Revised

Civilization    

I’m lying on a warm boulder. My motorcycle, a particularly old Honda specimen, sits resting on its kickstand beside. The weather has been immaculate all day; not a wisp of cloud has shown itself and the overlooks on Mount Cheaha were having their intended calming effect. Sometimes I came out here just to catch a breath. When things got a little intense it was nice having a place to go where the air was clean and the cell phone reception was bad. This time was a little different though. There wasn’t really anything in particular that was bothering me when I left. That was the problem; there wasn’t anything wrong, but there wasn’t anything right either. It was like I was living in an old folk’s home. They try to make every day seem different, a different menu, a different activity maybe, but the actuality of the repetition is numbing. The fluorescent bulbs; someone dies occasionally.

I had just moved into a different, yet equally shitty apartment before I decided to take off, before I decided that I was done being stagnant. I was still in the process of getting rid of all my things. What I hadn’t been able to sell immediately I left in my unlocked apartment. Thank God everything was still boxed, that would probably help it go faster. I was planning on putting a craigslist ad reading: “free shit” up next time we got somewhere with some wireless internet. However, I didn’t want to stop in civilization until we at least got through Chattanooga.

            My buddy Sam is parked next to my bike. He hasn’t uttered a word in a few hours, God bless him. This is the sort of retreat Sam is used to. He’s always had family money and he’s a rambler. Sam has always been a good drinking buddy but he’s become my best friend of late.  He knows I don’t want to talk, so we don’t. He’s never bought me anything besides the occasional drink until today when he bought me a helmet with a full visor. I had been bitching about eating bugs for a while. Maybe he got sick of it.

I’m belly down, spread eagle, looking sideways off my perch like some kind of despondent lizard. The boulder seems to be tentatively overlooking the expanse, like its standing on its tip toes to get a better view. Directly north, the distant pale hills look interesting from my prone perspective. Their faces have the blue-green stubble of pine and are intermittently scarred with the pockmarks of rock outcroppings. I readjust to alter my perspective, and Sam cranks his bike. I reluctantly roll over and slide slowly off the boulder, dropping next to my Honda. I’ll admit, we have been here too long. I crank it up and listen to the burble as I strap on my helmet and backpack. We had been sitting for a couple of hours, so we sit for a few minutes more while my old bike warms up. There’s something ethereal about the low rumble of a motorcycle idle in the absence of all other noise. I click my bike into gear and Sam deftly follows suit.  

“We need gas, you know.”

Ah, the brevity of real friendship.

After rolling off the mountain we eventually find a gas station. Gas stations don’t necessarily count as civilization. You get out of them what you put in. You can either go in, buy a few things and make nice with the cashier or you can easily pay at the pump and leave without seeing a soul. We didn’t really need gas immediately, but if we were making a straight shot through Chattanooga without stopping at another station we would need it. We both pull up to the pumps and begin the process of refueling. I swipe my card and get the message, “PLEASE SEE ATTENDANT.”  Sam’s transaction goes off without a hitch. Ugh, I guess this is civilization. I trudge towards the entrance and see the eyes of an attendant peeking through the window. He looks to be a pale young kid, probably not even twenty. The door jingles with bells as I cross the threshold. I hate that.

“You here to ride the mountain, huh?”  

Great, I have to answer questions.

“Yup,” I lied.

Apparently this mountain is a big destination for motorcyclists. What with its twisty roads and its recognition as being the highest point in Alabama, I could see why, but we were just passing through. After looking down for a moment, the pale kid spoke again.

“Well, your card’s been declined, sir. Do you have another card or something?”

I didn’t. Shit.

“Hold on,” I muttered, as I jingled out the door. “Dude, Sam. My card just got declined.” Sam stared at me blankly.

“And?” 

“Could you help me out until I figure out why?” Sam stared again.

“Man, you’re never going to figure anything out. Just use your cash for now. I already bought you a two hundred dollar helmet today.”

