Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind: Volume 2: The Athena Chapters,
Chapter Eight:
Cinema Paradiso (Brenda’s Essay)
“Best dressed, my ass.”
Those words, the ones you just read, are the only four words my high school principal ever spoke to me.
*****
Buford Lister spied her across the room. Shy (well, yeah), but not too shy to walk up and say hello. “Excuse me; I’m Milk. I saw you from way over there, and I just had to come way over here to say hi.”
“I’m Kaylee, nice to meet you.”
Buford Lister, the man without a plan (a present-day Keyser Soze dressed up as Verbal Kint for Halloween), tried to collect himself as he was unexpectedly pummeled by bizarre thoughts and powerful emotions. Quick thinker that he is, The Man Known As Milk (apparently he is known as that, this is the first I am hearing of it) instantly took out the big guns. He needed a little time to think, to collect himself, to figure out what was happening to him. What he really needed was a diversion. After a few deep breaths and several seconds of awkward silence, this is what he said.
“That must have hurt like hell?”
“What’s that, what hurt?”
“When you fell from heaven.”
*****
I thought I was done, I really did. The last chapter was supposed to be, uh, the last one; that is what I had planned, and when I finished the last sentence of Chapter Seven, I thought this volume of essays was complete. Well, guess what? Apparently, this book is not finished, and this is due, mainly, to a totally innocent decision I made concerning drafts I sent out for review. A woman named Brenda, an old friend from my hometown, got one of the copies. She grew up out in the sticks just a few miles from the little brick house my parents had. Rumor has it that my brother used to pull her hair in grade school. Of course, this is one of those “he said, she said” deals with no resolution in sight. I’m thinking he probably did try to yank her hair right out of her head.
Brenda has a fancy degree from an even fancier school on the East coast. I used to hang out with her when she was an undergrad, and I was in grad school. She is extremely sharp and not shy at all (sigh) when it comes to giving her opinions. I keep a top-secret list of my all-time favorite people, Brenda is on it, and that is one of the reasons I value her opinion. I will get to Brenda and her in-depth analysis of my writing ability (as well as my sanity) in due time.
First, I guess it is time for a little news. Is Brenda’s critique the only reason I am writing more, or am I still typing away because Athena actually decided to pop her head up and say hello? No, she didn’t call, message me, write me, or drive by my house blowing kisses out of her tour bus window as I waved back from my front porch. I have heard nothing at all from her. I am still stuck on those four little words she wrote me such a long time ago.
Apparently, I have nothing positive to report, and yet here I am, once again, sitting at my computer. So, what exactly happened? Why do I insist to persist? Well, a month or so ago, I had finished my “Athena book,” and I sent it out to a few select people for comments and criticisms (and in a somewhat surprising, some would say shocking move, I did not send it to Athena). Some of these people were not shy when it came to telling me exactly what they thought about the book and what they think, in general, about me. The main reason I am writing this essay is because Brenda lit into me with full force. Don’t worry, it was all in good humor (at least some of it probably was). Trust me, you will hear all about her review soon enough.
*****
The edges of Kaylee’s mouth appeared to touch each of her ears. She tried to talk over her laughter with varying degrees of success. “I have never heard anything like that before. So, your name is Milk, eh? I bet there is a story behind that. My guess is there aren’t many parents who would name their son Milk, so I am thinking that is probably not your real name.”
She bit her tongue as she took in the spectacle of his duct-taped shoes and the extension cord doubling as a belt. She wanted to ask him about his clothes even though most people at punk rock shows look like they spent the day working on the back of a garbage truck. Milk was a little different, though; he looked like he arrived at the show in the back of one.
“That is true,” said Buford Lister in his newfound suave voice. “They, and by “they” I mean all the fine young ladies, call me Milk because…I do a body good.”
She had heard every conceivable line from every random guy on three separate continents. She wasn’t phased (not even a step back); she was, in fact, a little charmed.
