Notes For a Future Novel

Shandy's car in Therapy

via www.flipflapco.com

1978 Oldsmobile, Toronado Brougham XS

How to create an awesome title for your techno/spy-thriller

It's easy! Just combine a word from Column A with a noun from Column B, and add "the" to the beginning. 

 

Column A (cool-sounding mythological references)

Apollo

Athena

Dedalus

Icarus

Medusa

Minerva

Nemesis

Omega

Prometheus

Scorpio

Zodiac

 

Column B (vaguely military/espionage-related words) 

Agenda

Connection

Conspiracy

Deception

Directive

Enigma

Factor

Gambit

Option

Protocol

Sanction

 

Here are some examples to get you started:

 

The Apollo Sanction

The Athena Gambit

The Dedalus Conspiracy

The Icarus Connection

The Medusa Agenda

The Minerva Option

The Nemesis Directive

The Omega Protocol

The Prometheus Enigma

The Scorpio Deception

The Zodiac Factor

 

What great art is

Lester Bangs: Aw, man. You made friends with them. See, friendship is the booze they feed you. They want you to get drunk on feeling like you belong.
William Miller: Well, it was fun.
Lester Bangs: They make you feel cool. And hey. I met you. You are not cool.
William Miller: I know. Even when I thought I was, I knew I wasn't.
Lester Bangs: That's because we're uncool. And while women will always be a problem for us, most of the great art in the world is about that very same problem. Good-looking people don't have any spine. Their art never lasts. They get the girls, but we're smarter.
William Miller: I can really see that now.
Lester Bangs: Yeah, great art is about conflict and pain and guilt and longing and love disguised as sex, and sex disguised as love... and let's face it, you got a big head start.
William Miller: I'm glad you were home.
Lester Bangs: I'm always home. I'm uncool.
William Miller: Me too!
Lester Bangs: The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what we share with someone else when we're uncool.

via www.imdb.com

I watched "Almost Famous" for the second time the past two nights. I liked it the first time, but it made a much stronger impression on me the second. Perhaps because I watched the director's cut, which adds a lot more character development.

We were such a self-effacing generation (and the Baby Boomers towered over us so completely) that our most representative member killed himself in order to avoid becoming what he hated--a popular, acclaimed artist--at the same time quoting someone (a Boomer of course) who had laid out the blueprint for avoiding exactly that fate. Not quite a lost generation, but caught in a trough, like a ship becalmed between two massive waves—the swell of the Baby Boomers, and the inevitable counterpoint of their offspring.

 

Something Interesting to Read: preview

From a homeless woman with more than just a physical resemblance to Andy Warhol, to a college student dedicating his life to truth and beauty, to a pair of starving film-makers trying to make a movie in Stalinist Russia, to a married couple unsure if they open and set up their newly purchased television, the characters in the short stories of Chris Ernest Hall struggle with abstract forces in over-literal ways, yielding intellectual hi-jinks, philosophical spceculation, and moments of jewel-like authenticity amongst cosmic adbsurdity. Includes the short stories Television Set, Andy Warhol's Sister, Something Interesting to Watch, and published for the first time anywhere, Notes From the Moscow Film World. 

 

1989.05.06: As serious as serious can be

When April and Tim entered the theater, Pete was standing by the entrance. He made a show of checking his watch and said, “You guys sure took your time.”

Once Tim’s eyes had adjusted to the indoor light, he saw a customer standing next to Pete. He was an older man wearing dark brown slacks and a pink sweater. His arms were folded and his lips sealed in a frown. 

“We walked,” Tim said.

“You walked?” Pete said, biting his lower lip. “Did the ice melt?”

“No, there’s still some left,” Tim said as he pushed the swinging door to the snack bar open with his hips, and held it open for April. 

“The Del Rio didn’t have the ice ready,” April said, and Tim was impressed at how effortlessly and naturally she lied. He saw Pete turned back to the irate customer, who had dropped his head forward and was now shaking his head slowly back and forth. Tim and April poured the ice into the empty bin.

“I can’t understand how a movie theater can not have ice,” the man said to Pete. “It’s ridiculous.”

“I really do apologize,” Pete said. “Please, have a Coke, lemonade, whatever you want, any size, on the house.”

“I should hope so,” the man said. He strode over to the snack bar, looking at Tim, April and Darren with eyebrows raised, as if they were all part of the conspiracy to deny his right to a drink that stayed cold. Darren and April both retreated, but Tim went right up to the man, knowing exactly how to deal with him.

“So there’s ice now, right?” the man said to Tim. “I need a Coke.”

“There certainly is,” Tim said. “We discovered that if you freeze water, you can make ice that way.”

The man opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stared hard as Tim pulled a large cup from the upside-down stack to the right of the soda fountain and put it under the tap. “What do you mean?” the man said. “Ice is frozen water.”

Tim pressed the button and Coke gushed into the cup, enveloping the crushed ice. “And the very best kind of frozen water it is indeed, sir,” Tim said, and warped his mouth into an unctuous smile. He glanced sideways, and saw that April had turned had turned her head away from the man, her cheeks turning a darker shade of pink. On the other side, he saw Todd watching the scene with avid interest. With some effort, Tim kept his expression serious. That was the key to the whole setup. If he laughed, or even smiled, the whole effect would be lost.

“I don’t have to pay for this, right?” the man said. He jerked his thumb back at Pete. “He said I could have a drink. Free.”

“But of course,” Tim said as the Coke finished pouring. He popped a lid on, then slid the drink across the counter. “There you go,” Tim said. “One large Coke and frozen water. On the house, just like Pete said.”

The man grasped the Coke and slid it towards him on the counter, still staring at Tim. After a few seconds, he shook his head, picked it up and muttered “Thanks.” The man turned and walked stiffly across the lobby. When he was halfway across, April burst out giggling. 

“Tim, you are a mind fuck,” Todd said, and brayed, slapping the counter in front of him. Pete’s head popped up above the railing of his office, where he had fled the moment it seemed the crisis had been resolved. Tim smiled to himself and spread his hands. 

