The Writing of Chris Ernest Hall

1989 A Novel: Tim and Shek late at night

Mon, 15 Oct 2007 22:11:39 -0800

Tim and Shek faced each other across the mesa of pink granite that occupied the center of the kitchen/family room. Spread over the countertop were their combined notes for their new project, a film they called 1951 since that as the year it was set. At the beginning of the previous summer, Shek had finally abandoned Pleasant Town, saying he had lost his vision, and he was never going to get it back. Tim, who would have been devastated had Shek told him this a year earlier, since his social life at the time was almost entirely based on working with Shek on that project, was more relieved than anything else, since he had lost interest in anything but working at the Alta Lara Square Cinemas and hanging out with Helen and her friends.

They had not yet begun working. Shek had asked him how Santa Zita was, and Tim had searched his mind for something that would interest Shek, when he remembered April.

"I met a girl you would like," Tim said while they were chit-chatting before settling down to work.

"Who?" Shek said, clearly intrigued.

"Her name is April. I work with her."

"At the movie theater?" Shek said. "How old is she?"

“I’m not sure,” Tim said. “Sixteen, I think.”

“Perfect,” Shek said. “The perfect age. For you.”

“Old enough to want it, but young enough to not be so experienced,” Tim said.

“Although you never know. She could be that cool.”

“Maybe,” Tim said. “She seems quite… knowing.”

Shek nodded, ran his fingers through his thinning black hair. He had inherited his hair from his father's Korean, side. He had also, Tim realized, inherited his father's baldness pattern. Shek was losing his hair.

"What does she look like?" Shek asked.

Tim did so, emphasizing her figure, sense of style and rebelliousness. Shek listened intently, the tip of his tongue protruding from his lips.

"She sounds hot. I wonder if she can act," Shek mused.

"I don’t know," Tim said quickly. Shek was always on the prowl for talent. When he met a girl he thought was attractive, he was curious to see if she had a talent he could use, if she could act or sing.

"You should go for her," Shek said.

"Really? You think–"

"No." Shek shook his head rapidly and his lips twitched. "But you should try. Of course, you won't. Because you're like me."

Shek looked at Tim, bared his teeth, then tossed his head back, barked a short laugh, brought his head back level and chuckled further.

To hide his embarrassment, Tim pointed urgently up to the window high on the wall, which looked into his little brothers' room, where they still slept peacefully, Tim hoped. Tim felt he should defend himself even as he acknowledged the truth of Shek’s words. Tim was like him. But not as much as Shek thought. He had changed, and he would show him. Even Shek had limits–Tim had learned that freshman year, that for all his social success, he had not lasted at UCSZ and Tim had.

"I don't know about that... anyway, what would stop me is her age. She's too young."

"Bullshit. It's fear."

Tim looked down at the granite flecked with black, white and grey like rattlesnake skin, at the green apples in the large bowl to his left. He picked at one indentation in the granite with his fingernail.

"Yes," Tim admitted.

"Get over it. She's sixteen. And she sounds normal. I guarantee you she's got more experience than you."

"Pretty much everyone does. So it's not like I'd be corrupting her."

"Don't worry about that.” He swept his hand over his notes for their new project. Shek had no patience for moral qualms. “People need to be corrupted. I corrupted you. We were corrupted by Santa Zita. That's how you become what you need to be instead of some sickening loser, like we were in eighth grade. Sickening," Shek said. "That's what we were."

"We had fun, “ Tim said. He remembered drawing cartoons about Shek’s eighth grade math teacher, casting him as a hapless NASA astronaut, exploring the worlds of the solar system and, at the end of every strip, dying a horrible death–burned to ashes by his own rocket’s engines, eaten alive by Titanian iceworms, squashed to the size of a walnut by Jupiter’s gravity.

Shek spread his palms up over his notes and smiled.

“We did. We didn't know enough to realize what was wrong with us."

"I guess we know better now."

"We're still disgusting, deep down,” Shek said, and chuckled.

Tim looked past Shek, at their reflections in the tall windows above the counter. He left the island and went to the sink. From there he could see the pool, shielded now with its blue cover. He thought about the black water beneath, wished the pool didn't have a cover, like the one in his old house on Stanford campus. He turned back to face Shek.

“Let’s get to work,” Tim said. “I have to get up tomorrow morning and get back to Santa Zita.”

1989 A Novel: Tim's father picks him up at the Greyhound station

Mon, 15 Oct 2007 21:03:37 -0800

Sometime during the previous year, in response to one too many visits where he had crept in the house at 2am, then slept in until noon, Priscilla had announced a new rule that Tim have dinner with them when he visited–"we're not running a hotel" she declared, his father next to her, dutifully nodding in accord. Since then, Tim had adhered to the rule without fail, despite his resentment of it and the feeling he had that it was his father’s house, and he a right to be there when he wanted, unconditionally.

The day before he had called his father’s office from the lobby payphone of the movie theater and told his father when he was arriving. Sure enough, when the Greyhound pulled up to the station, Tim saw his father’s grey BMW waiting in the parking lot. He had just bought it the year before, a symbol of the prosperity of his consulting career since had married Priscilla. Not only that car, but also a Toyota van to carry the boys around in, which rendered the Volvo superfluous, which was why Tim was able to take it for the summer. The BMW was the first care Tim had ever seen that had a CD player as well as a radio and cassette deck.

Tim opened the car door, and picked a yellow notepad off the seat before he sat down. His father had been taking notes while he waited for the bus to arrive.

“You can just throw that in back,” his father said.

“A new client?” Tim asked as he settled back on the smooth leather.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

Tim’s father went on and explained their business, something about databases and transactions. Tim found himself only half listening–his father liked it when Tim showed an interest in his work, but a lot of what his father did, Tim had to admit, was tedious beyond belief.

As they drove along the train tracks that bisected Alta Lara from northwest to southeast, Tim’s father was careful to drive at twenty-five. His father was paranoid about getting speeding tickets. He was always convinced that every street in Alta Lara held a speed trap. He would always say that every time in his life he’d gone above the speed limit, he’d gotten a ticket.

Tim mentioned that his creative writing class to make conversation. His father asked him about his plans for a major, since Tim had entered UC Santa Zita as undeclared, and he had to make his decision that fall. Tim said he was thinking about doing literature, if he didn't get into the creative writing major.

"Literature," Tim's father said after a minute of silence. "You could go to law school with that. I've always thought you'd make a good lawyer."

"I could never see myself as a lawyer," Tim said. To be a lawyer meant bending, if not breaking entirely, the truth on a daily basis, and Tim had no desire for that. He wanted to be an artist, and live his life in the light of truth, as painful as that might sometimes be. Tim didn’t say this out loud. He had learned that his father just didn’t understand, and it seemed to hurt him when Tim tried. He would never get angry, just silent and withdrawn, as if what he was hearing was so painful that he could only survive by pretending he wasn’t hearing it. “I mean, maybe someday. Who knows what I’ll do after college. It still seems like a long way off.”

His father made no response. Tim didn’t like to think about what he was going to do after college. He felt like he had only now become comfortable at UCSZ, and he didn’t like to think about it ending, with the great unknown of post-college life looming beyond.

“You’re taking route 27 tomorrow?” his father asked a few more minutes of silence.

“There doesn’t seem to be any better way to get down there,” Tim said. “So, yes, I guess I am.”

“Be careful,” his father said. “It’s a dangerous road.”

“I will,” Tim said. “I’ll drive slow, don’t worry.”

Tim looked to his father for some approval at his caution but his father kept his eyes on the road.

“Try not to rely on your brakes too much,” his father said. “Shift gears to control your speed.”

“That makes sense.”

Tim’s father nodded as they turned right onto Alexander Street. His father had told him this before, but Tim was glad to be reminded. It didn’t make him feel better about the drive he had to do the next day, though. Somehow, just because he knew what he needed to do didn’t make it any easier to do it. There were so many unknowns and things beyond his control.

1989 A Novel: Tim rides the Greyhound bus over route 27

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 21:20:51 -0800

You would never be able to tell it was summer up here, Tim thought, as he watched the wind drove a misty rain onto the front windshield and fog wreathed the tall redwoods along the side of the highway. He was riding the Greyhound bus back to Alta Lara for what he hoped was the last time.

He was sitting five rows from the front. The bus was near empty tonight, so he got two seats to himself, which was nice because he didn’t to worry about any bus schmacks sitting next to him. Buses seemed to attract a certain class of person–an odd class. Strange people, who had either too much stuff or too little, talked to themselves, or looked angry, desperate, or both. There were never other people Tim’s age on the bus, or any cute girls, or anyone Tim could imagine wanting to know.

As Tim listened to his walkman, he looked out the window and remembered all the times he had made this trip before his first two years at UCSZ. Partly it was the chemical smell of the bus’s restroom, partly it was the Cult’s album Electric that took him back, one of the biggest party albums of freshman year.

He had learned about the Greyhound from Shek. Tim had assumed that once he was in UCSZ, he would stay there the whole quarter until his father or mother picked up him at the end. Shek, though, had found out about the Greyhound, and they used to go back to Alta Lara for film shoots when Tm Tremaine or Troy couldn’t give them rides. At first, Tim had only ridden with Shek, but later in the year, when he had become estranged from Helen and her friends, and he couldn’t bear to spend the weekends in Santa Zita, he had started riding it himself, leaving Friday evenings, not returning until Monday afternoon.

He had ridden the bus to try and escape, but invariably when he got on and the bus started heading up 27, he would wish he wasn’t on it, that he had stayed behind. He had felt like a failure twice over (with Shek’s Fremont friends, then with his own friends at Kane), longing for Helen and her friends and wishing he was partying with them instead of on the bus.

He remembered that awful feeling that he was the prisoner of something he didn’t understand, that it was not by his choice he was leaving Santa Zita, that he had been compelled by a dark force. He felt as though the best part of himself, the person he should have been, had been left behind. He felt split in two, that while part of rode the bus, ghost-like, his better half was still at Kane, drinking Milwaukee’s Best, reveling in their freedom.

Once he got to Alta Lara, he would walk to his mother’s house, stopping for frozen ice cream. As he walked, he would fantasize about somehow running into Melissa that weekend. Of course, he didn’t, since she had a life and Tim didn’t even begin to have an idea of where to look for her.

So he would end up spending the weekend alone, unless Shek happened to be back as well. So much pleasure he had missed out on, as he had learned once he had been accepted back in the fold, when Helen had reached out to him, and forgiven him, talked to him even when he said he didn’t want to be talked to, that he just wanted to be left alone in his private sullen hell.

Where would he be if she hadn’t? He owed Helen, he didn’t know where he would be if it weren’t for her–maybe dropped out of school, or one of those friendless weirdoes like his freshman year roommate–people you saw in classes, who never spoke, just hung around in the back of the classroom, then disappeared afterwards. Never seen at parties, at the beach, at the café. They were like ghosts, or homeless people. That spring quarter had been such a close thing–it could all have so easily gone the other way. If he hadn’t stayed for that one weekend, if he hadn’t been in his room when she stopped by, if she hadn’t knocked three times.

And yet, Helen had brought him back into a kind of servitude–owing her the debt that she did, he had to put up with her flakiness, that their friendship was always conducted on her terms, not on his. If she didn’t want to hang out with him, she had Jessica, her old friends from Alta Lara, Todd Fox and his group. Most of all, she had guys–Todd, Dave Stone, her manager–she never had to be alone, she always had the option of being with someone.

Tim didn’t have that. Before Helen, all he’d had since the beginning of high school were his friendship with Melissa’s step-brother and his collaboration with Shek. No girls had shown interest in him, ever. He’d had to struggle for whatever meager social success he’d ever had–success that, until Helen, had usually been followed by failure and rejection.