*****
I have decided to begin my discussion of Brenda and her (ugh!) review of the first seven chapters with, what else, a story. I graduated high school with her husband, and I want to let everyone know the very first words Joe ever said to the woman who was to become the mother of his children. Apparently, classic, old school pick up lines sometimes do work. I wonder…did she fall in love with him right then? Was it one of those magical moments in time that I seem so fond of writing about? I really don’t know, but she did end up marrying him, so Joe must have done something right. I have heard that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery…but….yeah, I don’t think I am ever going to approach a woman, look deep into her eyes, and say, “You don’t shower much, do you?”
*****
“What are you drinking?”
“Nothing.”
“What would you like?”
“Whiskey, straight.”
Buford Lister made his way through the crowd to the bar. He got a whiskey for her and two beers for himself. He was the kind of guy who always got two beers for himself; he prided himself on the fact that he was a two-fisted drinker. In his mind, it made him compelling; it was something an interesting character out of a well-plotted novel would do. Anyway, it was almost always a good conversation starter.
“OK, do we get right to the kid’s names, or am I supposed to charm you first. Do I need to make a bigger impression before you agree to marry me?” She couldn’t believe it, but she found herself stepping closer so that she could clearly hear him over the loud guitars in the background.
The conversation flowed, they talked about anything and everything. She kept telling him, “No one ever talks to me like this, I never get to meet people like you. Where did you come from? What are you doing here?” You are not my type at all but…(that part she never said, she didn’t have to). He sensed her thought, he knew (hell, everyone knew) they were a total mismatch. He wanted to tell her that they should have a conversation about types someday, but not now. He was in too deep a fog to talk about violinists that become concertmasters or people who make a living playing the same Lilith Faire chord progressions over and over.
“So, tell me a little about yourself? Tell me something about The Man Known As Milk that would surprise or astonish me.” Her eyes moved up and to the left as she finished her question.
“Well, about the only thing you need to know about me is that I was voted best dressed in high school. Yep, that is my most coveted award. The interesting thing is how I won it. I was sitting in homeroom, minding my own damn business when we started voting for those nonsensical awards. Some kid yelled out, “Vote for Buford Lister for best dressed!” Everyone laughed and then voted for me. I thought this would be isolated to my homeroom. I didn’t think there was any way that other kids were going to vote for me if I wasn’t there in the room with them. Well, the voting was a landslide. I took it down with no problem.”
“You were voted best dressed because you dressed like a slob?” She barely got the words out, her laughter creating intermittent stuttering and breathing problems.
“So the question to ask is just how bad does one have to dress to win best dressed?”
“ Pretty bad, I guess.” He looked down at his T-shirt and ripped jeans and said: “As you can see, I still don’t put any thought at all into my wardrobe.” Buford Lister rubbed his chin and then took a long drink. “So there you have it. Now it is your turn. Tell me something few people know about you.”
“Uh, you are going to think this is weird, but I collect leprechauns.”
“Oh, I need to hear more about this.”
Kaylee and Buford Lister, two people that no dating service would ever put together, and yet…
*****
I am sitting back in my big old chair, wondering what might have happened if I had used Joe’s epic line on Athena. I bet I wouldn’t have written any of these chapters, that is for sure. But I did write a bunch of essays, and Brenda certainly has a strong opinion about them. Here is the e-mail I got back from her after her first read-through. I sent her a series of questions, and she was not shy (no shit) about answering them.
Do you like the book? No.
Do you think the story is interesting? No.
Do you think it is well written? No.
Did you find yourself rooting, just a little, for me to get a lunch date? No.
Good grief, and that was just the beginning…
*****
Buford Lister was floating as he drank beer after beer after beer. He listened to Kaylee, I mean really listened to her. He wasn’t waiting to talk like most people do; he was too charmed to talk much anyway. He wasn’t even interrupting her to get her to clarify what she was talking about. No, most of his energy was taken up by trying to maintain his balance. That was pretty much all he was capable of.
“Kaylee, excuse me for a moment, but I will be right back.” He shook his beer, the universal signal of hey, I have to pee, but I am not going to come right out and tell you I have to pee. “Ok, make sure you come right back. If you are going to watch your concert make sure you come find me before you leave, OK?” Poor old Buford Lister (excuse me, I mean Milk) said “sure” as he started to walk away.
