"Dear Don,
"It’s so easy to get
caught up in the wheel of the world, turning along with the hand of time that
governs everything we do, isn’t it? We are a time-obsessed culture, constantly
measuring how long one spends in any given activity. I’m enslaved by the clock
that everyone else seems to be operating on. I’m missing that internal timer
that is supposed to go off at the proper time to eat, sleep and work. I constantly miss deadlines because I lack
the willpower to drive my talents by the clock, and I don’t know how to govern
the times when inspiration strikes me. I’m still confused and frustrated by the
way time is measured at a much more rapid pace at this school. I felt myself
age faster in the last 8 months than I had in the last 15 years of legal
adulthood. I discovered about 48 gray
hairs that never existed before since nearly being driven to madness from the exhaustion,
and felt so utterly humbled by the proximity of time between me and the rest
of my fellow classmates. I, the perpetual preteen, never felt so old in my entire life. What’s
worse than that is feeling 15 years behind the current-- an 80's baby who grew up in a 90's world-- now stuck in the dissonant noise of the “new millennium," was the hyper-present consciousness of what life was like before technology, and feeling so
completely dismayed and dismantled by the technological storm that embarked on the shores of my frigidly-arid life thereafter.
I was born during the Cold War, grew up with Reagans and Bushes and their holy crusades in the name of wealth and austerity; now I’m SO tired of wars and poverty, and constantly feeling like I'm being dragged through the conveyor belt of American life.. Technology created this world that I wasn’t
raised to be prepared for, because the adults didn’t know how to prepare for it
either—they just knew how to get to it in order to create more wealth. But, I
digress.
" I jumped right into White
Noise, eager to see some great revelation of life similar to what Mikel
Jollett, lead singer of The Airborne Toxic Event, saw when he’d read the novel
in his earlier years. The music produced
by this band is some of the most profound I’ve ever heard, so I felt like there
is some experience there that can be shared, some great moment of epiphany that
will lead me to the Promised Land of muses and clear-water springs of eternal
inspiration, where I’d drink from the fountains of eternal youth and prosper on
the ideas that poured from these endless cups from God himself—you know, the
way any one would imagine a rock star to do. I mean, how else would he be able
to live a rock star life? Sex, drugs and rock-and-roll—that’s the American Dream.
However, I met Jack Gladney and his family and I realize that I know these people.
I’ve met this exact face before. I don’t think he went by Jack Gladney then,
and he might not have been such a pallid tone, but you never forget a face.
"Always worrying about what his future held, Jack began to
fear death because he couldn’t control how
he would die, unless he did it to himself. Ever the narcissist, he is never
going to kill or blame himself, so it’s better to project that fear onto
someone, or something, else outside
of himself. I watched him project his fears onto anything he could—his job, his
family, his friends, his wives—even some crazy toxic chemical spill that
poisoned the air terrified him into imagining the worst. However, instead of
causing him to think about the past and how his imagination creates the worst
of every situation, leading him to carry out his own fantasies into reality, he
imagines that there will be a pill, some great advance of medical science, that
will magically make all of his worries disappear, and he even becomes envious
of the idea that Babette attained that magic before him. He doesn’t even really
react emotionally to the idea that his loving, perfect wife has been sleeping
with another man as trade for the pill—it’s more like he’s mad at her for
holding out on him. Now, I know this type of behavior, and it’s called
addictive behavior; Jack, or whatever he wants to call himself now, is
exhibiting junkie tactics, and I know this because I know who Jack used to be.
Before he had all those wives and the comfortable lifestyle, Jack was a drug
addict and an alcoholic—which is basically the same thing, except sometimes one
wants liquefied drugs to quench the thirst the solidified drugs leave behind.
"The man that everyone knows has a secret that no one
knows, and he can’t even admit it to himself. Instead, after he got out of
rehab, he cleaned up his life and changed his name. I know, because I was there
when he got out. He called me while he was in there, and he told me that he was
sorry for all the times he was ever mean to me. Then, he went off and became
Jack, and I never saw him again. I’ve met up with him a few times, but since he
turned into Jack, he’s not the same anymore. He says he doesn’t remember me,
and that I should stop telling everyone that I know him because, clearly, I do
not.
"Jack is a good guy. I can’t deny
that. He takes care of his (third? or fourth?) family and does everything he’s
supposed to do. He goes to work, pays his bills, satisfies the wants and needs
of his children, and his women adore him (which, when you recall his dalliance
with Winnie Richards, it makes sense that he would chase down a woman who
doesn’t want to be found; I mean, how could anyone resist such a charmer as
Jack?) But Jack can’t hide from me. I know who he used to be, and eventually,
everyone’s sins come back to haunt them—precisely because the guilt they live
with continues to resurrect itself from the dead, announcing his eventual
return to judge the remaining few who survive the ever-rushing currents of time
and space. He rejected me and everything I was trying to tell him along the
way. He considers himself above everyone else because he was able to kick some
bad habits, but like they say in Narcotics Anonymous—you only replace your
addictions, you never kick them. I say that’s bullshit. I say that you have to
turn around and face me, learn your lessons and then look forward with pride,
not sadness, for the day to begin; otherwise, you’ll be chasing that shot with
something else worse."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once he’d read the sick, purple-tinged note over a few
times, Don crumbled it up, ready to throw it away in the trash. However, he second-guessed
the impulse. He wondered what Ruth would think about this one. He knew that she
must have come across some of these crazy fan letters over the years. He
chuckled to himself as he remembered her novel “My Year of Meats”—man, she
really took a beating on that one, from all the meat-loving maniacs out there
in the cyber world. He folded the letter up to its maximum eight folds and
shoved it into his pants pocket, where the impact against his keys and the
loose change shook it open slightly as it bounced back and forth against his
thigh. As he gathered himself just
before leaving the door, he patted his leg and letter; and barring the sheath
of his pant leg, they danced in synchrony with the rest of his routine heading
out the door to begin his day.
Don had been scheduled for an interview today;
interestingly enough, it was arranged by Ruth, herself. She contacted Don a few
weeks back to ask him if he was interested in a pet project between her and a
student from a small college on the west coast.
Don hesitated at the idea. He didn’t know this person who would be
interviewing him today. He asked Ruth where she’d met her, where did she come
from, and Ruth simply replied that he should not worry about such things, she
has everything under control. Trust her, she said. Don wasn’t so sure—he’d read
Ruth’s last book and thought she was equal parts brilliant and mad, with mad almost being the winner by a nose. While
that’s never a bad thing in the writer’s world, sometimes, he thought to himself, the writer’s world and the real world cannot exist simultaneously.
He was worried about what world this interviewer would be living in; after all,
it’s not like one can rely on the media to tell the truth about any one story.
Oftentimes, news stories just all bleed into each other, like red socks in a
whites-only load, infecting the brightness of clean, cotton bed sheets. Ruth had mentioned that her name was
Ella-something, but he wasn’t really listening past “newspaper interview”. However, Ruth being such good friend of his, he
didn’t want to seem disingenuous after all she had done for him before either
one had found true success.
Ruth was sitting in the last bench in the far corner of
the dimly-lit pizza parlor. Don was momentarily shaken by the neighborhood he’d
driven into when he exited the freeway, and the sanguine-toned décor of the
parlor further shook his nerves as we walked through the green wooden door. Why were
there so many liquor stores within a few blocks? Why are we meeting here,
anyway? He made his way over to Ruth, who was sipping from the brown soda
inside the giant, hard-plastic cup. He sat down on the stiff bench, and nearly
slid off from the high-glossed burgundy paint.
“Why are we here, Ruth? Who is this person?”
“Nice to see you too, Don. Would you like something to
drink? They serve beer here, and I saw a couple of pool tables over in that
back room, behind the bar area. I don’t expect Ella for at least another 30
minutes or so.”
“Didn’t she say to meet her at this time, sharp?”
“No, that was my request. I know Ella; she’s never on
time for anything. I don’t expect her any time in the near future.” Ruth got
up, picked up her drink and descended upon the jukebox in front of the
entrance to the pool table area. “Let’s
just enjoy ourselves and this wonderful place—for the time being. Eh? Eh? I’m making a funny here, man. Loosen up!”
Don wasn’t the least bit amused. He looked around the
dining area. Over by the arcade games that lined the side wall leading to the
exit, there sat a family of about 8, not including the parents. The older
children were mirror images of the parents that sat opposite them—all
illuminated by the glow of the screens directly in front of their noses. He
imagined them all speaking in upper-cased letters to each other in glaring
conversation, customary bouts of rebellion and anarchy between parents and
teenage children. The younger children bounced about them, some playing on the
programmed-game-play chirping and chattering away from its plastic and aluminum
bounding projecting off the wood paneling of the walls. The glowing beer signs
emanated from above the bar and the order and pick-up windows. Customers were
flowing in and out of those windows, obviously having ordered previously and
picking up their meals to take home. He couldn’t blame them for not wanting to
be here. It was dreary and cold, and felt more like a wide-scale dive than a
family restaurant. BUT…the smell of that pizza. Angels could fight a hundred
apocalyptic wars from insecticide to regicide, wipe out a thousand
civilizations begging for mercy against a God that hates them, and rebuild them
all again into perfect utopias of balanced joy and rage, and STILL never
produce a scent as glorious as the one that wafted from the broiling stoves of
that parlor.
“Don, come on. She’s not gonna be here right now. Just
relax and wait for her to arrive. I ordered food already, let’s have a beer and
shoot some pool,” Ruth called from the bar. Don smiled, and took a deep breath.
Come on, man. Lighten up, and smell that
pizza. You should be relieved that it’s a place like this. Or have you bought
into the consumer desire culture? Do you crave the finer things in life more
than you could appreciate the quiet, darkened noise of a place like this? Smell that
pizza, man. Creative uniformity could never produce a smell like that one.
“Don! Are you listening to me? Don? Don!” Ruth was
halfway off her bar stool calling out to Don, who was still entranced by the
twinkling sounds enticing him from the walls. He spotted Centipede, Space
Invaders, Galaga… the games of his younger days when technology was still
exciting to a child, and a handful of quarters would have the kids out of the
house for an afternoon… to come to a
place like this?
“Hold on, Ruth. I see that Centipede game calling my name
over there. Let me just get one game in and then we’ll shoot some pool.”
“Okay, then. Let me watch you get your wrinkly hands get
stuck in that roller ball.”
Don chuckled, finally breaking a smile as they both
headed over toward the Centipede machine, where Ruth detoured toward the change machine. Don had a few quarters in his pocket,
and—oh, the letter!
“Hey, Ruth? There was something I wanted to show you,
something I received this morning in the mail. I know you get stuff like this
all the time, so I was wondering how you would handle something like this.”
“Like, what?” Ruth hollered from the entrance of the
parlor where the change machine was located. “Do you need any change?’
“Well, I got this letter in the mail from some deranged
fan. I figured since you write all those crazy, magical-realist stories you
must get these crazies that really believe your characters are real.”
“What makes you think they’re not real, Don?” Ruth
responded. “I think they’re real. I mean, look at them. Everyone talks about
them like they’re real people, and you can get actors to play them, what else
is left to make them real?”
“But wait, Ruth. Look at this letter. I have it here in
my pocket.”
Don fished around in his pockets, but now the letter
wasn’t there. I could’ve sworn I put it
in my pocket, didn’t I?
“ORDER READY FOR NUMBER 13 ORDEN LISTO PARA NUMERO TRECE!”
bellowed the portly bearded man from the pick-up counter.
“Oh, that’s our order! You have to try this pizza, Don.
It’s fantastic. It’s the best pizza you’ll ever know—and that’s because we’ve
had our share of New York Pizza. Check this out, Don—they shred the pepperoni! It’s amazing!”
Don was disoriented, and he didn’t hear anything Ruth
said. Where the hell is that letter? It
was here, in my pocket. I put it there, I remember doing so. Did I drop it
outside? That’s it, it’s out by the car, and Don was ready to rush out the
door to his car, to find the letter, find where he was, why he’d agreed to come
here, why this place wasn’t familiar, why,
why, why…
“Oh, wait, look. Ella’s here. Wow, if she ever came at
just the right time. Come sit down, Don. Everything is gonna be alright. Seriously.
Have some pizza.”
Don composed himself and took a deep breath, facing away
from the women who proceeded to greet each other profusely, as if they were old
relatives from some obscure familial bond. He sat down at the table next to
Ruth, and opposite the person called Ella, slowly trying to digest who she was-- pale skin, light brown, almost blonde hair, black-rimmed glasses. He watched her as she drew out a
tape recorder, a pair of thinner-rimmed eyeglasses, a blue Chicago Bears pen, and a yellow
highlighter. He drew a piece of pizza from the steaming tray, the scent bearing
down and eliminating all sensory perceptions, save for the olfactory—until Ella pulled the notebook out of
her bag and opened it, revealing the tinges of purple in the corners of the
paper inside.
