10-04-2007, 03:32 PM
So, this is the first short story I've written really, and I wanted some like, advice for improving on my style in general. I won't be upset if you like, rip the story to shreds as long as what you say is helpful. x.x And I won't mind if no one posts, either, because I posted this on a site specifically for posting/critiquing stories, and no one commented on it there, either. It's about 9 pages long, I think.
Failure to Communicate
I majored in art for two years in college before one of my teachers said, and I quote, “My dear, sweet Lani, art cannot be taught. It cannot be learned in a school, it can only bubble up out of your soul and into the world.” She was one of those teachers that always smelled like incense and wore large, billowing, artsy clothing, but I took her at her word and dropped out of art school, because, I mean, what was the point? I majored in English for a couple of years, merely because it was one of the few majors that any of my art credits counted towards, but it wasn’t really my passion, so I dropped out then, too. I learned a few uppity words and now I use them all the time to sound smarter. Currently I’m majoring in education because I want to be one of those teachers that prevents kids from dropping out of school. Like a “This could be you!” poster, only in real life. Once kids learn my future starting salary, they’ll shape up. It’s something at least that I can get behind.
Artists rarely recognize how lucky they are. Artists can just combine notes, play with colors, write with their own perfect clarity exactly what they mean in myriad ways, and us common folk don’t just understand, we make a connection. We feel as they feel. To completely understand someone, to be completely understood, is such a rare and celebrated feeling that there isn’t a word in English specifically assigned to this phenomena. There are words that allude to it, like love, friendship, and faith, but nothing so precisely and comprehensively describes it so that when we hear it we say “Ah!” and laugh because we get it. Very few words actually prompt that response. I get the feeling that language hasn’t followed through with its promise to make communication easier. Anyway, I still have a week before my parents are driving up here to pick me up for summer vacation, so I’m sitting in an empty apartment trying to figure out what to do with the rest of the day. I have to work later, but I’m trying not to think about that. I hate my job. Waitresses end up lowest on the social scale, and at points in time I’ve felt like I am not exaggerating when I say that. I need to pay for most of my expenses though, so it’s necessary. I got lucky with parents who are willing to cover what I can’t. I could go on and on about how great my parents are, but I won’t. They just are. That’s all anyone needs to understand. Maybe I’ll go down to the café on the corner. Buy the cheapest thing on the menu. That’s really all I can afford.
I toss on whatever’s nearest to me; a pair of wrinkled faded jeans with elaborate stitching on one side, an equally wrinkled blue “Save the World” shirt I got free at some charity thing, and the only pair of shoes I wear with any regularity, my yellow high top Converse with lucky four leaf clovers on the side and paisley insets. I pull my slightly oily red hair back into a ponytail and I’m ready. Appearance doesn’t much matter at 8 am on a Saturday.
It’s 8:15 by the time I get to the café, and there’s a line practically out the door. I just want a scone, maybe the blueberry kind, but I’ve got to wait in line behind a bunch of people talking on cell phones and ordering complicated drinks just for fun. I think the word fun needs to be redefined as something else. The definition just isn’t clear enough for some people.
The lady behind the counter, Ethel, is pretty old. I’ve never asked, because I know for a fact that it’s considered rude, plus she’d probably just lie anyway. She asks me what I want, and I ask her what’s good today, just to start a conversation. She looks like she wants to give me a look, but we’re buddies, so she doesn’t. She just responds with some fancy sounding pastry name that probably means cold, oily, and tastes like old cherries on rotting bread. I order a blueberry scone, and she asks me why I wanted to know what was good today if I wasn’t going to order it anyway.
“Because, I just wanted to know. I like knowing things. It makes me happy,” I respond with a grin.
“I don’t understand that at all. It’s just a waste of time. You’re worse than those bossy customers sometimes, doll.”