An hour later, though, Tim was regretting his triumph, as he listened to Todd’s words coming down the snack bar. “Hey, Tim, you want to go frozen-water skating later on?” Todd said, his words intruding on the vision of he and April sitting on the porch at Café Nightingale, continuing their fascinating conversation, growing closer and closer while the moon rose above the city. 

“Ha, ha,” Tim said loudly, then added under his breath, “Oh dear.” He had a created a monster. For the past hour Todd had been thinking of every word or concept he could think of that included the word “water” and substituting “frozen water.” Tim hated it when jokes were run into the ground, Saturday Night Live-style. Jokes were like magic spells, they could be used once, and only once, before they lost their power. 

At least the movies were about to get out. Tim looked at Todd, and was relieved to see that he had started talking to Caleb about the Giants, and whether they had enough pitching to win the National League west. Tim yawned and started unnecessarily wiping the counter. After that he remembered his book, and retrieved it from under the counter. He read a few pages, but then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw April leaving the couch and heading in his direction. 

“Hi,” April said, leaning over the countertop that Tim had just cleaned, resting her forearms on the cloudy glass.

“Hey,” Tim said, and closed his book. 

“So I never told you,” April.

“Why not?” Tim asked, wondering what she was referring to, and hoping her response would give him a clue.

“Because you never asked. I thought you would. You seem to like asking questions.”

“Okay. I’m asking now.” Tim paused for comic effect, and also because he really didn’t know what April was referring to, but he liked the fact that she wanted him to inquire. “What am I supposed to be asking you?”

April smiled at him. “You’re funny,” she said.

“Am I?” Tim said, and looked down at her, not smiling. 

“Yes,” April said, keeping her eyes on him. 

“Am I too funny? I mean, you were telling me something serious, and I made a joke out of it. Is that a good thing?”

“You’re funny,” April said. “And you think too much.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Tim said, and flashed April a crooked smile. He looked over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of the Star Trek V poster on the opposite wall, and realized that she wanted him to ask her. “So, what about your dad? What’d he do to piss your mom off so bad?”

“He had an affair with one of his students. She told me all about it a few years ago. She said I was old enough to know the truth.“

“Students?” Tim asked. 

“He’s a professor. Where you go. The university,” April said. 

Tim glanced to the side, tensed his jaw to keep from smiling. He loved the synchronicity of it, the roundabout connections between people that usually remained undiscovered, until someone like Tim came along, who pierced through the commonplace and found the deeper structures beneath. He balanced the pros and cons of inquiring further, and found he had to go on, he had to know who he was. “Well, what does he teach?”

“Literature,” April said to him with a challenging look. “Books. Like what you read.”

Tim realized he was leaning on his copy of “A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man,” and he nodded slowly, feeling accused and yet acknowledging the validity of that accusation. He stood straight, slid the book away from them, then looked back in April’s eyes. 

“Do you know him?” she asked.

“There’s no literature professor I know with the last name of Hall.”

“That’s my mom’s name. My dad’s is Harkes. Joseph Harkes.”

Tim looked down into the popcorn bin, at the thousands of exploded kernels he had created earlier that day, then very slowly returned his gaze to April with a mixture of real and feigned astonishment. “Are you serious? Joseph Harkes?”

“I guess you know him,” April said ruefully, with a hint of sardonic laughter in her voice.

“I took a class from him just last year. He was a good teacher, but...” Tim let the sentence hang in the air as he remembered what Helen had told Jessica, about seeing Joseph at Cafe Nightingale with Theresa. Tim wondered if he should tell April, and felt reluctant to do so, or to continue the conversation. Instead, he just wanted to end it, go count the candy stores, or make more popcorn. Wasn’t Lethal Weapon about to get out? Sure enough, he heard the the barrage of gunfire which signaled that the movie was entering its final crisis. Usually it was a signal for the usher to begin preparations for the exit of customers into the lobby, but April remained standing where she was, focused on him. 

“What do you know about him?” April asked. “Something bad?”

“Well,” Tim said, and again found himself unwilling to continue. He didn’t know what to say. The conversation with its hidden connections and sudden revelation that had seemed so amusing just a moment ago now seemed less so. April’s face was flushed and her voice had deepened. She looked up him, her green eyes glinting with hidden, long-ago hurts. He saw the slight crook in her nose, the white scar line on the right side—the necessary imperfection, the flaw that the artist introduces to avoid competing with the gods. “I mean, he’s your father,” he finally said. 

“Well, so? He’s not really. I don’t have one,” April said. She narrowed her eyes at him. She parted her lips and flashed a wicked smile. She knew she had power. Tim felt his armpits moisten. He glanced down from her eyes and saw the curve of her breast in a crack of her white shirt. Just below that, the edge of the green and white TransPacific logo shone where Tim knew her nipple to be. Tim wondered if it was hardening the way he was down below. 

Tim shook his head, swallowed. What was he doing? He looked to the right, out the window where the sun still shone, a little further along in the sky than it had been before they gone to get the ice. The lobby remained exactly the same as it was. Caleb, Darren and Todd’s chatter about the Giants still emanated from the front of the snack bar. 

“Tell me,” April said in a quieter voice, inclining her head towards his. Tim looked into her eyes again. They were fierce and would not be denied. 

The door of Theater I swung open and the doorstopper fell down with a click. The sound of George Harrison’s voice filled the lobby, telling everyone to cheer down over layers and layers of strumming guitar, the signature Jeff Lynne sound. Caleb held the door open as people began to stream out. That was April’s job, but she stayed here, with him.

“This is what I know,” Tim said, and April bent her head closer, since the lobby was now filled with chattering voices. Tim licked his lips and continued, “He had an affair with one of his graduate students. My friend Helen saw them kissing at a restaurant in Alta Lara. She was our TA.”

“Oh, April said. “That’s gross.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty lame,” Tim heard himself saying. Something got stuck in his throat, and he half-coughed. He saw himself again with April in a corner of the Cafe Nightingale porch, with their arms around each other, as the full moon shone directly overhead, wished they could have had this conversation there instead. He coughed again, trying to clear his throat. 

“April, Tim,” Caleb called from the front of the snack bar. “Yoo-hoo! If it’s not too much trouble, we could use your help in cleaning Theater I.”

