Michael in the dark wood
The sun had set, but the moon would not rise for three hours. Michael Sullivan walked to the window and stared out to the dark wood outside. He lived in the uppermost floor of a college dormitory which stood six stories tall, holding back the forest like a dark green sea behind.
A layer of fog had moved in from the ocean and hidden the stars from the university campus on the hill, of which Michael's dormitory was a part. He retreated from the view, back to his desk. He sat and read back what he had written minutes before:
Michael didn't know what the novel was to be about, exactly. He wanted his novel to make her able to understand him. How could he write the novel so she would comprehend his feelings?
Unable to answer that question, Michael rose again and looked at his calendar. He saw that it was the middle day of the middle week of the middle quarter of his first year at college, and he had still never gotten drunk, never had a group of friends and never kissed a girl.
He had seen all three of these things happening around him in the dorm he lived in at the University of California, Santa Zita. The day he and the other freshman had moved in, they had started drinking, partying, hanging out, but not with him. Somehow, by the way he looked and acted, they had seen he didn't fit in, and their new life had begun without him.
Michael attended classes, wrote papers, ate at the dining hall, but except for occasional brief conversations with his floor mates, he had no social life. Not that they were unfriendly to him. They just had a way of speaking and moving around him that told Michael he was not a part of their world.
Time had passed quickly. Already halfway through winter quarter. Halfway! And he was no closer to doing any of the things that his hall-mates took for granted, that they had been doing since high school, or even before. And worse, he saw no way out of the rut he was in. None of the cheerful pamphlets the university administration had handed out to them mentioned how to be accepted, how to find out where the parties are and how to show up at them and be welcomed.
Michael looked again at his calendar, marking the day with a finger: Wednesday, the middle of the month, the middle of February, the middle of winter quarter-Valentine's Day, which on Michael's calendar was marked by a puffy red heart.
That morning, the two girls who lived down the hall that Michael thought were the prettiest and popular girls on his floor, Amy Mulligan and Sara Kestler, had both gotten baskets of flowers. After dinner, through some communications network that Michael was not plugged into, it had become known that the dorm was going to party that night. In his journey to and from the library that night, he had seen groups of freshmen roaming from floor to floor, carrying beers and laughing, with their arms around each other and holding hands. It was an eventful Valentine's Day, but not for him.
Standing and pushing the chair away with the backs of his knees, Michael looked out the window. Because it was dark out and the room light was on, he saw nothing but his own reflection. Two dark, serious eyes looked back at him, under dark brown mop-like hair that he had never figured out how to get cut.
Down the hall, Michael heard shouts and excited laughter. Music throbbed through the walls. One of the guys on the hall had a stereo so powerful that when he played it full blast, every wall on the floor vibrated, even all the way at the other end in Michael's room. Michael resented the noise because it made it difficult to study, but he didn't want it to sleep. He just wanted to be able to enjoy it like everyone else did. He would never call the night proctor and complain.
More laughter erupted. Doors slammed open. The music stopped. The noise of people increased for a moment, then started to move away. A minute later, all was quiet. Michael wondered why they had suddenly left.
Curious, he left his room and walked down the hall. He saw the wreckage left behind: bottles, cans and plastic cups of red, pink and green liquid lined against the wall. All the doors were shut. Michael wandered out of the hall into the space between his floor and the next, a space next to the stairwell open to the night air. He stopped when he saw a couple embracing in the shadows. Michael watched for a moment, seeing that it was Amy. He realized what he was doing and fled back in the hall.
When he returned to his room, Michael sniffed the air and decided that the room was too warm. He slid the window open and felt the outside air instantly, misty cold. Michael's room was on the side of the dorm facing the forest, away from the rest of the university.
Michael looked deep into the woods, at branches, needles and trunks going back until they merged into one indistinguishable mass of dark rumpled shapes. The trees grew close to one another, and clawed desperately towards the sky to gain the sunlight they need to nourish themselves. Michael looked down at the trees' offspring, tiny saplings which had little chance to become mature trees because their parents blocked the light and rain.
Leaning over the window sill, he stared down at the hard, grey pavement five stories below-surely a fatal fall. He wanted to meet someone, someone beautiful, attractive and accepted, someone who had better things to do than stand alone in a dorm room and study the trees. He had watched Amy Mulligan earlier in the year, and as much as he could, learned about her life-the music and movies she liked, the people who were her close friends and the ones she just hung out with, the classes she took.
