Mouse Skeleton in a Trap

I was always missing the moment. Jane was a girl in my Christian youth group. While ten or more of us were talking, she reached over and secretly held my fingers under a jacket for a few minutes. I froze, didn’t turn my head or anything. Eventually, she let go. Nothing ever came of it. Another time, fifteen of us went to an amusement park. We were high school journalists from area schools. During one of the rollercoaster rides, one girl was forced to sit between my legs. The rest of the day, I guess she gave off signals, or that’s what my friends said. She was pretty enough. I was stupid. Didn’t go anywhere.

My religion didn’t help. I had a hard time crossing boundaries. I made hardly a distinction between seduction and rape. To make matters worse, my self-control was absolutely stonewall. Something to be proud of, really. I guess that’s how I reached my junior year in college with innocence intact.

College, I knew, wasn’t about girls. I had to keep my eye on the ball. It was about becoming somebody. You never knew who you were going to be. Lawyer, doctor, physicist, politician, psychologist, the die was rolling. Brilliant, tragically average, heroin addict passed out in an oily gutter, the die was bouncing. Sometimes, I looked into the mirror for clues as to who I was. Studied it. My facial expressions would give me a clue. The set of my mouth. Something in my eyes. Once, in the twenty minutes after answering a question in Victorian lit that drew a loud “Exactly!” from the professor, I knew I was a supernova, after all.

138 (2)

The guy next to me clearly wasn’t. Too skinny, not serious, denigrated the impenetrability of As I Lay Dying. When I got to know him, he gave a name to his chin: Hapsburg, after royal recessive inbreeding. We met in 20th-century American, taught by a bearded young prof in tight pants who smirked at the girls and thought that all literature, past and present, was based on the template of one poem published in 1922, as if that were Ground Zero of a nuclear explosion.

“Bullshit,” Nathan said, his footsteps echoing through the hallway. “What, all literature? J.D. Salinger? Zane Grey? Winnie the Pooh?”

“Give the idea a chance,” I said. “He’s the one who grades us.”

“And the day after the quarter ends, we never think about this shit for the rest of our lives.”

I didn’t speak Obscenity. It was another difficult boundary, as were kissing others on the cheek as a greeting, calling adults by their first names, daring to fill the air with words and convictions, and going outside with morning hair.

Nathan ate his sack lunch sitting on the wall outside Rolfe at noon, after morning classes. I joined him. One day, we bluffed our way into the English Reading Room, which was reserved for grad students. It was like King Tut’s tomb—“Wonderful things!”—packed with all the most esoteric and obscure journals. Nathan sat down with a thumbed copy of the PMLA while I immersed myself in a short story in The Sewanee Review. It was about Hitler’s whore. He made her lie face-up on the bed while he repeatedly defecated upon her, crying out, “Die, England, die!” My mind was being broadened.

Jacqueline was researching the Walloon poetry of Guillaume Apollinaire. Nathan started riffing on Walloon, and within seconds, the both of them were laughing uncontrollably. The next day, Jacqueline saw us eating on the wall.

“It’s the Walloon girl,” Nathan said.

“That’s your opening gambit?” she said. “Girl?”

Which got us into an unfunny debate about appellations and the political sequeliae thereof. She preferred, when referring to a gender-neutral nonspecific pronoun, to default to s/he. Watching her essay volubly, short dark hair, light freckles, and slender frame, I mused over the length of a woman’s hair and how that told you something about her priorities, how many hours a day she wanted to mess with it. This literary goddess had opted for four minutes.

There’d been straitjackets and screams during the month Nathan had spent in a mental institution. He was fifteen and had taken too much LSD and couldn’t stop tripping. It went on for days, which the doctors hadn’t seen before. He’d be watching television with the other loonballs when suddenly, in his peripheral vision, another inmate would grow a faucet from his shoulder and brown water would flow out, or the doctor would tap him on the shoulder and he’d turn and see a Cyclops in a white coat. Back in his cell, there were padded walls and a sloping floor that led to a grating to facilitate the hosing down of blood and vomit. The amazing thing was that he seemed not just normal, but extraordinary. The paradox he embodied made us best friends.

Every day, we would all sit on the wall for a bit. Jacqueline had an ungenerous curl to her mouth. Nathan made her laugh, though. She had graduated with a class of only 100 from the Castilleja School in Palo Alto. I had rarely known rich kids—had gone to school with only one or two—and didn’t understand their complexions. I didn’t know the snakes that crawled through their perfect skulls.

“I’ve eaten Top Ramen for three days running,” Jacqueline said, shaking the bag. We were in her tiny kitchen. “This stuff proves there is a God.”

“I’m eating lots of Chef Boy-ar-Dee,” I said.

“You guys gotta be kidding,” Nathan said.

“It’s easy, cheap, and good,” Jacqueline said.

“You’d have to take upper-level chemistry just to figure out what various flavors of cancer you’re getting.”

Jacquie was wearing a blue wool pullover, and when she pulled it over her head to remove it, she had an unwanted encounter with her breasts.

“I hate these things,” she said, arranging her hair again.

“What things?” Nathan asked.

“Tits,” she said. “They get in the way.”

“I have to tell you, dear, that’s not the majority opinion,” Nathan said, smiling.

“And your clothes have to go over them. And men are always looking at them. Judging them. Like they’re trying to calculate.”

“Calculate what?”

“Whether they’ll fit whole inside their mouths, I guess.”

They weren’t that big. They weren’t that pretty.

Jacqueline handed me one of her poems. It cut a difficult path through the wild, the poet dodging meaning as deftly as she could, nonetheless turning some striking phrases. I looked in vain for sentiment. Upon second reading, the poem began to unfold itself to me.

“I don’t speak French,” I said.

She gave me a look that sunk its teeth into my self-worth.

“It means little breakfast.”

“Oh.”

She closed her eyes, saying: “I’d like to hear what you think.”

I paused for a long moment, looking at the page.

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I have enough understanding of poetry to judge it. You’re obviously very good.”

My thing was fiction, so I became the fiction editor of Westwind. I never imagined how bad some writing could be. I was surprised that these students: a) thought they could submit something for publication so crawling like worms in a corpse with typos, and b) could express themselves well enough to order Tommy’s burgers. It buoyed my spirits. Clearly, I stood on a dramatically lit pedestal that towered far above them.

But other submissions were more puzzling. Maybe I just didn’t get it. Avant garde, plotless fiction, postmodernism. Character before story. Or maybe it’s like this: You’re holding a piece of excrement in your hand and you don’t realize he’s the next Kafka, but fuck, you say, who would want to meet Kafka, anyway, he’d probably just engage you night after night in long, draining conversations in the back of a smoke-filled Prague beerhouse about how many different flavors of shitty a person can feel, and no matter how much you tried to talk him down off the ledge, you couldn’t convince him that life was worth living—“It’s shit! It’s shit!”—and then one day you’d hear he starved to death in a Vienna sanitarium and you’d think, Well, who didn’t see that coming?

One manuscript blew my ducky out of the water. Eunice and her three friends were at the beach rummaging through the clothes of people who were swimming. They scored seventy dollars, five rubbers, and a class ring. Later, they were teaching these guys they’d just met how to play mumbledepeg.

“You’re pretty,” one of the guys said.

“You’re the Prince of Who the Fuck Cares.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’re the Prince of I Don’t Have a Fucking Clue.”

Using the blood from a knife wound, Eunice and her three friends pledged to tell ten lies a day. Swear, swear, swear, swear, like a knife stabbed between outstretched fingers, bam, bam, bam, bam. They were telling lies to friends, boyfriends, teachers, even parents and strangers.

I’m still a virgin, Momma

My brother lost his legs in Vietnam

My history teacher is from Africa and teaches us in Pig Latin

I have gonorrhea, you wanna have sex?

My mother isn’t dead, she’s gone back to her hometown in Mexico which is Mind Your Own Fucking Business

No, she didn’t feel any pain

I’m okay, don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right, I’ll be just fine.

Eunice’s wound got infected and she lost the ring finger. She didn’t care. Didn’t want to get married, anyway. She dared boys to touch the stub. If they touched it, they could touch anything else they wanted. Eunice looked in the mirror and decided to slash her face because for a moment, there in her eyes, she’d seen a flash of her mother. She wanted to feel the wound. She wanted to stick her fingers into it. She wanted to pull her mother out of the muscles and blood and slap her on the back and she would start breathing and crying. And Eunice would be free.

I kept the story with me in my bag for days, sometimes reading bits in the back row during boring classes. On the phone, the writer had a high, girly voice that made more concessions than Eunice ever did. I invited her to lunch. Cute didn’t begin to capture it. Angelique looked and moved like Geronimo’s daughter. Hair the same color, I’m sure, and long, too, twelve minutes a day.

“Did the stuff in the story happen?”

Her eyes tracked slowly, but by no means unintelligently.

“Some of it. It was a girl I knew in high school. She always wore short dresses. I never knew what she was thinking. Her boyfriend got a girl pregnant that I’d known since third grade. Eunice messed the girl up and she lost the baby. It was all about babies and dying.”

I had become a born-again at age twelve during a mountain retreat. Sometimes I think I accepted Jesus into my heart to impress this pretty girl in a peasant blouse. After she moved away, the religion took on a momentum of its own. By 17, born-againism had constructed an impressive Plexiglas box around me. Everything was always bouncing off it. Girls on rollercoasters, for example.