Author’s note: Narrators of stories have special powers; any high school English teacher can tell you that. They can see everything; they know everything, some you can trust, and some you can’t. Well, let me tell you this as I break right through that special wall that separates the author from the implied author and the implied author from the narrator. I saw what Buford Lister did next; I saw it with my own two eyes. He went to the bathroom, somehow got his hands on a napkin and an ink pen, and wrote down in his own words what only he could write. Why did he need to write anything? He didn’t, but I guess he wanted to make sure she got the message. This is what he wrote: I am totally, completely, and utterly undone. Thank you, Buford Lister. You will notice the Harvard comma right after the word “completely.” Apparently, even little notes on napkins are supposed to be grammatically correct if you were taught that things like Harvard commas are important.
*****
Brenda’s tirade began with my choice of font, no kidding…let me say that again; she started off by criticizing my choice of font. “What did you do, type this thing on a 1930’s typewriter? Get with the program blah, blah, blah.” After she recommended a movie (a 2007 documentary) about Helvetica (apparently her font of choice), she went on to tell me that “pfffttt!” is not a real word, and therefore, I am not allowed to use it. She explained that if I were French, then my usage would be appropriate, but I am not French; therefore, I need to delete all mention of it. I really have no idea where that came from. I am wondering if “pfffttt!” would be acceptable to her if it was presented in a more agreeable font? Hmmm… And yes, Brenda (pfffttt!), as you already know, I changed the stupid font.
*****
“You know, I was thinking of Mozart the whole time I was watching your set.”
“Huh, why would you be thinking of Mozart?”
“I just finished a historical novel about his sister. After I finished the book, I did some research and learned as much as I could about her. She was an extremely talented musician, but she was never allowed to pursue her music simply because she was a woman. Society just wouldn’t have it. It just wasn’t done back then. I liked the book; her story is a very interesting one.”
“Well, I would love to hear it, but it is almost time to go. I have to get back to my hotel soon.”
“OK, tell you what. Tell me how to get a hold of you, and I will write you a little story about what happened to her.”
Kaylee grabbed the napkin that Buford Lister was still holding in front of his chest. You don’t need to ask; of course, he looked like a total doofus. He didn’t care how he looked, and she wanted to see how long she could get him to keep holding it up.
Time stopped as she started to write. Buford Lister looked around the room and realized that something was not quite right. In fact, nothing was right. No one was moving; the only thing that seemed to be racing were the thoughts in his head.
*****
I have an inspired idea; let’s go through Brenda’s (pfffttt!) comments one by one. My, my…this should be fun! The first thing Brenda said is that I spent a lot of time trying to justify what I am writing, “It’s your book; you don’t have to justify it to anyone!” Yeah, under normal circumstances, that would be totally true, but these essays reside in the realm of the highly unusual. I am not sure if there is anything normal about this book.
Any author, if they want to remain a writer, must know their audience. That might be Rule Number One. If you do not know your audience, then you will not be able to give them what they want, and you will most certainly lose them. The interesting thing here is that I wrote the first seven essays for an audience of one. Yeah, I know the irony is that I don’t know her at all to begin with. Maybe that is why I am still reading drafts of these essays during lunch instead of laying my patented charm on Athena as she eats a salad.
Now I need to make a confession to Brenda (pfffttt!) and everyone else reading this. I found myself wanting to apologize after nearly every paragraph. “Damn Athena, I am so sorry I am doing this. Please don’t feel uncomfortable. Really, I am not an ax murderer. I am sooo sorry if you find these essays weird at all. I mean it, I apologize.” So, the justifications Brenda so dutifully pointed out are really disguised apologies to the one person audience I was writing for. How did that work out for me? Disastrous is one word that comes to mind.
It got so bad for me that one little throwaway line that Brenda wrote me made me seriously consider destroying the first seven chapters and starting over. She, I am sure, will be surprised to hear that, but it is true. It certainly wasn’t just Brenda’s comment, nearly everyone else who read the first seven chapters all came to pretty much the same conclusion. They all were, unfortunately, for me, way wrong. She wrote: “Unrequited love sucks, doesn’t it? I am surprised something like this hasn’t happened to you before.” Wow, where to begin?