Caleb held up a garbage bag and shook it. April smoothed her hair and abruptly turned away from him. She walked over to Caleb and grabbed the garbage bag out of his hand. “Shut up, Caleb,” April said sweetly over her shoulder. 

Tim stayed behind for a moment, listening to the strumming guitars coming from Theater I and trying to remember what exactly it was he was supposed to be doing. April passed through the doors. Once she was inside Theater I, he remembered. He needed to help clean the theater. He grabbed a garbage bag and followed Darren out of the snack bar. As he crossed the lobby diagonally he passed Caleb.

“Jailbait!” Caleb whispered. Tim snapped his head around and smiled. Caleb clapped his hands. “Come, on boys and girls! Garbage bags at the ready. I want that theater floor so clean you could eat off it!”

Tim picked his way through the people exiting and entered Theater I, finding the opening of his garbage bag and widening it with a snap. He headed for the opposite side of the theater from April. Between them Darren roamed the middle aisles, bending down and picking  trash up from almost every seat. 

“Nobody ever finishes their red vines,” Darren said. “You ever notice that? They pay two-twenty-five for them, and then they only eat two. Why is that? Why don’t they at least take them home?”

“It’s because they’re nasty!” April said from her side of the theater. 

“I like red vines,” Darren said. “Hey, look! A quarter!” He bent down and picked the coin off the floor, holding it up for them to see. Tim smiled at Darren’s enthusiasm, then realized that April was looking at Darren as well. His eyes met hers for a moment. Tim turned his eyes downwards, saw an empty orange popcorn cup and picked it up.  

“Hey,” Darren said, “these guys snuck in some beers. Better tell Pete.”

After that brief moment of contact, Tim ignored April as he walked down the rows. Even so, Tim could feel her awareness of him and knew that she felt his awareness of her. They had both just been a certain way with each other—a connection had been made. Tim wasn’t sure what to do. He knew he wanted her, and what’s more, he realized there was something in her that needed him.

 

1989.05.05: Positively First Street

The inside of the Del Rio was still and quiet. As they waited for the bags to be filled, Tim looked around the lobby, which seemed dim and dingy after their walk in the bright light of mid-day. Although the Del Rio was larger than the Movies, the lobby was smaller. Tim could feel the oppressive weight of the building looming over them. 

The Del Rio was older than the Movies I & II--the building dated to the 1920s, Tim guessed, possibly even earlier. It had originally been a grand opera one-screen theater, but more recently it had been divided into four screens. In random places and odd corners, you could see the faded remains of its former glory--flecks of gold paint, less faded squares on the wall where paintings had hung. Several nubs had broken off the gold-painted curlicues on the frame around the mirror that filled the wall above the snack bar. 

Two girls worked behind the counter, neither of them attractive. One was over-weight, with a huge dome of curly dark brown hair, the other a slyph-like blonde girl with skin so pale she almost seemed like a ghost. Tim told them their errand and asked if the bags were ready. The mousy girl behind the counter said yes and gestured half-heartedly to her right. Tim and April went to the side entrance of the snack bar and got the two garbage bags, covered with condensation. Tim looped the top of one of the bags several times around his hand and lifted it. The bag was heavy, but he could still lift it with one hand and he realized that working out was actually making him stronger. It occurred to him that it was a chance to show off to April that he had been working out, but Tim dismissed such cheezy thoughts. He wasn’t a Todd. 

Tim had tried to select the larger one for himself in the spirit of chivalry, but had no idea if he actually had. In any case, April didn’t seem bothered by hers. She wasn’t large, but she wasn’t delicate either--what there was of her had a certain solidity. April hefted the bag of ice and strode  out of the Del Rio. 

As they began their walk back up the mall, Tim picked up their conversation where they had left it and asked April again what her middle name. She looked away, then back at Tim with pursed lips. She smiled thinly. “Come on, I told you mine,” Tim said, and it sounded like flirtation, as much as he didn’t want to admit it. 

“How do you know I have one?” April asked. 

“I saw your paycheck in the pile, under mine. There was an H. Between your first name and your last,” Tim said.

“God, you are a spy!” April said.

Tim felt the momentum. He had to keep going, even though it scared him that she thought he might be interested enough in her to want to know such things. “My check was on top of yours,” he said. “I can’t help it, I’m very observant.”

“Oh.” The truth seemed to mollify her. 

“And?” Tim said, unwilling to stop pressing her. It scared him to be aggressive, but he felt carried along, as if the conversation had taken on a life of its own. 

“It’s Haze,” she said.

“Really?” Tim said. Although he had no idea what he had been expecting, it surprised him. 

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “Really.” 

As they passed a group of Deadheads congregating on the mall, they were interrupted by the obligatory offer of “buds doses.” Tim shook his head, offended not by the offer of drugs, but by the utterly cliched appearance and behavior of the Deadhead, with his long hair, faded t-shirt with a white rose, and tattered leather sandals. 

With that, they reached Yaçoan Avenue. April surprised Tim by turning right, but he guessed she didn’t want to be seen lugging a bag of ice up the mall, so he said nothing and followed. “Anyway,” he said after they turned the corner, “why Haze?”

“Some stupid idea of my dad’s. That’s what my mom told me. I should change it.” 

“I don’t know. It’s kind of cool. April Haze Hall. It has a ring.”

“But it’s stupid. My first name is already a word. You know, a real word, not a name. And my last. No one else I know has a name like that.”

“Well, my last name is a word. But none of my others,” Tim said, wondering if this would make her feel better. “Same number of letters, too.”

April looked at him like she couldn’t figure out if he was joking or had lost his mind. Tim returned her attention seriously for as long as he could, then let his mouth twist into a grin, to tell her he knew how ridiculous it all was. 

“Okay,” April said, drawing out the word until it dissolved into a laugh, a quavering exhalation that trailed off into the warm air, like she wasn’t quite sure if it was okay to be amused. Tim’s humor often had that effect on people, he had noticed. 

The one block of Yaçoan Avenue between Eden and First Streets they had to walk was completely shaded. April reached out with her free hand, smacked some of the branches of the oily green bushes to their right with her hand. She said nothing, just kept her eyes focused ahead of them as they approached First. 