This guy Neil was leading Bible studies with me on Sunday mornings in an avocado grove. His eyes tended to get watery and his smile overwide with religious fervor and I wondered what he knew that I didn’t. He was the leader of a cult of one, I guess. I thought it was what my parents wanted, but they were secretly stunned by it. At my age, my mother was wrapping unsuspecting guys around her little finger and crashing motorcycles. My father was losing it in Koto-ri, South Korea.

I was writing a lot of short fiction. I had grown up studying piano, and knew that to play a Bach concerto, a Debussy arabesque, and a Beethoven sonata in recital, as I had in my senior year, thirty-three pages of patterned wheels within wheels within wheels to memorize and play perfectly, you had to start out at age seven with scales, work your way up through John Thompson, and toil for years in the intermediate coal mines before you tackled anything that made people gasp. Short stories made my hands black.

With each story I wrote, I tried something new. Experiment with pov. Tell a true tale of a horrific industrial accident my grandmother once told me. Describe violence. Each story had an objective. I would grow, but only if I had good feedback. Hence, my readership. Nate was a good reader, but always frustratingly unspecific. Mauro was excellent as far as his burro mind would carry him. Jacquie was excellent without reservation. Angelique had a quirky response that I couldn’t penetrate. Tom was eager but egotistical. He later became a personal-injury lawyer and made his first million at age 27 by paying kickbacks to tow-truck drivers.

Every couple months, I would type up the finished manuscript of my next short story, make copies, and hand them out. Later, my readers would give me their reactions in detail. I desperately wanted to know what my readers liked and didn’t like, but in the end, I disregarded half of their critiques. It’s like I didn’t know what I thought about my own story until they said something that I knew was bullshit. That’s how it was with the rest of my life, too.

I was changing and I knew it. One day when I was visiting home, Neil came over. We were sitting in the backyard in chairs where years ago my swingset used to be, among ghosts of my former self. I was wearing brown corduroy pants and no shirt. I said that college was teaching me things. Neil, with his towhead blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, said he was worried about me.

“Worried that I won’t believe the exact same things as you?”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“What is it, then?”

“That you’re following a secular humanist path. It’s not about me, it’s about the Lord’s plan for your life.”

“This is the same Lord that says it’s okay to own slaves, right? Or are you talking about another one that you’ve just invented who believes that all thinking is from Satan?”

“You sound exactly like a person who’s in the world.”

“That’s where I live, Tonto.”

“Jesus wants so much more for you.”

I had fallen for his liturgical shell game in high school and felt stupid for it now. Neil was already starting with the waterworks. His smile was turning into a metal claw. He had acquired those tools growing up with an alcoholic father.

“Why do you need to control everything?” I said.

“God isn’t about control, my brother, He’s about deep, overwhelming, overpowering love.”

“No, you. I’m talking about you.”

Neil never played defense. It’s not that he played offense. He just wanted the opportunity to scratch your face with that metal claw.

“I’m just afraid,” Neil said, getting up from his plastic chair, the gravest of looks splattered over his face like a cream pie, plus a touch of denigration that topped it off like a red rubber nose, “that your Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ may have lost you, and you’re so very precious to Him.”

Nate was rolling a joint. I remember thinking, I’m going to remember this, and here I am remembering it.

“When he’s onstage,” Nathan was saying, “Fahey plays these long guitar masterpieces that nobody never heard of before he rescued them from obscurity.”

“Every time a hillbilly with a banjo dies, man, an angel cries,” Jacqueline said, picking seeds out of the weed.

“He went door to door in Appalachia collecting songs,” Nathan said. “I saw him at McCabe’s last spring. In between songs, he spits into this bucket, I mean, these long, disgusting spittles easing down to the spittoon right in front of the audience.”

“He doesn’t care,” Jacqueline said.

We all toked up in Jacquie’s kitchen and walked the two miles into the village.

“Is it safe for me to walk all that way?” I asked.

“For Chrissake,” Nathan said, “I didn’t give you PCP.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Walking up the big hill, getting more winded than usual, feeling the dope descend like a cloud on my head, I suddenly saw my bare feet through my shoes. They were 7-year-old feet. The grass glowed and fluttered like radioactive jello. It all meant something terribly important.

Later, we all sat in the dark together. Jacquie loved Truffaut, but I was convinced they were all speaking Egyptian, so we left. In a village café eating French fries, I couldn’t stop talking. Expectations are what we all have in abundance, I said. Ambition is an expectation. Born-againism is a locust cloud of expectations. Virginity is the Everest of Unrealistic Expectations, the proof of which can be seen simply by tossing two bunnies into a cage. And it’s Everest in another way, too, because you can’t breathe up there. And what about parents’ expectations? You carry them around on your back like the bundle of firewood on the cover of that Led Zeppelin album.

“I’m never going to have an expectation for the rest of my life,” I said.

“Okay,” Jacquie said, grinning.

Looking at the two of them sitting across the table from me, the curly haired folkie and the small-breasted poet, an amused look on each of their faces, I suddenly blurted it out.

“You guys are like twins, you know that? Except you don’t look anything like each other.”

The next morning, I drove to the grocery store with my hands clamped tightly on the wheel, terribly worried that pedestrians were going to jump out from behind cars. I didn’t feel right for three days.

We all had dinner at Woody’s in the village. Nate and Jacquie were on one side, Angelique and my cousin Mauro on the other, ketchup and mustard and a couple of wrapped presents in the middle of the table. Nathan and Angelique had beers. I couldn’t have a drink till midnight.

I punched a Carpenters song into the jukebox and then walked back to the table. They all ribbed me. We all had guilty pleasures we had brought from our childhoods. I mourned the loss of sentimentality. As I learned from my professors to live without so much of it slathered on everything like ketchup, I began feeling differently about things. It was a different world, a lighter sleep, filled with surprising things like Thomas Pynchon, D.H. Camus, Leonard Cohen, the Velvet Underdog, Michelangelo Antonioni, subtitled Swedish movies, moral relativism, alienation chic, sushi, eggplant, ennui, pi.

Mauro was talking about how marijuana was so much more natural than liquor, because it entered your bloodstream through your lungs.

“Didn’t you just try it for the first time?” Mauro said. “That must have been, like—how many weeks ago was what?”

“Two months.”

“Did you like it?”

“If liking it means being a week behind in my assigned reading of the Henriad, then yes, I loved it.”

“God, I’ve got a ton of pages to read, too,” Angelique said.

“First time I did it,” Mauro said, “I had profound revelations.”

“What, that you like potato chips?” Angelique said.

“No, just to live in the moment.”

“I’m always missing the moment,” I said.

Mauro and I exchanged glances. We had been in Boy Scouts together. We had taken the oath together. If I recall correctly, getting high isn’t found anywhere in the oath, correct me if I’m wrong.

“Did you ever drop acid?” I asked Angelique.

“Once. The stereo was on, and the lyrics to Joni Mitchell’s songs were appearing on a ribbon”—Angelique raising her finger toward the spot—“high up on the walls.”

The way she said it, her hair falling down over her shoulders, her eyes filled with remembering, she suddenly seemed unspeakably beautiful.

“I was in a bookstore the other day,” I said, “and I thought, ‘What is it that I’d like to buy?’ And then it occurred to me: A novel written by you.”

Angelique seemed displeased. “You’re still high.”

By 12:01, we were in a dark nightclub in Hollywood with flashing lights and pounding music and I was showing my driver’s license to the bartender for the first time. Angelique watched, transfixed, as Bo Diddley played onstage. I couldn’t care less. His day had come and gone. I asked Angelique to dance.

“It’s Bo Diddley!”

“What?!”

“I’m listening!” Pointing to her ears.

Between sets, with canned rock ‘n’ roll taking over, I tried to get the ball rolling, but Angelique still couldn’t hear me. I leaned in closer and my lips touched her hair. Suddenly, everything that had been muddy became clear. The moment was no longer a problem. The thought of her hair on my lips was tattooed onto my loins. I had three more Rum and Cokes, and by two, Angelique was driving me home.

I tried to tell her about when Mauro and I were seven and he won a Halloween costume contest with a Raja toga and turquoise turban and he fell on his face when he stepped on his robe and chipped his front tooth, but my tongue was thick. I asked her to walk me up, but she politely declined.

“I ha’ some Kahlu’ and milk upstairs,” I said.

“Go to bed.”

I unpacked myself from Angelique’s old red Datsun and climbed the steps. Made it to the top and waved goodbye, watched her taillights drift down the hill. It was the saddest thing I ever saw.

Her high school boyfriend was still in the picture. He was living in Sonoma in an old house with a dog that she missed. Bastard had so much going for him. Hair that stretched all the way to Calexico. Attitude that spilleth over. Dope dealer. Or maybe he was just an excuse. Maybe he didn’t even exist, I don’t know. I was falling, I didn’t know what into, maybe a haystack of needles.

When I got to my front door, I couldn’t go in. Nobody in there but my roommates, two of whom hated me, one of whom hadn’t even talked to me for five months because I had blow-dried my hair on his bed and he hated stray hair and had jammed Spackle into the electrical outlet holes. So I took off my clothes, left them in a pile. Walked towards the pool, stumbled once, said to myself, Don’t worry, I got it, get your fuckin’ hands off me. Stepped onto the diving board, took an unsteady step towards the water, another, sat down, legs dangling, feet underwater. Looked up at the fifteen apartments that faced the courtyard. Two had lights in the window.