“All right, fine. Thanks, Sam.” I said the last part with sincerity, and Sam caught it. I glanced at my visored helmet sitting on the bike and reflected on how all those bug splatters would have felt on my bare face. Seriously. I reset the pump and filled her up; it didn’t take more than thirty seconds.

After paying the pale kid, we cruised down the road for another hour or two until dusk. Sans any verbal communication, we pulled into a camp site and began making camp. We had done this before. I pitched the tent and hung up our supplies where the animals couldn’t get to them while Sam set about building a camp fire and preparing dinner. I occupied myself with collecting firewood until dinner was ready. We ate in silence. My fork scraped the plate and then Sam said,

“So what are you going to do when the cash runs out?”

I only had about four hundred dollars left. Total.

“I dunno, man. I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Well you have think about it at some point, you don’t want me paying your way, do you?”

“You know I don’t,” I said.

“Well then think. What are you going to do?”  

Sam was pressing me, but I needed it. I’ve been moping for two days now, not speaking and trying not to think. Now I had to.

“I don’t know. Move somewhere? Keep riding?” I replied, desperate for an answer that didn’t involve returning to that stale retirement home of a town. Sam continued,

“Man, you know you can’t do that. You have no money. You can’t just move somewhere. You have an apartment with the next two months’ rent paid back home. Maybe if you went back and sold the rest of your stuff you would have enough to move, eh?”

I sat silently for a while, weighing this idea against the pleasant thought of never going back. I didn’t have that much stuff. I spoke, breaking the silence, but just audible over the crackle of the dying fire.

“I just know that if I go back I’ll probably get stuck there again.”

“Aw, poor little guy,” Sam jeered.

I don’t like being mocked, and Sam didn’t understand anyways. He can leave any time he wants, and he does so often. If I could drop everything and just leave every once in a while maybe I wouldn’t be so damn morose.

“You’re a dick, Sam.”

I didn’t mean it. He really wasn’t that far off the mark by making fun of me. I mean, I see the people around me settling into this routine, perfectly content to repeat the same cycle over and over. I don’t know. Maybe they’re not content. Maybe they’re just better at this than I am. Maybe I am being a bit of a child by acting out and running away. It was like I was a groom who gets cold feet the day of his wedding, realizing the finality of his decisions, the monotony of his future. Sam sat watching me while I thought; eventually the fire burnt out. Sam flipped one of the bigger logs and blew on it. Flame slowly grew along its length.

“I’m sorry, dude,” He said.

“It’s cool,” I affirmed, as Sam rose towards the tent.

As Sam lay snoring in the tent, I sat staring vacantly, searching myself for strength, an easy answer, anything. It is times like this that I wish I was religious. By the next morning I had resigned myself to my fate. I would return to that god-awful town, but I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself get drawn into the cycle that everyone else seemed content to perpetuate. I would pare my living expenses down to a minimum and save enough to actually go somewhere, permanently. Hopefully somewhere where there were no fluorescent lights. I wished that I could skip the dreary period of frugality and monotony, but in my experience I’ve never seen a wish granted. Sam rose early and we silently cooked breakfast on the fire I had kept all night. He led the way as we left, and as he turned back in the direction of home on the way out, I figured he either had inferred my resignation or he was leaving me to figure it all out for myself; I liked to think the former. The ride home was a little more brisk. Sam rode the twisties with a fervor I hadn’t seen before, and I had to push my old Honda and myself just to keep up. Sam was a skilled rider, and there were a few harrowing moments during my efforts to make up some distance where I came close to eating some pavement. At a few points I felt like he really was trying to lose me, but once we hit the interstate he slowed down to a steady cruise and we made the ride home without any problems. Sam rode with me all the way to my dull apartment. I guess to make sure I was actually going home; maybe he was worried I would do something stupid. I wouldn’t. I knew the value of life; I was just having trouble attaining it. It was Sunday. He hung around for a while before heading home. We agreed to meet for drinks later, on me. I would go to work the next day, and as miserable as it may be, sitting under the huge banks of fluorescent lights, at least now I had something worth working towards.