Once they started walking up First Street, no more trees shaded them. April flipped her sunglasses down. Tim thought about bringing up April’s father again, intrigued by the reason that he would want his daughter to carry the middle name “Haze.” A Jimi Hendrix fan? A meteorologist with a fondness for certain under-appreciated forms of weather? 

But having already questioned her, Tim felt the need to back off. Now he wanted to see what she would do if he remained silent—would she take the initiative? The answer was yes, as a few minutes later April asked him about the party he had gone to. 

 

“Oh, just friends of my best friend’s boyfriend,” Tim said. On his right he looked at the orange, yellow and lime green signs in the window of First Street Liquors, realized how little he had had exercised his right to buy alcohol since he turned twenty-one.

 “Your best friend is gay?” April asked. 

“No, my best friend is a woman. Helen. As in Helen of Troy.”

“And you’re just friends?” April said, giving Tim a sideways glance. Had he said too much by dropping the Helen of Troy reference? He had assumed that it would go over her head, but that was probably a mistake. 

“Yes… unfortunately,” Tim said. Keep pushing, although he couldn’t believe he was going to say what he was about to, but his lips were already parting and the tip of his tongue was reaching for the roof of his mouth. “To be honest, actually, I’ve been in love with her ever since we met.”

To his surprise, the ground didn’t quake, the earth didn’t split open and swallow him whole as a result of his declaration, though it was the first time he had ever admitted out loud the essential truth of his life for the past two years. He kept looking straight ahead, not even daring to glance at April’s face. “I know I can’t have her,” Tim continued, “the way I want, but I still want to hang out with her all the time. Kind of pathetic.”

“Yeah, I know how it feels,” April said. “I’ve been there.”

Tim looked at her, surprised at her sympathy. It was hard to imagine someone has attractive as April dealing with a case of unrequited love. She shrugged and shifted the bag of ice from one hand to the other. “Where do you live?” Tim asked, wanting to shift the conversation to a lighter, more everyday topic. 

“Nearby. Just across the river,” April said, jerking her head to the right. 

“That’s convenient.”

“Yeah. My mom wants to move to Pulgas, but I won’t let her. I’d have to take the bus to school.”

Tim smiled at her disgusted tone, remembering the unwritten rules of high school, the gulf between those who rode the bus and the ones with cars. “Why does your mom want to move?” April turned to Tim, and the skin around her eyes tightened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m prying.”

“No, it’s okay,” April said. 

“I was just curious.” Tim shrugged, to let April know that it was really no great concern to him, so she wouldn’t feel obligated to answer.

“It’s because of her job. She works there,” April said. 

Tim remembered what he had guessed based on the conversation he had overheard the week before–that April’s father was absent from her life. He was curious about that, and felt compelled to guide the conversation in that direction. “So you live with just your mom?” he asked. 

“Uh huh.”A moment later, April surprised Tim by saying more. “My dad left when I was real little. I don’t even know him, really. I know who he is.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Tim asked. 

“I was ten. He came by my mom’s apartment while I was playing in the parking lot. I was making mud pies. He had a new car, and he wanted to give me a ride.”

April and Tim had reached the Zambiggini’s parking lot. They cut across diagonally, trying to make the route as short as possible. Tim’s fingers and arms ached, and though she betrayed no sign, Tim was sure she was tiring as well. But despite his fatigue, Tim wished the walk could have lasted longer. He knew that as soon as they returned to the theatre that everything would change, the mood would be lost and time would begin again. “Did you go?” Tim asked. 

“No,” April said, shaking her head violently. 

What she was saying, Tim could tell, was starting to get to a deeper level. He had this gift, of getting people to open up, one that he had discovered freshman year. It was the first time they had even been alone together, sent to get ice from the Del Rio, and he already had learned so much about her. 

“Why not?” Tim asked. As they walked between lines of parked cars, the breeze abandoned them. The sun reflected off the car windshields, blinding Tim and making his scalp sweat. For the first time that day, he felt too hot. 

“He wasn’t alone. He had his girlfriend with him. I went in the house and shut myself in the closet. He never came back to see me ever again.”

Tim glanced at April again, wondering how much their conversation was affecting her. That same moment, she looked at him, and their gazes locked. Though he couldn’t see her eyes, hidden as they were behind the black-brown lenses of her sunglasses, he could still feel the intensity. Then both became embarrassed by the intimacy of their rapport, of their conversation, of the incongruity of wearing black polyester pants and carrying garbage bags of ice under a hot July sun. They both looked away. 

A question formed in Tim’s mind, about why April’s parents had split up, but he suddenly felt too hot to engage in conversation, especially about such a weighty topic. He had a feeling that April wanted him to ask, but he didn’t, and to distract himself, he looked to the right. They had reached the Galleria and as they entered the shade, Tim looked into the baseball card shop. Featured on black velvet in the front window were rookie cards of Jose Canseco, Mark McGwire and Will Clark. April let out her breath and said, “I want to get stoned.” 

“Wish I had some,” Tim said. He tried to shrug, but his arms refused to lift. “My arms are tired.”

“So are mine.”

“I’m tired, I’m hot, I’m sweaty. Maybe I should have let Todd go with you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” April said. 

 

1989.05.04: The means justify the ends

Tim and April reached Yaçoan Avenue, the only break in the long block that was anchored at the southern end by the Del Rio. Tim looked to the left to where the roadway rose as it passed over the San Cristobal river. The sun hung directly over the bridge, and its rays reflected off of the white concrete, dazzling him. Only for a moment, but when his eyes cleared, he saw April dart into the street just ahead of a slowly rolling black and white Santa Zita police car. Tim hesitated at the critical moment and had to wait. 

As he waited for the cops to pass, Tim looked to his right and noticed the homeless man, the one that Caleb had called the mayor of Eden Street, sitting in the shade next to his shopping cart. In front of him lay an open Pizza My Love box, stained red and still crusted with cheese. Written on the inside of the top lid were the words THE MEANS JUSTIFY THE ENDS, and below were collected a meagre assortment of coins. 

Remembering Caleb’s example and feeling like his creative messages deserved a reward, Tim took a dollar out of his wallet and was about to drop it in the pizza box when the homeless man made an emphatic sound of negation, shaking his head as he did, which caused the loose sagging skin around his cheeks to vibrate like pudding. He pointed across the street, where April was waiting for him with arms folded. 