I knew what would happen. Some girl would look out the window, see me sitting there, and come down. She would want what I wanted. She would have been scribbling page after page of journal entries in a spiral notebook about how lonely she was. She would have been stuffing the pages into the crawlspace, hiding them but hoping they would be found. I had a name for what I was, and it wasn’t happy. Her name would be Carly or Sophia, but I would settle for Chloe. She would invite me inside. She would have silky dark hair. She would have an unexpected smile that no one had yet discovered. I knew it would happen. It was supposed to be a magical night. Everybody said so. Everything was supposed to happen tonight.

After a half-hour, I knew there wasn’t a God. The night was just one long, empty boxcar. I walked back to the door, let myself in, and collapsed on the bed. Fuck the caffeine. Fuck the moment. I went right to sleep.

The beach was nothing to speak of. Grey sand and lots of litter. We wandered back to the main drag, where a brown guy with only a few teeth in his smile and no English at all, I mean, not an ounce in his whole body, sold shark tacos on the street corner.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

“They’re fully cooked. You can see him cooking them.”

“Nate, you’re buying food from a guy on the street.”

We pondered where to stay. There was a $3 hotel, a $5 hotel, and a $6 hotel.

“Let’s try that one,” I said, pointing.

It looked like an American motel, with four floors, a new paint job, nice cars in the parking lot, and American families on the balcony in nice leisure clothes.

“I don’t want to pay that kind of money.”

“What kind of money? How much could it cost? I’ll go check.”

I walked over and talked to the clerk. Turned out to be $12 a night.

“Look, we’ve got a chance to pay only $6. You just don’t pass that up.”

So we went with the bargain basement. We checked in. The shower looked scary. The whole room looked like the inside of some fat slob’s dirty mind. I had wanted to read a little Hemingway on the bed—I was rereading his entire works now—but it wasn’t a pleasant place to spend any time. It was exactly what $6 bought us. We left our luggage, but when we were walking along the boulevard, I began to wonder about my stuff. Then again, what would they steal? My short stories? We wandered over to a bar that was famous, I don’t know what for, getting deadass drunk, I guess.

“You want a beer?” Nathan asked.

“Naw,” I said.

“I’m buying.”

“Every time I drink or smoke, I lose three days.”

“What do you want, then?”

“Coke. In the bottle.”

Nate went away and came back with a Dos Equis and a Coke in the bottle, the cap freshly popped. There was moisture around the lip. Imagining Montezuma waiting for me with fangs and talons, I left it untouched. I surveyed the room. It was filled with things. Framed photos of Pancho Villa and Emilio Zapata. American celebrities who had visited the bar. Men posing with huge swordfish and big smiles. There were two barefoot teenagers going up to each table with a wooden box and trying to sell something, I couldn’t tell what.

“Where’s Jacquie?” I asked.

“She’s with her parents till January 6.”

“Did you ask her to come down here with us?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t slept with her yet, if that’s what you were asking.”

“I wasn’t asking that.”

“She doesn’t want me.”

“There are guys who seem to know just what to say.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I’ve seen them. I wish I knew what those things were so I could tell you.”

“I don’t know if anything’s going to work.”

“I mean, they’re no more good looking than other guys. They just know what to say.”

The teenagers were suddenly at our table with the wooden box. The 14-year-old was speaking to us in broken English.

“You…real man?” he said.

“Who wants to know?” Nathan asked.

“If you are real man, you able to hold thees.”

“Do you understand the adverse sequeliae of chauvinistic appellations?” I said.

He made a face.

“You hold thees. We put electricidad.”

“You think I should try it?” Nathan asked me.

“What the hell for?”

“I could use some good shock treatment right now.”

“Don’t do it.”

“It helped Sylvia Plath.”

“Nate, Plath killed herself.”

Nathan reached into his pocket and gave the kids a couple quarters. He took a deep breath.

“How long seconds?” the kid asked.

“Thirty.”

“Are you sure?” the kid asked.

“Yes.”

The kid looked at me. “You should to bet. Five dollars he hold thirty seconds.”

I ignored the kid. Nathan took the metal rods into his hands and rested them on the table. The kid cranked up the box, and then suddenly Nathan got this weird look on his face, frozen, as if he had left the planet. It was a long thirty seconds. I sat forward in my chair. A muscle in his upper arm began to twitch wildly.

“Nathan!” I said and almost touched him, but pulled back.

I worried about doing something, or yelling something or anything. When he finally came back from wherever he was, he took a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Nathan looked at the kids.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said in a weak voice.

They took the box to the next table.

“Do you feel any better now?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Nathan kept shaking his hands out. After dinner, we went to a nightclub and met a couple girls from San Diego. I liked the Asian girl named Joanne and danced with her a bit. I looked over at Nathan dancing with the chubby blonde. He claimed to be a great dancer but he was actually pretty awful, and every so often, he would shake out his hands, which made him look like a bad dancer who had just finished washing dishes. They had the countdown to midnight and people blew horns and cracked confetti eggs on people’s heads and kissed. But I didn’t kiss Joanne and Nathan didn’t kiss his blonde. I wanted to be a gentleman, but I misunderstood the ground rules. Those girls had wanted to be kissed. When it’s New Year’s Eve, you kiss the girl. You always kiss the girl. I still hadn’t found my route across the desert.

It seemed crazy. It seemed like there should be some way to ask the question and get a straight answer, but there wasn’t. Would you mind if I kissed you? or May I have your consent to be intruded upon? Or some window you could apply at, fill out a form, like “Form 1492: Application for Consent to Physical Invasion,” or even work for it, like collect boxtops or green stamps or pull some weeds. I would gladly clear all of western Kansas if that were the reward. But to not have any way to ask was just crazy.

Three years later, Mauro recommended R.D. Laing’s work, and I sat down one afternoon in a hot tub and read with surprise his theory that all insanity is simply a sane response to an unlivable situation. Over the next few years, I began fitting my ideas about life into that construct, because that was the word for this way of living: unlivable. Two years after that, I visited Metro State Mental Hospital as a journalist and saw a twentysomething man walking around aimlessly in circles like a zombie, saying over and over again, as he had every day for the past fifteen years, “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it.” The nurse said that when he was nine, his father had shot and killed his mother in front of him, then turned to him and said, “You made me do this.” Then he killed himself. Unlivable.

By three, Nathan and I were driving lost through unlit suburban neighborhoods. We both had to take a leak. We got out in front of a wooden white house with a dead brown palm tree growing next to the curb.

“That tree needs watering,” Nathan said with a smirk.

Nathan was not a little drunk and got my light-brown Florsheims wet. I kept a lookout for the house’s owners.

“Listen, you’re twins, I told you that,” I said.

“We’re not twins. We’re strangers.”

“You just have to be more aggressive with Jacquie. Try to think like those guys who get the girls.”

“It’s worse than that. She’s a whacker and I’m a mole.”

“Why the negativity, man? Jeez, you sound like my Dad.”

“Because she wants you.”

“What?”

When Croatians wish you luck, they say, “Bowl of shit.” They’re a cynical people. They’ve been dominated for centuries by outside powers, Austria-Hungary on one side, Romans on another, Turks on still another. But sometimes, Bowl of shit is just what you get. I looked at Nathan uncomprehendingly for a moment, then looked away. On the one hand, it is sad to hear that your best friend is disappointed in love, and doubly so when the fault seems to fall on your own mesomorphic shoulders. On the other hand, it is not enough for one to succeed; one’s friends must fail.

“You should go after her,” Nathan said. “She’s a beautiful girl.”

I didn’t want to be impolite.

“Yes, she is.”

There was a difference, my fiction prof had told us, between sentimentality and sentiment. The former was a blemish, the latter, a mere option among many. What had moved me growing up had not, contrary to what I had assumed, been a formative experience, but instead, a juvenile response. Sentimental books—anything that made my heart ache or soar or that touched it in any way—were childish. But there was one thing I knew: I did not want to live in a world without sentiment. The prospect took away my joie de vivre. That was the world that Jacqueline thrived in. Or, as she would insist on putting it, in which she thrived.

“She said you look like her father,” Nathan added.

Opening up a whole other can of Freud.

“She asked me if I could set something up with you.”

I had begun to stop wishing for specific things when I threw a penny into a fountain. It seemed childish to wish for a job, or a car, or a girl. Those were things you earned. It was like a spoiled rich brat wishing for a pinball game for Christmas. And getting it. There was no guy in a big red suit. I always closed my eyes, cleared my mind, and just before tossing the penny, let one word flow through my head: Fulfillment. It meant there were no boundaries, no limits. It meant I was claiming everything, the whole world, without restriction. I hesitated, though, to claim black cats.

For months and months, I steered clear.

It was bothering me, though, why I didn’t have any luck with women. I thought about it constantly. It made me wonder whether I might fit into this new category people were talking about: gay. I didn’t think about men in an erotic way. The first time I heard the mechanics of it, I mean, really had it explained to me, I said, “What?! No! You’ve gotta be kidding!” But I did get terribly nervous when I was around girls that I wanted. And I never got any of them.

Susana was perfect. Perfect blonde hair and perfect blonde face. She went on one date with me. I called her the next day and left messages for the next twelve days in a row to ask her out again. I must have become the big joke around the sorority house: Another guy’s in love with Susana. So what else is new? Fiona was perfect, too, but in a more refined way. She sat next to me in the back row of Victorian Lit. We wisecracked beautifully together. On the last day of class, I screwed up the courage to ask her out. She beat me to it. Showed me her engagement ring. Never got any of those women.