OK, did I ever mention that word, the L-word, anywhere in the book? Nope, not once, and trust me that was on purpose. I fell miserably in love with a girl when I was an undergrad; I briefly mentioned that fiasco in Chapter Two. What happened to me the night I met Athena was anything but a run of the mill boy meets girl scenario. While it is true that I went totally “ga ga goo goo” over her, I did not lean in real close and whisper “duh, you’re purty, you have purty hair” in her ear. At least I don’t recall making a total idiot out of myself; I think I was just my normal idiot self.
It never even occurred to me to put my experience within any boy meets girl context. What she did to me is something a magnitude different. I still have no idea what the hell happened that night, I really don’t, but I know it was not a “boy meets girl and boy turns to jello” deal.
I was in a state of shock when I read Brenda’s note about unrequited love, I really was. The problem became compounded when I realized that nearly everyone else who read those chapters came to basically the same conclusion she did. I have to ask: If that is what this story is, a tale of unrequited love, then doesn’t that make me the most pathetic guy on the face of the Earth? I mean, really, if I simply fell in love with her the moment she spoke to me then why, oh why, oh why would I announce to the world that she won’t even talk to me now? Damn, that is rather sad. I don’t think I would have any legitimate reason to put myself out there like that.
*****
Author’s Note: There are people who believe in the Akashic Records. I know they are out there, I have met more than a few. I can hear you now: Huh? What are those? Supposedly (at least as the story goes), these are records of the entire history of the universe. Everything, and I mean everything, is written there. Remember that time you were mean to that poor little boy in second grade? Bam – you are busted! Remember that time you got really sick in junior high? Were you really near-death, or were you just being dramatic? If you want to know just how sick you were, then you access the records to find out. Things like that are in there as well as the sections dealing with the formation of planets and the like.
I used my powers as a narrator to confirm what my intuition told me was true. Remember that napkin from an early chapter? I just mentioned it again a little bit ago. Well, guess what? If you go to the Akashic Records, there is a special section called “The Sweetest, Sexiest, and Most Charming Thing An Entity (it really does says entity) Has Ever Done.” Number nine on the list is what Kaylee did next. I still get a little misty when I think about what she said. This is what happened…
Time got kick-started, the people in the venue reanimating in unison. There was no apparent reason for the stoppage or for the restart; it was just one of those things. As she came back to life, Kaylee turned toward Buford Lister and smiled. He had no idea what she wrote on the napkin; he didn’t look because it didn’t matter. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, how could anyone in there take their eyes off her? Then it happened, the top ten list of the Akashic Records was forever changed. Kaylee stuffed the napkin in Buford Lister’s shirt pocket, leaned in, and said: “That is the one my mom uses.”
*****
Brenda (for reasons known only to her) went on to read the first seven chapters twice more. At some point, she sent me a short e-mail with a cryptic message, one that had quite an impact on me. All she said was: Have you ever seen Cinema Paradiso? Now, I remembered the movie, but I never bothered to see it. Brenda wrote me again, in this message she told me about a little vignette in the movie, a story about a soldier and a princess. I sat in stunned silence as I researched the story and realized the point Brenda was making. Here is the basic outline of the little tale included in the movie.
A soldier (poor bastard) falls madly in love with a princess (hubba hubba). He sees her at a banquet and becomes smitten as soon as he eyes her. A few weeks later, he manages to talk to her. He tells her that she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen and that he can’t live without her. The princess, impressed by the depth of emotion in the soldier, tells him that if he sits outside her window for 100 days and nights, she will marry him. The soldier takes his place and doesn’t move; he stays through all the weather and all the hardship. The story ends on the 99th night. The soldier, on the cusp of his dream, leaves and goes home.
Now, is that what Brenda thinks is going on here? Am I waiting like a little bitch for Athena (some sort of apparent punk rock royalty) to grant me an audience? Hmmm, interesting, isn’t it? I certainly have never felt that way, but I have to admit I was stunned by the little story in the movie. My reaction to it was not a good one; it was raw and totally unexpected.
