The Monday Following Sunday

Editor’s Addendum: The following recounts events that transpired on the Monday following Sunday. More specifically, the Monday following the Sunday of Super Bowl XLVIII. The names of persons depicted herein have been changed to protect the innocent; however, any and all other names that seem suspiciously authentic are not to be found in error, and were purposefully left unchanged at this editor’s discretion, which was such that their innocence was deemed not worthy of protection.

At 14:37h, my direct manager, Bartholomew Sternwood, pinged me via Office Communicator. His two instant messages, as well as my reply, are reproduced below, verbatim:

B. Sternwood                                                                                                              2:37pm               
Mr. Cabe.

B. Sternwood                                                                                                              2:59pm                        
id [sic] apreciate [sic] the curtesy [sic] of a promt [sic] reply. Come 2 [sic] my office                                 

M. Cabe                                                                                                                      3:21pm                   
Yes, sir, absolutely. I do apologize; I was in the bathroom.

At 15:23h, having safely locked my computer screen, I walked up the seven flights of stairs to Mr. Sternwood’s office whereupon I discovered his door closed in what could be considered a heinous violation of our company’s “Open-Door Policy.” After cinching my unemployed roommate’s tie to a more reputable position, I cleared my throat and knocked firmly, but sans authority. Mr. Sternwood replied with a muffled “come in” and I opened the door at 15:37h.

Mr. Sternwood stood, and, extending his arm, pointed to the chair in which he thought it best I should sit.

“Ah, Cabe. Please,” he said.

Despite having had multiple disciplinary-related conversations with Mr. Sternwood, this marked the first time I’d ventured inside his office, so the mounted and stuffed pheasant, with wings outstretched and legs dangling, on the wall behind him took me by surprise.

“Should I, uh–”

“Yes, by all means, Cabe, close the door.”

“Thank you, sir.” I said, and closed the door.

“Have a seat, Cabe.”

From my position, the wings of the stuffed pheasant resembled feathered ears sticking out from either side of Mr. Sternwood’s bald head. Trying not to stare, I focused instead on my hands, which I decided would be best folded and placed in my lap. Mr. Sternwood had gone with placing his elbows on his desk and clasping his hands together. He leaned forward, an adjustment that resulted in the pheasant looking as though it were sitting directly atop his head. He did not speak straightaway, but at 15:40h delved into the below conversation.

“Do you hear that, Cabe?”

“What, sir?”

“Just listen a moment, will you?” he said and gestured with his hands for me to shush. My eyes slowly trailed across the room and back again.

“Hear it now, Cabe?”

“I hear nothing, sir.”

“That’s exactly right. Silence. More importantly though, Cabe, based on your body language, it’s an awkward silence. And, all things considered, today is, historically, our least awkwardly silent day of the year. Let me provide you with a few statistics. This company has not had one documented ASE [Awkward Silence Error] the day after the Super Bowl since 1968. Not even in ‘95, Cabe. In short, we depend on the Super Bowl to keep the YASM [Yearly Awkward Silence Mean] low. Do you know how many awkward silences we have on record today, Cabe?”

“I haven’t checked the repor–”

“Four. We’ve had four documented ASEs today. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you what sort of havoc ASEs wreak on our productivity; you’ve been to the meetings.”

“Yes, but, Mr. Sternwood, with all due respect, I hadn’t had an awkward silence all day until just a moment ago,” I said defensively.

Mr. Sternwood leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He nodded in agreement.

“I’m aware of that, Cabe. I am most certainly aware.”

I began to relax some.

“However,” he continued, “you have been the alleged cause of more ASEs than anyone in your department. That doesn’t include today’s four, mind you.”

“That can’t be righ–”

“The numbers don’t lie, Cabe,” he said. “More exactly, employee complaints don’t lie. Does that make sense? You know Hester Bustecoup, don’t you, Cabe?”

“Yes, she works in marketing.” I shifted in my seat.

“I have a formal letter of complaint filed by Mrs. Bustecoup concerning a conversation she claims took place between the two of you today at 09:22h. Did you, in fact, speak with Mrs. Bustecoup today?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, in this formal letter of complaint, Mrs. Bustecoup contends that the ASE she documented in the system at 09:30h was a direct result of her conversation with you. Do you mind if I read her complaint aloud?”