His life was better now. He sniffed the disinfectant and cigarette smoke odor of the bus and thought how was the last time he would ever have to ride the Greyhound. He was going to have a car, like Helen, Jake and Sophie did. He had thought after all the times he had failed the driving test, that he might never drive, that something that came so easily to everyone else might be denied to himself, like so much else was, but then Helen and Alice had encouraged him to keep trying. Helen told him she had failed twice too. Now his father was giving him a car to use for the summer, a nice car, with a cassette deck. All he had to do was drive it to Santa Zita over route 27.

1989 A Novel: Tim talks to Jessica at the surfer party

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 21:17:45 -0800

The party raged all around Tim, while he stood alone like the eye of the hurricane, kept company only by his own thoughts. He felt that it was wrong, that his life had evolved to the point where things like this didn’t happen any more, but there he was. He looked around the crowd, but no opening presented itself–Helen and Todd were talking to John Wray and a thin blond girl that Tim guessed was John’s girlfriend. Near to them, next to the entrance to the kitchen, Jessica was talking to Ellery, a friendly looking guy about Tim’s height with hair so blond it appeared almost white.

Despite his rise in status, his achievement after long struggle and failure of a group of friends, there were still times he found himself alone, no one wanting his company. He had not yet risen to the level of Jake or Helen, who were never alone and always in demand. Too much for Helen, it seemed, by some of the things she said. There had been times the previous year when she seemed to take refuge with him, like that night they had written their philosophy papers together at his apartment.

During those times, it had seemed to Tim that all they needed was each other, and that was the way it was supposed to be, They never lasted, though. The afternoon or evening alone with Helen would pass, and the next time he saw her would be at a big party or gathering, where he would have to share her with Jessica, Roxy, Todd Fox, Jake, and all their other friends.

Everybody wanted her, and Tim told himself he was a fool for thinking he could ever possess or own her. He should just be thankful she deigned to spend time with him at all. No girl so beautiful as she ever had before, had ever offered friendship. Melissa had never hung out with him by choice. Helen did choose. She had chosen him. It was a gift, and he must never refuse it.

As if drinking a toast to that ,Tim took a swig of beer, his desire to further his buzz at war with his awareness of how Old Milwaukee tasted when it wasn’t cold. Just as he had lowered his beer, someone bumped into him from behind, causing him to spill some beer on his hand. Tim whipped his head around and saw two surfers tussling. Tim thought a fight was breaking out, but after hearing the laughing taunts, realized they were just playing. No one seemed to notice that Tim had been jostled.

Tim quickly licked the beer off his hand as he moved away. He retreated to the outer wall, next to the window, where it was quieter but he could still observe Helen and Todd. As he let his gaze wander around the party, it seemed to him that everyone their had some kind of romantic agenda–Willoughby and the high school girls, Helen and Todd, Roxy and Torrance, Jessica and Ellery. Willoughby’s party wasn’t like one of their parties freshman year, when freedom and friendship had been enough. For most of the people there, the party was just an excuse to pursue some other purpose, not an end to be enjoyed for itself.

Yet, for all their efforts, the people in relationships or in pursuit of them didn’t seem that happy–not as happy as Tim remembered them being freshman year. Helen certainly didn’t. Even now, Tim saw them, standing next to each other while talking to Roxy and Torrance. Without hearing what Helen and Todd were saying, Tim could tell both were trying to appear happier than they really were–neither speaking nor looking at the other, but smiling and laughing with the others.

If people spent all of their time trying to find love, but once they had it, still weren’t happy, what then was the point of it all? To live was to die. Once you understood that, what then? Drink beer, smoke weed, get laid? Get up and do it again? If you knew you were going to die, but not when, did that mean you should do something important and worthy with your life, or should you just take whatever pleasure you could in the hours, days or years before?

Tim didn’t know. He could make very convincing arguments to himself on both sides of the question. If you took life seriously, sacrificed pleasure in the pursuit of some goal, you might never achieve it–through bad luck, you might lose it all, or die before your work was done. On the other hand, if you just lived for the moment, caring about nothing but pleasure, you might look back at the moment of your death and see that it had been empty, that you had wasted it. If neither approach offered an answer, was there anything that could offer solace? Could anything give life meaning? There had to be another way out.

If you were lucky, you never thought about these questions, and just did what you wanted, whatever came to you in the moment, like Willoughby, who had just entered the living room, carrying a beer in one hand and a two foot tall green bong in the other, accompanied by the two girls Tim had seen at the keg earlier. They were giggling, looking up at Willoughby with their eyes dark with mascara.

Tim wished he could be like that, but now that he had realized those questions, he couldn’t go back. You couldn't undo those questions once they'd infected your mind and your happiness had been shaken apart. But there were circumstances when even someone like Tim could annihilate his restless mind, and return to that innocent, un-fallen state. Sometimes late at night when he was drunk, and danced with his friends, he felt it, or during a really good movie or book. He imagined that sex was the apotheosis of complete surrender to the moment, to the unmediated ecstasy of experience.

Just like that, the Metallica song ended in the middle of another furious guitar solo. Tim looked at John Wray and his friend at the stereo, poking through the CDs piled on top of the receiver. Tim hoped they would put something good on, maybe something danceable. After a few seconds of silence from the stereo, Tim heard the fade-up of clapping, cheering and whistles, followed by Bob Marley’s cry of “Jah Rastafari”. Live reggae-the default music of Santa Zita. Ever present, ever played, ever burnt.

Tim glanced back at where Todd and Helen had been talking to Roxy and Torrance. Helen was gone, as was Roxy. After a few glances around the room, he found Roxy talking to Jessica and the Handler College guys, but Helen was nowhere to be found. He found his eyes drawn back to Willoughby and the girls. Willoughby opened a small baggie, sniffed it and smiled to himself. He extracted a few buds with this thumb and forefinger and packed a bowl for himself and the girls. As he watched Willoughby, Tim wondered which girl he would end up with at the end of the night–or would Willoughby try and get them both in bed? Such things were not unheard of in Santa Zita.

Tim studied the brunette, trying to determine if she was really that attractive beneath her iridescent eye shadow and thick mascara, her wide-eyed appreciation of Willoughby’s every move as he packed the bowl. She glanced forwards and caught him. He hastily dropped his eyes and pretended something fascinating had landed in the bottom of his beer cup. When he looked back up, he saw Jessica heading towards him. Although he told himself he didn't mind being alone, he was pleased to see her coming over.

"Hey," Jessica said.

"Hey. Who are those guys?" Tim asked, indicating with an inclination of his beer cup the group still hanging out by the doorway.

"Ellery's friends from Handler College. You remember Ellery?"

"Vaguely. If I remember correctly, he should be doing time as your boyfriend."

Jessica's eyes flashed at him, but she smiled as well.

"Who told you?"

"Helen, of course. So, what's up?"

"Nothing. We're just hanging out."

Tim saw Jessica glance back at the group. He resisted the urge to probe further. Jessica was private about her love life. They were close, talked about everything, but still never mentioned to each other what was happening romantically. He had to rely on Helen to get the scoop–and, he assumed, Jessica did the same, not that there was ever anything in Tim’s life to gossip about.

"You're not really interested in that high school girl, are you?" Jessica asked in a more serious tone.

"No, no," Tim said. " I was just stirring things up. Trying to distract Helen."

“Does it bother you when Helen talks about stuff like that?”

“No,” Tim said. “I’m used to it. Plus I deserve it.”

He did deserve it. If he wanted to stop being teased about it, he would have to go out and get a girl. That would shut everyone up and give them something to think about.

“She’s just teasing,” Jessica said. “You know how much she loves you.”

Tim knew she did, that Helen needed him, as confidante, companion and helper. Unfortunately, there were many forms of love, and most didn’t lead to sex.

“In a purely platonic way, of course,” Tim said. “But anyway, that girl from the movie theater... she’s too young. I know that.”

"Good," Jessica said. "I'd hate to think you were as sleazy as some of my other guy friends."

"No, I'm not. Maybe I should be, but I'm not."

"Why should you be?" Jessica said, her small brown eyes focused on him.

Tim opened his mouth, closed it again, looked around the party. Willoughby’s lips were clamped to the edge of the bong tube’s top edge as he lit the carb, the two girls hanging on either side of him, waiting their turn, gulping their beers as the smoke swirled up through the tube into Willoughby's mouth. One girl started feeling Willoughby's yellow and brown streaked hair that fell to his shoulders, and Tim wondered if he had given the girls some X.

"Because maybe it's just fear. Not a moral choice, just taking the easy way out."

"Sometimes fear is good," Jessica said. Tim saw sadness on her face, and Tim remembered that she had been dumped by the guy she had lost her virginity to. Other than Tim, she had been the last in their group. She had been afraid, Helen said, but once she had done it, it had been rad. She had seemingly been rewarded for her courage and her faith, but had her heart broken two weeks later.

"But fear can stop you from doing all the things that you'd like to," Tim said, and smiled so Jessica knew he knew how absurd it was to be quoting Morrissey. She smiled back at him.

"There's a balance, Tim," Jessica said, holding her arms in front of her, cupping her elbow with her palm, while she tapped her other arm with her empty beer cup.

"I like extremes. Sometimes the world has to be thrown out of balance, so something new can emerge. I'm kind of hoping that this summer, I feel no fear. I need experience, Jessica. I'm too innocent."

"But I like that about you,” Jessica said, touching him lightly on the arm.

Tim knew that she did. But it had gone on long enough, and something had to give. He never again wanted to feel the way he had at Holly Street, hearing Helen and Todd together. He had to redeem himself, and his life.

"Maybe what you like about me isn't who I truly am".

"Tim!" she said, taking a step back and folding her arm. "Now you're just full of shit." She shook her head and sipped her beer.

He was. But he was also speaking the truth. That was the paradox, and there was wisdom in contradiction. He wished he could make Jessica understand, but he didn’t think she would be able to, so he said nothing more. To avoid Jessica's eyes, Tim looked down into his beer cup. Just a small trickle of beer remained. He raised it to Jessica. Behind her, Willoughby's arm was around the blond girl's waist while the brunette took a bong hit. Had Willoughby also made his choice?

"Time for more?" Jessica asked, tapping his beer cup with hers.

“But of course,” Tim said. He waited for her to thread a way through the knot of people between them and the hallway that led to the bathroom.

The keg had no line since the party was dying down. Most of the people still at the party were more focused on getting stoned than drinking. When they returned to the living room, Tim saw Willoughby and his two new friends were still gathered around the coffee table, now joined by John Wray and Todd Fox. Helen stood behind Todd, with her arms folded.

After a pause, Jessica asked if he wanted to hang out the next day, but Tim had to say no. He was taking the bus to Alta Lara, he told Jessica, to have dinner with his father, his step-mother Priscilla and his two half-brothers–his last trip, he hoped, on the Greyhound bus that ran between Santa Zita and San Francisco. He was going home to claim possession of his father and Priscilla’s Volvo station wagon, which they were loaning to him for the summer.

“It’s awesome you’re going to have a car,” Jessica said. “You'll have wheels. You can drive us up to Napa!”

Their friend Sophie had invited them all up to her parents’ place in Galena to celebrate her birthday on the last weekend of July. Their place was supposed to be epic–a small winery with views of the entire Napa Valley. Jake, Peter, and a few others had gone up the year before. Tim hadn’t gone, but hadn’t been that bummed since Helen hadn’t either, and they’d hung out the whole weekend.

“I can,” Tim said. “I will. It's going to be a big change. Huge.”

“Well, drive safely. Have you ever driven 27?”

Tim’s stomach roiled as he saw himself behind the wheel as the Volvo sped around the curves. Route 27 always made the list of the highways with the most fatalities, a certified blood alley. Freshman year, there had been a heinous accident when a boat trailer had de-coupled from a pickup truck and crossed into the opposite lanes of traffic. The cars speeding around the curve at sixty miles per hour hadn’t had a chance to swerve or slow down before hitting it. When it was all over, seven people had been killed and several more crippled for life. Wreckage had been strewn for a quarter mile, closing the highway for eight hours and preventing Tim from going home for the weekend. He had stayed in Santa Zita, and had his big rapprochement with Helen.