She calls me doll. It has a different connotation for her than it does for me, probably, because it makes me imagine myself as a marionette with her guiding my strings whenever she says it. I pay, and look longingly at the money I just wasted on a moldy old scone. It is now 9 am, and I am saying goodbye to Ethel.
I have hours to burn and nothing to do, so I scarf down the scone and start walking. San Antonio is a huge town, and it’s fairly easy to get lost. It’s filled mostly with confused tourists asking about the Alamo. They weave to and fro, asking which way to the river, what’s the fastest way to the Gulf, whether or not there are nice restaurants in this part of town. The ones from too far up North are afraid of the Mexican restaurants; a lifetime of hearing about Mexicans from afar has made them afraid for their health.
Only one tourist stops to ask me anything, hunching with age and wearing a floral Hawaiian print shirt; I must not look too smart to the average eye.
“I want some good Mexican food. The best stuff in the area for me and my gal. Can you give me directions?”
The word “good” sounds like “goo” and I get the impression that his dentures aren’t glued in tight enough. It takes me a second to think, because good is such a vague word. My favorite Mexican place is this little stand that’s only open very early in the mornings in Hondo; the lady there hand-makes fresh beef and chicken tamales every morning, the ground meat rolled up and smoking like a thick cigar in its corn husk wrapping. We used to get them every Christmas morning. I figure this guy wants more main-stream commercial good. The places that still sell “Big Red” soda instead of switching to cheaper “Red Flash.” I direct him to Las Palapas and continue on my way.
There’s a vague feeling in my stomach, as if I’m frustrated or restrained in some way, but I don’t really understand it. I mean, I trust my body; it just seems out of place right now. It must be the moldy scone finally reaching my intestines.
At exactly 11:02 I sit down and rest. It’s nearing lunch time, and I’m starving, but I don’t have enough cash on me for anything nice. I scan the streets for something greasy and disgusting that will only cost a couple bucks, and there’s a Mickey D’s at the end of the street. Perfect.
Or, at least, it’s perfect until I am stuck in line behind this mom and her unruly kid. The lunch line doesn’t bother me so much as the awful conversation I endure. I hate listening in on bad conversations almost as much as I hate having them.
“Mommy, I want the nuggets. And chocolate milk! And the Barbie toy. The one with the princess outfit!” The girl is wearing a hot pink pair of pants with sequins down the side, and a green shirt advertising some children’s show. Her wispy blonde curls bounce as she moves her head in excitement.
“Sweetie, I can’t control what toy you get.” She doesn’t even bother looking down at her kid. She’s too intent on straightening her navy blue sweater and brown suede pencil skirt, and eyeing her planner to even think someone besides herself might need attention.
“But I want the princess Barbie! She has the pretty dress!” She means the prettiest dress, which in her mind is the only pretty dress. It wasn’t that long ago that I was the little kid begging for a Barbie doll.
“Shh, baby, they all have pretty dresses.” Of course she wouldn’t get it. You need to see a person’s face, her expression and the way she emphasizes her words with her contorted lips to at least get the basic meaning of a sentence. It just annoys me when parents won’t look at their kids.
I hum an old Rolling Stone song, “Satisfaction,” and drown out the rest of their conversation. She doesn’t get the princess Barbie toy, and all I can afford is a small fry. No wonder I’m so skinny.
It’s noon, and I am in the middle of nowhere, looking at nothing. Well, actually, I’m in the middle of a street of apartment complexes, red-roofed and shingled as if they had come directly out of a twisted Spanish fairy tale. It still surprises me how few people really understand the gigantic difference between Spanish culture and Mexican culture. It’s ridiculous. It’s called the “Casa de los Flores”, and it backs that up with the filled flower pots overcrowding every balcony facing the street. My buddy Colleen lives here. She has a really nice apartment, with clean, squishy carpet and matching furniture sets. It always smells like brown sugar and vanilla, with an undertone of cigarettes.