I shook my head. Mr. Sternwood cleared his throat and placed a pair of reading glasses on the edge of his nose. He then held up Mrs. Bustecoup’s letter and began:

“At approximately 09:23h, I incurred an ASE (which I documented) following a conversation with customer service agent, Matthew Cabe. Upon discussing the subject of the 2014 Super Bowl Halftime Show, I asked Mr. Cabe if he thought Macklemore should have headlined the show instead of Bruno Mars given that Mack is a Seattle native and devoted Seahawks fan. I’ve included, in bold, Mr. Cabe’s reply: ‘Macklemore’s short, though albeit successful-thus-far, career is a testament to just how effective the music industry – and corporate America on a whole, really – has become in the digital age in identifying trends in independent music and appropriating those trends faster than we’re capable of processing, which results in a vast majority of the population being duped into thinking they are actually experiencing something entirely authentic and raw and artistic as opposed to yet another industry cash cow shoved out there for every clueless bastard to devour.’ Needless to say, Mr. Cabe’s sentiments, partly due to how offensive they were to Macklemore, caught me so off guard that I was rendered speechless for approximately eight seconds. As a result, I am filing this formal complaint in order that the ASE may be reviewed and, hopefully, stricken from my employee record. Comments such as Mr. Cabe’s, in my opinion (which is based on 18 years of unblemished service), have no place in a professional setting such as the one in which we conduct day-to-day business.”

Upon finishing, Mr. Sternwood gently set Mrs. Bustecoup’s complaint down on his desk and removed his reading glasses.

“I will spare you the three additional formal complaints. But all four leave me no choice but to ask the glaring question, and I pray, for your sake, you are forthright in your response. So, Cabe, did you watch Super Bowl XLVIII?”

I felt the sweat start to accumulate in my armpits; very soon the underarms of my shirt would be visibly damp.

“It’s a simple question, Cabe. Did you, or did you not, watch yesterday’s Super Bowl?”

It was then that a moment of silence occurred that verged into the infamous gray area of company policy regarding ASEs. As it stands, the company guidebook states:

“All silences lasting six (6) seconds in duration or longer, and which are the immediate result of conversation(s) between two or more non-exempt employees, are considered hazardous to the financial stability and natural yield of the company, and must be documented in the Awkward Silence Error Database (ASED). Silences lasting between four (4) and five (5) seconds are to be reviewed by the exempt manager directly in charge of the non-exempt employee whom [sic] may or may not have violated company policy. Upon review, the exempt manager must choose either to log the silence as an ASE or render the silence’s duration ‘Too Short to Tell’. In instances involving the latter, the exempt manager must file a formal appeal on behalf of the non-exempt employee that will then be reviewed by a panel of three (3) district managers prior to or at the end of a six (6) month period. After review of the formal appeal, the panel must unanimously agree upon the length of the silence in question, based on evidence provided in the formal appeal, whereupon a conclusion will be presented to the exempt manager and non-exempt employee at a documented review hearing. If the panel concludes that the silence falls within the four (4) to five (5) second range, the silence must then be documented in the Near Awkward Silence Error Database (NASED) and applied to the non-exempt employee’s personal record as an ASE, but highlighted in yellow rather than orange.”

I watched Mr. Sternwood’s ears twitch ever so slightly while the seconds between his question and my response ticked away aggressively on the clock sewn into the chest of the mounted pheasant, which, at that moment, resembled a large tumor protruding out of the right side of Mr. Sternwood’s head.

“No,” I finally replied, and exasperatedly recounted the last few seconds in my head.

“I see,” he said. “Look, Cabe, I don’t need to read you the policy on ASEs in the company guidebook. You’re well aware of our no-tolerance stance. Yet you sit before me as the root cause of not one but four documented ASEs on the one day out of the year when they should be – and have been until now, mind you – virtually impossible to incur. Does that make sense? All you had to do was watch, Cabe. I know the game was pretty much a wash by the end of the first half, but there are always the commercials.”

“Sir, if I may?”

“By all means.”

“My roommate and I can’t really afford cable at the moment, and–”

“Cabe, this is not the time to be asking for a raise.”

“No, sir, I wouldn’t dream of–”

“I don’t really know how to put this.” He stopped for exactly three seconds. “Numero Uno, ASEs diminish productivity. That much has been proven. Numero Two, you are the cause of more ASEs than anyone in our department. So, Cabe, you are ‘bad for business’ to use the idiom. Does that make sense? You do understand what an idiom is, don’t you, Cabe? You did get your state university master’s degree in English, didn’t you? I think that pretty much sums the whole mess up really, if you want my honest opinion.”