“No,” Tim said. “I've been over it with Helen.”

Jessica grinned. Helen's driving could be erratic.

“Helen really isn't that bad a driver,” Tim said. “She just gets nervous when Jake and Dave Stone are in the car. I don't make her nervous. Though sometimes I wish I did. “

Jessica didn’t reply, but pursed her lips and looked at Tim for a few seconds. He knew Jessica didn’t like it when he talked like that. His love for Helen was one of those secrets that everybody knew but nobody spoke of. He plainly did not have the effect on women that a guy like Jake or David did. He was comfortable and safe.

All of these thoughts passed in a flash while Jessica remained silent. If it had still been the school year, Tim would have equivocated, undone his statement with a “but I don’t really believe that”. Instead, he gazed at the Jane’s Addiction poster, at the twin pairs of perfectly shaped breasts. Nothing was shocking any more, except that everything was in Santa Zita. There were so many things he could say to Jessica right now that might be the truth but would also shock, disgust and anger her.

Tim glanced back at the couch. Willoughby now had his arms around both girls, with his eyes closed and his lips pressed together, corners upturned, looking like a cat napping after a large meal. As Tim watched, Willoughby opened his lips and puffed out a grey-blue cloud of smoke that dissipated into the hazy air of the apartment, after which he broadcast a big, shit-eating grin to the entire room. John Wray raised his hand and Willoughby slapped it hard, jostling the brunette girl on the way. She seemed too stoned to notice.

“Willoughby is slimy,” Tim said. “But he seems happy. Possibly happier than we are.”

“He’s wasted, that’s all,” Jessica said.

“He is,” Tim replied. “He is. And maybe we should be, too. Maybe there’s no other purpose to life.”

“Oh, Tim. You know you don’t really believe that.”

“I do know. At least I hope so. Hope I know, or hope it’s true.”

Tim reached back, felt the strands of hair that has escaped his ponytail in the course of the evening.

“Too many deep thoughts for one night,” Jessica said. “I think it’s time for bed.” Jessica looked across the room, and Tim saw her mouthing words to Helen, and gesturing at the front door. “Helen wants to go,” Jessica said. “ So do I. Do you?”

Even before Jessica had finished speaking, Tim had already started for the door, drinking what was left of his beer on the way.

1989 A Novel: Tim, Helen and Jessica go to a surfer party

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 20:47:53 -0800

Tim walked past the cars parked in the driveway, a dusty white Vanagon and a shiny black Volkswagon Jetta. The Jetta had a surf rack on the roof with all of the rods released, sticking up in the air like the tails of excited cats. As he approached the door, he felt the happy but queasy feeling he always got before entering a party. He reached behind his head and adjusted his ponytail, made sure it was straight. He opened the door.

When Tim entered the party, he saw his friends hanging out in a corner of the living room. Willoughby the surfer dude’s house was a typically drab and neglected UCSZ student rental, with flowered linoleum tile in the kitchen and carpet in the rest of the rooms whose color was selected solely to hide stains and nothing else. Three fluorescent green and orange three--fin surfboards leaned against the pale yellow walls, whose only other decorations were faded posters.

Jessica and Helen had their backs to the front door, engrossed in a conversation while Todd held his drink, looking around the party. He seemed about to leave them when he saw Tim approach.

“Hey,” Tim said. “What’s up?”

Todd reached out and they clasped hands with Tim. By his friendly manner, Tim could tell Todd was baked.

“Nada,” Todd said. Full keg.

Tim nodded. He glanced at the back of Helen’s head. She and Jessica were talking in soft voices meant for only each other to hear, and still hadn’t noticed him. He wondered how long it would take. Looking back at Todd, Tim tried to think of a conversation starter and discovered none. He and Todd didn't have much in common, other than a common enjoyment of beer-drinking and Helen's company. Todd had ignored Tim for the first six months that he had gone out with Helen, until he figured out that being friendly to Tim was a painless way of either mollifying Helen or pissing her off. Helen turned her head and did a double take.

“Tim, you’re here,” Helen said. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Wanted to see if you would notice.”

Jessica greeted him while Helen rolled her eyes.

“Get some beer,” Helen said briskly. “Keg’s in the bathtub.” She pointed to the back of the living room, to a dim hallway packed with party-goers.

“Okay,” Tim said. He darted through the crowd, his thin frame an advantage in getting through crowds.

Along the way, he bumped into a tall surfer, who jerked his head around. “Excuse me,” Tim said under his breath, but didn’t wait to hear the surfer’s reply.

Much to Tim’s relief, the line was short at the keg. He recognized Willoughby and another friend of Todd Fox’s, John Wray. Between them and Tim were a pair of giggling girls. They inclined their heads to each other, then stood straighter and looked seriously around the party. Their eyes passed over Tim without stopping. Tim waited without moving closer while Willoughby passed them beers and asked them their names. Karen, one said, the shorter one’s name was obscured by an eruption of electric guitars from the living room, accompanied by staccato drumming. Someone had put on …And Justice For All.

As Willoughby squirted foamy yellow beer into a tilted cup, Tim studied the two girls while their heads were turned in his direction. Both wore greenish-silver eyeliner. Karen had straight glossy blond hair, while her other was a brunette with shorter hair.

Willoughby finished pouring one beer. The girls turned back to he and Willoughby. John was asking them something, but Tim couldn’t hear over “Blackened”. Both girls were wearing tight jeans and Vans. The blonde girl’s nose was a bit too sharp for Tim’s tastes, like a small axe blade glued to her face. The brunette was a bit heavy, but otherwise the more attractive of the pair. Tim imagined himself starting a conversation with them, but didn’t want to while Willoughby was there, and he couldn’t imagine them being interested in anything he had to say about De La Soul, Goethe or the Oakland As.

Karen was more conventionally pretty, but her friend attracted Tim more. Finally, the girls left and the keg was free. Tim approached, made a token gesture of greeting to Willoughby which was ignored as he tracked the girls’ progress into the living room.

Once Willoughby was gone, Tim grabbed a cup and caught John Wray’s eye. “Tim, right?” John said, recognizing him, which Tim wasn’t sure he would.

“Yeah. Helen’s friend.”

“Right, right. Cool, dude. Glad you could make it.”

As Tim continued to pour foamy beer into his cup, they talked about what they were doing that summer. Tim told John about his job, asked him if he was working.

“No, man,” John replied. “Tried looking but found zilch I could deal with. So I’m just catching the waves each morning, watchin’ TV.”

Some of Todd Fox’s friends were rich–richer than anyone Tim hung out with. He raised his cup to John and took his leave.

As he walked back to his friends, Tim tasted his beer and tried to figure out if it's Old Milwaukee or Milwaukee's Best. The music was louder in the living room, loud enough that Tim had difficulty picking out individual words in the conversations he was passing. When Helen and Jessica looked his way, he banged his head and held up his right hand, index and pinky fingers extended. Roxy, Jessica and Helen all laughed.

“This is Metallica, right?” Helen asked.

“Metallica …And Justice For All,” Tim said in a deep announcer voice.

“Remember when we studied to this?” Helen asked Tim. He nodded, remembering that night well, how proud he had been that of all the things Helen could have been doing on Saturday night, she had chosen to spend it with him. He stepped closer to her so he could hear better. Todd, whose head had been turned away from them while Tim approached, now returned his attention to them and moved closer to Helen as well.

“You studied to this?” Jessica asked, raising her voice so she could be heard.

“It was ridiculous,” Helen said. “It was a Saturday night, and I had to finish my Philosophy paper, since I had to work on Sunday. I had to go some place where no one could find me, so I went up to Tim’s place at Kane-King. We were really burnt, though, so Tim cranked Metallica to keep us awake.”

“How could you possibly study to something that loud and… violent?” Jessica asked.

“I got an excellent on my paper,” Tim said.

“And I did well, too. So maybe Metallica is good for studying,” Helen said. Roxy shook her head and drank more beer.

Todd put his arm around Helen, and Helen gave him a kiss on the cheek, just in case Tim had forgotten where her affections truly lay.

Helen turned to Todd and said “Todd, would you be a doll and get me a beer?”

Todd pursed his lips and looked back and forth between Helen, Jessica and Roxy. Tim was considering offering to go in Todd’s place, but before he could decide whether or not he really wanted to endure the crush at the keg, Todd shrugged and said, “Sure. Back in a sec.”

Todd retreated to the back of the house and everyone looked at Helen, who was still watching Todd as he disappeared into the hall that led to the bathroom and bedrooms.

“So what’s your summer project, Tim” Helen asked.

“Get laid,” Tim said impulsively. “No I’m just joking. Fall in love. Or just get laid.”

“Why joking?” Helen said. “Sounds like a good project to me.”

Tim wondered how much help Helen would be willing to give him if she thought it was a good project, but he was sure that it wouldn’t be what he wanted.

“We’ll see what happens,” Tim said. “I just want to enjoy myself. And write. I’m taking a creative writing class. I want to write something really good. That’s my summer project.”

“Cool,” Helen said. “But I still think you should get laid.”

“Or at least find someone to date,” Jessica said, shooting Helen a look. Helen wriggled her lips and giggled into her beer cup.

“Know anyone where you work?” he asked Helen.

“There’s no one at Sunshine Records you would be interested in,” Helen said.

“There’s a few women at Pizza My Love,” Jessica said, “but...”

“But what?”

“I’m not sure they’re your type. Or that you’re their type,” Jessica said slowly.

“Well, how do you know?” Tim said.

“What she’s trying to say, Tim, is that you don’t quite qualify for their... different tastes,” Helen said.

“Uh huh,” Tim said. Just because he was inexperienced didn’t mean he couldn’t learn. He was eager to be corrupted.

“Like, for example, your gender is completely wrong,” Helen continued.

“Oh, I see,” Tim said. He let out his breath and took another big swallow of beer.

“But I’ll check around,” Jessica said. “Anyway, we’re all having celibate summer. Except for Helen.”

“You don’t have to be,” Helen said to Jessica, and poked her in the ribs. Tim remembered Jessica’s dinner plans, and wondered how they had gone. He saw no sign of Ellery at the party, and felt relieved.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jessica said primly, but she smiled to herself.

“I wish I were celibate,” Helen said.

“No, you don’t,” Roxy said. “What a crock.”

“I do, too. You don’t have to spend time with Todd. I woke up this morning and realized I didn’t really want to be Todd’s girlfriend any more–his chest is too hairy.”

“That’s funny. I had the same feeling about Torrance. But I feel that way every morning when we’re together. Todd’s really not that bad,” Roxy said.

Tim had to agree with Roxy on that one, though it didn’t do him any good, since he wasn’t really attracted to Roxy. Torrance was a convicted bicycle thief, but not the cute kind from an Italian film, but one who roamed Santa Barbara, stealing his neighbors’ ten-speeds to support his coke habit. Tim couldn’t remember ever even having a conversation with Torrance, but he had heard numerous complaints from Helen and her friends about how he grew marijuana in his closet but never smoked Roxy or her friends out, never brought beer to parties and generally treated Roxy like shit.

“What about at the movie theater?” Helen asked Tim. “There should be buttloads of chicks there.”

Tim smiled at Helen, thinking of April and how she looked when she stretched. He wondered if she was still at Cafe Nightingale, or if she had moved further on into the night.

“Actually, there are.”

“Attractive?”

“One is, very. But she’s kind of young.”

Tim looked at Helen and licked his lips.

“Tim,” Jessica said seriously. “How young?” Jessica asked. Tim saw her eyes fixed on him, eyebrows bent.