I’m at her front door, ringing the bell before I even realize what I’m doing. Sometimes my unconscious mind just takes over and I do things I wouldn’t have wanted to do in a million years. Colleen is my friend and everything, but she isn’t exactly the kind of person I like to spend my free time with. She chain smokes. We used to be really good friends, but we had a falling out a few months ago, and we haven’t had anything meaningful to say to each other since. She’s the only person I know that hasn’t skipped town for summer vacation, though. Anyway, she answers the door before I could run away, so I was stuck.
I can tell she has just woken up not too long ago, because when she opens the door her black hair, streaked with banana yellow like a demented sundae, is still damp and sticking to her head. She’s wearing pink scrubs.
“Hey… I wasn’t really expecting anybody. Is something wrong?” She shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another.
“No… I was just in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by.” She hasn’t invited me in yet, and I’m way past thinking this was a bad idea.
“Oh. That’s nice.”
I peek into the apartment behind her uncomfortably, and note that the girly knick-knacks and flowery curtains match her scrubs. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
“Would you like to come in?” She hesitates a moment before asking me in, as if she is contemplating whether she’s inviting in an old friend or the devil’s daughter.
I step in. It isn’t actually as comfortable as I remember. The couch is more worn, and there are tiny spots, like a chickenpox has spread across the room, where Colleen has put out her cigarettes. I just can’t stop thinking about that. It bugs me so much when people smoke.
“What’s up?” I ask, as nonchalantly as possible. I get really nervous and start acting weird in awkward situations. This was off the awkward charts.
“Didn’t you already ask that?”
I stop and think for a moment over everything that has happened in the past thirty seconds before I answer. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, then, I guess I’m fine.”
“That’s nice.” I notice a colorful snow globe featuring San Antonio as my eyes move from side to side trying to avoid Colleen’s face, and find it sort of amusing because it never snows here. I try to stifle a laugh, but I can tell it doesn’t work because the next words out of Colleen’s mouth are dripping with sarcasm.
“Yeah, it is.”
Fine is the worst word in the English language. It’s so arbitrary. It gets used every time someone isn’t actually doing well, but they don’t want to talk about it, or they are doing just great, but they still don’t want to talk about it. Like it’s some kind of taboo to discuss the morning you’re having. Then again, if people didn’t use “how are you” as a greeting instead of an actual inquiry into someone’s life, people probably wouldn’t use fine so much. I hear that in other countries, if you ask someone how they’re doing they’ll spout out with a ten minute explanation of their breakfast alone. That’s what language was meant for.
She breaks up my thoughts. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you around in months.”
“Yeah, I switched majors again, so we don’t have any classes together.” I fake a casual grin. I’m sure it comes out as something crazy and uncomfortable, because her face kind of scrunches up for a second in response to me.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Yeah. I don’t actually know why I’m here.”
“Then why are you wasting my time? Feel free to leave if you don’t want to be here.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Maybe you should be clearer when you speak, then.”
“Maybe you should listen to me better. I’m saying exactly what I mean. I don’t know why I rang your doorbell. I just ended up here.”
“Maybe you wanted to apologize?” One of the things I used to like most about Colleen was the way she stood up for herself and never forgave anyone for doing anything she considered wrong.
“That’s definitely not why I’m here. I don’t want to argue anymore, though. We used to be really close.”
“Used to be. We don’t have anything in common anymore.”
I pause. Everyone’s so picky about what everyone else says. People just can’t wait to be offended at the tiniest thing. “I guess you’re right. No hard feelings, though. At least on my side.”
I try to shake her hand, but she wants to use her smoking hand, and the yellow stains between her fingers kind of throw me off, so I change my mind and just nod my head instead. I turn to leave, and then I do. No extra dramatics. Just the end.
I’m back in my empty apartment before long. I had meant to tell her once how much I looked up to her even though she smoked, and I hated that, but it came out really wrong. I can’t apologize for the inadequacies of my speech, though, because sometimes words are just lacking. Most people just aren’t made to understand each other.
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