There was an unconscious, Freud said, that gave you everything you truly wanted. But I didn’t get those women. Did I not want women?

“You’re too intense,” Nathan said. “Women like men who don’t care.”

“How do I not care?”

Nate and I had moved into a place together six miles south of campus. Once, I went down to the carport to my green Datsun and found behind my windshield wipers a couple pages torn out of a pornographic gay magazine. It was photos of naked men having sex with other men. On the bottom was scrawled: “This could be us.” That evening when I took a walk, the middle-aged dolt in the house across the street gawked with a grin on his face.

Nathan was in limbo. He had graduated, took a shit job at a clipping service, and was falling more heavily into THC. I would come home and he would be sitting on the couch with red marijuana eyes and an album cover in his hands, listening to “Give Me Cornbread When I’m Hungry.” He had devised a plan to plant marijuana in his closet under grow lights, but I nixed it. It wouldn’t be good for either of us.

“I’m visiting my mother in Passaic all next week,” Nathan said. “You should call up Jacqueline while I’m gone. You’ll have the whole place to yourself.”

Our apartment was a two-bedroom in a cheap neighborhood. The bedroom doors were as thin as our voices were loud. The carpet was green, thin, and old. If you picture an apartment building that’s nothing special, I mean, nothing special at all, you’ve hit it on the nose.

I invited Jacqueline in without a kiss. She entered in ominous silence. I had spent so much of my life working hard not to think about the actual specifics of sex. What comes first, what comes next. We had no real furniture, only bricks and planks for bookcases and a mattress covered in an orange bedspread in the living room for a couch. I poured us both some German Riesling because that’s what you were supposed to do. As she walked into the bedroom, the dog in the yard below started barking. He was a vicious old black dog on a chain that barked all the time. Months later, someone shot him dead and the cops did nothing about it.

Jacqueline laid her purse down on my desk, a door laid across two used filing cabinets. This was before I had accumulated a lot of junk in my bedroom. That’s not to say it was clean. It was what a guy thought was clean. We took off our clothes in silence and laid down. We began to kiss and fondle, as I’d seen them do in Three Days of the Condor. She may not have been gorgeous, but she was pretty enough. I didn’t really know what came next. She put her hand on me. I reached my hand between her legs and it came back sticky, as if I’d touched jam.

“Uush,” I said.

“Well, yours doesn’t feel too good, either.”

And that was that. In a huff, she was out of there. I didn’t really see that I had said anything wrong. I was lost for awhile. Played some New Chautauqua. Read a few pages of something. Then went into the kitchen and turned on the TV, which was playing the 1958 schlockfest, The Naked and the Dead. Soldiers were fighting and yelling. War was hell. I sat down and propped my feet on the kitchen table. It was so difficult to tell if you had become a man. Nobody issued you a license. The tribe no longer gave you an initiation ceremony in which you ate panther intestines or spent the night in a sweat lodge. Seeing guys in khaki buoyed me. These guys were men. War had made them men. I wondered if what I’d had was sex, and whether that had made me a man. My father had been to war, but he didn’t say anything about it. Did he give me a roadmap to manhood? Was he going to help me? What would he say if I told him I’d touched it and said what I’d said? He’d say he didn’t want to hear about it and take a drive.

Two days later, Jacqueline called me. I wasn’t going to apologize.

“You get only one first time,” she said. “You want it to be special.”

Jacqueline and I had dinner at her place by candlelight. That was more the way it was supposed to be, she said. She was wearing a blue cotton blouse, and I was wondering whether it bothered her tits. I was wondering whether any of her other protuberances got in the way, too, like her nose or her butt.

“Where do you want to live when you get out of school?” Jacqueline was saying.

“I don’t know. Hemingway had four homes. I’d like that.”

Her eyes were lit up above the candles.

“Where?”

“He had a home in Spain.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve read a few biographies.”

“How many?”

“Twelve.”

She gave me a look. I had read the first biography, and at the end, wondered where the secret was. Because he knew something. I read the second and the third biographies, then just kept reading. It was clear in the very seams of his prose that he had an understanding. When Robert Jordan was preparing to blow the bridge and knew he would die in the act, the author knew something. When Santiago brought back the stripped carcass of the massive marlin, the author knew something. But the more I read of his life—which was a very different thing, something that couldn’t be revised and which you couldn’t change the events of to make yourself look heroic—the more I realized just how much of a prick he was.

“Have you ever been to Spain?” Jacqueline asked.

No.”

“I love Barcelona, especially Las Ramblas. Where else?”

“He lived in Ketchum, Idaho, which was great for skiing. There’s a picture of him skiing with Gary Cooper.”

“Do you ski?”

“A little.”

“We should go skiing sometime.”

“Okay.”

“Did he ever live in New York City?”

“No.”

“I want to move there.”

“Because it’s the center of the publishing industry?”

“Because there are so many things to do all day and all night. Plus, I can speak French and people will know what I’m saying.”

I had brought a record that I loved. It was Keith Jarrett, who played improvisational solo piano. Ever since I had broken the surly bonds of classical, I had luxuriated in improvisation. It allowed you to follow the music in your hands. Jarrett’s improvisation was the kind of music that, like Fahey, pulled you into an ever-deepening whirlpool. You could drown in it. Jacqueline dropped it on the stereo.

I was on top of her. It came more naturally this time. I said nothing about the jam. I wasn’t just listening to the music, I was the music, and it was a shiny feeling that I had only had in a dream, the white candles flickering onto the walls, lightly crackling, my innocence slowly burning off, my identity transmuting, because I was no longer the guy who was impossibly innocent, who couldn’t get the girl, who used Christianity as a buoy in open waters, who doubted his sexual preference, who couldn’t cross boundaries, couldn’t find a route across the Sahara, who was missing the moment, I was the moment, I was burrowed so far into the moment that I was emerging the other side, pushing my way out the other side like Eunice’s mother, when suddenly, as if someone were spearing me like a fish out of a stream, Jacqueline was almost shouting.

“This isn’t right, this isn’t right,” pushing me off her.

It wasn’t an easy thing to stop in the middle, I discovered. Energy wants to go from one place to another. The body doesn’t want you to stop and lay on your back. I was panting and sweating.

“What do you mean?” I said, nearly out of my mind.

She couldn’t immediately verbalize it. Her lips once again wore that ungenerous curl. It looked like she was trying to figure out who to blame.

“Why did you pick that record?” she finally asked in a sharp tone.

“Because I love it.”

“Why do you love it?”

“I don’t know. Why is this important now? I listen to it all the time.”

“Yes, but why did you think it would be good for lovemaking?”

I stared at her. “Because I really, really love it.”

“I think it’s because it’s a live album.”

“What?”

“At the end of every song, it has applause,” she said. “It’s for your male ego. Egoiste. You needed applause while you were making love.”

My father didn’t yell. When he was angry, he became quiet, walked out the door, and took a three-hour drive. I could feel my face tighten while I put on my clothes. I could feel myself become impermeable. I remember a panicked look starting to form on her face, as if she could feel me at the start of never talking to her again. She started saying things, but the sound was turned off. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. I was gone.

I didn’t see Jacqueline for years after that. It turned into a story, then a memory, then a static representation of an experience like an icon on my computer. It’s like when I looked into the attic of an old house I was renting and discovered a mouse skeleton in a trap. Nathan told me she was pursuing a master’s degree in poetry. She had married a fellow graduate student in the program. They didn’t move to New York City or Paris or Barcelona. They were having offspring. Apparently, he had brought a studio album.

But I knew what she had meant. I didn’t love her. I couldn’t make myself love her. But she and Nathan had been so insistent. Still, she made me think about things for years afterwards. At 29, I got an invitation to go home with an exotic but slow-witted lady named Tricia. We rolled around on her sofa for a bit, and then, out of breath and all lathered up, she seemed ready to kick it into the bedroom.

“I haven’t slept with anyone in ten years,” she said.

The look in Tricia’s eyes took all the wind out of my sails. It was like she looked into my eyes and saw the route to the next twenty years. I could have commandeered that toy boat, but I didn’t have the heart. I could see the wreckage before it even hit the rocks. So I didn’t let it happen. In the ensuing years, I became increasingly honest with myself. I wondered whether Jacqueline had been only the first in a series of casualties. I had often been so casual about sex. But after Tricia, I stopped sleeping with women I didn’t really want to sleep with. My heart couldn’t take it, and neither could theirs. It was like doing violence to someone.

In the ensuing years, small tragedies befell my friends. Nathan never said a word about what happened between Jacqueline and me. He turned out to have the biggest heart of all of us. His tragedy was that he fell in love with a girl who didn’t enjoy anything but her own misery. It helped him quit THC, but he wrestled with her misery for decades.

Another tragedy: Angelique landed a newspaper gig and never found much time for her fiction. A third: She went into therapy and learned how to be happy. She was never quirky again. In bookstores, I still long for the novel she might have written.

I became a magazine writer. Within ten years, I had written over 500 articles and felt like a writing machine. My religion became just another forgotten border crossing, my virginity, the lingua franca that I finally learned to speak.