“I'm not sure,” Tim said. “Sixteen,” he guessed, letting his eyes wander around the party before landing them back on Jessica. Her eyes were still aimed upwards at his face.

“That could be a problem,” Helen said. “Nothing like a statutory rape conviction to put a crimp in your summer fun.”

“Yes,” Tim said. “That would be unfortunate. I think our host here might have to worry about that, too.”

“Willoughby?” Helen said.

“I was at the keg and I had to wait behind some of his younger acquaintances.”

“Oh, God,” Jessica said.

“Really,” Roxy said.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Helen said to Tim. “Get some pointers.”

“I don’t think so. I’m not attracted to young girls. Why do think that I am?”

“Oh, you know. Things. Stuff. Mostly what you do and say.”

“Whatever. If I am, I’m completely unsuccessful, so who cares? Tim said. “It’s not like statutory fantasizing is illegal.”

“Well, it may not be illegal,” Roxy said. “But it is kind of skanky.”

“That’s right,” Jessica said. “You’d better watch out, Tim Page.”

“Anyway, Helen said, that’s why you should talk to Willoughby. If you’re going to be obsessed with young girls, you may as well do something about it.”

“I am not obsessed!” Tim said. He felt three sets of female eyes on him, and he turned his eyes away from them, towards the rear of the house. He was actually relieved to see Todd threading his way through the crowd, holding two beers. First he got mocked for being sexually inexperienced, then for trying to find a way to not be. He just couldn’t win.

“Helen,” Jessica said. “Don’t encourage him.”

Todd stopped to talk to someone. A wave of exhaustion passed through Tim and he opened his mouth to yawn. When he opened his eyes, he looked down into his empty beer cup. Beer didn't seem to be perking him up the way it usually did.

“What's up, Tim?” Jessica asked. “You seem tired.”

“I didn't get enough sleep last night,” Tim said.

“It's my fault, Tim, I'm sorry,” Helen said, and laid her hand on Tim's arm. “Todd and I kept him up last night,” Helen said to Jessica and Roxy. “Todd is kind of loud sometimes, she continued to all three of them. And that makes me want to be loud, too.”

“I didn't hear anything,” Jessica said.

“The sex was unusually good, though,” Helen said. “Considering it was Todd. He got baked, but he didn't drink too much. That seems to work better for him.”

Helen smiled to herself, ran her fingers through her hair.

“Quite,” Tim said. “I'll remember that, in case I ever... never mind. So...” he continued, feeling like a change of subject was what this conversation needed, but he couldn’t think of anything, and the syllable just dribbled off into silence. Everyone took a sip of beer and surveyed the party. Jessica’s eyes lit up. Helen and Tim both noticed at the same moment. Helen elbowed Jessica. Tim realized that Ellery had arrived on the scene.

“Ellery’s here,” Helen hissed.

“I know,” Jessica said.

Tim was pleased that Jessica didn’t immediately go over to Ellery and his friends. Unlike Helen, she didn’t base her entire life around a guy. She was loyal to her friends.

“Go talk to him.”

“I know.”

It only took one more elbow and a small shove for Helen to propel Jessica forward over to the small knot of guys who had just entered the party. Feeling like Jessica shouldn’t have to face them alone, Roxy left a moment later.

Out of perversity and irritation, Tim made no effort at conversation now that Jessica and Roxy had left. It was just he, Helen and Todd, a circumstance Tim had found himself in many times in the last year, third wheel on a bicycle bound for hell.

Tim took another sip of beer, which was growing warmer by the minute. He had barely swallowed when a tremendous yawn erupted from his mouth. Why did he feel so tired? Even being kept up by Helen and Todd didn’t excuse his weariness. He was here in Santa Zita, the summer had started, he was at a raging party. He knew he should motivate and go over and talk to Jessica and Roxy, or Helen and Todd, but he didn’t feel like doing earlier. Instead, he just watched and waited.

He could see in his peripheral vision that Helen was trying to catch his eye, but he kept his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, where several of the surfers were gathered around the boards. One of them was running his finger along the edge and speaking authoritatively to the others, holding up his fingers about eighteen inches apart.

Tim head Todd suggest they go out to the backyard, and Helen’s curt refusal, and he hoped that Helen would refuse, and Todd would leave them alone together.

“I’ll stay,” Todd said.

“You don’t have to,” Helen said. “I can take care of myself. I have Tim to protect me.”

Tim smiled to himself, even as he felt the awareness of the double-edged nature of Helen’s statement–a compliment but also an acknowledgement of his subordinate role in her life. But what would she do if he wasn’t around?

As Tim listened to Todd and Helen’s low, angry mutterings, he felt his stomach sink. The sound of conflict always disturbed him. Realizing that his beer was still empty, he caught Helen’s eye and jerked his head towards the rear of the house. Without waiting for her reaction, he darted into the crowd. When he returned from the keg, Todd and Helen’s fight had escalated, since they no longer cared who heard them.

“Helen, I hardly ever see you,” Todd said. “Do we have to fight the whole time?”

“Yes!” came Helen’s emphatic response, snapping her head away from him.

“Fine,” Todd said, and walked away to the group by the surfboards, who greeted him with loud heys and hand-clasps.

Helen peered at Tim, deliberately ignoring Todd as he left the room.

“God, he pisses me off!” Helen said to Tim.

Tim found himself so tired of it all, it was all he could do not to grab Helen and kiss her, tell her of his undying love for her, demand that she break up with Todd once and for all, and never mention him again. How could Helen need him so much, but not want to be his girlfriend? Was there any way he could make her see how crazy she was for not loving him?

Still avoiding Helen’s eyes, Tim thought of some way to communicate his thoughts to Helen without saying it in too obvious a fashion, but he couldn’t think of anything. He merely bit his lip and looked away, banging his head in time to Lars Ulrich’s staccato drumming. He imagined April entering the party at that moment–with all the local teenage girls Willoughby had somehow enticed to the party, why not April?–Tim talking to her, getting to know her better, making her laugh.

“You’re quiet tonight. What’s up?” Helen asked.

Tim finally looked at Helen’s face. Her blue eyes were focused on him, blinking several times. She ran her fingers through her hair, moving it off her forehead.

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking.”

After the party, he invited her back to his place. Silently, she acquiesced. There was nothing left to say. Back at his place, he took her in his arms, no words were exchanged, and they kissed. Hesitantly, at first, but then they found each other, and it became more passionate. Tim learned so quickly April never guessed it was his first time.

“About what?”

“Nothing,” Tim said. Taking her by the hand, he led her to his bed. Tim realized that his fantasy couldn’t happen that night. Helen was right, he had to get a bed.

“I have some gossip for you,” Helen said, “but you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“I always keep your secrets,” Tim said.

“You do. You’re very trustworthy,” Helen said, lifting her beer cup to him, then to her lips.

“It's my job, the task God assigned me in heaven for this go-round on the great wheel. So what is it?” he asked, hoping that, despite what she had said earlier in the car, that based on the fight she’d just had with him, she was breaking up with Todd Fox.

“Well... I had sex with my manager on Thursday night,” Helen said, and looked at him with eyebrows lifted.

“What?” Tim said, louder than he intended to. His eyes bored in on Helen, searching for a sign that it was a joke. He had seen Helen's manager on Thursday when he stopped by Sunshine Records and bought Passion, and he hadn't seemed like someone Helen would even be friends with. “How did that happen?” he asked, hoping that the answer would somehow involve alien abduction.

“I went to his house to listen to his King Crimson bootlegs, and we... got together,” Helen said. She shrugged as if there was not way she could explain it any better.

“Why are you telling me this?” Tim asked.

“Because I have to tell someone. And I know Roxy and Jessica wouldn’t approve.”

“And I would?”

“The reason I like you, Tim, is that you don’t pass judgment on me.”

“Out loud,” Tim said. Because if he did say what he thought, she would get mad at him, and not want to hang out with him. Then where would his life be?

“Yeah...” Helen said, and looked at Tim as if he were a misbehaving child.

“So you had sex with him on Thursday night?”

“Yeah.”

“And you had sex with Todd last night?”

“Yeah,” Helen said. She stared up at him, and lifted her index finger from the rim of her beer cup.

“Whatever,” Tim said, gazed out at the party around them. He felt no connection to them, like had placed at that party as part of an alien experiment in human behavior.

“I know I shouldn’t, but... it’s summer. It’s my obligatory summer fling.”

“Uh huh,” Tim said. The only way he could deal was pretending that Helen didn’t exist, to stand in the middle of the room and imagine ten-inch steel plating surrounding him, protecting him from the madness of the world, a place created for the sole purpose of driving him insane–he would communicate only by lifting his pinky finger, sending out the same message over and over in Morse code: please kill me.

“Well,” Helen said. “What should I do?”

“What do you mean?” Tim asked.

“I need advice. You’ve always been my confidante. You give me really good advice.”

The only advice that came to Tim’s mind was that she should leave the party with him and drive to his apartment. After which they would undress, he would kiss her tenderly, they would go to bed and she would wrap her legs around him all night long. Except he didn’t have a bed.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Helen asked.

He didn’t even have a bed. Since the world wasn’t real, and only designed to torment him, then why not just laugh? It was all just a huge joke, and nothing really mattered any way. If you didn’t laugh along, then the joke was on you. In any case, you might as well just drink more beer.

“I was smiling?”

“Yes!” Helen said. Her eyes narrowed and her eyes traveled over him. “Are you baked?” she finally asked, and bit her lower lip.

“No.”

To their right, they both saw Jessica reappear from the kitchen, accompanied by Roxy and Ellery. Roxy was between Jessica and Ellery, talking to him.

“Whatever. I’m going to talk to Jess. Coming?”

“No,” Tim shook his head, trying to convey his regrets to Helen, as if he wanted to come but was prevented by some greater, anonymous power.

Helen shrugged and trotted off, leaving Tim alone in the corner of the room. The relentless double-barrel drumming continued, seeming even louder due to the thinning of the crowd. Maybe he should just leave. The party was losing momentum, the way Santa Zita parties always did around midnight. Not getting more epic, the way it should be. But he had no ride, and the thought of riding the bus home alone didn’t fit his vision of how his summer should begin. He would just have to wait it out. He knew, if nothing else, he could count on Helen for a ride, even if she was pissed at him for not being more sympathetic to her plight.

1989 A Novel: Tim shows Helen his new apartment, and realizes he has no bed

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 20:40:01 -0800

“My place is in the back,” he told her once they had parked, pointing to the brown-shingled garage. “I have to get the key first, though.” While Helen leaned against the hood and looked up into the sun lowering in the western sky, Tim bounded up the house’s wide steps two at a time.

A girl who introduced herself as Jenny answered the door. She gave him the keys and said "come by anytime, door's always open". After thanking Jenny and telling her would stop by some time, Tim returned to Helen and they started unloading his stuff. Tim carried his stereo receiver, looking overhead and seeing thick spider webs encrusting the metal pole that connected the sections of fence on either side of the driveway. As he did, he tripped and nearly fell, but somehow managed to stay upright without dropping his stereo. He looked down and saw that he had tripped on a place where the grass had created a crumbling hole in the concrete driveway.

“Okay?” Helen asked, smiling at him as she followed.

“Yeah, it’s just… not as level as I anticipated, back there.” Tim stopped, put his stereo down and opened the door with the key.

“This is really nice,” Helen said, leaning in. “Very cute.”

“It’s small,” Tim said. “Smaller than I remember.” He took in the whole room in one glance–it was hardly larger than the double room he’d had freshman year. He felt a sinking sensation, fearing he had made a huge mistake, that the place was ugly, with its coarse greenish-yellow carpet. Plus it had an odd smell, like wood left out in the rain.

“It’s awesome,” Helen said, walked past him and set down the box of books she had been carrying. “You’re totally psyched.”