Tim was about to hurry over to her, embarrassed that he had gotten distracted, when the homeless man grunted and, with surprising alacrity thrust his hand out and pointed to Tim’s frozen yogurt. Having just refused a whole dollar, with which he could have easily purchased one for himself, Tim couldn’t understand why he would want a half-eaten one. Tim shook his head and offered the dollar again, feeling ridiculous, but he couldn’t bring himself to just walk away. 

The homeless man ignored the dollar and continued to reach for the frozen yogurt, mumbling incoherently but emphatically as he did. Tim decided to acquiesce, not knowing what else to do in the face of the man’s acute need. Tim had been trying not to look at the homeless man too closely, but as he handed him the styrofoam container he got a brief glimpse of his vast, bulbous nose, with a reticulum of burst blood vessels spreading from the tip. At the same time he got a full whiff of his odor—a combination of alcohol, sweat, dirt, urine and worse. Horrified, Tim turned his eyes away and headed for the crosswalk. 

“Thanks, buddy,” the homeless man called after him, followed by an string of muttered words, the only discernible word of which was “motherfucker.” 

“Sorry,” Tim said when he had rejoined April. 

“What did the Mayor want?” April asked, and Tim realized it wasn’t just Caleb who called him that, which was reassuring. Tim laughed. “I tried to give him a dollar… he just wanted the rest of my frozen yogurt. So I gave it to him.”

“Ew, you did?” April said. 

Tim shrugged. “I figure it can’t be any worse for him than drinking Thunderbird and sleeping on the street.” 

“True,” April said. “It was nice of you,” she added, in a tone that was oddly respectful. 

“It was what he wanted. I figure, if he wanted it that badly, he should have it. People who need stuff scare me.” 

April looked up at him, but her reaction was hard to gauge with her eyes hidden by the sunglasses. Tim smiled at her but said nothing, remembering his earlier resolution to let her April initiate the conversation. The silence between them grew as they walked down the mall, and the background sounds of the mall seemed unnaturally loud—traffic, a tolling bell, birds in the trees, requests for spare change from homeless people who lacked the creativity of the Mayor. 

Tim was pleased a minute later when April broke the silence. “What were you writing on the schedule?” April asked. 

“My full name, instead of just Tim.” 

“Why?” April asked. “There aren’t any other Tims.” 

“I like it. I like my whole name. I like my middle name. And to be renamed is to be reborn.”

“Born again? Are you like religious?” April asked. Tim wished he could see her eyes, to see just how suspicious she was. Religion was a dangerous topic in Santa Zita, he reminded himself. 

“No, no,” Tim said, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. “Not exactly. Not in any regular sense.” Feeling that the conversation had strayed off its intended course, he said, “I never used to like my full name. When I was a kid, my mom only used it when she was really mad at me.”

“I hate it when they do that,” April said, turning her head and smiling at him. 

“I know, it’s so stupid? They spend all that time thinking of a good name for their kids, then they ruin it by only using it when they’re mad.” Tim pondered that paradox, yet another permutation of how human beings endlessly sabotaged themselves.

“What was it again?” April asked. 

“What was what?” 

“Your middle name.”

“Dylan,” Tim said. He always enjoyed telling people that, since freshman year. He remembered how psyched Jake had been; it had been a bonding moment between them. It had always been a good conversation starter, or continuer, at parties. 

“Like Bob? My mom listens to him all the time. Still! As if he wasn’t a hundred years old. And he can’t even sing!” April took off her sunglasses and put them on top of her head, as if they might be preventing her from seeing Tim as he truly was. Her green eyes bore into him. 

“No,” Tim said, amused by April’s tirade. It was the most animated he had ever seen her. “Not Bob. Thomas.”

“Thomas Dylan?” April said.

“No, Dylan Thomas. The Welsh poet.” Tim decided not to tell her a young Bob Zimmerman had gotten the idea for his renaming from the same source. “I’m part Welsh. On my mom’s side. Her name is Rhiannon. Like the song by Fleetwood Mac,” he couldn’t help adding. 

“Fleetwood Mac suck,” April said, and she looked at him like she had learned he suffered from a particularly debilitating and contagious venereal disease. She increased the pace of her footsteps and Tim had to force himself to keep up. 

“I used to like them... in high school,” Tim said. “Not any more. Way too burnt.” 

“Good,” April said, and there was no joking or playfulness in her tone. Tim decided that April took music seriously, and that made him like her even more--though at the same time it reminded him he needed to be on his toes. 

Tim smiled at her. He felt the need to bring the balance back. She knew his middle name, now he wanted to know hers. He remembered seeing an initial between her first and last names on the envelope of her paycheck when he had been going through the pile, trying to find his, so he knew she had one—her family wasn’t one of those old-fashioned ones that omitted middle names for girls, under the assumption that the space would be filled by their maiden name one the day of their inevitable marriage. 

“So what’s yours?” he asked, even as they entered the shadow of the Del Rio Theatre looming ahead of them. 

“What?” April said, and her smile faded like a cloud passing in front of the sun. Tim wondered if he had asked a too personal question, until he realized that her attention had been captured by a group of skater kids sitting and standing in the sunlight in front of Hermes Records. 

“Excuse me,” April said. “There’s someone I need to talk to real quick.”

Without waiting for an answer, April left him. Tim watched her step over the line between shadow and light cast by the Del Rio as she crossed the street. He shrugged, more for the benefit of anyone who happened to be watching than April, since she was already across and being greeted by her friends. 

Most just gave her small waves and desultory nods of the head, but one girl with magenta-colored hair squealed, sprang to her feet and wrapped April in a bear hug. After returning the hug, April detached herself and headed for the end of the group. She stopped in front of a kid sitting on the edge of a planter, with green tendrils on either side of him. He stayed still, as if he were trying to blend into the background, like a gazelle standing against a stand of tall rushes. Once April arrived in front of him, though, he reached out to her and they embraced. 