At this point, I noticed my foot tapping against the floor faster than an engaged piston, which caused my knee to bounce up and down furiously. Mr. Sternwood looked down at my knee and smirked.

“So, what do you have to say for yourself, Cabe?”

I focused on slowing my foot and again shifted in my seat.

“I presume you enjoy your job or else why would you show up on a daily basis?”

I placed my hand on my knee and pushed down.

“I presume you want to continue to be employed by the company or else why would you be so nervous? Is it the economy, Cabe? Fear of the unknown? Does your stomach tighten when you think back to what you pictured your future self doing after college?”

My foot stopped.

“Do you depend too heavily on the encouragement of others? Has the wellspring of support dried? Did everyone stop caring about what you thought you had to say? Are you drained of confidence? Do you go home every night fearing that exhaustion has wiped every creative ambition from the core of your being? Are you afraid you’re insane? Is it the tedium, Cabe? Are you too good for this sort of work? Do you feel like you’ve been cheated or do you feel like you did the cheating and now you’re paying the piper? Have you been failed or are you a failure?”

He stopped for another three seconds.

“I mean, what in hell are you even doing here?”

 

 

    

"A Dedicated Follower of Fashion"

When I awoke this morning, my first thought was that Pope Francis has a Twitter account and I need to check it out. In general, the dreams I can recall are detailed and vivid, but if I dreamed of the Pope in sleep to prompt the thought, it was one of those innumerable dreams I can’t remember in the least. My mother would tell me it’s God’s way of speaking to one of His lost sons. Whatever the reason, I sprang off the couch, charged the phone, thumbed the blue app with the white bird, and searched out the pontiff’s page.

What really inspired my thinking of Pope Francis at 0643h (on a Sunday) is probably twofold. An NPR feature I heard the other day recounted the story of a woman who received three phone calls from an unknown number over the course of a few days. When the phone rang the third time, the woman answered and the voice on the other end said, “Hello, this is Pope Francis.” He reached out to her after a letter she wrote to him detailing recent tribulations. They talked for several minutes; he promised to pray for her, her family, and her recently deceased brother. The story stayed with me because I’d been listening on my way to work and had been touched by the contrast between his seeming kindness and patience, and the lack thereof displayed by a majority of people in the building to which I had been currently driving.

The second occurrence involves the most recent issue of GQ; my roommate is a subscriber. Flipping thru what felt like the endless pages of the magazine’s Men of the Year issue yesterday, I stumbled upon an “article” entitled, “The 25 LEAST INFLUENTIAL PEOPLE of 2013.” Oddly capitalized title aside, what’s miraculous is I actually made it to the “article,” which starts on page 216; bored and cynical don’t begin to describe my feelings toward this magazine. I could mention the lack of voice and/or heart and/or thought in the writing that sporadically pops up amid the more-than-generous helpings of advertisements. I could cite portions of endless pomposity that bombard you from start to finish. I could even hone in on the magazine’s own cool cynicism (which, I suppose, would here make me a hypocrite) – that shines like rays of sunlight thru the open-curtained window and into the pulsating eyes of a hangover sufferer – that presents itself in the banal brevity of the thoughtless sentences attempting to pass themselves off as hip and unarguable. But I won’t.

What I will mention, briefly, is #5 on this list, compiled, assuredly without effort, by Drew Magary (GQ correspondent). No, Pope Francis did not make the cut. But Miley Cyrus, Paula Deen, Justin Beiber, Aaron Hernandez, and 21 other set-em-up-knock-em-down targets did. Putting Miss Cyrus (#6) on the list displays Magary’s lack of ingenuity with regard to interpreting the actions of others, as well as GQ’s go-with-what’s-popular-to-stay-popular approach. More disturbing though is the choice of Aaron Hernandez. Sure, he’s arguably the easiest and most deserving target, but the simple fact that he’s on the list, coupled with GQ’s presumed penchant for staying with what’s most current, implies that he won’t make the list next year (assuming this is one of those annual things [Drew Magary can dream can’t he?]), and given his (Hernandez’s) reprehensible deeds – well, that’s just plain sad. It’s one thing to poke fun at the topicality of a person’s artistic output; it’s something entirely different to poke that same fun when lives have been lost.