But for years, Jacqueline remained a mystery. Then one night, I looked her up on Facebook. It took me a couple weeks before I got up the courage. When she friended me, I began devouring her profile. It took me days to fully grasp it. I walked around thinking about it all the time. At times, I was angry with her. Fucking ballbreaker. She had given up the poetry—given it up! Quel désastre!—to become a short-sale realtor. She had embraced her mother’s Judaism, and was now worshipping at a synagogue along Sunset Boulevard. Her three children were now nearly grown, and her longtime companion Susan was a choral director. In the dark of the night, my face lit up by the computer screen, I laughed. No more expectations, no, never again.

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Denial, My Only True Friend

When I was seven, I wanted to be a professional baseball player when I grew up. I wanted to play third base like Clete Boyer. I wanted to bat cleanup like Frank Howard. I wanted to be decent like Lou Gehrig and my father.

Age 11 swinging a bat in our backyard

Age 11 swinging a bat in our backyard

When I was 14, I wanted to be an Olympic swimmer. I watched the Olympics and wanted to break records by not just tenths of seconds, but by full seconds. I wanted to stand on that platform with a gold medal around my neck, like Mark Spitz.

David Groves as a swimmer

When I was 21, I wanted to be a world-renowned author. Hemingway was my guiding light, and like him, I wanted to have four homes: in Idaho, Cuba, Spain, and Key West.  I wanted to write in the morning and go out on my fishing boat in the afternoon. I wanted to put on boxing gloves and fight with other authors, as he did. I wanted to drink fine wine and know what it was that made it fine.

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I have not achieved those goals.  And in the ensuing decades, I must confess that I’ve had many more unfulfilled dreams. I would tell you about them in detail, but the closer we get to the present day, the more it would hurt. At the moment, it seems that the best solution is to deny that I’ve failed at them, because I tell myself that achieving them is still a possibility.  Denial often seems the most rational course these days.  I deny that I will fail at my now ridiculously scaled down dreams.  I deny that my life is over. I deny that anybody has beaten me. I trust in denial.  It is my only true friend.

Take one small example. I can’t take a large one because that’s too personal. In the late ‘90s, I invited a magician I admired and his wife to my annual birthday party. He came and had a great time. His wife suggested that my girlfriend Debra and I get together with them as couples.

“Great,” we said.

But Debra and I were just about to break up, and it’s not the same with just three. The following year, he had a significant role in a Tim Burton movie that you all know. Then he became a third banana on a popular TV series, and then another one, and now, he’s not just a TV star, but a major luminary in the magic world.

When I see him around, he says hello, but we don’t get together for dinner. He doesn’t invite me to his fabulous home.  He doesn’t pass along my script to Steven Spielberg. I missed that train.

These days, I strap on my bicycle helmet and ride. I know what 100% exertion is. At 7:00, I start pedaling up the big hill. At 13:00, I start pedaling down it. At 25:00, I pedal up Hill 2, and at 30:00, pedal down it. I consider that level of exertion 100%, which amounts to 47:00 for the full course. And while I’m swimming inside that pool called exertion, it’s all about the metaphor, it’s about goals and successes. I’m pedaling to succeed where I’ve failed so often in the past.

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But then one day, I surprise myself.  I suddenly remember that I can push myself beyond what I thought was 100%, and at the end, red faced and panting heavily, I clock in at 41:00. That’s 110%. Then I go out and hit 41:00 every day for weeks. I consider it a challenge that I have to meet.  Claire says that I seem perkier and more energetic around the house. When I push my body harder, it responds with more energy. I feel I can do anything, that there are no limits.

My high school friend Chazz (not his real name) has gotten old. He had a kidney transplant and he almost died three times while in the hospital. His most simple dreams, like performing magic at a downscale restaurant every week, are now gone like the road behind him. His wife died of cancer. In his condition, he could no longer do his job selling computers, so he sold his house and now lives with his mother in Atlanta. He walks with a cane and she has Alzheimer’s. But every day, I do 41:00, or if I’m ambitious, a 51:00 course that I used to do in 57:00. Because for me, the game isn’t over.

Sometimes, I play games in my head. Before I hit the road, I put myself in a dire situation.

“You have to make it in 30 minutes or you and everybody you love will die,” says God or somebody like him, somebody who has ultimate power.

In my head, the roads are cleared. There’s no traffic. I hop on my bike and start my wrist chronometer. I start pedaling. From the very beginning, I push push push.   Every push of the pedal is 110%. I push hard because otherwise, nothing else will matter. As I pedal, I suddenly discover increasingly deeper levels of exertion, levels that, in my mind, seem like caverns, exotic and unexplored, grottos that I never knew existed, plains that stretch into a beauteous skyline, beautiful visions of the future that are my familiar optimism.

As I pedal, I don’t glance at my watch because that could lose me half a second. I look out for traffic, but in my mind, the traffic is all gone because, after all, everyone else is dead. As I approach the final hill, I push even harder, up to what might be 111% or higher. First, there’s pain. As I push harder, it’s impossible to hold a complex thought in my head. As I get up to 112%, it’s like all my thoughts are gone like a film peeled from my eyes, and all that’s left are the sealife of my unconscious swimming by. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a sitting wolf. Perhaps he is guarding me, or perhaps waiting for me to fall, I can’t tell. Below me, the road rushes by, and two seconds later, I wonder if I’ve been pedaling seconds or days. My ambition is all stripped bare

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I log in another 41:00. If I were actually given that ultimatum, though, I know I could chisel my 41:00 down to 31:00. Okay, I didn’t make it to the Major Leagues, or to the Olympics, or to Hemingway’s level of fame, but I know that I could, if I just pushed hard enough. That’s just the way my mind works.

An Outburst of Pure Irish Passion

There’s a guy in Ireland who bought my book, Be a Street Magician, a few years ago. He gladly paid the extra postage and ordered a couple other tricks, as well, the bill exceeding $100. He was trying to get the nerve to go out on the street and perform magic, which is a kind of dragon that some of us have to slay. But Jack wanted to read up on dragon slaying before he went out to fell the beast.

“After reading your book, I strapped on a set of balls and just did it,” Jack told me.

He didn’t just do it, he’s won awards for it.  It’s gratifying to know that you inspire people to be bold.

Later, when I looked at his YouTube video, I was mightily impressed.

This guy has talent, I thought.

This year, I finally traveled to Ireland, and when I met Jack Wise, I put a face on a reader. He was a muscular fellow with the kind of face women love, but with one Achilles heel: He loves magic. I would’ve hated him if not for that one fatal flaw.

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Brian Daly (L) and Jack Wise (R) in Murray’s before the lecture.

We were sitting in Murray’s, a traditional Irish pub, having dinner and a pint, and one by one, the Irish magicians wandered in.

Brian Daly, a working pro who is an officer in the Society of Irish Magicians, and who is terribly witty in front of an audience.

Gary Michaels, who had just come from working the streets, where he shocks people for a living.

Gary had the look of someone who doesn’t need to prove himself.

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Gary being Yiked.

Steve Thompson, who is a brilliant inventor of magic tricks, such as Glance.

In fact, Steve invented something astonishing just while we were sitting around chatting.  Steve’s mates were joking about not wanting to hug him when they saw him, and I took the joke a step further.

“I don’t want to hug, but could we just cuddle?” I asked.

It was an excellent joke and everyone laughed heartily, but truth be told, it remained a wall between us for the next hour. It’s a guy thing.

Later, we all crossed over to Cassidy’s Hotel, the lovely Irish establishment where I would be lecturing to the society at 8 pm, and had another pint. They all wanted to see some magic, but nobody wanted to ask. So I just stood up and launched into a trick called Torn and Restored Transposition, a trick that was invented by a wacky Ohio magician named David Williamson. The trick kicks magicians’ asses, not just because the individual sleights are tough, but also because the sleights have a rhythm that is extremely difficult to master.

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Ah, rhythm. When it comes to rhythm, I’ve always had an ear for it, whether it be musical or magical. I love the Irish rhythm of Luke Kelly and Van Morrison and the Chieftains and U2. I was always astonished that someone like Van the Man, who has such a horrific voice, could entrance me with such incredible rhythm, melody, and musicality. The Irish, it seems, are in touch with everything that makes you tap your toe, because sometimes, that’s all the downtrodden have, is some weird beat that the privileged could never imagine because, well, they have everything.

In the case of my magic trick, the rhythm was BAM SWISH RIP BEAT SWISH TURN APPLAUSE SWISH CLENCH OPEN SWISH BAM. It’s a tough one to tap your toe to, I must confess.

After I performed the trick, there was a kind of silence.  Of course, silences mean different things to different audiences. In time, it became clear that this fine Irish silence didn’t mean Meh, but instead, Wow. Later, Jack tried to explain the silence to us, talking about how Irish audiences differ from American audiences. He discovered the difference while performing at busking festivals in Canada, which he does every year.

“You invite an Irishman up onstage and you say hello, and he says hello wit’ his head down, like, ‘Uh….’” Jack said. “But you invite an American or a Canadian up and say hello, and he’s like, ‘Hey, how ya doin’?’ And we Irish t’ink, like ‘What?!’ We can’t understand tat reaction. It’s da result of 800 years of oppression.”

Everybody was laughing about that one, but when the laughing was over, the truth of it remained at the bottom of the glass.

While Claire, my mother, and I were in Ireland, we picked up a boatload of phrases. You tell people that you went into town to see the Irish dancing, and an American would say, Great. But the Irishman takes it one important step further.

Grand, he says.

But it’s not just grand, it’s grawnd, in such a friendly, open accent that makes you feel like a million euro!