Response to Megan

And They Say, "Äll's Fair, In Love and War" is story where Megan in high school, dealing with her mom (who is struggling with her role as a single mother) and a relationship with a delinquent. The story reaches a climax when Megan fights her mom in the parking lot outside her high school. I wasn't sure how I felt about the opening paragraph. It worked fine, but I feel like the story would have been served better by starting after the first line break. It still sets up the story, but doesn't give away the climax and it also grabs attention more since there are things happening/characters being introduced and not just a personal reflection. The description of Shawn's crimes is pretty funny, very dry humor. I couldn't really figure out the relationship with Shawn, however. There are times when Megan mentions romanticism and love and even an engagement, but there is no display of emotion between the two. She even says "There weren't any tears of happiness, or even a joyous embrace."
The build to the climax was well done, it took two nearly and a half pages of build from when I realized they were going to fight until the initial strike landed, but it was all a good rise. I do wish there had been a bit more dialogue surrounding the mom's confrontation with Shawn as once again, I feel like this is a strength here that is under-utilized. I really liked how the fight doesn't play out at all like how she thought it would in her head. There is a lot of weak attempts at strikes, and as Megan begins scraping her mother with her cleats, her mom grabs her by the hair. This was my favorite part. Megan realizes, "Oh, shit. This is why girls pull hair in fights..." I got a little confused towards the end when she's talking about the Spanish teacher, but I liked the story overall

Response to Callie

Another Stage is a memoir account of a fourteen year old girl whose mother is diagnosed, and subsequently treated and cured, of stage four lymphoma cancer. The opening of the story is interesting, because I was trying to figure out why Callie was crying so much. I thought initially that it must be because she was nervous about cutting her mom's hair, but it seemed like it was something more serious. As soon as the shaved head was mentioned, I got the picture. It was an effective way to keep a reader reading.
I liked the mention of the orthodontist and the rubber bands. I feel like getting checked out for appointments is a fond memory that everybody has, and as someone who also had braces when they were young I can relate to the selection of the cheesy, stupid holiday themed rubber bands.
Dialogue was sparse, but well done. I never caught myself thinking about the dialogue, which is good because usually the only time I ever stop to think about dialogue is when it's awkward or doesn't fit. There was a big problem with this story though. There isn't much to it besides a story of a mother who overcomes cancer, and her story is kind of distant. We never really see much of the mother's struggle, emotional or otherwise. Likewise, we see Callie cry a couple times but there is no description of the emotional turmoil behind it. I found myself not very emotionally invested in a story that has the potential to be very poignant and dramatic. Not bad overall, but maybe we could use a few more scenes of interaction between mother and daughter, maybe a sweet moment between husband and wife Callie witnesses, and definitely more dialogue as I feel that dialogue is potentially an untapped strength for Callie in this paper.

Response to Paige

Beatrix is a story about Paige's experience in dance class as a young girl. She writes about her coveting of the older girls, her friendship with one of the girls in class, and the interesting relationship she shares with her instructor, Beatrix. I immediately liked the writing style and voice, and even though I'm not particularly interested in ballet, the description of how memory tends to view childhood was an observation that kept me interested. The first "scene" was well set. The description of the studio, the familiar ambient piano, the previous class of older girls filing through the door really gave me a good mental image. Also, her adulation of the older girls was funny. One of my favorite scenes was when Paige accidentally makes eye contact with Miss Bea. I think we've all been there. I do wish I had known earlier in the story that Miss Bea was going to be the focus. I understand the title probably should have done that, but it didn't for me. Maybe if her entrance into the story had been as dramatic as the idolized older girls, I would have taken more notice? The ending I really liked, how you paralleled your memories of her with your memories of the summer, but it was a little brief. I felt like after the demotion to the lower ballet class, we rush through to the end. Maybe this has some parallel with how your memory was, how after ballet, that next year was just a blur of different activity because it was so different from the others. Maybe this element could be brought in to make the quick ending fit a little better.