But beyond what he heard on her stereo, the things she put up on her door, and the things he overheard while he walked by, it was hard to learn much and doing it made Michael feel even worse. People who were accepted didn't skulk around the hall, trying to overhear conversations and peeping in rooms. It was just that Amy seemed so cool, so fun to be with. Michael had thought of her as the most attractive girl he had seen at UCSZ, until the start of winter quarter.
Comparative literature was one of the majors he was considering, along with philosophy and classics. So Michael had decided to take Intro to American Lit. During the second lecture of the class, he had to choose which section he would be in. The professor wrote the TAs' names on the board. He chose Helen Zachary's because he liked the sound of her name, especially the 'Z' which the professor had written in big, bold strokes on the chalkboard, so that the rest of her name and the other section leaders' appeared to be a mass of indistinct squiggles around the three slashes.
His first section with Helen was on Friday of that week. To his surprise, Helen Zachary did not, like most of his TAs at UCSZ, seem much older than he was, and she wasn't: as she said during their first section, she was only a junior and still remembered what it was like to be taking lower division classes.
From that point, Helen had replaced Amy as the girl Michael dreamed that he would be with someday. She was intelligent, beautiful and sophisticated, and she had a sense of humor. Michael wanted to make Helen know about him; just talk to her. Although he loved her, he couldn't imagine asking her out on a date, or kissing her. He just wanted her to let him into her world so he could know what it was like.
Michael shivered. He slid the window to just a crack and went to lie on his bed. A glance at his digital clock showed that it was 12:01. His roommate, Andy, was still gone and might not be back all night. Andy was very involved with the dorm's social life, and even had a girlfriend, which was where Michael assumed he spent most of his nights. Michael couldn't imagine that kind of freedom-not having to study, being able to sleep with someone, partying all the time, no responsibilities. This was the only time of life you could live like that, and he was missing it.
Thinking about Andy being able to spend every night with his girlfriend aroused Michael. He thought about Helen. He reached into his underwear and felt his erection. He breathed deeply and withdrew his hand. He just wanted to sleep and forget.
A layer of fog had moved in from the ocean and hidden the stars from the university campus on the hill, of which Michael's dormitory was a part. He retreated from the view, back to his desk. He sat and read back what he had written minutes before:
Without a clear conception of the proper path, Roger felt himself lost. Although Roger did not know which way to go, he did realize his lack of direction. If he had the failing of being unsure of the proper course; at least he knew of his shortcomings, unlike the great number of his fellows for whom ignorance was a welcome bliss.That was where he had stopped typing. Michael felt he was lost in his own words. The words on the page were for Helen Zachary, for the novel he intended to write for her. Helen Zachary was Michael's TA in his Introduction to American Fiction class, and he was very much in love with her.
Michael didn't know what the novel was to be about, exactly. He wanted his novel to make her able to understand him. How could he write the novel so she would comprehend his feelings?
Unable to answer that question, Michael rose again and looked at his calendar. He saw that it was the middle day of the middle week of the middle quarter of his first year at college, and he had still never gotten drunk, never had a group of friends and never kissed a girl.
He had seen all three of these things happening around him in the dorm he lived in at the University of California, Santa Zita. The day he and the other freshman had moved in, they had started drinking, partying, hanging out, but not with him. Somehow, by the way he looked and acted, they had seen he didn't fit in, and their new life had begun without him.
Michael attended classes, wrote papers, ate at the dining hall, but except for occasional brief conversations with his floor mates, he had no social life. Not that they were unfriendly to him. They just had a way of speaking and moving around him that told Michael he was not a part of their world.
Time had passed quickly. Already halfway through winter quarter. Halfway! And he was no closer to doing any of the things that his hall-mates took for granted, that they had been doing since high school, or even before. And worse, he saw no way out of the rut he was in. None of the cheerful pamphlets the university administration had handed out to them mentioned how to be accepted, how to find out where the parties are and how to show up at them and be welcomed.
Michael looked again at his calendar, marking the day with a finger: Wednesday, the middle of the month, the middle of February, the middle of winter quarter-Valentine's Day, which on Michael's calendar was marked by a puffy red heart.
That morning, the two girls who lived down the hall that Michael thought were the prettiest and popular girls on his floor, Amy Mulligan and Sara Kestler, had both gotten baskets of flowers. After dinner, through some communications network that Michael was not plugged into, it had become known that the dorm was going to party that night. In his journey to and from the library that night, he had seen groups of freshmen roaming from floor to floor, carrying beers and laughing, with their arms around each other and holding hands. It was an eventful Valentine's Day, but not for him.