“I am?” Tim said, and realized that he should be. “I mean, I am, yeah.”

“You should be. For four hundred dollars a month, your own place? I wish I had my own place,” she added darkly.

That surprised Tim, since he couldn’t see not wanting to live with Jessica and Alice, hang out and party all the time. But Helen was always saying things like that–Tim was sure she hadn’t really meant it. He followed Helen back out of the apartment to get more stuff.

Once they were done unloading the Volvo, Helen looked at the boxes, shelves, table and folding chair, then turned to Tim with her lips pressed together and eyebrows arched.

“What are you going to sleep on?” Helen asked. “There’s no bed.”

“No,” Tim said, drawing out the syllable to indicate that it was a problem that merited serious consideration. The thought that he had nothing to sleep on had crossed his mind a few days before, but he had dismissed at the time it as being too troublesome to think about.

Helen started giggling and shaking her head. “You should really get a bed,” Helen said. “Chicks dig guys who have their own beds.”

That was true. Tim’s dreams of what was going to happen for him that summer required he have a bed.

“I know, I know,” Tim said. “Maybe my mom has something I can borrow. I’m not used to living a place where they don’t give you a bed.”

Helen giggled more, then rubbed her hand up and down his bicep while she hummed through closed mouth, like a mother placating a child. Tim lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes to show he knew he was wrong, and felt ashamed.

“I’m sure she will. I have to go–Todd’s taking me to Reunion for dinner. Kind of swanky.”

Helen reminded him about the address for the party, promised him a ride home (he was taking the bus there), gave him a hug and left Tim standing in the middle of his apartment. Not having a bed was really a problem. However, he didn’t see anyway of solving it then, so he decided instead of set up the rest of his apartment. First, and most importantly, his stereo, since it felt weird to be alone in his own place with no music playing. He didn’t like quiet. Setting up his stereo was always the first thing he did when moving into a new place, just as disconnecting it was always the last.

Once Tim had his stereo set up, he put on Appetite For Destruction, since that seemed like an appropriate album to christen his new place with. He started putting books on his set of shelves. The first one he took out was one of his books for Romantic Fiction The Sorrows of Young Werther, an old-fashioned edition with a yellow, black and brown cover, no pictures, just words in a fancy script. Tim opened it to a random page near the beginning. He saw a quote he had marked with orange highlighter:

…when I see how all human activity is directed toward procuring satisfaction for needs that have no other purpose than prolonging our miserable existence.

He had highlighted the quote, but never ended up using it in his paper, since he had written it on Werther’s moment of decision to commit suicide, the balance that Goethe had struck between the inevitability and availability of Werther’s final act. Could he have been saved? Tim thought not–the seeds for his appetite for destruction had been laid long before, and the way he thought and expressed himself meant he had to do it, it was the logical end result of his philosophy of life. Though Goethe had presented evidence for both arguments, in the end, his suicide was as inevitable as it was traffic. Tim had done well on his paper, but then, he almost always did well on his papers for lit classes.

The quote reminded him of something Shek would say, of his constant complaints about his hatred of maintenance-bathing, eating, brushing his teeth, washing his face. Why not just not do it then, Tim wondered? Shek washed his face obsessively–but he didn't have to. Tim only washed his face twice a day–while he showered, and before he went to bed. He didn’t obsess about it, he just did it.

Thinking of Shek reminded Tim that he was supposed to meet with Shek tomorrow night, and that he hadn’t written anything new on their movie project. Tim resolved to try and come up with something the next day. He was too excited now, and he had to leave soon for the party.

Tim snapped the book closed with two hands. Werther was silly. He had taken his feelings too seriously, forgotten the fact that everything is, ultimately, a joke, and that if you don’t realize it, then the butt of the joke you. Either you were laughing with eternity or it was laughing at you. Helen hadn’t liked Werther at all. She said he was a self-absorbed narcissistic asshole who didn’t care about all the damage he caused with his impossible infatuation. Tim had told Helen he agreed, though secretly he was a little bit more sympathetic to him–he had really felt what he did, even if it did cause chaos and, eventually, his own death. But feelings without self-awareness was a dangerous combination. If Tim had not been more aware of the danger of his feelings for Helen, he might not still be friends with her now. He might have followed the same path as Werther to the same dark end.

By the time Appetite For Destruction ended, Tim had set up his apartment as much as he could. He switched his stereo to FM and spun the heavy brushed silver knob until the red vertical line rested between 98 and 99 and all five of the signal strength lights were green. Some time during his freshman year, KUMM had invested in a new transmitter for the Terra Nueva bay region–reception had be spotty from his first-floor dorm room but now it came in load and clear all over Santa Zita. He pressed the grey switch on his Mac Plus to make sure it still worked after being moved around for two weeks. The blue screen flickering to life, jiggling a bit on the edges as it had ever since Tim had dropped it freshman year. The external hard drive in its powder blue milk-create enclosure whirred and clicked and its icon appeared on the screen beneath the smiling Mac face.

Tim set up his new computer and imagined himself working on it, staying up late to finish short stories for his class; stories which were met by accolades and the teacher’s suggestion that he try to publish them. They were, and his career took off from there. Once he was famous, it was easy for him to bring Shek in and have him direct the scripts he wrote, and they became a famous director and screenwriter team.

Satisfied that his computer had survived the move, Tim walked to the Taco Bell one block away on Church St. as the sky over the city darkened to indigo. He got three Taco Supremes and a large Mountain Dew, ate them next to his Mac Plus while he read the Sporting Green. Rickey had been on fire ever since he rejoined the As, acquired in a trade while Tim had been in finals. He was Tim’s favorite player, and he had been crushed when the As had traded him to the New York Yankees. Now that they had him back, Tim and Peter agreed they he might be the last remaining piece they needed to Win the World Series, instead of getting crushed by the Dodgers, like they had the previous fall.

Tim opened the Alarm Clock on his Mac and saw that it was almost 9pm. Time to rally. Including the bus ride and the walk across the river to the east side, it was going to take him about an hour to get there. On KUMM, the Saturday Night Metal Zone had begun. DJ Dennis Young kicked it off with Winger, "Seventeen" and Tim turned the volume up. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and combed his hair. He debated whether to wear it up or down. He decided he didn’t like how the long strands were curving upwards at the end, and decided to retie his ponytail. After a few ties, he got right, with no loose strands hanging off the side of his head. He looked at himself in the mirror and decided he looked as good as could be expected–at least no zits marred his face. Perhaps his complexion was finally calming down, after the horrible acne he’d had during high school and freshman year of college.

Tim didn't have high hopes for the party, but a party was a party, nonetheless, and you never know what could happen. He grabbed his black leather jacket and headed out the door to Church Street to catch the bus downtown. In a way, he felt like tonight was the real beginning to his summer, now living in his own place after the interim period living at Holly Street. He hoped it was a good party. He hoped the love of his life was waiting for him there.

1989 A Novel: Helen drives Tim to his new apartment

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 20:36:12 -0800

“How was your day?” Tim asked, once they had finished loading his car and were driving down Holly Street, hoping the question would reveal the status of her relationship with Todd. He knew that, at the very least, he was still around because he had been in the shower when he got to Holly Street.

“Oh, it was okay, I guess,” Helen replied. “Todd was being pissy all day.”

“Because Dave Stone called?”

“Yes!” Helen said, so vituperatively Tim was afraid she might be angry at him, but her tone softened and she said, “Sorry. I have a splitting headache.”

Helen slowed down, since they had reached Redwood. She peered out over the steering wheel as she waited for a gap in the traffic on Redwood Street. Tim looked with her, back and forth.

“So just because I talked to Dave for ten minutes, Todd decided he had to be an asshole to me,” Helen said, pulled into the street, but then stopped suddenly since a bus was coming from the right. As much as Tim wanted to learn more, he felt compelled to assist Helen by looking to the left, sure that a massive truck was going to be barreling downhill at them. Mercifully, though, the street was empty, and once the bus passed, Helen was able to complete the left turn and follow the bus uphill.

“Just because of one call?” Tim said, attempting as much incredulous astonishment into his tone as possible.

“Yeah…” Helen said, as she braked hard. “And we were talking about next week.”

“What’s happening next–Helen!” Tim cut himself off, as he felt the car slip backwards down the hill. The car behind them honked twice.

“Sorry, sorry. My foot was itching.”

Tim looked behind them, but fortunately the car behind them had been well back. He caught a glimpse of the driver; an older man with a moustache, who had his arms up and was shaking them with exasperation.

“I might go visit Alta Lara and have dinner with Dave,” Helen said. She turned and looked at him hopefully. “Do you want to come?”

“I do need to go there to get my car,” Tim said. “But I already told my dad and Shek I’m going tomorrow. Do you want to go then?”

“Can’t–have to work,” Helen said. She turned the corners of her lips down as she shifted into third gear.

“Well, there you go. You’ll just have to hang out with Dave Stone on your own,” Tim said. “Except that Todd...”

“He’s lame. I can hang out with my ex-boyfriend if I want.”

“Nothing’s going to happen, of course.”

“Of course,” Helen said, in such a bland tone that Tim knew she was leaving the option open. “Todd’s so possessive. If he weren’t so possessive I probably wouldn’t want to cheat on him so much.” She sighed loudly. “I should… do something. The whole situation is so tiresome”.

“Are you guys going to...?” Tim asked. He felt queasy with excitement and anxiety.

“Break up?” Helen finished his question for him. The question hung in the balance as Helen stopped the Volvo halfway up the steep slope. Helen set her handbrake with a rusty squeak.

“No,” she said to him as the light turned green. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. He drives me crazy, but I still think we can work out,” Helen said. She stepped on the gas, let out the clutch, and released the handbrake. After a scary moment of shuddering and slipping backwards, the Volvo lurched forwards, up and through the intersection.

“I just have to figure out how to figure out how to make him do what I want him to,” Helen said as she tailgated a white Toyota pickup. “It’s hard when it’s long-distance, and there’s so much pressure when he’s here, that everything has to be so great. What if I don’t feel like being great? What if I feel like crap? I miss him being around, and that makes me be a bitch to him when he’s here.”

Which made no sense to Tim. He also knew that he had no idea how to convince Helen that the reason she was a bitch to him was because he was a dick, not because there was too much pressure on them when he visited, without causing a rift between them. He could work out the flaws in Helen’s logic like an algebraic equation, but if Helen believed what she did, Tim couldn’t force her to see otherwise. His palms itched, and he tightened his grip on the door handle.

“I’m here. We can hang out... with no pressure. ”

“Of course. That’s why we’re friends.” She glanced to her right and gave him a quick smile, which caused the car to veer and nearly side swipe a parked car.

Once he started putting pressure on her to be more than that, their friendship would suffer. It might even end, and then he would go back to being alone, or being completely dependant on Shek for a social life. He could not let that happen. She was the one who had opened the door for him. No one had even changed his life as much as she had–not even Shek. He could not lose her. Find someone new, he told himself. It was the only way out–to keep his connection to Helen but also quite the raging desire within him for sex as well as love.

Tim thought of April, the teenage girl from the movie theater. She was young, but for the first time, Tim imagined something happening between them. When he had seen her earlier that day, seeing her like it was the first time, he had only thought how he attractive she was, and it had surprised him, because he thought that if she was so attractive, he would have realized it the first time he saw her. It had not occurred to him to desire her. But why not? She was younger, but that added a certain spice. It would be a bold leap for him, and perhaps, it made sense, that as inexperienced as he was, that he should be with someone more on his level. The women his own age, they knew too much; they would laugh at him if they knew the truth.

Tim almost mentioned April to Helen, to see if Helen thought she was too young. He was eager to let her know that he was making progress, hoping it might please her since she had been quiet these past few minutes, and in Tim’s experience quiet between people could only mean trouble. However, he saw his street approaching his street, and instead Tim told her to turn right and pointed to the house, which was half a block from Church.