Response to David Shamp

Hurry Up and Wait is about Davids experience during his deployment in Iraq and the sometimes unexpectedly slow pace of warfare. While my experience in the Air Force (I caught your gibe... always with the AF jokes) has certainly been different, as I'm certainly not on the front lines by any means, I can definitely relate to the common military mantra of "Hurry up and wait." As stated in his story, the majority of one's time is uneventful but is spattered with infrequent spikes of intense activity. I certainly liked his story, and I could definitely tell it had influences from Tim O'Brien, especially in the way the characters were introduced and the description of the gear. I can imagine to some, the descriptions of gear went over their heads, but that's okay because they aren't soldiers, right? I wish there had been some dialogue or some sort of additional character building to help get more of a feel for the atmosphere of his deployment. The guys you're out there with really are the only thing that makes or breaks a deployment. It seemed like the author enjoyed these moments of solitude and quiet, partly because of the spare time to decompress and reflect, and partly because the silence could be shattered at any moment by explosions and gunshots and death. I feel like this dichotomy could have been played up more... the reflective waiting contrasted to the potential explosive action. I really felt the author's nervousness outside the gates when the clack-clack of the Iraqi machine gun froze the platoon in their tracks. The distrust of the country's people, even when they're considered allies is a theme that rings true through any war with an occupation. My only real complaint is I wish we had more information about the author at the time of the story and maybe some more character building and dialogue. Overall an enjoyable read, I feel like throughout the story, I would have done many of the same things. I've actually found myself in a similar position when I first used a radio, trying to seem competent yet accidentally calling out the wrong numbers. Except I was calling in job numbers for work on a tanker jet and not the position of my OP.

Mr. Green Jeans - the rumored father of Frank Zappa

This is an interesting collection of information pertaining to fatherhood, touching on everything from genetics to poor parenting to a sentimental description of the parenting methods of the emperor penguin. For being so short and choppy it seems quite ambitious, but then it peters out at the end. It seems like there is no overall, pervasive message to be gleaned, but rather the information gathered is just the authors reflections on fathers and fatherhood. Using the alphabet as a catalyst is an interesting way to produce results. Fortunately the material was written well enough and was mature enough that the whole alphabet concept didn't make it seem childish and elementary. I really enjoyed that the topic was explored in such a varied way. In other words, there wasn't just one take on parenthood. Included among the ideas was a lot of negative information, abusive fathers, fathers who abandoned their children, and Tim Allen. The recurring topics was a nice touch.

In Class - Cast Iron Skillet

There's something about cast iron skillets. I don't think anyone knows exactly what it is, but there's definitely an appeal. Maybe it's the way memories of meals build up as a greasy black crust of seasoning on the pan bottom. Or it could be the significant, reassuring heft of the pan. It could be the trace amounts of iron leached into each meal. Most people don't get enough.
Anyways, I lived with my brother for a year and in his immense ignorance, he ran my skillets through the washing machine. Never wash a cast iron skillet in the machine. Ever. Memories removed, my skillet looked up at me from the bottom rack of that machine through a layer of rust. It hurt me to see my skillet, which I had been cooking with for seven years, stripped of its greasy patina. I removed it from the rack immediately, scrubbing angrily with a brillow pad. There was only one way to replace those layers lost and make myself feel better at the same time. I had to fry immense amounts of bacon in this pan. After a thorough scrubbing and a few rinses, I began. The skillet sat hungrily preheating as I removed the entire slab of bacon from it's packaging. I was cooking all of it after all. I fried piece after piece, periodically draining the bacon grease out so it would quit popping in my face. As I was cooking the last four pieces, my brother returned home. I stood cooking bacon as I cussed him for wrecking my pans. After a thorough scolding, convinced his ignorance was sincere and that he wasn't intentionally ruining my things, we shared a gigantic plate of bacon and watched TV together. From there my memory is clouded with bacon, but I believe I took a nap.