Tim stretched his arms to the sky, looked up and down the mall. He saw a patch of light behind him and thought about retreating there, wanting to soak as much sun as he could, but her didn’t want to stray too far from where April had left him. He watched, and waited, as April talked to her friend. At that distance, he was a small, nondescript figure, his only distinguishing characteristic his dusky red hair, the color of old rust, like a long abandoned railcar.

Tim wondered how long they had been gone from the theatre. He hadn’t worn a watch since high school and as a result had developed an excellent sense of time, but something about that afternoon—a sense of it somehow being outside the normal flow of events, like Rivendell or Lothlorien—defeated his instinct and it felt like hours, or possibly no time at all, had passed since they’d left. 

With nothing better to do, and curious to learn more about April’s life, Tim continued to observe the street kids. Their interaction mostly seemed the typically listless chit-chat of teen-agers, but April’s conversation with the red-headed kid seemed urgent and intense. Their heads were close, so no one else could hear, and the red-haired kid kept grabbing blooms from the bush behind him and throwing them on the ground. 

Could he possibly be April’s boyfriend; or perhaps an ex-boyfriend, since he had seen them make no signs of overt affection to each other. He seemed too young, though, to interest a girl as mature as April. Tim preferred the idea of a single, unattached April, unencumbered by romantic entanglements, but even allowing for his selfish bias, he didn’t get the feeling they were a couple. If anything, their interaction reminded him of an older sister with an errant younger brother, though they looked nothing like siblings. 

April turned her away from her friend and threw up her hands, like a parent at the end of their rope. She took a step away, but then she turned back on him, hands on hip, and Tim got the feeling she was really laying into him. He glanced at the movie posters on the wall of the Del Rio and saw one for Star Trek V: The Final Frontier. As far as Tim knew, the crew of the Enterprise had been exploring the final frontier for their entire time together, so he wondered what the title could possibly mean. 

Tim’s peripheral vision caught motion, and he turned back in the direction of Hermes. April was now walking back across the street, oblivious to a car that had to brake to avoid hitting her, with her arms folded and her head bowed, as if she were so angry at the world she couldn’t even bear to look at it. Tim wondered why, but was tactful enough not to ask any questions. 

“Let’s go,” she said once she reached him, and without stopping, headed for the brass-framed glass doors of the Del Rio. 

 

1989.05.03: "It brought peace to my mind..."

“Ah, well,” Tim said, slowing his steps but not stopping completely, and trying to think of a good response to this unexpected invitation. “Regrettably, I didn’t bring my weed today.” Not that he was being entirely, or even partially, truthful. In reality, his weed, in the sense of weed that he smoked, was never in his possession but existed only as an immanent potentiality. Ever since freshman year, Tim had never had to actively obtain and hold marijuana, it would just fortuitously appear while he was partying, provided by one of his many stoner friends. Indeed, it was all he could do to just smoke the minimal amount required to avoid having people think he was a complete dweeb, or a narc.

April shrugged and adjusted her sunglasses, checking out her reflection in the high lobby windows as they passed. Tim wondered if her opinion of him had changed as a result. He was a bit flattered that she thought he smoked, though it was an easy assumption to make with his long hair.

Once they were past the lobby windows, April took off her vest. Tim didn’t take his off since he didn’t want to carry it, but he did undo the buttons. “I can’t believe Caleb wanted us to wear our vests. Official business… we’re just getting ice!” Tim said.

“He was just being a dick… he loves being on his power trip. He thinks he’s so funny, making Pete think he’s mister goody two shoes,” April said, and uttered a short, contemptuous laugh—the demonic laugh of the Devil at a priest’s hapless attempts to ward him off with crucifix. It didn’t surprise Tim that April saw right through Caleb’s act, and it also confirmed his suspicion that whatever was going on at the theatre, April was involved, or at least aware.

A few more steps took them past the frozen yogurt place located in a shadowed nook of the Galleria. As far as Tim could tell, it existed solely for the convenience of Movies I & II employees, since Tim never had never seen anyone else in it. April slowed and peered inside. “Let’s get frozen yogurt!” April said, and darted in.

It occurred to Tim that they were supposed to be in a hurry and he thought about reminding April of that—or would have if she hadn’t already been in the store, studying the trays of toppings. He realized, though, that any perception that he was trying to act like a responsible older person would irrevocably change the relationship between them in such a way to prevent any genuine connection, so he forbear.

A few minutes later Tim and April exited, both carrying frozen yogurts. Tim had ordered conservatively, getting a small vanilla with plain M&Ms mixed in, although unfortunately the shop only had the imitation M&Ms known by the unappealing sobriquet of “Pokies.” April, though, had gotten lowfat strawberry with Reese’s Peanut Buttercups, a combination which made Tim’s gorge rise, reminding him of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which he had always despised.

“I love sugar,” April said in between huge bites as they walked away from the store.

"Yes,” Tim said, “Sugar’s the original drug and some say still the best.”

April nodded quickly, but said nothing since her mouth was again full. Tim followed April down the wheelchair ramp, between the white flowering bushes, As she walked, April held her left hand straight out, running it along the wrought iron railing.

They exited the Galleria into bright sunlight, blinding Tim after several hours in the lobby. Tim wished he could wear sunglasses like April did, but with his regular glasses he couldn’t just wear a cheap store-bought pair. He wished he could get prescription sunglasses like his father had, but they were expensive, and required a trip to the optometrist to obtain.

“Not a bad day,” Tim commented once his eyes had adjusted to the light. “I mean, if you like sunshine,” he added, to indicate his awareness that he had no idea what April’s tastes in weather were, and that he would never assume they were conventional. April made a sound that Tim would have described as non-committal had this been a scene in a screenplay he was writing for Shek, but uttered no actual words.

As they started walking, though, Tim realized it was something more than just a typically nice Santa Zita day. The fog had retreated for the past few days, which usually meant hot weather and a gradual accumulation of smog as the inversion layer established itself over the Terra Nueva bay.

That day, however, there was just enough of a breeze to prevent the sun from being too sweltering, and yet not so windy that the shade was chilly. The elements were perfectly in balance, with none of the tension and indecisiveness usually present in Santa Zita weather. There was a soft stillness to the air, and when the breeze did come, it came from the south and smelled of new life and growing things.