Anyway, #5 is Pope Benedict XVI. And in his defense of why the former Pope deserves mention on his little list, Magary opens with, “The newest pope [sic] is sooooooo much better than Benedict, isn’t he? Who knew a pope [sic] could be, like, nice?” And, in reading, I had to agree. I don’t like everything for which Pope Francis stands; after all, he is the leader of a famously intolerant, unflinching, and (more often than not) reprehensible religious juggernaut. On the other hand, it’s hard to deny his likability and, more importantly, his sincerity and conviction when compared to Benedict XVI and John Paul II (post priest sex scandal).

Pope Francis has 3.2 million followers on Twitter, and like any Twitter phenomenon, Pope Francis follows a very select number of people: eight. Closer inspection of his page, however, reveals Pope Francis follows only the multi-lingual versions of himself, so, in essence, Pope Francis follows exactly no one (not even God, who also has multiple Twitter handles).

In case you’re wondering, I did some math. Between his nine Twitter handles, Pope Francis has roughly 10.4 million followers. Small potatoes when considering Twitter’s top ten, which starts with Katy Perry (47.8 million) and ends with Justin Timberlake (28.6 million). Even smaller potatoes when considering an estimated 1.2 billion Catholics existed in the world in 2011. Still, if all nine of Pope Francis’s Twitter handles were accounted for collectively – and arguably they should be since they're all exactly the same aside from the language in which the tweets roll out – he would rank in the top 70 of Twitter accounts with the most followers,  right between Charlie Sheen and singer-songwriter Alejandro Sanz, respectively.

After brewing some coffee, I read Pope Francis’s most-recent tweet – “The Sacraments are Jesus Christ’s presence in us. So it is important for us to go to confession and receive Holy Communion.” – and something about it confused me. Initially, I attributed my confusion to the Jesus Christ information. Maybe I expected the usual: Tidbits from his daily life rather than advertisements for God’s unending love. Then I remembered what it is that the Pope is hired to do, which is to spread the word of God and uphold the teachings of Vatican II Catholicism.

And so I looked elsewhere for a source of my confusion, landing on the fortune cookie-esque style with which his tweets are delivered. With this reasoning in mind, I felt closer to the source of my confusion, and as I read another tweet – “The Kingdom of Heaven is for those who place their trust in the love of God, not in material possessions.” – it dawned on me: The tweets are legible. There are no #s.  No RTs or @s. No contractions or purposefully misspelled words meant to save those all-important 140 characters. What you end up with are simple, pure sentences. Not unlike those which are found in a book or escaped from a person’s mouth every so often.

Learning it’s possible to read a person’s tweets, in a world where the lot of them are harder to decipher than Ulysses or most ee cummings poems, brought on a sensation of freedom within me. In a flurry of excited mindlessness, I added myself to the legion of followers of the pontiff in English (and Latin, just for fun) with no regard to my non-religious proclivities. And as a result of my hasty decision, I suddenly found myself in contemplation over who Twitter thought I would also be interested in following: Joan Rivers and/or The White House.  

Differences in opinion aside, the fact remains that Pope Francis is a decent and well-respected man. He’s a person to which you can look up. To which you can aspire. Like Gandhi or the Dalai Lama, except that Pope Francis is more relatable. He’s frugal and finds meaning and purpose in his frugality. He prays for the sick and dying, and calls people up when they’re feeling low. He’s only interested in an uncomplicated and holy life. And I can’t fault the guy for that because it’s what most of us complain about not having, ad nauseam, to anyone with stamina enough to listen.

“All of What I Could Teach You Provided Enough Time to Learn It"

There is so much I don’t know and even more that other people do know and wrongfully withhold. While reading David Foster Wallace’s essay, “Some Remarks on Kafka’s Funniness from Which Probably Not Enough Has Been Removed,”[1] it dawned on me that I was reading criticism on an author whose work I’ve barely read,[2] which is a ridiculous endeavor that is sort of like being inspired to build a house after hanging drywall once as a favor to a friend, and reading the directions[3] after tiling the roof and sealing all the windows. But this uselessness is nothing new to a guy who prides himself on his ability to name the authors of nearly every book he’s never opened.[4] I planned on giving a short list here, exampling this skill; however, my mind drew a definite blank while attempting to do…[5] Thus, I normally wouldn’t be disturbed by the scarcity of my own understanding of things,[6] but the whole Kafka incident reminded me of a day in one of my professor’s offices, surrounded by way too many books I’ve never read let alone heard of,[7] while he discussed Salinger’s Babe Gladwaller story, “A Boy in France.” I don’t remember what his exact argument was because I was distracted by two facts: 1) that he knew who Babe Gladwaller is, and 2) that there are three[8] stories concerning Babe Gladwaller.[9] What’s more is upon his mentioning of Babe’s full name, it dawned on me that I had spelled the character’s last name incorrectly while “analyzing” him in my comprehensive exam[10] essay. The books were no longer surrounding me. They were wiggling free, coming off the shelves and smacking me upside my head like that scene in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast in which all the possessions in the castle attack the intruders who have come for the beast’s hide. He’s read Salinger, I thought. Also, And not just any old Salinger, underpublished Salinger. He’s probably read Kafka, too. And David Foster Wallace. The part about Kafka and Wallace I didn’t ponder until la[11]ter that night. Walking out of his office though, down the loud, cement staircase, I stayed optimistic. Don’t be discouraged, I told myself. There are truths you can offer people, facts with which you can broaden the minds of others, knowledge you can bestow upon the ignorant. For example:

---

[1] For the record, this essay was above my comprehension in some ways. Take the title of the essay as an example. I know humor is in it, but I’m still searching out where and why the humor exactly is. I think I have an idea, but I’m not confident enough to share. Maybe the second footnote is – I don’t believe me one bit right now – an explanation of why the essay confuses me.  

[2] Outside of “The Metamorphosis” (a piece hazy in my mind, and I am, to add to this, not entirely sure if the title is quotation marked or italicized because I can’t remember if it’s a novella or a long short story) I’ve also read the first page of Amerika.

[3] If housebuilding directions even exist.

[4] Giving others the impression that he is well read, knowledgeable, intimidating, capable of working in a bookstore, worthy of sweeping at least one remarkably tailored category on Jeopardy! so long as he works the buzzer correctly, etc.

[5] THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARK TWAIN WRITTEN BY MARK TWAIN!

[6] I define “things” here as anything capable of being thought of: words, history (American, world, or otherwise), technology, how to rebuild any kind of engine, 13 X 14, the mating habits of Loggerhead sea turtles, etc.

[7] Shamelessly, and without glasses, I squinted at the names on the spines and tried to commit each to memory for future reference.

[8] Not one.

[9] “The Last Day of the Last Furlough” and “The Stranger” being the other two (Wikipedia succeeds where memory falters).

[10] An exam I did not pass, not even close, and, as a result, must retake, thus keeping me in my MA program for one more semester only, pass or fail.

[11] As I finished writing the thought actually.

Memory Examination #1

Charles, as I recall him, was a nice kid. I didn't know him that well or for very long; we worked together for a little over a year almost a decade ago. But he used to tap on my truck's window to wake me up before our shifts started at 05:30 even though I drove a Ford and he drove a Chevy.

We'd walk toward the large building in the pre-dawn dim, not saying much, probably thinking about how tired we were, and about how that particular tired never compared to the tired we would feel once our jobs were finished. Our asses were kicked on a daily basis; but we also ate breakfast burritos in the cafeteria on our lunch breaks.

Charles was soft spoken and laughed genuinely. For a short time, he was my best friend. He knew someone who was important to me at the time (I want to say it was an ex-girlfriend), but I can't remember who that person was. I can barely remember Charles now, too; his name came back to me only two days ago. He was blonde, grew decent facial hair, and shaved when he wanted to be less unruly. He had a good smile.

I remember being affected by his presence. But I was selfish. Did I even say a proper goodbye after I quit? The word bastard should be reserved for the young and arrogant and neglectful and unseeing. I hope Charles is happy if he's still around. Sometimes I just miss people. If only I could hate myself more effectively for forgetting the people who proceed through my life.    

"From the southland and the droughtland"

I have been wanting to produce a new blog - one that resists discussing the death of yet another famous writer - for some time now; however, with my lifestyle being what it is these days (one that involves -- most importantly -- Netflix, a little reading, a little tennis, sporadic aerobic binges, drinking, and countless social functions) I just haven’t found the time or the desire. Lucky I am then that my good, albeit elusive, friend Roman Conrad recently returned from a short, on-assignment job in Damascus (Syria, not Virginia). Roman is a truly remarkable writer/observer/poet/widower, and I begged him to come up with anything for General Narrator, anything topical that would ultimately shed his brilliant light on American life. After several days of lengthy phone conversations laced with promises of alcohol and poorly-manufactured Mexican cuisine, he finally agreed, and rode his motorcycle down from Carpinteria, California, where he lives when he’s not traveling. I gave him time to roam the streets of Long Beach; he was in search not only of a topic, but of the right kind of people whose conversations and musings would help him broach whatever subject he decided to explore. After a week or so, Roman came back to my apartment -- I was out stalking the filming locales of the upcoming season of Dexter, but preemptively had an extra key made for him so he could come and go as he pleased -- and produced the following essay while holed up in the shower of my small bathroom. I have yet to read the piece due to quite a few late nights and later mornings, but knowing Roman, I’m sure it’s a great, insightful read, and I pray you enjoy his mind in the same envious way that I do.

