supposed to be concentrating on the design. You can be as specific as you want in your comments about the design. Do you like the overall concept? Do you like the colors? Do you like the illustrations or other graphic elements? The use of photography? The specific photos that have been selected? The way the pictures are cropped?

This is dummy copy. This is for position only. When it comes to the copy, we only care about your response to the overall look and placement of the copy blocks. Of course you’re free to evaluate the headlines—that’s another story entirely. In particular, the choice of type font and type size. But the copy blocks should be treated simply as graphic elements at this point. In the next round, we’ll incorporate the actual text—assuming it’s final or close to final. Then you can go to town and edit the copy as much as you like. Just go for it—be merciless in that special way of yours! I don’t write the copy, so you won’t be hurting my feelings. But when you edit the dummy copy, it’s a waste of everyone’s time. No, worse than that, it’s insulting. Yes, insulting! To me, the graphic designer. It means you don’t take my work seriously. It means you’re not comfortable commenting on the design, even though I know you have definite opinions about it. You always do. But you’re more comfortable commenting on text, aren’t you? So you spend all your time editing the dummy copy and barely get around to the design. Until maybe in the next round, or the round after that, when we’re running late and all of a sudden you speak up and confess that you never really liked the design in the first place. So we go back to the drawing board—literally in this case—and waste everyone’s time and money. And then you blame me for being late with the project.

This is dummy copy. It’s for position only. Maybe you like wasting people’s time. I wonder what our employer would think if he (that’s right, “he,” for lord knows this reactionary institution would never deign to put a woman in charge) found out that you were wasting his time and money editing dummy copy. Maybe you think you’re being cute when you do this. Well, all right, I already told you I thought you were cute that time that we…well, you know. You said you thought I was cute, too, but I took it as an act of male condescension. You probably say that at one time or another to every woman who works here. You probably think it’ll smooth things over when they discover your flaws. Like this annoying habit of editing the dummy copy.

This is dummy copy. It’s for position only. What’s it going to take to get you to stop it? Last time I tried using Latin copy blocks. The kind that many graphic designers use. (Funny to think that people refer to dummy copy as “Greek” even though it’s usually in Latin.) I thought the use of Latin made it obvious that you weren’t supposed to pay any attention to the content. And what did you do? You corrected the Latin, you pompous asshole! As if I knew Latin. As if I had any idea what the dummy Latin really meant. For that matter, how do I even know that your edits were correct? You might have been faking it. Just like you’ve faked so many things ever since we first went out.

This is dummy copy. It’s for position only. Do you miss me? Do you miss what we had? Those special things I did for you? The way I made you feel? The touch of my skin and the way I touched you back like no other woman had ever done, or so you said? Or was that just a line? I don’t think so. Bodies don’t lie. Your body told me things even you never suspected about yourself. I brought you to new heights and depths. You were slave to my ministrations, my indulgences. A little boy in my arms begging for more. And now where is my little boy? Playing his games with my copy blocks. Is that it? Trying to get my attention in this devious way because you’re too shy to tell me what you feel?

END OF EXCERPT

HOME

Lincoln Towers

Wed, 19 Nov 2008 07:29:24 -0500

Published in The Chariton Review (Volume 31; Issue 1: Spring 2008). A resident of a housing complex on Manhattan’s Upper West Side is having trouble telling his dreams apart from his waking life--at least he hopes they’re dreams.

EXCERPT:

He slips into the Xerox room at lunch to make a copy of his resume for the headhunter who called last week, rehearsing plausible explanations while operating the machine. Quickly grabbing the document from the output shelf, he tucks it into a manila folder labeled “Budget” and nonchalantly begins to head out of the room. Mission accomplished.

Pausing at the threshold, he feels a knot in his stomach, a fail-proof warning that something is wrong. Turning slowly around, he feels the knot tighten and catches sight of the machine cranking out more copies—five, six, seven—with no apparent intention of ever stopping. Not knowing exactly how to work the machine in an emergency, he hits all the buttons on the control panel, relieved when all activity ceases, and tucks the additional copies into his folder. Turning to head out, he pauses once again at the threshold, where he feels his second rush of relief for the day.

When he returns to his office and slides the folder into his briefcase, he feels the knot again. Is there a memo he was supposed to write? Has he asked his assistant to set up the meeting with the marketing department? Has he made a copy of his resume yet? He checks his briefcase twice, momentarily reassured that everything is in order, but then suddenly bolts down the hall back to the Xerox room, where he finds the machine turning out copies at an accelerated clip. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. He revisits the copy room several times that afternoon, never fully comforted by the machine’s inactivity.

In the middle of the night, he wakes up in a cold sweat. Has he been dreaming? Whatever the case, he appreciates the interruption, luxuriating in the familiarity of his bedroom at Lincoln Towers with its dramatic river views and the comfort of his rosewood modified sleigh bed with its down duvet and plump pillows before rolling over to resume his night’s sleep.