Language can unlock a people. For example, whenever they say a word that contains a th, they pronounce it as if the h were a traitor to the Irish cause for freedom, that the h has to be kicked out of the country to connect themselves back to the ancient Celts, which gives rise to such strange sentences as:

Ta ting is, I can’t tank you enough, Teodore, for being so totful wit me tirteen kids.

I had prepared for this trip. Before getting on the plane, I bought a 400-page history of Ireland called The Story of Ireland, the reading of which consumed my evenings and weekends before the trip. One of the tings I learned: By all rights, there should be two-tirds as many people living in Ireland as there are living in England, given the size of the land mass. Strangely, though, Ireland has only 5% as many. The reason, put quite bluntly, is a centuries-long policy of murder and expulsion.

There, I’ve said it.

During the seven years of the potato famine alone (1845 – 1852), approximately 1 million souls died of starvation, which, by the way, is a horrific way to die. Another million emigrated, many of them to America. One may assume that the Irish were responsible for their own famine deaths, but they weren’t. Since the English had centuries earlier made it illegal for the Irish to own land in their own country, or serve in their own legislative bodies, or even benefit from laws outlawing murder, theft, and fraud, there evolved a kind of well-enforced poverty.

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I’m not saying that Americans were any better. We were toying with our own minorities at the time, which included the Africans, the Mexicans, the Chinese, the Jews, the Catholics, the Italians, and yes, the Irish. It was what you did in those days. You slapped weak people around. You shot them. You killed them.  You stomped on their graves.

So when the potato blight arrived (the microscopic fungus that invaded the Emerald Isle and destroyed potato crops wholesale), the poverty-stricken Irish were already on the verge of starving. The Phytophthora infestans simply pushed them over the edge. On top of that, the British government refused to offer adequate help, and crime and other unrest skyrocketed. Carts filled with wheat and oats were looted on their way to market. The Irish countryside descended into chaos. Families huddled in their squalid homes, hungry and desperate, many of them dying there. Starvation ravaged immune systems and a typhus epidemic raged. Villages became ghost towns and every town seemed to have its own mass grave.

The Times of London complained that the Irish were exaggerating, declaring that “it is the old thing, the old malady breaking out. It is the national character, the national thoughtlessness, the national indolence.”

It’s no wonder, then, that the Irish are known for their drinking and brawling. My own Mexican grandfather, who was a mariachi singer in La Ciudad de Los Angeles in the 1930s and ‘40s, could never catch a break from the gavachos who ran the system, and consequently turned to drinking and fighting. His children grew up in domestic chaos, and as a result, I feel the effects of that desperation even now, two generations later.

Mariachi promo pic 1Drinking and fighting. While traveling through Ireland, I took photos of both. The first was outside a pub in Drogheda, a half-hour’s drive north of Dublin, where we caught a staggering, drunken man trying to light a fag.

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The second was in the Dublin Airport, where we were waiting for our flight to Heathrow. There, we saw a man who was trying to blend into the vinyl airport furniture, but who had obviously been in a recent fight.

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I can sympathize with fighters. They refuse to lay down.

God invented whiskey, the saying goes, so that the Irish wouldn’t rule the world.

Finally, at 8 pm, I stood in front of the Society of Irish Magicians and started my lecture. In the room was lots of expensive wood and chandeliers, and the audience was of a healthy size. I was enjoying it, imparting my deep, dark secrets to a group of fellow deceivers, and I could feel them enjoying it, too.

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Then I launched into my climactic piece of magic, The Silence of the Lemons, which involves me raising my voice and haranguing the audience like a Southern preacher.  In their view, I was coming alive, and I could feel them come alive, too. One fine magician named Gary couldn’t stop laughing when I started tearing his 5-euro note, and that expostulation of laughter gave me such joy that I can’t describe. Afterwards, Silence is the trick they couldn’t stop talking about.

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On the left in this photo is Gary, who couldn’t stop laughing when I tore his 5-euro note.

“You can tell that you’ve performed that trick thousands of times,” Jack said. “It’s like you could just turn it on for that trick.”

But I think they were drawn to the trick for other reasons, too. It’s essentially an outburst of pure passion, and the Irish love passion.  It’s what they live for.  The music of Luke Kelly is such an outburst. So is the poetry of James Stephens. So is the drinking of James Joyce, which is the stuff of legend. Many an evening in Dublin, so they say, Joyce ended the night in a passionate embrace of the pub floor.

I may not be terribly religious, but Joyce, now there’s a god to worship. Sacred be his nouns and hallowed be his verbs. Drinking and freedom are intertwined in his pages like vines crawling up the brick walls of Trinity College Dublin. Joyce drank with his countrymen and woke up with the same hangovers. His heart broke when he heard about the deaths at the GPO in 1916 and he mended it in the best way he could. Sometimes, his heart could not be mended. And when Joyce wrote, he remembered it all, he was honest about it all, and it all bled out of that fabulous pen like green Celtic blood.

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“It was cold autumn weather, but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse; every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow.” (from “A Painful Case,” in Dubliners)

True enough, Messr. Joyce, sorrow is everywhere, it’s general, it’s the human condition.  Still, the only sorrow that I feel from my bond with the Society of Irish Magicians was the sorrow of leaving. They were all such a joy, even the old white-haired mage who challenged one of my sleights for being overcomplex, God bless him, even the skinny 11-year-old who looked so forlorn and friendless that his mother brought him to a magic meeting to connect with some kind of something, God bless him, and especially the tall young master magician named Andy who earnestly promised to get me onto cruise ships, God bless him especially, God bless every single minute of his life, that I cannot adequately put it all into words.

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Therefore, I will end not with a cuddle, nor with a thrown punch, nor with an embrace of the pub floor, but with a fine Irish toast.

May you never lie, steal, cheat or drink.
But if you must lie, lie in each other’s arms.
If you must steal, steal kisses.
If you must cheat, cheat death.
And if you must drink, drink with us, your brothers in magic.

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Sitting in Bewley’s, Reading James Joyce Aloud

In college, I was particularly drawn to an author I’d never heard of before, a fellow named James Joyce. He wrote of complex thoughts and feelings but in a simple way. His sentences flowed like swiftly moving water. No author I have ever encountered had smoother prose. Not only that, but his prose never had a false step in it. Over time, he became a god.

During my recent trip to Ireland, I discovered that Joyce is revered over in Ireland, not just in American college English departments. We discovered statues, carvings, photographs, paintings.

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In Dublin, a couple magicians invited me to have lunch with them at Bewley’s Oriental Café, which is on the famed promenade called Grafton Street. I stepped inside and breathed in the glamour and the history. Over a fabulous scone and tea, we sessioned, as magicians like to put it, trading secret moves and conspiring, as we are wont to do. Everything we do is a conspiracy against the laity, ourselves being a kind of clergy.

Our magic session at Bewley's in Dublin

Our magic session at Bewley’s in Dublin

In the middle of my afternoon there, I discovered that Bewley’s is mentioned in Joyce. It’s in his short story, “A Little Cloud.”

Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley’s.

Suddenly, the place was imbued with a golden literary glow. I discovered that there’s a James Joyce balcony and a small painting of Joyce on the wall. I read the story in Dubliners, and discovered that it’s about the frustrating tension between our burning passions and the banality and drudgery that we call responsibility. That’s a tension I have lived, baby, baby.

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There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet’s soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds.

I thought that when I published What Happens to Us.

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A street scene on O’Connell Street, the main drag in Dublin

Standing in front of "The Needle" on O'Connell Street in Dublin.  People wonder what the monument means.  To me, obviously, it's a celebration of the Irish junkie.

Standing in front of “The Needle” on O’Connell Street in Dublin. People wonder what the monument means. To me, obviously, it’s a celebration of the Irish junkie.

Later, Claire and I were walking down O’Connell Street, which was named after Irish patriot Daniel O’Connell. Look at a country’s patriots and you will discover the country’s soul. Born in 1775, Daniel O’Connell was a fiery orator who campaigned for the right of political representation in Parliament for the Irish people, which is of course what motivated the American colonists during the Boston Tea Party. In the 1840s, in his sixties, O’Connell campaigned for Irish independence and was jailed for it. His health suffered in prison, and when he was released, he made a pilgrimage to Rome. He died en route. Per his wishes, his heart was buried in Rome, and the rest of his body, in Dublin.

I was sick while traveling, as well. Some days, I simply couldn’t find the strength to walk around. In some photographs, you can see it in my eyes. It was like I forgot to wear mascara.

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You can see that I’m sick in this photograph

On one of my healthier days, we posed for a photo beneath O’Connell’s statue, then walked down the street and played around at Joyce’s statue. In one photograph, I’m aping Joyce’s dandyish pose. In another, I’m comically begging Joyce for the ability to write as well as he did.

In front of the O'Connell statue

In front of the O’Connell statue

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Joyce is one author to whom I truly aspire. When I first encountered his prose, I was astounded that he could express such complex concepts in such a simple and direct way. In college, I was a literary democrat, averse to such stylistic royalists as Henry James, T.S. Eliot, and Thomas Disch. On top of that, Joyce wasn’t afraid of his heart. The people in his stories were regular people with regular concerns. A crying baby. A colleague who has surpassed the protagonist. Envy and disappointment.

When I begged a bronze Joyce on O’Connell Street for writing ability, then, I wasn’t being facetious, I was being sincere. One’s ability to write is renewed every single day in every gesture you make towards life, and the price you pay is humility, curiosity, and honesty. And if you don’t pay enough, that ability is revoked. At various times in their lives, many great authors have been denied that ability because they wouldn’t pay the price—Salinger, Hemingway, LeCarre, Delillo, and so many others.