Once they crossed First Street, April led him along Miller, which meant they were going to take the mall all the way to the Del Rio. Not the fastest route, perhaps, but the one with the most diversions. Tim was content to let April lead the way—she seemed to have a purpose in mind, and now that he had seen how good the weather was he was in no hurry to go back inside.

The sunlight and breeze brought peace to Tim’s mind, and he wasn’t nervous as he thought he might, or should, have been. It was a day made for lovers—for walking hand in hand, barefoot in the garden. On just such a day, Adam must have woken up, with a dull pain in his rib-cage, to find Eve lying next to him.

Tim felt a yearning for the simple pleasure of being at peace with someone, the quiet calm of true love. He imagined himself walking hand in hand with a girlfriend on the mall, and in his vision April was that girl. He wondered at the sudden strength of his feelings, as if an alien spirit had taken possession of his soul. He found his hand moving towards her of its own accord, and he hold it against his side through strength of will.

Fortunately, April was too absorbed in eating to notice. The bright artificial pink and chocolate browns of her frozen yogurt had now run together into a light brownish color which was not at all appetizing, but that didn’t seem to deter her enjoyment. Tim had to admire that as greedily as she was eating, she didn’t spill or drip any on her white shirt.

Tim heard music coming from somewhere. As they got closer to Eden Street, Tim realized it was a jazz band playing in the courtyard of the Miller House—a trio with drums, bass and a bright oblong sound that Tim identified as vibraphone. He liked the sound of vibes, they were cheery and rounded, perfectly fitting the mood of a sunny Sunday mid-summer afternoon—sometimes rhythmic and repeating, sometimes wandering, the solos periodically punctuated by a flourish of scales.

April and Tim turned left onto Eden Street, around the corner of the Miller House patio. Tim glanced across at Sunshine Records, wondered if Helen would happen to see them together, and wonder. He scooped out another bite of frozen yogurt, trying to get an even balance of frozen yogurt and pokies. The vanilla frozen yogurt by itself was plain and somewhat bland, while the pokies were hard, chalky and very sweet, but together they were more than the sum of their parts.

Across the street Tim saw Discount Records, the moldy-smelling used record store where he had spent many hours fall quarter freshman year, poring through used LPs and feeling overwhelmed by how much music there was in the world that he didn’t know about. Without warning, Tim felt a yawn escape from his mouth, and a wave of weariness pass over him, an unwanted return of the burntness he had been feeling earlier. “Sorry,” Tim said, not wanting April to think he was bored of her company. “I’m tired today.”

“Why?” April asked.

“Went to a party last night. Drank too much,” Tim said, and as the words came out of his mouth they felt false and affected.

“That sucks,” April said, and ate another spoonful. Tim felt foolish. Why had he brought that up? Was he trying to prove something to her, that despite his intellectual manner and appearance, he was a partier? Why on earth would she care about that? He was over twenty-one, it wasn’t like it was any kind of a challenge. He could spend every day, all day, as drunk as a rockstar, and nothing would stop him; at least, until he exhausted his trust fund, or his liver failed.

Tim glanced again at April and decided that the exchange concerned him a lot more than it did her. She was peering around the mall, as if she were looking for someone. She noticed Tim’s attention and made eye contact with a questioning angle to her eyebrows, pointing towards the lenses of her sunglasses like the wings of a diving raptor. If Tim had been able to think of any topic of conversation at that point, he would have. He sometimes felt like he talked too much, so he decided, for fun, to try not speaking. He kept looking at her, trying to make April feel compelled to say something.

“How old are you?” April asked, after a few moments, and she sounded unsure, like he might be trying to play a trick on her.

“I just turned twenty-one,” Tim said, glad he had a good answer for her.

“Cool,” she said, and he guessed April was drawing the obvious conclusion, one that Tim was sympathetic to, having been in that situation so many times since he’d become friends with Helen—eager to party, but lacking any way to obtain alcohol. She then looked back at him with a challenging expression as they passed the Dog & Butterfly, its windows filled with billowy hippie girl dresses in every color of the rainbow. “You don’t seem that old,” she said.

Tim scanned the area around them, the thought that coffee might be good passing through his mind, but the Santa Zita Coffee Roasting Company was in the opposite direction, as he tried to think of a way to respond to April’s statement. It was true, of course, but it still stung. Maybe the answer was to turn it around on her. “Well, how old do I seem?” Tim asked.

April had been about to take another bite of frozen yogurt, when she stopped. “I don’t know… eighteen?”

Tim smiled, acknowledging the truth that he did look younger than he was, while at the same time trying to regain the advantage. “You’re sixteen,” Tim said. He was guessing, but somehow he knew he was right, and even as the words came out of his mouth he was searching his memory for supporting evidence.

“How did you know?” April asked, and she seemed taken off-guard.

“Well, you just finished your sophomore year at Santa Zita High—”

“You know a lot,” April said, interrupting him. “Are you spying on me?” she asked, in a suspicious, but also resigned tone, as if she were used to that sort of thing.

Tim chuckled. It was true, he did know too much, but he couldn’t help it. He absorbed information like a sponge—he was to trivia and facts what Helen was to guys. It wasn’t terribly useful, except when playing Trivial Pursuit, but it was part of who he was and he was tired of denying it. “No, I’m not, I just put two and two together and got eight.”

Tim held up the fingers of his right hand to count off the steps of his deduction, while his left still held the frozen yogurt. “First, I know you’re a sophomore at Santa Zita High because Todd told me you guys are in the same class.” April’s brows furrowed at the mention of Todd, but Tim continued on. “That means you’re either fifteen or sixteen, unless you got held back. But no one gets held back in California public schools unless they’re really, really stupid, which obviously you are not. However, I know you’re not fifteen because TransPacific has a policy against employees under the age of fifteen working more than twenty hours a week—and you work almost every day.”

April mm hm’ed a sound of agreement, but said nothing. She took one last spoonful of frozen yogurt and chucked the cup and spoon in a garbage bin. Tim wondered if he had impressed her or just confirmed her suspicion that he was a total freak. As much as he was enjoying himself he was ready to take a break and pass the rest of the conversation in silence. Behind them, the vibes were barely audible. A stronger breeze rushed through the trees above them, the leaves fluttered, and the sun was momentarily revealed in its full glory. Tim raised his hand to shield his eyes. He was going to let April initiate conversation from now on.