Studying himself in the mirror the next morning, he wonders if he should start coloring his hair. The gray-haired man staring back at him is only fifty, after all. If his wife had lived this long, she would be the first to say a little sprucing up was in order. Before heading out for work, he panics when he can’t find his Palm Pilot, knowing he will never be at peace without access to the detailed “To Do” list trapped inside the handheld marvel. While waiting anxiously for the bus at Broadway and 70th Street, he tries to put the matter out of his head by studying the Club Med ad on display in the bus shelter. He pores over the mountainous contours of the tanned bodies and imagines himself lying blissfully on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean without any need for his Palm Pilot until the bus pulls up in front of him.

As the procession of passengers pours out the front door, he wonders why no one ever uses the back door anymore. Wouldn’t that save time? He continues grumbling until he sees an elderly woman struggling to navigate the curb with two canes. After he helps her on her way, the door closes in his face, and the bus takes off without him. The next bus is the wrong one, but he takes advantage of the open door to cry for help.

“Hey, the last bus took off without me!” The driver shrugs and drives away. He starts to compose a letter in his head to the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, but struggles with the syntax until he loses his train of thought. When the next bus pulls up, he pokes his head inside.

“Hey, pal, what’s happened to the 104 this morning? I’ve been waiting forever.”

“The one ahead of me was a 104,” the driver replies with a sympathetic half-grimace. Deciding that a bird in the hand is better than something or other, he boards the M5 and slides into the last available seat, pleased at his good luck. Traveling to work by bus is so much more pleasant than taking the subway, he muses, watching the sights of upper Broadway roll by. He always enjoys passing Lincoln Center, having a very clear recollection of the first time he ever saw it—an elementary school trip to the Philharmonic during the sixties. He remembers sitting next to Donny Owens on the special bus hired for the outing and making faces across the aisle at Jane Rubin, who wore a bright-yellow rain slicker, even though there was no sign of rain that long-ago day. Years later, when he moved into the city after business school and took up residence in one of the apartment buildings in the city-within-a-city that was Lincoln Towers, he bragged to friends about living so close to Lincoln Center and took advantage of its offerings as often as possible. The ballet. The opera. The Mostly Mozart Festival. But with work getting more complicated these days, he hasn’t been there in ages. No, that’s not right, he suddenly recalls. He just saw that musical at the Vivian Beaumont Theater over behind Avery Fisher Hall. What was it called again?

As the bus swirls around Columbus Circle, he grabs the seat in front of him and sways back and forth, conjuring up the amusement park ride he and Donny used to love. Central Park looks especially inviting this morning, but he feels bad for the horses as they drive past a carriage arriving for the morning shift. Catching sight of the Plaza Hotel looming ahead, he thinks of Eloise, that prankster from one of his favorite childhood stories, until he feels the familiar knot in his stomach. He cries out at the woman standing over him.

“Where are we going? What happened to Broadway?” The driver must have missed the turn. Probably too busy worrying about how to make ends meet. Or maybe another strike is in the offing.

“The M5 goes down Fifth Avenue. You must be thinking of the 104.”

“Just so.” He nods and returns to calm.

That evening, the doorman asks him whom he wishes to see.

“I live here.” He inspects the new doorman with a sheepish smile. Must be a hard life, judging by how frequently the staff changes. On the fifteenth floor, something seems strange—the Monet print is missing, for one thing—until he finds his apartment door. 15D. Solid. Reassuring. His favorite apartment number, he likes to joke. The bottom key slides in as always but refuses to turn. The top key doesn’t fit at all. He calls out to no one in particular.

“Have they changed our locks?” He knows the building frequently upgrades the facilities to keep up with the times. Like the new doorbells they installed a few years ago. “I guess I forgot to read the notice about the locks.” He sighs and sets off on the long trek down the hall back to the elevator, wondering if his new key will be some sort of high-tech marvel, something with a microchip that keeps track of when it’s used or prevents unauthorized people from entering the apartment. Or makes lunch. He smiles at his joke as a young woman maneuvers a baby stroller out of the elevator. “Did you remember to get your new key?” She smiles back, but ignores his question. Distracted by the baby, no doubt. Suddenly feeling the knot start to tighten, he pushes the elevator door back open and watches as the woman makes her way down the hall, slides her key effortlessly into the lock of apartment 15D, and pushes the stroller inside. The doorman approaches him when he returns to the lobby.

“Are you lost?”

“This is Lincoln Towers, isn’t it? I haven’t been evicted, have I?” He laughs a little too hard.

“Do you want the 160 building?”

“Oh… Sorry—I live at 170.”

END OF EXCERPT

HOME