But Joyce was an Irishman, as well, and in college, I couldn’t have understood what that meant. I now have an inkling of it. It meant being part of a race of people who were occupied and oppressed in their own country. It meant Irish people not being able to own property in their own country. It meant the occupiers taking land and belongings from them and giving them to colonists.

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One 12th-century occupier “writes scathingly of the barbarity and uncouthness of the Irish: their refusal to mine or till the soil correctly or to trade as they ought to trade, their cunning and violent ways, their lack of honesty.”

An earlier source claims that even “the most powerful go barefoot and without breeches, and ride horse without saddles.”

A 14th-century source says that the English occupiers’ “regular clergy dogmatically assert that it is no more a sin to kill an Irishman than a dog or any brute….They have striven with all their might and with every treacherous artifice in their power, to wipe our nation out entirely….” (All of these passages were taken from The Story of Ireland, by Neil Hegarty(Thomas Dunne Books, St. Martin’s Press, New York).

Joyce, then, was part of the movement that was attempting to rescue Irish identity after centuries of being trampled in the dirt. Joyce’s ordinary people with extraordinary passions were an attempt at claiming an Irish literature. It was a literature that encompassed their great lights.

Charles Stewart Parnell, whom English Prime Minister William Gladstone described as the most remarkable person he had ever met. I walked down Dublin’s Parnell Street to take our laundry to the cleaners.

Sean McDermott, who was one of the leaders of the Easter Rising of 1916, which led to the Irish Free State in 1922. He was executed for his part in the Rising.  Today, there’s a Sean McDermott Street in Dublin.

Oliver Bond, a wealthy Irish revolutionary who was a leader in the violent demonstrations of the 1790s, and died under mysterious circumstances in prison in 1798.  Today, there’s an Oliver Bond Street in Dublin.

All of these men are luminaries in the blossoming flower that in 1922 became the Republic of Ireland.

As we all know, oppression has a way of enhancing a people’s literature, music, and other expression. Look at American blacks, South Africans, and yes, Irish writers from Joyce to Dylan Thomas to William Butler Yeats to James Stephens and others.

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My mother listening to James Joyce at Bewley’s

A bronze statue in Bewley's Oriental Cafe

A bronze statue in Bewley’s Oriental Cafe

A beauty mimiicking a bronze statue in Bewley's Oriental Cafe

A beauty mimiicking a bronze statue in Bewley’s Oriental Cafe

So, when I was sitting in Bewley’s, I read James Joyce aloud.

I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

It was lovely to read Irish authors in Irish places.  When I was taking a dawn walk in the beautiful wet bogs and heath of County Louth, I read Yeats aloud.

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An Irish farmhouse at dawn

An Irish farmhouse at dawn

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

And whenever I saw a photo of an Irish author, I had my picture taken. I aspire, I aspire. Responsibility beats me back, but then I advance again. Back and forth, to and fro, discouraged and imbued, isn’t it always the way?

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Mimicking James Joyce, which I’ve done all my life

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[This is Chapter 3 of an ongoing piece of fiction.  Chapter 2 is here.]

1.     Confess and repent

Kara didn’t know, maybe she was losing her mind. After Evan came back from Seattle, they’d had a long talk on his sofa. She loved long talks. She dug in and concentrated on listening. She knew that listening wasn’t her strong suit.

Evan had learned something about his mother that had robbed him of his smile, she couldn’t figure out exactly what, she wished to God she knew, it killed her that she didn’t know.

What is it? You can trust me.

I know I can, but…

That’s what I’m here for.

…but I need to sit on this one for a bit.

That’s why we pair up in this life.

I know.

Then why don’t you tell me?

It’s just that—

Is it something about me?

No, it’s just that some things take time to process.

I love you, sweetie, but you have to learn how to trust.

The look on his face broke her heart.

It was like the ancient Rapa Nui written language. They have ancient writings, but nobody knows what it means because the Spanish conquistadores killed all of the scholars by 1888. Today, we look at the writings, but they’re absolutely impenetrable. That was sometimes how Evan seemed to her.

Kara thought about it after she left his apartment, as she was driving around town, as she was soaking in a hot bath. She wished that there were an Evan-to-Kara dictionary. She’d heard there was a scientist who had identified 4,000 expressions in the human face, and that there was a meaning for each one. But Evan’s facial expressions meant nothing to her.

There were so many things that Kara wanted to do with Evan. Go on a train trip with him. The idea of bumpy train sex seemed like the most exciting thing in the world. Life was all about rhythm, she knew, figure out how his rhythms counterpointed with her rhythms and make a song, and whether that song was a good song or a tired-ass clunker. Rhythms explained everything. Once, she had stood onstage with her lead guitarist playing a solo behind her, and just from the rhythm, she realized that his girlfriend had just broken up with him. She turned around and looked into his eyes incredulously.

Really, her eyes said.

Yes, he nodded.

It was all there in the rhythm: details and concepts, math and emotion, pink and zigzaggy and booyah, everything.

The next morning, Kara wrote up a list of other things she wanted to do with Evan, too. She so liked lists.

  • Hike in Red Rock Canyon till we’re knackered.
  • Sing him my best songs. In the living room.
  • Not talk about coke ever.

 

2.     If you can’t love, at least pretend to love

After a set in the casino, someone with a loving face came right up to Kara and killed her with kindness.

Oh my goodness gracious, your voice is such a blessing. You songs open up my heart, I can’t tell you how much. We’re from Indiana.

But, Kara thought as she showed her lovely smile, she still lived in a crummy apartment and drove a crummy car. Sometimes she heard somebody on television, some real person in an interview, who said to a girl, I will transform everything, and he did. The guy who married Mariah Carey. The guy who married Celine Dion.

I want to meet one of those guys, she thought. I could pretend to love him, too.

Sometimes Kara wracked her brain for something that would change things—a new song, a new band, new chops, a new writing partner. But the thought that tortured her was—What if I need a new heart?

3.     An eye for an eye

Last year, Kara had thrown a Thanksgiving dinner at her apartment. Her boyfriend Harris was there, helping with the cooking, as only the best boyfriends do, ones you could imagine helping you get into your wheelchair when you’re 90. Holiday aromas filled the air. There were boiling cranberries and a discount turkey in the oven, and on the TV on mute, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Kendra was the first to arrive, and pretty quick, Kendra zeroed in on Harris. Months later, certain phrases were impossible to get out of her head.

Kara never told me you were so cute.

Isn’t anyone else coming to this Thanksgiving dinner? Kara, don’t you have any friends?

Oh, that’s just my cleavage. It’s a little bigger than my sister’s.

When they were 15, Kendra said to Kara, Somebody’s always gotta lose with us. Kara said, No we don’t. Kendra said, We’re twins. That’s it. You either win or you lose.

Two weeks later, Kendra and Harris were a thing.

I love you dearly, Kara, but I’m not going to apologize, Kendra said. Harris is not well suited to you. That’s my professional opinion.

For months, Kara felt drawn to religion solely because she had an Old Testament phrase rolling around in her head like an earworm: an eye for an eye, an eye for an eye.

4.     The Unbearable Sound of My Own Heels

It was 8 at night and Kara was on her way to surprise Evan at his apartment, but for some reason, she veered into a Catholic church. Inside, it was so empty and shadowy that it made her think of an ancient Italian cathedral she’d read about once that had a splinter from the True Cross. She couldn’t imagine being that close to Christ. She walked up the aisle and the tile echoed off her heels, the proof of her own aloneness. Kara had never felt close to Him, only far away, so far away that He’d always been nothing more than a vague concept. Written on a piece of paper. Stored in a vault. Bolted to the bottom of the sea. On Jupiter.

The sound of her own heels hurt her so much that she started to cry.

There was a young priest there. He patted Kara on the back and said, There, there. They ended up at Ichabod’s for a late dinner, and then at her place at 1:30 am. They nestled together on the sofa and he was saying, I’ll tell you everything, and then he did, not like Evan, who wouldn’t talk. The priest was young and handsome like Jesus, but humble and kind like no handsome man ever is. When he took off his clothes, Kara saw he had a scar on his side.

Is that where the centurions stabbed you? Kara joked.

He became solemn and spoke softly.

You know, there’s a lance in St. Peter’s Basilica that they claim is the lance that the soldiers used to stab Jesus.

Really.

Yes. And another one in Paris. And other ones in Vienna and Krakow and Istanbul. So don’t worry about feeling far from God.

Kara pushed her head into his chest. There was so much consolation in his attitude towards despair, as if despair were simply proof that we can be happy. She made love to his despair more than anything else. Afterwards, their conversation settled upon their pasts. He talked about trying to please his Mexican father, who was so obsessed with not going to hell that his son wondered what horrible thing he had done. His father had indeed done a horrible thing. One day, he discovered what that sin was: him. That’s what made him join the priesthood.

It was my way of committing suicide, he said.

Kara talked about what was consuming her, the old love that was ruining everything.

Harris left me.

Oh no. Tell me what happened.

November.

What, you mean…last November?

Yes. I always think about him when I’m making love to Evan. Sometimes I start crying when he’s making love to me and I have to make an excuse, like I say, ‘Oh, I’m only crying because it’s so awfully beautiful.’

You do what you have to do.

Exactly.

I mean, I do what I have to do.

Of course, I paid her back…

Who?