“Americans Remain Resilient Amid Mid-Summer Swelter”
By: Roman Conrad
Special to General Narrator

Just as the Free Syrian Army -- despite problems among divided sects being opposed to one another in purpose and tactics -- continues to wage war for freedom against the Bashar al-Assad led regime hellbent on oppressing and/or murdering its impoverished citizens, so do farmers across the expanse of this great nation prepare themselves for a similar battle against an arguably less-vanquishable foe: inclement weather.

Reports from many credible sources are calling this the hottest and droughtiest dry season this side of the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. Enormous tractors with balers, binders, and planters in tow leave a wake of rising dust rather than fertile ground for future sowing. Crops of differing produce sit crumbly and lifeless, decimated by scorching heat. Cattle farmers are forced to send animals to an early slaughter and are left pondering the metaphorical parallels as they do so. In the vein of Studs Terkel -- the great American voice who documented the effects the Great Depression had on the American public -- these indeed are Hard Times.

The extent of the heat’s unrelenting oppression, however, reaches far beyond the world of agriculture. Here in Long Beach, the city I am currently visiting, the effects are just as damaging and worrisome. Margaret B. Thompson, a stay-at-home mother of four who I came upon while she was watering a dead patch of grass in her quaint front yard, recalls when her husband gave her some sobering news:

“It was August 7th, I think. My husband called me from his office and said, ‘We just had a rolling blackout at work. All the computers are down. The lights are off. Everyone’s pretty upset. I heard on the radio this morning that state officials declared a Flex Alert. I think it’s best if we stop using the air conditioner for a while.’”

I asked Margaret how she reacted:

“I panicked a little [chuckles nervously]. You know, without air conditioning our house can get pretty stuffy, and then the kids complain a little more. But they still have the Xbox 360 and that helps them forget about the heat at least for a little while. The first thing I did, you know, after my husband told me to keep the air off, was I went to Costco and stocked up on as much Gatorade and Diet Coke as I could. So that has been an added expense. But it’s nothing compared to the money we’ll save at the end of the month when the bill comes.”

Margaret and her family aren’t the only ones making sacrifices during these trying times. I talked to Wilhelmina Brown, a tax adjuster who works in Los Angeles, at a local coffee shop about the soaring temperatures just before she started her daily 45 minute commute into downtown:

“It has definitely been an adjustment. I come here every morning to get a cup of coffee to help start my day, and recently I had to switch to iced coffee to help keep me cool.”

Has that helped, I asked:

“Yeah, it really has. It’s a pain because the iced coffee is the same price as a regular cup of the hot stuff even though you’re getting less coffee because the ice takes up more space, but it definitely keeps me cool and still keeps me awake throughout the day.”

(In related events, coffee shops with eastern facing patios have seen a severe decrease in patronship between the hours of 6am & 12pm; the same has been reported at shops with western facing patios between 3 & 8pm, thus leaving a meager three hours for a tolerable coffee buying experience -- all of which fly by, by the way, during non-peak coffee buying hours.)

Bobby Fellows, who does PC repair from home, was also at the coffee shop when I spoke with Wilhelmina.

“Right now, in the morning, is about the best time to get anything done really; it’s not as excruciating. I just dropped my kid off at school, but I’m dreading having to pick him up later this afternoon.”

Why is that?:

“Well, he gets out of school around 2, and that’s really just about the worst time to be outside. I go outside to my truck, get in -- I got [sic] leather seats so I’m just sticking to them at first -- and am sweating almost immediately. My wife calls it ‘swamp back.’ The air conditioner cools everything down pretty quick [sic], but those first three minutes are really brutal.”

Forecasters haven’t been able to adequately explain why this recent heat wave sweeping across the country -- some point to global warming while others say it’s merely the weather being its usual, unpredictable, cyclical self -- nor have they been able to give any idea as to when it will let up. In the meantime, southern Californians continue to persevere, somehow managing to bear the unbearable. When the heat will subside? Only time will tell.