1989 A Novel: Tim walks back to Holly Street

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 20:31:41 -0800

The shift drew to a close, and Tim watched April and August out of the corner of his eye, wondering where they would be going after work. He knew they wouldn’t be going home. Girls like them never had nothing fun to do and just went home. They always had a plan.

He wiped the counters between the left-hand drink machine and the cashier’s station. They didn’t get much use, and were in fact completely clean, but it gave him an excuse to get closer to April and August. He heard April tell Caleb to meet her and August at Cafe Nightingale, and that she could stay out late because her mom was working the night shift at the hospital.

Tim went upstairs and changed out of his work clothes. When he came back down, April and August were still sitting on the bench, talking intently. As he passed he heard August utter a short shriek of laughter and say “Oh my God that’s so gross.”

“I know,” April said. “It’s fucked. I shouldn’t have to hear that.”

Tim didn’t hear anything after that as he walked out of the theater’s front doors. He wondered what April shouldn’t have to hear, and wished he were her confidante and could learn her secrets. He would have liked to linger at the theater, but he had told Helen he would be back at Holly Street by 6:30. After making her give up her plans with Todd to drive him, he didn’t want to inconvenience her by being late.

Tim walked back across the mall, crowded with tourists who had come to shop and snack after spending the day at the beach–countless children in fluorescent orange, lime green and blue shirts, eating ice cream and bickering. Tim decided to walk down Cherry Street instead. Cherry Street ran parallel to the mall, but was much quieter, with fewer businesses.

After a few blocks he saw Café Nightingale on his left. People were sitting and drinking coffee in the golden light of evening, the off-white trim of the house lit orange. He looked for Caleb, August and April, but didn’t see them on the deck or porch, wondering who they were meeting there. He walked on, eager to get back to Holly Street, retrieve his stuff and move into his new home.

As he walked along Church, he thought about their plans for that night. He was looking forward to partying out with Helen, Jessica and Alice but the fly in the ointment was that Todd was going to be there too.

Tim reminded himself that it wasn’t jealousy that made him dislike Todd, but everything Helen had told Tim about Todd and how he treated her. He wasn’t very considerate of her, in bed or anywhere else. Tim recited to himself the litany of complaints Helen had about Todd–which he had heard her tell him many times–he came too fast, he didn’t use a condom, he wanted her to go down on him but didn’t reciprocate. Furthermore, he didn’t help her buy birth control, forcing her to shoplift contraceptives from 7-Eleven.

He felt anger burning through him, and his heart started to pound like it had the night before. Was it possible for someone to feel so much rage and despair that their body not able to hold it all in anymore, tore itself apart? Was that what had been happening to him the night before?

Tim took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, felt the mild breeze blowing in from the ocean. The smell of salt and seaweed in his nose filled the back of his nose. He opened his eyes and saw that he had reached Redwood. He saw there was a gap in traffic in both directions, so he scurried across.

What was it that made Helen want Todd? Tim wanted to understand. He wanted to understand why Todd treated Helen so badly and why she put up with it. Tim could not imagine someone who, having had the chance to have sex with Helen, wouldn’t do everything they could to make her happy. Todd, though, just seemed to regard Helen’s attraction to him as his birthright, as his natural entitlement for being who he was. Tim could never imagine having the confidence to expect good things to happen to him. Good things only happened to him when he had earned them, and even then, they usually didn’t. As much as he was hoping that when he came in, Helen would tearfully confess to him that she and Todd has broken up

1989 A Novel: Tim and Caleb go to get coffee

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 20:28:07 -0800

Tim sold what he thought would be the last customer of the rush a small popcorn and soda, received exact change and dropped the two quarters in the drawer with a clink, looked towards the front door and saw that it was. He did a cursory cleanup of the snack bar, refilled his courtesy cup and popcorn box, and pulled his book out from the shelf below the drink machine.

A minute later, Caleb walked down the snack bar and slapped Tim on the back.

“Tim you're doing a great job!”

“Am I? Actually, all I'm doing is standing here, reading and eating popcorn.”

“But you're doing it so very well. I woke up this morning and said to myself, ‘Tim Page–there’s a young go-getter. That’s someone I need to get to know. ‘.” Caleb paused, and Tim, not quite sure how to take this, decided to smile and nod quickly, trying to indeed be the young go-getter that Caleb thought he was. “Have you taken your break?” Caleb asked.

Tim shook his head.

“Come on,” Caleb said. “Let's get some coffee.”

Caleb whirled to leave, but then looked back to see if Tim was coming. Several thoughts went through Tim’s mind. One, he liked coffee. Two, Caleb was a freak and Tim wasn’t sure exactly what was up with them. However, he realized that despite his seeming dorkinesss, he was a friend of April’s. He nodded and put his book on an empty shelf below the counter. He took off his vest, wrapped it up and placed it next to his book.

“Let’s go,” Caleb announced, and sped off through the double front doors. Tim followed him out of the theater and to the right, breaking into a trot to catch up with Caleb. The Santa Zita Movies I & II was located in a small, quiet mall named the Galleria. Built in the same basic color scheme as the Movies I & II, brown and beige with blue accents, the Galleria had a rounder, more modern feel, with curved stairways and no sharp edges to its walls. The Movies I & II and the Galleria occupied a space between Bay Street and the San Christobal River. According to a small bronze plaque on a wall near the entrance to the Galleria, it had once been the site of Santa Zita’s Chinatown.

“It's amazing how much money TransPacific makes. Every day, tens of thousands of dollars-in our movie theater alone.”

“Yeah...” Tim said. “They seem to do okay.”

“I’m sure they make a healthy profit,” Caleb said. “I mean, they own almost every theater in Santa Zita county.”

Tim wondered why Caleb was bringing up the subject of TransPacific’s financial health. Now that they were out of the theater, Caleb’s words were measured and conversation, with an undertone of conspiracy.

“That’s true,” Tim said. “Except for the Dimaleum and the Water–”

“Which don’t show any major films,” Caleb cut him off. “Almost a monopoly, you might say.”

“You might.”

“If you have a monopoly, then you can charge more than you could otherwise.”

“That’s basic economic theory.”

“You said your dad was a business professor,” Caleb said.

“He is,” Tim said, surprised that Caleb remembered this, which he had only mentioned in passing during his first night of work.

“So, I think he would agree, that they’re actually taking more money from the local economy than they really deserve.”

Tim slowly nodded. He wasn’t sure that his dad would actually agree, suspecting that his father would find some extenuating circumstances or permutation of theory that would state the ticket prices they were paying were the best possible deal they could get in this, the best of all possible worlds.

“Very interesting,” Caleb said. He looked significantly at Tim, who knew that Caleb wanted him to interpret what he was saying and reach some conclusion. But Tim didn’t feel like doing that, so he just looked back at Caleb blankly. Caleb shrugged and said no more as they reached Bay Street.

The traffic light turned to walk and Tim followed Caleb across Front. They walked into the shadow of the Miller House, a large Victorian mansion that had been remodeled to house several shops and a patio restaurant. The crenellations of its roof made a blocky zig-zag of the shadow’s edge in the middle of the street. Tim looked down into the toy store located in the Miller House’s basement, and wondered if that was where Darren had purchased his comic books.

They turned the corner onto the mall itself. As they passed The Hat Company, a bearded homeless man jingled a cup of change and said “it’s here, it’s here” repeatedly. As Tim and Caleb went by, he called out “spare change for bus fare?” and held up a cardboard sign saying “Destination: anywhere but here.” To Tim’s surprise, Caleb stopped and took a crumpled dollar bill from his jacket pocket and put it in his cup.

“Thanks, man,” the bearded man said, and returned to saying “it’s here”. Tim looked at Caleb, surprised. Caleb didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would give spare change to a homeless man, let alone a whole dollar.

Once they were inside the coffee shop, Caleb ordered large coffees for both of them. When Tim tried to pay for his, Caleb waved his dollar bill away and paid for both himself, pulling more crumpled dollar bills from his jacket.

“Thanks,” Tim said, as they proceeded to the cream and sugar station.

“Don’t mention it,” Caleb replied. “It's the least I can do.”

Caleb liked his coffee the way Tim did-loaded with cream and sugar. After that, though, Caleb took a straw and punched it through the coffee lid before placing the lid carefully over the top of the cup.

“Use a straw,” Caleb said, and handed one to Tim, who copied Caleb’s motion exactly. As Tim followed Caleb back through the Bookshop Santa Zita to the mall, Caleb said, “Really, Caleb said, coffee is really best appreciated as a desert. Thus, it should be drunk with a straw.”

“Makes it taste hotter, too,” Tim said. “I like that.”

“Exactly. So, we were discussing the TransPacific Corporation's relationship to the community.”

“We were,” Tim said.

“If some members of that community, were to engage in some redistribution, some wealth redistribution... you wouldn't object?”

Tim spread his hands apart, slowly so he wouldn't spill any coffee, raising his shoulders slightly at the same time. Caleb raised his eyebrows, but Tim said nothing. Caleb nodded and took a large sip of coffee. Tim watched the beige liquid shoot quickly up the straw, and was tempted to ask Caleb what was really going on, but something held him back.

When they entered the lobby of the Movies I & II, Tim saw Pete, now wearing a dark blue sports jacket, standing by the snack bar, talking to Darren and holding one of his comic books. August and April were sitting on the lobby bench, giggling together. When Pete saw them entering, he put the comic book down and zoomed over to the entrance.

“Caleb,” Pete said, “there you are. It doesn’t look like Bob is going to stop by here today, so I'm going to go home for a while. Can you handle everything?”

Behind Pete, Tim saw August and April exchange smiles. August licked her lips.

“Of course,” Caleb said. “Leave it all to me.”

“Thank you much, Caleb. I’ll be back around six. Bye everyone,” Pete said, and ambled out.

As soon as Pete rounded the corner, Caleb clapped his hands together. “Okay, gang,” Caleb said to them. “We have lots of work to do. Darren-“

“Yeah?” said Darren from halfway down the snack bar.

“I think Pete may need to order more drink cups. Can you count the stores in back?”

“Sure,” Darren said, but finished the page he was reading before putting the issue of Batman back in its slipcover. He disappeared into the back room.

“I’ll refill the napkins,” Tim volunteered.

“Great,” Caleb said, without bothering to look in Tim’s direction. As he stuffed wads of napkins into the metal dispensers, he glanced back at the cashier's position. He saw Caleb flip up the metal plates on the counter, exposing the rolls of tickets beneath. Caleb quickly made a series of notes, and closed the plates. From behind him, Tim could hear Darren counting by fives.

Caleb exited the snack bar and went over to August and April. Tim couldn’t hear what Caleb was saying to them, but August responded in a louder voice.

“Fine,” August said. “We’ll do it your way.” August came back to the cashier's position and grabbed her vest from the shelf to her right.

A few minutes later the first customers started entering for the 5:15 showing of Ghostbusters II. As Tim served out colas, popcorns, candy and the infrequent hot dog, he glanced to the front every so often. While he was pouring a large Sprite, he noticed something odd. August sold some tickets, but didn't press the buttons in front of her to eject them to the customer. Instead, she reached among the buttons and withdrew two tickets. As she did, another ticket came loose and dropped to the ground, fluttering like a leaf falling from a tree on a windless day. August saw the ticket fall and started to reach down, but then she saw Tim, so she stopped. He was tempted to help her, to pick the ticket up off the ground, but he didn't. Something was going on, something to do with the conversation he’d just had with Caleb, but it didn’t seem like something Tim wanted to be involved with, yet.