My sister. She dug a grave in my heart.

I’m sorry.

It’s so beautiful that you apologize. I wish everybody would apologize to me. All the time.

I’m a great apologizer. Give me a sin and I’ll apologize for it. I’ll apologize for Saddam Hussein’s sins. I’ll apologize for the weather. Hey, you want to do some more blow?

5.     Love limitless

Five days later, Kara made a list.

  • Organize papers
  • Do delicates
  • Never go back to church ever

Kara loved making lists. She did it because her life was a shambles. She made lists and she sang for the same reason: so that she could live with the chaos. Singing elevated the mess into art. She’d heard that in ancient Greek, chaos comes from the word yawning, which meant that every time she opened her mouth to sing, chaos came out.

6.     Control issues

Kara was out shopping with her friend Riley Ann, who was a costume designer for performers on the Strip. They were eating frozen yogurt in the mall and talking about clothes. One thing they had in common was they loved to talk about clothes. Another thing was sobriety.

So how are you doing with your twelve steps? Riley Ann asked.

Kara had forgotten that Riley Ann was her AA sponsor, they had so much fun together.

I don’t know.

That doesn’t sound good.

I mean, look, the Big Book says to be “searchingly honest.” Why can’t we just be honest? Isn’t that a bit obsessive, I mean, like, trying too hard, to be “searchingly honest”?

You are too much, Kara, that’s why I love you. What brought that up?

Oh, I guess I’m having a little trouble with control issues.

Like what?

You really want to know?

Yes.

I’ll be searchingly honest, then, all right?

Okay.

Okay, here it is. I want Evan to talk to me. It kills me that he holds back secrets from me.

You think he’s cheating on you?

Could be. All men are dogs.

What are you going to do about it?

And then Kara began to cry and people at other tables started peering over their shoulders.

I just…I just….

What?

I just love him so much.

 

I Look at the World through Word-Colored Glasses

I’m not that good at math.  I majored in physics for a quarter at UCLA, and it was a disaster.  Somehow, I just don’t think that way.  I also don’t think like a bureaucrat or a bean counter.  But words, now there’s my territory.  Words, I like to say, are the sea in which I swim.  I think not in images or numbers or feelings, as some people do, but strictly in words.  During down times, words twist and turn in my head, re-forming themselves this way and that.  I look at the world through word-colored glasses.

Word colored glasses smallerThat became clear to me as early as junior high school, when I was a star student in Mrs. Robinson’s Spanish class.  I ripped through the assignments so quickly that she put me on an independent study program.  That freed me up to write, at my request, short stories in Spanish.  I remember writing a story about a nuclear war between the Land of the Pickles and the Land of the Meatballs.  The pickles were the first to strike.  They dropped radioactive pickle juice onto the meatballs.

By high school, I was spending most of my time working on the newspaper.  By my sophomore year, the newspaper advisor offered me the position of editor-in-chief.

Desmond Buzzell, my high school journalism advisor

Desmond Buzzell, my high school journalism advisor

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I’d have to order around the seniors.  They wouldn’t do what I said.”

“Of course they would.  You’d be the boss.”

But I couldn’t see it, so instead, I convinced him to make me the sports editor instead.  By the end of that year, I was winning awards for my sports column.  By junior year, I finally accepted the editor-in-chief position and was spending the summer at a highly competitive journalism camp and winning more awards.

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In college, I switched from journalism to literature, and began thinking about words in deeper ways.  Journalism consisted of quickly dashed-off flotsam about fleeting events, but literature consisted of deeply considered words about eternal subjects, topics that had occupied the minds of Socrates, Lao Tsu, and Dante.  I began to admire those who let their deep thoughts determine the words, and the words determine the form, such as Joyce, Tolstoy, and Didion, rather than deadline writers who settle for any sentences that piece themselves together before the 2 pm deadline.

I dove into great literature.  I was amazed at how Virginia Woolf’s meandering sentences could skillfully mimic actual thinking.  It seemed extraordinary that the lack of a simple period had such profound perceptual consequences.  Of couorse, that same lack of periods has through the years scared many people away from her prose.  To others, it has opened a door into the richest veins of the mind.  Without the imprisoning chains of those tiny little dots, Woolf was freer than any person alive at that time.  Her sentences had set her free.

I became obsessed with Hemingway’s spare language, a type of language that seemed less like prose and more like the building blocks of something deeper.  Using Hemingway’s model, I stripped down my own language to its own building blocks so that I could see it better.  It was like taking apart a car engine.  My father had done that in his own day, but I was doing it with language.  Once the engine is in pieces, you can then understand it fully, and in time, rebuild it in a different way to fit your own tastes.

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I began identifying the characteristics of famous writers, from the caricatured prose of Dickens to the self-devouring poetry of Hopkins to the conversational poetry of Whitman to the ego-made-incarnate prose of Roth, to many others.

In my twenties, I realized with some astonishment that one could consciously choose the way that one processes the world.  I can’t adequately express how revolutionary a concept that is, even today.  One could focus on details and minutiae all the time, thus engaging the left brain.  Or one could see the world through large concepts and artistic structures, thus engaging the right brain.  If one took the former option, the side effects seemed to be that one missed the big picture, didn’t connect with flow, and blocked one’s creative output.  If one took the latter option, the side effects seemed to be that one made more mistakes in grammar, spelling, and fact.

It was an easy choice.  I chose to think like an artist.  I suspect that’s why Claire often complains that my side of the bedroom is so messy.

But there was no other possible choice.  At the time, I was working as a freelance proofreader, checking book galleys for spelling and typing mistakes, and later, as a freelance copy editor, checking for grammatical and compositional errors.  Doing that kind of work for six to seven hours a day was grueling, and at the end of the day, I did not feel like doing my own writing.  My head was filled with other people’s words throughout the evening, and I needed a few hours to empty it before I wrote my own stuff.  By the time my head was emptied, it was time to fill it up with words again.  I never wrote anything creative.  It was an endless cycle of emptiness.

When I became a freelance writer, my inner life became much richer, to be sure.  Still, there were limitations.  Writing health articles for magazines like American Health, McCall’s, Psychology Today, and others was moderately rewarding, in the same way that it’s rewarding to date a woman whom only your mother finds attractive.  It wasn’t really what I wanted to do.  I wanted to write fiction all the time, but I was working so hard making ends meet that I just couldn’t find the time to finish anything.

David Groves with beard in twenties

All this time, increasingly, language was my life.  Foreigners were astonished that I could pronounce foreign words correctly upon hearing them once.  I never misspelled words.  My mind could tag-team with my fingers to achieve a 105 wpm typing speed.  While spending idle time–in a car, for example, or at a concert–my mind often drifted to words.  Often, my mind would latch onto a word or phrase–for example, ubiquitous–and type it over and over again on my thigh, counting the number of letters typed with each hand, subtracting one from another, and playing games with those numbers.  All my girlfriends knew the feel, while lying in bed with me during a romantic moment, of my fingers typing out words on their backs or arms.

I was seeing a therapist during that time, and I remember a session I had with her.  I had opened the door and walked into that session as I had done many times before, but this time, I smiled.

I was amused by something I hadn’t noticed before.  While walking through the door into her office, it struck me as extraordinary that the brain could execute an action so mundane as opening a door, which involved turning the knob, pushing it while walking through, and then pushing it back with the other hand at just the right moment to send the door closing at just the right speed, catch it with that original hand behind my back–behind my back!–and then gently close the door shut.  It was such a complex series of motor skills, and yet the mind perceived it as a single action.  It seemed like some neurological miracle.

“So what’s going on this week?” Honora asked.

“Well, I’m having trouble finding the time to write my novel.”

“Maybe you have nothing to say.”

Well, okay, therapists are paid to think the unthinkable.  She didn’t mean anything bad by it, but it irked me all the same.  Here was something I wanted to do more than anything–write my novel–and yet I could never find the time to do it.  And she was blaming me for it?

“I do have something to say,” I said with seething calmness.  “I have a lot to say.”

“Like what?”

“Well, it’s not like I’m a survivor of some holocaust or I’m a McMartin kid or anything,” I said.  “But you know how I opened that door?  It struck me as so amazingly complex, like something that…revealed the extraordinary complexity of the brain, and yet, we never talk about it.  I want to write about the things we never talk about.”

It made me think about a line from Tender Is the Night by Fitzgerald, which goes something like this:

“He went to the mail desk first.  As the woman who served him pushed up with her bosom a piece of paper that had nearly escaped the desk, he thought how differently women use their bodies from men.”

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It took me seven years to finish writing my first novel, ten years to finish my second, and six years to finish my third.  By the time I got to the third one, I had learned so much about writing and life that I would often finish at the end of the day with tears in my eyes, knowing that I had packed as much wisdom into it as I had ever seen in any piece of writing.

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But it didn’t always come easy.  My best passages often took 80 to 100 drafts before they were finished.  But when they were finished, they were so tightly and intricately woven together that it became nearly impossible for the reader to pull them apart and see where the passage originated or where one thought blended into another.  Eighty drafts tend to blend together like layers of soil, moisture, and time on an archaeological dig.

Now that the novel is published, it’s so layered that I could talk about it for years.  Every corner of it is a little universe.  Every plot twist has a complex history.  I was pleased when a reader told me she had read it a second time, because it bears rereading.  Give it a try.  Its roots, as you can well imagine, go deep.  And when you read it, wear your word-colored glasses.

What Happens to Us

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DSSN5SU

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