 

1989.05.02: "Official Business"

Declaring his first few popcorn batches of the day a success, Tim decided to make another. If they weren’t going to have any ice, they might as well have plenty of popcorn. Tim watched Caleb and Pete out of the corner of his eye as he took oil out of the cupboard, wondering how they were going to resolve the ice machine crisis, and why it was taking to so long for them to come up with a plan. 

He heard the swing of the door to the snack bar and looked up to see April walking toward him. He caught her eye as she passed and she said hey. She opened the door to the popcorn bin, dipped her hand into the fluffy yellow-white drifts, and stuffed the entire handful in her mouth. 

“Good?” Tim asked, once she had had a chance to taste the popcorn

April made an affirmative sound, her mouth still full, while she scooped up another handful. She seemed genuinely hungry, not just eating out of boredom. She watched him slowly pour out the oil.

“You don’t use very much,” she said once she finished chewing. 

“It tastes better that way. And it’s healthier.”

“Cool,” April said, and grabbed another handful. Behind her, Tim saw Todd got up from the cashier’s stool and came over to them. 

“So I got the new Too Short,” he said to April, by which statement Tim deduced that that Too Short was indeed the rapper’s name. 

“Uh huh,” April said without looking in Todd’s direction.  

“It’s got all these wicked songs,” Todd said. This time April couldn’t even be bothered with a monosyllable. It was the first time that Tim had seen April actually be unfriendly to someone. If it had been him, he would have been intimidated by her response—in fact, he probably would have found the nearest hole in the ground, crawled in, listened to the entire debut album from the Smiths, and died—but Todd didn’t seem to mind, or realize, that he had just been awarded the Heisman. Tim realized that he himself was much more bothered by their interaction as a third-party by-stander than Todd was. 

Tim was spared further vicarious awkwardness by the arrival of some customers buying advance tickets, which forced Todd to return to the cashier’s position. April continued to eat popcorn like it was going out of style, or she was single-handedly trying to bring it back in fashion purely by 

“We’ll have to call the Del Rio,” Tim heard Pete said to Caleb in a louder tone, indicating he had made a decision. “I hate to bother them, but… “ Pete shrugged, indicating their helplessness in the situation. “Can you get two volunteers to go?” 

“Immetiately, commander,” Caleb said in an English accent. He saluted Pete, who reacted the way he always did to Caleb’s antics, chuckling and scratching the frizzy hair on the top of his head. 

Caleb turned smartly on his heel and came over to the snack bar. At the same time, Todd rejoined them. “I need two people to get ice from the Del Rio,” he announced to the snack bar. 

“Me,” said April, thrusting her hand towards the ceiling and smiling at Caleb. Tim was surprised at April’s alacrity—it was the first time he could remember her ever volunteering for any extra work at the Movies I & II. 

“Okay, April’s one. Thank you for volunteering, April. That means extra credit,” Caleb said, switching effortlessly into his school-teacher persona. 

April smirked at Tim and Todd. Todd moved closer to Caleb and Tim could tell Todd really wanted to go, but was trying to play it cool. Tim maintained a neutral expression, and, though he liked the idea of getting out in the fresh air, he too didn’t immediately volunteer. He didn’t want anyone to think he was too interested in April’s company and after further reflection he wasn’t even that sure he actually was. April was cute, and sort of interesting, but after their abortive discussion of Public Enemy, he wasn’t sure he would be able to sustain a conversation with her all the way to the Del Rio and back. Tim glanced at Darren, wondering why he hadn’t volunteered, but he was absorbed in an X-Men comic book. 

“I’ll go,” Todd finally said. 

“Well...” Caleb said, and looked straight at Tim, who lowered his head slightly. April stared out the windows that looked out on the river, at the sun shining through the brown-grey glass, making no sound or other movement. Caleb let out his breath and said, “Todd, we’ll need a cashier in case people come in who want to buy tickets early.”

“But,” Todd said, and opened his mouth like he wanted to say more. as he looked at each of them in turn, but then closed it and folded his arms. 

“Tim, can you go?” Caleb asked.

“Sure,” Tim said, wondering what April’s reaction would be. She shrugged and twirled one of the strands of hair behind her ear. 

“Excellent,” Caleb said, and checked his watch. “You guys better hurry. Next rush starts in twenty minutes.”

“Aye, sir,” Tim said, and saluted Caleb the way he had just saluted Pete.

“You’re doing a great job, Tim. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Big things are in store for you.” Although Tim knew Caleb was just bullshitting like he normally did, for some reason it still pleased him. Many a truth was spoken in jest, after all. 

April was taking off her vest when Caleb said “nah-ah-ha,” and wagged his finger at her. “You know Pete’s policy… when you’re on official business, you keep your uniform on.” She froze and gave Caleb a glare, reminding Tim of a cobra rearing to strike. Caleb seemed unfazed, though, and continued to smile antically, clearly enjoying her discomfiture. 

“Can I at least wear my shades?” April said. 

“By all means,” Caleb said, and gestured towards the front doors. “Chop, chop!” he said, clapping twice. April put on her sunglasses and left without saying any more. Once she started moving she was surprisingly quick, and Tim realized he needed to hurry to catch up to her. 

As Tim exited the snack bar, he saw that Todd had his headphones back on, bobbing his head and mouthing the lyrics to what Tim guessed had to be more Too Short. Todd caught Tim’s eye and gave him an expression that Tim thought was meant to convey recognition that Tim had his shot, and it was now up to him to make it or not. 

Tim joined April where she was waiting for him outside the entrance, in a rectangular patch of sunlight between the two buildings. Before he could join her in the warm light, she had started walking, into the shadow cast by the Movies I & II. 

 “Should we drive?” Tim asked April as he caught up to her, remembering how soon the next rush was. 

“No,” April said. “I want to be away for as long as possible.” Tim guessed the reason for that was to avoid Todd’s attentions, so he acquiesced by saying nothing more. He was just matching her stride for stride, when she stopped, turned and looked at him with a serious expression. “Do you want to get high?” she asked.