"All the carnival lights blinked out"

Had I met Ray Bradbury when my first opportunity arose, the result would have been more serendipitous than it was when I finally met him. I was 17, this was during the first chance you’ll see, and reading Fahrenheit 451 in my senior English class. Steinbeck had been my introduction to literature; my grandpa left a copy of Of Mice and Men on my bed when I was 11. I read it over the following summer and searched out all the Steinbeck I could immediately after finishing. But reading Steinbeck was a solitary, leisurely undertaking. I understood the general plot unprecociously, cried, “Why?” and, “He shouldn’t have done that! It’s not fair!” to my mother when George kills Lenny and left it at that. No tests. No essays. Just an unexplainable need for more.

Bradbury, then, marked my introduction to literary analysis. That’s not entirely true; what is true is that Bradbury marked the beginning of my understanding that there was more to books than simply reading them. That I could engage the text, write in its margins, learn and feel from it, alter its meaning, steal from it and covet what I’d stolen. Still, I was mediocre at these things, too. When my teacher informed the class that we were to each rewrite the part in 451 in which Montag fails to outrun the Hound, which then injects a tranquilizer into him before he destroys it with a flamethrower and manages to hobble out of reach of pyromaniacal authorities, I used the assignment to turn Montag’s getaway into a melodramatic death scene complete with a defiant speech aimed at his pursuers. The only problem was the speech consisted of the lyrics to the song, “Drive” by Incubus and was nothing of my own creation. Regretfully, this choice was not a case of trying to take the easy way out of schoolwork. I was elated by the prospect of revisioning part of the first book that made me feel literature mattered in the world for more than the fun (as I saw it) of reading(1). My other elation came once I realized how perfectly Brandon Boyd’s lyrics fit into my revision. It was the first time I remember my writing coming together in such a satisfying way.

A few days after we turned in the assignment my teacher asked me to see him after class. I had been half expecting something like this since I turned in my work; he wanted to praise me for the impeccable, and seemingly effortless, job I did on his normally daunting writing assignment.

“Matt, I was really taken with what you wrote.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying hard not to care, unaware of the fact that if you’re trying hard not to care about anything, you must say, “Thanks” instead of, “Thank you” because the syllables in “Thank you” leave you vulnerable to placing telling emphasis on both words.

“Forgive me, but I have to ask this: Did you write Montag’s speech?”

“No,” (proudly and without hesitation). “I got the speech from one of my favorite songs.”

I sat back in my chair and politely waited for more praise.

He informed that I must immediately rewrite the assignment using only my own words. I was appalled, pleading my case of the lyrics being perfect and that anything I wrote in lieu of them would fail miserably by comparison(2). Like any good and patient teacher though, he quietly insisted.

It wasn’t until years later when I finally became aware of plagiarism and its rampant, (sometimes) intentional use and, as a result, the truth that a genuine love for reading and writing doesn’t exists in everyone. So I was angry with my teacher for not seeing how flawless my rewrite was, how poetic and sincere Montag became after speaking the lyrics. But I was a good student, always in want of my teachers’ acceptance, so I started work on the scene again.

Then something amazing happened. At the time, my grandma(3) lived in Lucerne Valley, a small(4) gathering of people (who staunchly oppose healthy, occasional migration) nestled deep within the dirt and cacti of the Mojave, and she had read in the local newspaper that Bradbury was going to make an appearance at the Lucerne Valley Library(5) the following Tuesday. The timing of Bradbury’s visit couldn’t have been planned any better. I knew what I had to do. The scenario was clear: I would go to Lucerne Valley, find the library, walk up to Mr. Bradbury, hand him my assignment, watch as he read it(6), and wait while he composed a damning letter to my teacher exempting me from the terrible redo. The more I thought about it the giddier I was. I begged my mom to let me skip school to go see the famous author of the book I was reading for class, but she refused. She was never an overly stern parent, but the subject of missing school, for any reason save a near-death illness like cancer, was out of the question. I think my mother’s odd subservience to the policies of a school district is an aspect of parenthood that is common ground trudged by most kids. Despite the excuse(7), there was no missing of school. Period. School was where we were sent to learn and to grow. It’s absurd and morally reprehensible to think a child’s development occurs anywhere else.

To be fair, my mother did make sure that my grandma, who was far removed from the oppressive confines of school district policies, remembered to get Bradbury to sign a book for me. And he did: the first page(8) of a sixth edition softcover copy of his short story collection, The Machines of Joy, once owned by a (thanks to an official looking stamp) Mr. Michael L. Herring, 7137 Fairfax Drive San Bernardino, CA. 924[the rest is blotted out by the all too inky edge of the stamp].