1989 A Novel: Tim overhears a mysterious conversation between his co-workers

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 20:18:43 -0800

Tim saw Caleb, the assistant manager that day, come down the stairs that led to the theater’s second floor. He strode over and stopped in front of the candy case, sweeping his hand over his hair and making the spikes stand straight up. He was dressed in a powder-blue sports jacket, a shade of blue that Tim had only seem in one other place, the counters of his grandparents’ kitchen in Iowa City. When he reached the snack bar, he swept his arms forward and his hands met in a loud clap.

“Okay,” Caleb said. “How’s it going back here?” Before Tim had a chance to say anything Caleb was already saying more. “The counters,” and Caleb ran his finger over the glass, “are clean. Very clean. I almost feel like eating off of them. But I won’t,” and the words came out so quickly they sounded like an ejaculation.

“Yeah,” Tim said. “W e washed them.”

“Brilliant. Cups are restocked, candy straightened, popcorn made. You guys make a great team.”

Tim nodded, accepting Caleb’s praise. He hadn’t done anything outside of the normal routine. His praise made Tim feel uncomfortable. For the first time, he wondered how serious Caleb was. Like maybe it was some kind of inside joke that Tim wasn’t a part of. Tim glanced at Darren, but seemed to be taking it at face value, smiling and bobbing his head.

Without saying anything more, Caleb turned and walked quickly to the end of the snack bar. Tim watched, wondering if Caleb would try to manage August and April the same way. He didn’t. Instead, he began talking to them quietly. August sat in the cashier’s stool, rotating herself every few seconds, while Caleb and April leaned against the counter.

Tim pulled out the sports section that he had retrieved from one of the lobby benches earlier. He only pretended to read, as listened to Caleb, August and April’s murmuring, hoping for a conversational opening that would allow him to join them.

He wasn’t able to discern much, but he did manage to end of Caleb’s next sentence: “–but only ten.”

“Why only ten?” August said, in a louder voice.

Caleb shushed her, and at the same time turned his head and looked down the snack bar. His eyes met Tim's. Tim shrugged and returned his attention to the baseball standings, after which Caleb said something in a lower voice that was inaudible to Tim.

“Caleb!” came the voice of Pete from above. Caleb, August and April’s conversation ceased.

The Santa Zita Movies I & II manager’s office was located above the men and women’s bathroom on the Theater I side. The office had a large open window in it that looked over the lobby. Pete leaned on the gold railing and Caleb pointed up to him.

“No, I’ll come down,” Pete said, and left the railing. A moment later, he appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Caleb left the end of the snack bar and strode over to meet him halfway. Pete stopped and scratched his forehead right under the curly black hairs. He fingered the knot of the black, green and white tie he had worn that day.

“I forgot what I was going to say,” Pete said, smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He ambled over the snack bar and took lid of the one of the straw dispensers.

“So, Pete, why so dressed up today?” Darren asked Pete.

“That’s right!” Pete said, shutting the dispenser and turning back to Caleb. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. All day, I’ve had the strangest feeling that Bob Burrows might pop by. It would be just like him to show up out the blue.”

Caleb nodded and said in a low voice, “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Who’s Bob Burrows?” Tim asked Darren quietly.

“Oh, he’s the regional VP for Santa Zita County. No one ever sees him. I’ve never seen him, and I’ve worked here for two years. But from what I’ve heard, sometimes he visits theaters without warning, and if they’re not in good shape, the manager gets in deep doodoo.”

“So, gang, let’s make sure everything’s ship-shape, just in case.” Pete glanced around the lobby, opened his mouth, closed it and scratched his forehead again. “And April,” Pete finally said, “You might want to polish the brass, too.”

“Sure, Pete, I'll do that after my break,” April said. She retreated from the tip of the snack bar and sat down on the couch between the two potted Ficus trees. Tim caught her eye, smiled and nodded at her, as if in approval. She smiled back uncertainly, before looking away and staring at the space in front of her.

1989 A Novel: Tim first notices April

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 20:16:04 -0800

“Maybe the movie sucks so bad that the parents are buying their kids candy to make up for it.”

Tim wiped the counter with a paper towel as he listened to Darren’s theory on why they had sold so much candy that day. To their chagrin, they had discovered that they had to restock after the first rush. The candy counter usually had to be restocked only once a shift, if that. Today, though, despite it being fully stocked when the shift had begun, it was down to three or four of all but the most unappealing and expensive offering, the three dollar and fifty cent dark chocolate and orange fruit liqueur bars.

“Yeah, but, most of the candy was bought before they went in the movie. And if they know the movie sucked already, why do they go?”

“Good point,” Darren said. “Maybe there’s nothing better for them to do.”

“It’s a beautiful day,” Tim said. “They could have gone to the beach.” Briefly, Tim wondered if Helen and everybody else had arrived at the beach yet. Now that he was inside, the beach seemed more attractive, except the sun was too bright. He didn’t like the sun as much as his friends–it hurt his eyes, and because of his glasses, he couldn’t wear shades like everyone else.

“Maybe that’s it,” Darren said. “It’s hot today. People like to eat a lot of candy when they’re hot.”

“They do? I don’t think so. They like to eat ice cream.”

“So why didn’t we sell a lot of ice cream?”

“Because it costs three dollars and fifty cents,” Tim said. “For something that costs a dollar at 7-Eleven. Which could be said of everything we sell, but for some reason, it seems more obvious with the ice cream.” Tim was making all of this up as he went along, but since Darren was listening with such rapt attention, he felt obligated to keep going. “The candy, at least, is sold in different sizes than you usually see. The ice cream bars, though, are exactly the same what they could get anywhere.”

“I can see that,” Darren said. “But we still haven’t solved the greater mystery.”

Tim wadded up the paper towel and tossed it in the garbage can next to the door to the store room.

“There were a lot of kids, today,” Tim said. “That’s the reason.”

“Why so many kids, though?”

“School’s out,” Tim said. “For summer,” he added. He knew because the Movies I & II had just switched to their summer schedule, when they had matinee showings seven days a week, instead of just on weekends and holidays. Pete had explained this to him when he told Tim he didn’t want him to start working until the schedule switched.

“Yeah,” Darren said. “Todd and April just finished their year.” He seemed to realize something, and stopped wiping the counter. “Man,” he continued. “That means it’s been a whole year since I graduated. Doesn’t seem that long,” he added, more to himself than Todd. He shrugged and took a handful of popcorn from the rectangular cardboard box in front of him. “I’ll bet you’re right. All those parents, rewarding their kids for getting good grades this year.”

“Or just surviving it,” Tim said.

Based on what Darren had just said, both Todd and April must have been high school students, most likely at Santa Zita High, which was located on the other side of Redwood from Holly Street. He had worked with Todd his first shift the previous Wednesday. He was a brash, friendly youth with a geometric buzz cut and muscular frame. In between shifts he sat in the cashier’s stool and listened to rap music on a portable CD player at what must have been ear-splitting volume, considering that Tim had been able to hear the thud of the bass all the way at the other end of the snack bar.

April, on the other hand, he had not yet met. Today was the first time Tim had worked with her. When she had come in, Tim had only gotten a quick glance since he had already started working, restocking the stacks of popcorn and drink cups, something the shift the night before should have done but hadn’t. He’d only had a vague impression of a girl about Helen’s height, potentially cute.

Tim looked down the snack bar, but his view of April was blocked by the drink machine and poster stand. Seized with a desire to see what she looked like, Tim grabbed the spray bottle and leaned over the counter. While shooting blue cleaning fluid on the outer surface of the candy case, he peered to his left. April’s attention was focused on August, and Tim took the opportunity to admire her without her seeing. He liked the way she leaned over the counter and brushed a black strand of hair behind her ear as August whispered to her. Somehow she managed to make even in the black polyester pants and green-lined black vest of the TransPacific uniform look good. As he watched, she stood straight, then arched her back. Her vest parted and Tim saw the curve of her breasts through her white work shirt. She brought her arms up, clasping her hands behind her head and stretching, like a cobra spreading its hood, ready to strike.

Tim realized she was cute. But not just cute–she had an air of cool self-possession that made him want to be friends with her, and be part of her world. Some part of him pointed out that this girl might be too young for him, but he didn’t care. He could tell from the way she carried herself that she was old enough in every way that mattered.

1989 A Novel: Morning at Holly Street

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 15:42:19 -0800

Tim heard voices coming from the kitchen. He opened his eyes, then shut them since the living room was way too bright. He felt woozy, and small pains prickled around his eye sockets. He felt hung over, but he hadn’t had that much to drink the night before. He was just tired. As he became more awake, he remembered that his sleep had been interrupted the night before, how it had been interrupted, and that made him open his eyes again. He blinked several times until his eyes grew accustomed the light coming from the window. After a few seconds, he could see blue through the glass, along with some a ragged edge of white. He was happy to see that the sun was burning the fog away. He never liked waking up in Santa Zita when it was foggy.

Tim listened more carefully to the voices in the kitchen, trying to figure out who was awake. He recognized Helen and Alice’s voices. Tim struggled out of his sleeping bag, which was now too hot as the rising sun blazed through the window and heated the house. As he sat up straight, his back cracked. He felt sore and depleted. Once he was halfway out, he sat up and took a deep breath. He gathered up his CD player and put it in one of the boxes next to him, not wanting it to get stepped on. He was hungry, and wondered what he should do for breakfast. He guessed it was about ten in the morning. He had to be at work at 11:45.

Helen came out of the kitchen, carrying two glasses of orange juice.

“Good morning!” she called out to him.

“Hey,” Tim said. He got his legs out of the sleeping bag and stood up.

“How’d you sleep?” Helen asked.

“Fine,” he said, keeping his eyes down, afraid that his embarrassment might betray his memory of what he had heard the night before.

“Here,” she said, handing him a glass of orange juice.

“Oh, thanks.”

“Come in and talk to us,” Helen said. Tim followed her into her bedroom, torn between a desire to be with Helen and a desire not to be with her and Todd. Inside, Todd was sitting up in bed, shirtless and scratching his thick chest hair.

“Hey, Tim,” Jessica said. She sat cross-legged on the floor, the highlights in her brown hair shining in the sunlight. As Tim returned her greeting, he was struck by the notion that Helen and Todd were Queen and King, and Jessica and Alice were Helen’s ladies in waiting. What did that make him? A trusted advisor, knight errant? More likely, the jester.

Helen bent over and kissed Todd on the cheek. She handed him a glass of orange juice, set her own glass on the window sill and raised a corner of the bedspread. Once she was back in bed with him, Todd put his arm around him and demanded a more serious kiss.

Tim flushed and lowered his gaze, feeling aroused and wanting a woman, a woman like Helen, but even better, Helen herself, giving him that kind of attention. He felt a surge of the desire and despair he had felt the night before but he remembered his vow and steadied himself.

Helen broke off the kiss and smiled at the rest of them apologetically. “Anyway,” Helen said. “What should we do today?”

No one said anything. Jessica shrugged and Todd continued to stroke Helen’s thigh.

“We could stay at home and stare at the wall,” Tim said. “That’s always fun”.

“Tim, that’s silly,” Jessica said.

“Actually,” Tim said in a more normal tone, “I have to work.”

“Oh,” Jessica said. “Too bad.”

“You should just shine and come to the beach with us,” Helen said.

“I’d love to, but…” Tim jerked his hands towards the ceiling, indicating that he was at the mercy of celestial powers beyond his control. He was actually looking forward to work–it was something new, with potential. If he had spent the day with his friends, he had a pretty good idea of what it would be like–joking with Jessica, listening to Helen and Todd bicker. While the movie theater was a tabula rasa, and who knows what it might lead to?

Tim sipped his orange juice. He didn’t really the canned stuff-too sour. He still drank it, though. Helen had given it to him, and he didn’t want her to think he didn’t like it. He felt awkward to be in the same room with them with Todd’s shirt off, and Helen back in bed next to him. Todd’s hand was on the ridge her leg made under the comforter. As Helen and Jessica started talking about what beach they should go to, Tim retreated back into the living room and looked at his stuff in the corner.