The narrative of the movie does revisit the story of the soldier. One of the characters eventually explains what he thinks is going on when the soldier got up and left even though he was so close to his prize. The explanation is that the soldier knew that the princess would never be able to keep her promise; she wouldn’t be allowed to marry a common man. By doing what he did, the soldier got to do something extraordinary; he got to live for 99 days under the illusion that the princess was going to be his. On that last night, he had to get up and leave because he couldn’t have possibly lived with the fallout of staying the full 100 days.
I called Brenda after getting her email. As unbelievable as it may sound, during the conversation, she asked me a question that I had no idea how to answer. I must admit I am still a little stunned by her question, and I remain totally bewildered by my reaction. That little exchange gets its own essay; Chapter Nine is all about her innocent little question and my inability to respond with nothing other than confused silence.
*****
Kaylee was, apparently, in a mood. She was pressed for time, but she decided to play a little game with poor old Buford Lister. “Have you ever seen Cinema Paradiso?” she asked. Buford Lister, the legend of his conquests growing larger in his own mind, said, “Of course I have seen it. Why do you ask, do you want me to stand outside your window for 100 days and nights to prove my instantaneous love for you? Do you need me to demonstrate that my aim is true and that my intentions are noble?” Kaylee said nothing, she simply gave him the look that all professional cutie pies, femme fatales, and trained assassins learn at a very young age. She kept facing him, but her eyes, those Platonic eyes, darted off to the side. It was the sexy look away, the anti-look that creates tangible and visceral fallout anywhere near ground zero. The man known as Milk took that to be a “yes.”
NOTE: We talked briefly about narrators. I wasn’t entirely truthful (I am, apparently, one of those narrators that can not be trusted), not all narrators know all things at all times. Readers are given insight into the thoughts of only a few characters unless you are reading someone like Jane Austen, she could tell you anything you wanted to know about any character, no matter how minor. She was known to switch perspectives three of four times in a single paragraph. Unfortunately, I am not omniscient; I am just a dude. I can only tell you what I experienced and what I perceived.
*****
I am part of a group of writers, and I use that term very loosely, who write flash fiction. I have named us The Flash Fiction 500 Friends (the worst name I could think of). We pick a topic and write stories exactly 500 words in length. The tales must have a narrative arc; they have to be real stories; no vignettes allowed.
I wish everyone could have heard Mobe deliver his dramatic reading of his last story. It was the worst thing I have ever seen or heard. Mobe’s story wasn’t done, but he decided to read the rough draft to the group because everyone else was finished and ready to read. “He grabbed an ax…(10-second pause accompanied by page shuffling)…from the wall.” I am insisting that Mobe read nothing but rough drafts in the future. His dramatic presentation, while not very theatrical, was funny as hell.
Olive seems to have fallen into a bit of a pattern; the females in his stories, usually the wife or mother character tends to get offed in various mysterious and violent fashions. This is strange in light of the fact that he has an outstanding marriage, one that is the envy of everyone. Luckily his wife has been warned; she knows about this disturbing pattern and doesn’t seem concerned at all.
Here are some examples of topics we have tackled:
-A person makes a Ho Ho Cake that doesn’t turn out.
-A person comes home to find a package addressed to their long-dead grandfather.
-A person is walking down the road and finds a quarter standing on end next to a single die with a missing 6.
-A person takes their spouse’s glasses by mistake.
-A person finds a cell phone with a message saying meet me at such and such a place at such and such a time.
-A person goes to the store to buy an mp3 player.
-A person meets someone they haven’t seen in 30 years and discovers that person has had a sex change.
-A man instantly falls in love with a woman, and she tells him that if he stands outside her window for 100 days and nights, she will allow him to buy her lunch.
*****
“If you are nice I will tell you the funniest joke in the history of the English language. “ Kaylee smiled a big whiskey smile. “Really? Wow, I can’t wait to hear it. One thing though, I want the joke to have a unicorn, some Leprechauns, and maybe a Yeti. Can you do that for me?”
“Wow, that is a bit of a tall order. Actually, the joke I have in mind has none of those things in it.”
“Fine, disappoint me when you are just getting to know me. That is just fine.”