I felt closer to Bradbury after seeing his surprisingly legible signature in that book. I liked holding it and knowing he had held it. But for many years I also felt I had been shafted, especially since, my plan foiled, I still had to rewrite my teacher’s assignment. I’m not sure if I hold grudges, but I do know that if the memory of a specific event or person doesn’t settle well in my head, if its sediment is forever agitated, I remember it begrudgingly. And I remember being so angry with my mother for not letting me go to Lucerne Valley that Tuesday to see Bradbury. I remember being so angry with my grandma for getting to see him. I remember being even more angry with her, years later, when I found out all she’d ever read of Bradbury was the novel, Dandelion Wine, and she’d given it the lukewarm review of “fair.”

In 2008, all that anger dissipated, however, when I finally made it to the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, held at UCLA at the time, and procured two tickets to Bradbury’s lecture on writing, at which I found him surprisingly vibrant and youthful. Before the lecture, I stood in a long line with my then girlfriend for a chance to meet the author. I had brought with me the very same copy of Fahrenheit 451 that I had read in high school with hopes he would sign it and unknowingly put an end to my saga involving absence on both our parts. But when my turn came, I walked up to the 86-year-old man, bound to a wheelchair and suffering with the complications of a stroke, and saw how hard it was for him to lift his hand to meet mine for a polite shake, I couldn’t bring myself to ask him to sign my book. Instead I settled for a picture, which you can see below. Note the French Commandeur Ordre des Arts et des Lettres medal around his neck; it was bestowed upon him in 2007, and he was so proud that he wore it to every subsequent public function he attended.

Like Steinbeck (and later, Salinger), Bradbury stays with me. Despite the innumerable throng of authors I’ve come in contact with since that blip in time as a naive high school senior, his voice remains one of the few that continues to sound true, clear, and warm in my mind. He was one of that rare breed of writer in search of answers to questions that were bigger than his generation’s capacity to comprehend them. He sought by way of an endless imagination that sparked with the electricity of youth and rebellion, an imagination that continues to mesmerize even after his vanishing.


Footnotes

1. In the summer after I graduated high school, I was in Switzerland - because of a friendship with a foreign exchange student that developed on the decayed tennis courts of our high school where he was the standout singles player and I was lucky enough to have a decent doubles partner - preparing to get drunk for the first time in my life. Because it was my first exposure to hard alcohol and language barriers, I was naturally nervous, mainly about overdrinking myself into an irrevocable stupor, so to calm myself before we started, I kept repeating to myself, "You're going to be okay. Just remember that Fahrenheit 451 is one of the greatest books ever written and you'll be okay." The first shots of kirsch were downed not long and somehow I relaxed a bit. My reminder to myself even worked later in the evening when, 12 or 13 shots into it, I was riding a bicycle over cobblestone streets yelling, "Yes, you're drunk at the moment, Matt, but you're in Swisserlin and you're be okay! Hey! What's the greatest book you've ever written? Fahrenheit 4. 5. 1. That's right! And who is the greatest writer ever written? Ray Bradbury. That's right, too!" And all was right with the world until I woke up the next morning, arms wrapped around the bottom of a wastebasket that I'll bet never weighed more than it did after I was through with it.

2. I often wonder how K-12 teachers, or K-12 teachers who haven't already, get through their workdays without laughing insanely in the face of at least one student.

3. No direct relation to the grandpa who introduced me to Of Mice and Men.

4. The Geographic Names Information System (GNIS), which is operated by the United States Geological Survey (USGS), lists Lucerne Valley as a "census designated place" rather than a city.

5. I've searched extensively for a reason as to why Bradbury would lecture, let alone know about a census designated place like Lucerne Valley, and the only plausible answer I can find involves his writing contributions to the 1953 film, It Came from Outer Space, which was partly filmed at Dead Man's Point in Lucerne Valley. I have no idea whether or not Bradbury was on set during filming.

6. I'd never been to an author's lecture before and had no notion of the goings on. I assumed he was just there to be gawked at so he'd have nothing better to do than read my work in the interim.

7. I still think I had a pretty damn good one.

8. In this particular book the first page is the "Praise" page, on which you will learn the strangely-worded fact that Bradbury "with Hemingway, is one of the very few writers whose fiction has ever been published in Life."