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Ordinary Horrors

Semi-Contextual New Years' Eve Excerpt

12/31/2014

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I was driving a cab in Austin when the 1999-2000 year kicked over. I picked up a fare south around Emerald Forest Drive and the guy wanted to go downtown, and so I headed up north through the neighborhood when all hell broke loose--the New Year, 2000--shotguns firing, pistols, fireworks, everything suddenly booming and poor sad startled birds awake and flapping around. I felt bad about the birds--still feel bad about the birds--but still I drove north laughing with the passenger because it was all cool because it was all totally illegal.

So now, years later, it's New Years Eve again, and here is a fun NYE excerpt from Professed. You need to have fun, too, reader
--but don't have fun the way these characters have fun! Legal fun only, and don't scare the birds.

And that, too. What to say about that? A night where a lot of things went wrong, especially for the dead guy, and one or two things went right. It was how we started the New Year, Barnes and myself—and the murderer—and how the dead guy ended it.

New Year’s Eve: I didn’t even know where we were. Barnes drove—I wasn’t paying attention—to the party, at Podraza’s, who worked at the same pawnshop chain as Barnes, World of Pawn: he was manager of Store #3, and he did well, was a short-broad-shouldered guy with a fuzzy soul-patch under his lip, very intense. Podraza lived in some house, down some street, somewhere on the East Side, an old house, but it was fixed up nice, and of course like any pawnbroker, his house was full of stuff—lots of stuff, all kinds of stuff: anything interesting that comes up out of pawn, the manager will get in there first to buy it, and so they end up with every fucking conceivable power tool, gun, or electronic gizmo known to man. At Podraza’s we went in through the garage, where we grabbed cups of beer from a keg, and the garage was stacked with top-of-the-line drills, sanders, chipping hammers, circular saws, jig saws—table saws, miters—enough goddamn tools to set up a construction—or destruction—business, and then we went into the living room, packed with people from all the World of Pawns, all dancing to Kanye West coming out of who knows how many speakers and three or four huge flat screen TVs all with some football game on—the Sugar Bowl, I think, fucking Oklahoma was playing, those assholes—and Christmas lights still sparkling twinkling flashing and the people all jumping around, writhing; Podraza’s wife, Evie, a little square-shouldered woman with glasses and a big tattoo of a Cyclops on her left bicep, jumping around, too, and she yelled at us happily, and we went on through to the kitchen, where it was all a bit calmer, people making margaritas and talking, and I was getting a margarita to go with my beer when Podraza came by and grabbed me and Barnes and took us tramping up the stairs and down a hall to his gunroom—a room with a safe full of pistols and rifles and shotguns—and Podraza opened the safe and took out his newest shotgun, a Marlin Model 55 12-gauge goose gun with a huge long barrel.

“Fuck.”  Me. “You go goose hunting much?”

“Fuck no!” Podraza. He was just showing off. He put the shotgun back in the safe and then pulled out some powders and laid out some lines of what I thought was crank but later found out wasn’t speed but sheba, sweet dreamy heroin, and we all did a line or two, and then I left Barnes with him talking pawn gossip and I went tromping back down the stairs and through the dancing pawnbrokers—T. Pain playing now—and back out to the kitchen and the margaritas—the blender whirring and the bass in the front room thumping and people yelling: a Gatsby party. I wasn’t jangled or velocitized, just dreamily vague from the sheba, sort of taking it all in, absorbing the world. In the kitchen was this old hippie musician, Zollie, who worked at Store #7 with Barnes, and he was rocking back on his heels and saying “Aw, damn,” every few minutes very cheerfully, though he was also keeping an eye on his wife, a retired stripped named Honey, who was wandering around with her boobs half hanging out and her belly piercing glittering, Zollie smoking a joint and hitting the tequila pretty good. There were three Vietnamese sisters in the kitchen, all of them pawnbrokers at one World of Pawn or another, and I was talking to one of them, Vanessa, part-time pawnbroker and full-time student, and I think she kind of liked me.

“I’m an outlaw!” Me. “Give me any situation—I’ll brink it.”

“Sounds dangerous!” Vanessa, laughing.

“I defy the laws of man and god, I defy gravity—I defy common sense! I ain’t nothing but a rebel!”

“Should I be scared?”

“No—of course not—I work only for the forces of good!”

“Yeah?”           

“Yeah!”

Everyone was yelling over the music from the front—Ludacris, then old Prince—people dancing now in the kitchen, Honey saying something sharp to Zollie—yeah, I was looking at her boobs, too—a scattering of brown freckles across the top of her chest, flecks of gold and green glittering plastic mylar in her hair. A New Year coming, ready to unspool like a spool of Kevlar thread, and I was ready to unspool, too—no doubt a good year was coming, nothing but good news for everyone
----

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Semi-Contextual Christmas Excerpt

12/24/2014

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It's Christmas eve, and so here is an Xmas-y passage from my just-finished West Virginia book. Hope Santa brings you something, even if--or maybe especially if--you've been bad....

It was always a sad house with young people in it, Dorothy thought. Especially when the young people were sad because their boyfriends or girlfriends were treating them bad, or because their parents were treating them bad or going crazy and running off. But there wasn’t ever any real happiness in life.

Since it was Christmastime, or was supposed to be, the puzzle Elizabeth and D-Bob were working on was a nativity scene, an old Renaissance painting of Mary and the baby Jesus. But it was coming together slowly. One dark late afternoon, Elizabeth and Danny were laboring over the puzzle and Dorothy came back from the bathroom and leaned on the table for a moment, resting. It seemed like puzzles were just like everything else in the world—lots of hard work for nothing.

“I don’t see how you do it,” Dorothy said. “Or why you do it.”