Although he had liked the idea of crashing at Holly Street, Tim was happy that today he was going to move into his summer sublet. He was sore from sleeping on the floor, and as the night before had proved, there were other disadvantages to being at Holly Street. He longed to be able to set up his computer again, and his stereo, and have a place to work.

In Helen’s room, Tim heard Alice ask them what they were going to do that night. Not wanting to miss out on any potential plan-making, he went back in Helen’s room.

“There’s a party tonight,” Todd said. He went on to say that his friends John and Willoughby were hosting it.

“Right on,” Helen said, though Tim noticed her and Jessica exchanging glances.

“I thought we could go to Schooner Jack’s, watch the sunset,” Todd said, this time just to Helen. Schooner Jack’s was a restaurant and bar on the wharf. Tim remembered that Helen had promised to drive his stuff over to his new place. He almost didn’t say anything. But Helen had said she would, and he didn’t like the idea of Todd making a plan with her that pre-empted the rest of them. Who was Todd to monopolize Helen?

“Oh,” Tim said, and both Helen and Todd turned in my direction.

“What?” Helen asked Tim. “Is something wrong?”

“I thought you were going give me a ride over, to my new place,” Tim said.

“Oh yeah,” Helen said. “I forgot. Sorry, sweetie,” Helen said to Todd, and pecked him on the cheek again. “Some other time.”

“Sure,” Todd said, and looked out the window. Tim nodded to them, not wanting to hint at his inner satisfaction. At the same time, he was aware of how meaningless it really was–that just because they weren’t going to watch the sunset together didn’t mean that they weren’t going to spend the rest of the evening together, and sleep in the same bed that night. And have sex, again. And again.

Just then, then beige Princess phone by Jessica’s feet rang. She picked it up, listened, and handed it to Helen. “It’s for you,” Jessica said.

“Hello,” Helen said. “Oh, hi, Dave,” she said, and wiggled around in the bed so she was sitting up straighter, at the same time moving slightly away from Todd. He stopped caressing her and leaned back, yawning. Jessica got up and left the room, and Tim realized he needed to shower. He heard Helen telling David about their plans for the day, and the party that night.

When Tim got out of the shower, the door to Helen’s room was now partially closed, and he could hear the sound of Todd’s voice, sounding irritated. As much as Tim wanted to know what was going to happen, he didn’t want to eavesdrop and anyway, he needed to leave if he was going to get some food before work. After making sure no one else needed to use the bathroom, he showered and put on his work clothes. Tim left the apartment and walked down the outside steps to the sidewalk.

When he reached the bottom, he saw one of the street’s many cats rolling around on the sidewalk, a young looking calico. He said hi to her, and wondered if she had been one of the cats who had been fighting the night before. If so, she didn’t seem to have suffered any ill effects; instead, she seemed quite excited by Tim’s presence and meowed as she rolled around on the cracked pavement.

He reached down and let the cat sniff the back of his hand, then rubbed the top of her head, which was quite hard, since her fur was short and she was slender. She began emitting a loud purr, but after a few seconds, the petting seemed too much for her, and she got up and bolted into the bushes. He wondered who the cat belonged to. Holly Street was full of cats, and Tim wasn’t sure if they were pets, strays or somewhere in between.

Tim set out for the Movies I & II. He took a deep breath of air, and looked up at the now cloudless sky. An ocean breeze wafted by him, carrying with it the tang of sea salt and scent of flowers. He was glad he had decided to stay there for the summer, and amazed that it had worked out. He felt lucky but sort of nervous about it, like he had been given a gift he wasn’t expecting, and wasn’t sure he deserved.

1989 A Novel: The world wakes up

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 13:55:43 -0800

Seven miles away from where Timothy Dylan Page dozed, the Yaçoan natural springs started flowing for the first time in eighty-three years. Many miles below, a trillion-ton layer of rock slipped a few millimeters, allowing water to seep to the surface from the aquifer below the mountains.

Back on Holly Street, the cats outside on the sidewalk yowled again, but then stopped as they became aware of another presence. The cats stared at the darkness in front of them, as if they expected something might emerge at any moment, remaining still except for the twitching of their tails.

The fog, which had been hovering offshore for the past week, began to creep back over the city. As it did, its rumpled bottom brushed the top of the Orion rollercoaster. Soon, it covered downtown. The tops of the Pacific Coast Hotel and the Del Rio movie theater disappeared. Strands of the fogbank broke off and swirled around the buildings. A breeze from the ocean caught one strand and wrapped it around Eztel’s Department Store and Hermes Books. At the same time, another tendril moved further up the mall, past the Del Rio, Sunshine Records and the Miller House, as if it were searching for something, probing for weaknesses. White vaporous projections enveloped the Miller House and flowed past the brick wall standing over the Bookshop Santa Zita and Santa Zita Coffee Roasting Company.

As the fog possessed the city, embracing and becoming one with it, every living thing felt the change. Lovers wriggled closer to each other in their beds. The security guard in front of the Reactor realized he didn't want to be married any more and felt the urge to run down the center of Western Ave., yelling his revelation out to anyone who would listen. For the first time since his wedding, he felt free. New voices surfaced in the heads of the homeless lying on the benches of the Metro Center. The last bus for Bakersville left with no one on it but the driver, and she wondered if anyone would notice if she just drove to Ensenada instead. In the Silver Bullet, a drunken punch was thrown that never landed as the bartender shouted last call. Sleeping dogs shook themselves, put their noses under their paws and whimpered. In a box-like building by the river, a movie theater managed wandered through the empty aisles, thinking how much he liked being the last one to leave.

The people who lay awake couldn't stay still; they stretched, rolled over, got out of bed, and looked out the window at the tendrils of fog moving over the city. They felt their dry throats and thought about getting a drink of water, but something made them stay and keep looking at the fog covering the moonless sky.

In one house by the river, a thirty-eight-year-old woman couldn't get back to sleep. She woke up her boyfriend and they began making love, even though their door wasn't fully closed. On the other side of the house, a teenage girl listened, and put her pillow over her head. She remembered her father and decided to start writing in her diary again. She reached under her bed, lifted the loose floorboard and pulled out her diary, which she had not opened for more than a year. She read the last few entries, than stared for a long time at the first empty page after them, wishing her thoughts could appear there directly without her having to write them.

The hills to the south-east of the city twitched, and birds in the redwoods began trilling as if it were dawn. The earth around Yaçoan grew damp as the flow of water increased. A seismograph in the Natural Sciences building on the campus recorded the swarms of tiny quakes on the San Andreas fault. A graduate student working late on a computer program to analyze seismic activity heard the scratching of the needle. After looking at the red peaks and valleys, he decided to write a note but couldn’t find a pen. He was so tired that by the time he got back to his desk, he had already forgotten why he had gotten up.

The fog continued to spread, and now covered all of the downtown, Holly Street, the west side of the city and the University of California campus on the hill above the city. Tim slept now, and the dreams that flashed across his mind would not be ones he’d remember in the morning. The men and women who had woken in the city drifted back into sleep and their troubled dreams, while necessary, were not meant to be discussed or described in the light of day. When they woke in the morning, they would feel something had changed. While their city had slept, the world had woken up.

1989 A Novel: Tim is woken up by strange sounds

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 13:43:11 -0800

Tim Page awoke with a start, and wondered why. A second later, he knew, as he heard a series of yowls and hisses. Two cats were fighting outside the house. Involuntarily, he tensed in his sleeping bag, heart pounding. After a moment of silence, he heard a screech, followed by the sound of scampering in the bushes. The sounds of cats fighting in the night reminded him of lying awake as a child, worrying and wishing his cats were safe inside. When he was young, he could get up and let his cats in, or try to scare away the intruder cat, but now all he could do was listen and wonder if they were okay.

Tim closed his eyes and stretched his legs as far as they would go in his sleeping bag, trying to release the tension as his heart continued to thud. He laid his hands diagonally on his chest, right over left, and breathed deeply. He became aware of a new sound coming from the wall in front of him–a moan, followed by an answering grunt. After a moment, he realized he was hearing Helen and Todd having sex. Her bedroom lay on the other side of the wall in front of him, and the walls of her house were not very thick.

His heart began racing again. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, noticing how stained and cracked it was in the corner lit by the streetlamps outside. The moans and grunts continued, not quite as loud, but now that Tim was listening closely, he heard each one. The sounds from the bedroom had lessened for the past few minutes, but now grew, as the moans echoed each other, their rhythm seeming to mock Tim's efforts to slow and steady his breathing.

As Tim listened to Helen’s breaths get louder, his heart thundered irregularly. Sharp pains rippled in his chest, as if his heart were beating so hard it was straining its limits. For a second, Tim wondered if he could possibly be having a heart attack at age twenty. His armpits moistened and he felt them with his fingers, lifted them to his nose and smelled the sweat. He cursed himself for letting himself react this way to Helen and Todd, for being weak and vulnerable. He cursed Helen not loving him the way he loved her.

The sounds were loud enough now that Tim thought Jessica and Alice would even be able to hear them from their room. He decided that if he continued being forced to imagine Helen and Todd in his mind, he would go insane. Trying to think of something, anything, to distract himself, he remembered his portable CD player.

Tim reached for the headphones and jabbed the play button. After a few seconds, keyboards swelled in his earphones, a droning like the sun rising over an ancient desert. A wailing Arabic instrument rose above the drone, drowning out Helen’s cries. Tim lay back and shut his eyes. Now that he was listening to music, his heart rate subsided and he felt his body relax and lie flat on the floor. He felt drained, like he had woken from a nightmare.

Why was he always the one who ended up sleeping on the floor? As much as Tim hated to admit it, he was no less in love with Helen now than he had been when he had started hanging out with her freshman year. He had to do something to lessen the pain of loving her. He worried that if he didn’t, he might die or have a nervous breakdown. He would give anything to never have to feel the panic and desolation he had a few minutes before.

Tim realized had to find a new girl, and let Helen do what she would. As the music built to a crescendo, he felt his resolution growing. If she wanted to waste herself on Todd, so be it. Whatever happened, he resolved that the summer of 1989 would be his time. He swore to himself that he would make it happen, that he would will a new life for himself into being.

1989 A Novel: Tim and April walk to the liquor store

Wed, 05 Sep 2007 10:37:47 -0800

I took a deep breath as we exited the theater, enjoying the smell of growing things, so thick it was almost like eating pure quintessence of vegetable, like the freshest lettuce you could imagine.

"It's nice today," I said.

"It's too hot. I'm sweating."

"I'm sorry. I like hot weather. I think Santa Zita is too cold a lot of the time."

"Yeah, well then aren't you happy today."

"I am. Aren't you?"

"No!"

"What's up?""

"Nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. My ex-boyfriend is in town. Back in town."

"Really?" Almost as if a shadow had passed in front of the sun, I felt a threat growing, like looming shadow.

"Who's that?"

"Just this guy. And I don't know if he was ever really my boyfriend. So forget I said anything."

"Okay," I said, and chuckled. Not meanly, it was just funny to me.

"What's so funny?" she said.

"Nothing. Life. So, are you going to see him?"

"I don't know. I hope not. Why, do you think I should?"

"Do you want to? Seems like you don't."

"Yeah, but what does what I want have to do with whether it's a good idea."

"Well, how else would you know if it was really the thing you wanted. If it feels good, that's how you know. What feels right."

"Lots of things feel good but aren't a smart thing to do. Just look at my mom."

"My parents are economists," I said. "The free market depends on people doing what they want, and eventually, it all shakes out. You want something enough, you pay for it, a company makes it, they get your money, successful things flourish, unsuccessful ones don't. Following their needs and wants, getting what they can. There's a free market of love, I guess. If enough people do what they want, it works out in the end."

"Capitalist," she said as we reached the liquor store.