“Look, I wasn’t going to tell you the joke anyway. I have to keep some ammunition in reserve. If I use up all my charm capital, I won’t have anything left for the next time we meet.”
Kaylee laughed as she adjusted her leather jacket. “Who said we would ever meet again?”
“No one said that, but hope springs, right?”
*****
Here is my conclusion to the essay. No letter (imagine that!) to Athena (said all I have to say), Brenda (pfffttt!), Santa Claus (I haven’t been good this year anyway), or anyone else (no idea who else to write to). No, I have decided to end this chapter with the following 500-word essay I submitted for the entertainment and approval of the Flash Fiction 500 Friends, easily the most unlikely literary group in the history of the written word. The topic: A man instantly falls in love with a woman, and she tells him that if he stands outside her window for 100 days and nights, she will allow him to buy her lunch. Here goes. And no, the Quad F’s do not bother to check my math.
ONE HUNDRED NIGHTS
Buford Lister rocked back and forth and then back again in his little wooden folding chair. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. One look, just a simple glance, really, and it was over. After that unexpected and stealthy sledgehammer attack, he stumbled around town for a bit until he decided he was hungry and happened upon a cozy little sidewalk cafe. I must have been 2:00 in the morning, but the city had a vibe, it looked and felt like it was noon.
His soul, torched by a single look, was still on fire, cooled only by the ice water that her memory injected into his veins. That, after all, was going to have to be good enough.
He kept going over and over the conversation. Follow me around for 100 days and nights, and I will grant you a lunch date. I might even let you hold my hand, maybe. Every single time I look out my hotel window, I expect to see you there. If I look out even once and do not see you, then you are finished, understand? That was the abrupt end to their talk, and then she dismissed him. As he started to walk away, she told him that her tour was just beginning, and he should be clever enough to find out where she was going next. She also told him that if he approached her at any time during the 100 days, then he was toast.
He knew there was no way he was going to accept her offer. Any woman who would ask such a thing of him wasn’t worth his time, end of discussion. The problem was that earlier that day he had lost a poker hand with a straight flush, turns out he had the dummy end and, sure enough, the guy across from him had the seven of clubs to fill the higher hand. Now, this. Rhetorically speaking, Buford Lister wondered to himself, what are the odds of seeing a Yeti and a Unicorn on the same day?
A beautiful, young server came over to take his order. She didn’t say a word before Buford Lister broke into his routine. “OK, I am going to tell you a little story, well actually it is a joke. The funniest joke in the history of laughter. Ready?” She nodded a confused yes. “Rene Descartes walks into a cafe and orders a cheeseburger and a diet coke. The waiter says very good sir and leaves. Sometime later, the waiter returns with a croissant and tea. Descartes says, “What is this? I ordered a cheeseburger and a coke.” The waiter replies, “Sorry sir, it was a croissant and tea.” “No, I ordered a cheeseburger and a coke.” “Sir, I was standing right here, and I am sure you ordered a croissant and tea.” Descartes, now angry as hell, stands up, slams his fist on the table, yells, “I think not”…and disappears.”
“Uh OK,” she said. “So I am guessing your name is Rene, you want a cheeseburger and a diet coke, and you are thinking of running out on the check.” Sigh, close enough. “That will be fine.”
The server went to put in the order just as Kaylee looked out her window. Her expression immediately and drastically changed. Damn it all; I really thought this guy was different, I didn’t think there was any way at all that he was going to sit there like a little bitch just waiting for me to throw him a bone. Her brow furrowed as she picked up her sunburst Telecaster and ripped into the opening measure of Blink 182’s The Rock Show. Oh well, that has pretty much been the story of my life.
Kaylee nearly set her Tele on fire with her aggressive playing while Buford Lister quietly ate his sandwich. Even though no one felt it, the Earth continued to rapidly rotate on its axis while revolving through space at tremendous velocity. On that same planet, just down the road from the little cafe where Buford Lister ate, the same cafe that (as luck would have it) can be found across the street from the big hotel where Kaylee was staying, a Yeti walked off into the sunset. Beside him was a unicorn pulling a cart full of flush leprechauns, their pots of gold still unclaimed. Neither Kaylee or Buford Lister saw them.