Standing and pushing the chair away with the backs of his knees, Michael looked out the window. Because it was dark out and the room light was on, he saw nothing but his own reflection. Two dark, serious eyes looked back at him, under dark brown mop-like hair that he had never figured out how to get cut.
Down the hall, Michael heard shouts and excited laughter. Music throbbed through the walls. One of the guys on the hall had a stereo so powerful that when he played it full blast, every wall on the floor vibrated, even all the way at the other end in Michael's room. Michael resented the noise because it made it difficult to study, but he didn't want it to sleep. He just wanted to be able to enjoy it like everyone else did. He would never call the night proctor and complain.
More laughter erupted. Doors slammed open. The music stopped. The noise of people increased for a moment, then started to move away. A minute later, all was quiet. Michael wondered why they had suddenly left.
Curious, he left his room and walked down the hall. He saw the wreckage left behind: bottles, cans and plastic cups of red, pink and green liquid lined against the wall. All the doors were shut. Michael wandered out of the hall into the space between his floor and the next, a space next to the stairwell open to the night air. He stopped when he saw a couple embracing in the shadows. Michael watched for a moment, seeing that it was Amy. He realized what he was doing and fled back in the hall.
When he returned to his room, Michael sniffed the air and decided that the room was too warm. He slid the window open and felt the outside air instantly, misty cold. Michael's room was on the side of the dorm facing the forest, away from the rest of the university.
Michael looked deep into the woods, at branches, needles and trunks going back until they merged into one indistinguishable mass of dark rumpled shapes. The trees grew close to one another, and clawed desperately towards the sky to gain the sunlight they need to nourish themselves. Michael looked down at the trees' offspring, tiny saplings which had little chance to become mature trees because their parents blocked the light and rain.
Leaning over the window sill, he stared down at the hard, grey pavement five stories below-surely a fatal fall. He wanted to meet someone, someone beautiful, attractive and accepted, someone who had better things to do than stand alone in a dorm room and study the trees. He had watched Amy Mulligan earlier in the year, and as much as he could, learned about her life-the music and movies she liked, the people who were her close friends and the ones she just hung out with, the classes she took.
But beyond what he heard on her stereo, the things she put up on her door, and the things he overheard while he walked by, it was hard to learn much and doing it made Michael feel even worse. People who were accepted didn't skulk around the hall, trying to overhear conversations and peeping in rooms. It was just that Amy seemed so cool, so fun to be with. Michael had thought of her as the most attractive girl he had seen at UCSZ, until the start of winter quarter.
Comparative literature was one of the majors he was considering, along with philosophy and classics. So Michael had decided to take Intro to American Lit. During the second lecture of the class, he had to choose which section he would be in. The professor wrote the TAs' names on the board. He chose Helen Zachary's because he liked the sound of her name, especially the 'Z' which the professor had written in big, bold strokes on the chalkboard, so that the rest of her name and the other section leaders' appeared to be a mass of indistinct squiggles around the three slashes.
His first section with Helen was on Friday of that week. To his surprise, Helen Zachary did not, like most of his TAs at UCSZ, seem much older than he was, and she wasn't: as she said during their first section, she was only a junior and still remembered what it was like to be taking lower division classes.
From that point, Helen had replaced Amy as the girl Michael dreamed that he would be with someday. She was intelligent, beautiful and sophisticated, and she had a sense of humor. Michael wanted to make Helen know about him; just talk to her. Although he loved her, he couldn't imagine asking her out on a date, or kissing her. He just wanted her to let him into her world so he could know what it was like.
Michael shivered. He slid the window to just a crack and went to lie on his bed. A glance at his digital clock showed that it was 12:01. His roommate, Andy, was still gone and might not be back all night. Andy was very involved with the dorm's social life, and even had a girlfriend, which was where Michael assumed he spent most of his nights. Michael couldn't imagine that kind of freedom-not having to study, being able to sleep with someone, partying all the time, no responsibilities. This was the only time of life you could live like that, and he was missing it.
Thinking about Andy being able to spend every night with his girlfriend aroused Michael. He thought about Helen. He reached into his underwear and felt his erection. He breathed deeply and withdrew his hand. He just wanted to sleep and forget.
Works
Recent Writing
- Andy Warhol's Sister: Truth and Beauty
- Volume III: Table of Contents
- Volume III: Michael in the dark wood
- Notes For a Future Novel: Michael in the dark wood
- The Deep & Savage Way: Michael experiences doubt