“I expect you wouldn’t,” Elizabeth said. “It’s a puzzle.”

Dorothy sank into a chair and watched them puzzle. Nothing on the TV, just cartoons and advertisements for Christmas specials. Dorothy didn’t like that much—she didn’t like the cartoons, but she’d always especially hated the holiday, Christmas, when kids would be home from school, and there would be extra cooking and cleaning, and wrapping presents, and worrying about money, and arguing. Fun maybe for everybody else but her. This year Elizabeth didn’t seem to care too much about Christmas, either, she was mad at almost everybody, all she’d done to decorate was dig a single red glass ball out of the closet and hang it from a scrawny little Norfolk pine potted plant someone had given them. Elizabeth said, “There, that’s our Christmas tree,” and she sounded mad, like it was supposed to be something to be ashamed of, the little tree. But Dorothy just felt, well, the little scrawny tree was just fine. Maybe even too much. That was going to be Christmas for them, just that little tree.

 “Christmas is just another day with no mail,” Dorothy said.

“Your granny’s always hated Christmas,” Elizabeth said to Danny.

“That’s right,” Dorothy said. She picked up a piece of puzzle and looked at it—a piece of background, she thought, dark-brown black, a piece of the shadowy manger—then set it back on the table. “You’re too young to remember your daddy drunk on Christmas Day, waving his Barlow knife around and stabbing the packages open, and me just sitting there worrying about that turkey burning in the oven with its legs a-sticking up in the air. Some fun that was.”

Elizabeth said, “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Yes, it was,” Dorothy said. “You don’t remember. Your daddy was a bad drinker. If men could just see how stupid they look drunk, they’d never drink.”

Elizabeth tried fitting a piece of puzzle into Mary’s head. “Maybe I’ll get you a movie camera for Christmas,” she said. She didn’t look up. The puzzle piece wouldn’t fit. Elizabeth tossed it back on the table and picked up another piece.

“I don’t need a movie camera, now,” Dorothy said. “But I bet you will.”

“Well, I like Christmas,” Danny Bob said.

Dorothy looked at him in surprise. “Well,” she said, “I expect you do.” Poor little fellow, dropped off on his own, momma and daddy off somewhere wife-swapping or whatever they did, fighting maybe, getting a divorce, drinking, who knew where they were or what they were doing, or why. Danny did like Christmas, of course he did, and he wasn’t going to have much of one this year. Dorothy thought for a moment, looked at the skinny boy, then said, “Well, I guess we can maybe go to town and shop a little and look at the lights.”



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(Photo from the Shorpy photo archive...)
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Out of Context Excerpt 3

12/20/2014

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This week: out of context from my story, "The Road Back to Destruction Bay," published in Callaloo Spring 2009.

All this took place at a time when I was trapped, trapped in the hospital, trapped not just by ill health but by poverty, too. I was trapped, and there was no place for me to go. I slept during the day, so that I would not have to talk to anyone, and I sat alone in the dark at night, thinking of every place, any place, I had been and would now rather be, and every person I had ever known, people who had quickly come into my life and who were all now mostly gone.

I remembered a rainy morning leaving North Dakota, feeling depressed and very low, despite a giant shimmering cheerful rainbow stretching across the northern horizon. I drove all day west on Highway 2, into Montana, on The High Line, through patches of fog and drizzle, under more rainbows, past the white crosses that marked where people had died along the road. My spirits grew as I headed west. There was a lot of empty space around me—signs of human presence, sure, but everything was very spread out and junky-looking. I liked it. In the afternoon I hit Havre, which seemed a mighty town after the emptiness of the plains. I stopped and had a beer at the Havre Daily Saloon, and years later that made me smile. The Havre Daily Saloon: not much of a bar, but I liked the name of the place—I like the idea behind it. Thinking about it while I sat in the dark in the hospital made me happy.

⁂

The problem was, of course, that I was dying—dying not at the normal day-by-day rate we all die at, but much faster than I would have preferred had I given it any thought—and so one evening I had ended up in the emergency room, pierced by a badly-placed IV, listening to a man in the next alcove scream, “Oh God!  Ohhhhhh!  Ohhhhhh!”

Two youngish doctors—interns, residents, whatever—stood next to me, a man and a woman. The man appeared to be from South Asia, the woman from Latin America. They just stared at me with their flat brown eyes.

 The screaming man beyond the curtain kept screaming. “Ohhhhhhh God!  Ahhhhhhhhh!”

Finally the man said, “No one’s done his rectal exam yet.”

He was looking at me, dying.

The woman was looking at me, too. She shook her head. She said, “No.”

I looked up at the ceiling, wondering if it would be the last thing I saw. Bight lights, florescent. The top of a pale green curtain shutting my gurney off from the screaming man and the rest of the room.

I thought, Well, this is it. The end!

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!  God!  God!”

I thought, Goodbye!

The male doctor to a step back from my gurney. He said, “You do it.”

Then he quickly ducked away beyond the curtain.

The female doctor frowned at me.

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The Grading Rant

12/11/2014

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Frenzy-making portfolios

It's
grading season! The young scholars in my classes will be dropping off their final portfolios today, and I will lurch into a grading frenzy. In honor of this biannual event, here's Tom Holt's grading rant from
my novel Professed:

Grading was an ordeal for me. Six sections of 25 students, more or less, each student spitting out four papers over the course of a semester—600 papers of an overall dismally low quality, 3000 pages or so of the same errors, same lame punctuation, same irrational arguments. My hand got tired writing in the margins

SF

WC

UC


Sentence fragment, word choice, unclear. Over and over. What I wanted to write was

WTF

or

BS!

or

ZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!

or even

YAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What the fuck or bullshit or boring or YOU ARE STUPID!

But I didn’t.

Everybody I know hates grading. