Bye, John

       When I first started reading Richard Bausch’s short story, “1-900,” I imagined a few potential endings. Initially, I assumed John was going to end up being some dangerous stalker or pervert. While it was apparent he had major issues, the ending was counter intuitive and slightly anti-climatic. So, what was the primary agenda?
      I found that the most notable element of Bausch’s story was the point of view, or I might say the lack there of. There is no narrator present to influence our opinion of the characters or the situation. This was effective in the sense that the story is structured essentially as a phone call would be. It’s as if we are listening in on a private conversation and making assertions about John and Marilyn/Sharon the call progresses. It’s a compelling technique for a writer to use because we aren’t aware of the sincerity of either characters--much like the characters themselves cannot be certain who the stranger is on the other end of the line and how much of what they say is true.
    There is definitely this sort of tension that pervades throughout the story. Most of the phone call consists of John urging Sharon to just talk to him. He tries to build a more “intimate” relationship before moving into the sexual stuff. Sharon on the other hand evidently just wants to do her job and get off the phone, but she gives in a little since she’s still being paid by the minute. At first John just seems to be a lonely guy with no one else to confide in or vent to about his family problems. He starts off as a sympathetic character. He assures Sharon, “I’m not saving newspaper articles about assassinations, or collecting body parts, you know.” However, as the story moves forward he becomes even more persistent and desperate (and super creepy) and Sharon eventually begins to open up about herself.
    I noticed the theme of voice or "talking". Aside from the story being structured like a phone call, John tells Sharon how he and his wife lacked communication in their marriage. He confesses his voice irritates her. However, he says he and wife did have a satisfying sexual relationship. This may be the reason John just wants to “talk.” Maybe he just wanted to talk to someone with a sultry voice, and that’s why he’s less concerned with getting right into the phone sex.
    By the end there is this sort of role reversal. John finally wants to have the phone sex, whereas Sharon now feels uncomfortable. The irony is that Sharon admits to taking on this role as an actor, telling men whatever they want to hear, but John professes an affection for her and tells her he loves her. The build up was perfect. The conversation comes to an abrupt end: there isn’t any resolution, and there doesn’t have to be. That’s the beauty of being able to just hang up the phone.

Not Just Another Trippy Story

     Denis Johnson’s “Emergency” is not just another drug-induced story. To be more clear, it first reminded me of Hunter S. Thompson’s works employing the style of “Gonzo Journalism” (because of the speaker seemingly alternating in between realities). However, “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” for instance, claims to be based on true events in Thompson’s drug-induced haze. Also, Johnson’s story has moments of profound poetic wisdom. It sort of takes on this life/death spiritual theme, whereas FLLV does not.  Nevertheless, there are moments, especially once Georgie and Fuckhead leave the hospital and go on their drive, where you have to ask yourself, “Did I read that correctly?” “How much of the story is actually happening?” Thus, the style reminds me of reading Thompson or Tom Wolfe.
         I took special notice to Johnson’s use of dialog, especially with the development of Georgie’s character. While we get a deeper insight into Fuckhead’s mind from his own perspective as the narrator, we can learn the most about Georgie through their conversations. One instance of this is when Georgie dumps the baby bunnies onto Fuckhead’s lap and says, “Take them, take them. I gotta drive, take them.” He’s high on drugs for most--if not all of the story, but there are moments where Georgie evokes a certain sort of sympathy. Before they begin their drive he tells Fuckhead, “I need a quiet chapel about now.” The irony is that you feel he perceives their current situation on a deeper, yet more simplistic spiritual level. He is heedless and spacey at times of what’s going on around him (constantly responding with Who? or Me?), but ultimately he provokes the life/death theme that permeates throughout the story. “We killed the mother and saved the children.” Out of death comes new life.
         Lastly, I want to mention how the story weaves in the reoccurring theme of “sight” or “what’s being seen or what’s not being seen” in both inconspicuous and more obvious ways. The story opens with Georgie seeing blood all over the floor; the guy with the knife in his eye gets stabbed for “peeping” at another woman; Georgie and Fuckhead perceive different things: the the drive-in vs. the graveyards and angels. By the end, Fuckhead seems to evolve spiritually in some ways. "The snow melts and reveals" (he can finally see) "the blossoms that were always there." Johnson effectively uses this technique without it being too overbearing or terribly obvious, and by the end it functions to create depth to a drug-induced story.

Take 63 (Short-short story)

             “Hey, pause it for a sec. I need to pee.” My girlfriend gets up from the couch, shaking her head.

             “See that’s what every girl wants. . .”  she says as she cracks open the bathroom door so I can hear her talking over the stream of urine spraying into the bowl.

             “. . . a guy who truly listens to what we’re saying. Do you see how he looks at her? He’s not even looking at her. He’s looking into her. He makes a mental note every time. . . ”

             I stop listening. Girls and their collective ‘we’s.

            We just want to be appreciated.

            We just a guy who wants to truly commit.

            This is my girlfriend telling me how I should be more like Noah. Rom-com saps aren’t real, I want to tell her every time I let her submit me to this torture. Believe it or not, he memorizes these lines from a script. Some bald guy named Antonio just put make-up on him ten minutes prior to shooting this scene. That’s the thing I don’t understand about girls and their cheesy chick flicks. They try to see beyond “the kiss.” For me, the only thing behind the kiss is a crusty-eyed camera crew. “Take 62. That was good, Rachel. A little stiff. Next time try to give me a little less Sleepless in Seattle and a little more Pretty Woman.”

           Today marks four years. Four years and I’m still competing with this douche-bag. I stare blankly at the frozen screen. Ryan Gosling’s lips contorted there in mid-sentence. His nose, wrinkled as if he smells curdled milk. I imagine that shot blown up to poster-size hanging in every 18-24 year old girl’s bedroom.

           Trish walks out of the bathroom, the toilet flushing behind her. She comes and plops down beside me and reaches for the remote. Her hands are clean, and they smell like apricot soap. I smile at her.

         "Let's go take a walk in Turner’s Park. I know it's random, but I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”

         “Right now?" She groans. "It’s supposed to rain though, and I thought we were going to finish this.” She keeps her eyes fixed on the paralyzed Gosling.

          We just want a guy to hang by one hand from a Ferris wheel until we agree to go out with him.

          We just want a guy who writes us every day for a year.

          She tosses me a resentful glance and pushes play. The twisted face comes back to life, and then hers seems to too.

         “Yeah. Alright, maybe later then.” I lean over, kiss her on the side of the head, and try to focus on the television.

          This is Trish’s favorite part, the one where where Ally jumps into Noah’s arms and they decide it was never over. This is the part where it’s raining so hard Gosling’s make-up starts to smear. Every girl’s cream dream.

         I let out a sigh and push the tiny engagement ring box deeper in my pocket. At least I’ll stay dry for one more night. Take 63.

True Life: Television is Taking Over My Life

      Linda Davis’s style of writing isn’t trying to be overly dramatic or exhortative. However, it is convincing. The first sentence is a direct address to her reader, “We all have these favorite shows coming on every evening.” Second person functions nicely on a topic as relatable as television; furthermore, she offers a unique perspective on it by addressing that we are consumed by television, and in some ways we live vicariously through the lives of those characters we see on the screen. She also does a good job of covering a variety of shows we flip through every day. Those channels we truly have no interest, yet we watch anyway. Probably because we’re a part of the sensationalist generation. Insatiable. Bored. She brings up prominent notions we don’t always address, like why we watch TV and how we watch it, especially considering that the average Americans watch 34 hours of TV per week. The story evokes the feeling that TV has essentially taken over our lives. “We” rather unplug the phone, ignore the knock at the door, and isolate ourselves. She confuses the honking of wild geese for the blare of a TV near by, disassociating herself with the natural.  

  Another element of the story that intrigued me was the structure of it. By separating the work into three small sections, with each numbered accordingly, it feels almost as if the reader asked her to describe her life through the means of television, and she is directly responding to us. The first section begins with a more general overview of “our” fascination with television, then briefly mentions her mother and husband’s in that respect. I’m not entirely sure what the speaker’s feelings are towards her husband. Perhaps apathetic. 
       With the second section the speaker’s tone changes to slightly more distracted. There are more line breaks. She first describes documentaries or reality shows, then admits her satisfaction with the weather channel because it’s not trying to prove anything but fact. By the third section, the style is less choppy. The speaker seems to step out of the philosophy of why and how “we” watch TV and moves into first person. The last section carries the most weight because we finally understand her personal frustration with television: it leaves out the hours of dull moments in-between excitement and major events, essentially not depicting real life at all. It gives us a better sense of her feelings towards her own life, posing the idea that the real issue is something deeper than we may have first assumed. The structure in this fashion works for me. Even though it’s subtle, the character overcomes something. There is a sort of self-awareness that I can appreciate.