Tim and Shek late at night
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.”
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.”
Works
Recent Writing
- 1989 A Novel: Tim and Shek late at night
- 1989 A Novel: Tim's father picks him up at the Greyhound station
- 1989 A Novel: Tim rides the Greyhound bus over route 27
- 1989 A Novel: Tim talks to Jessica at the surfer party
- 1989 A Novel: Tim, Helen and Jessica go to a surfer party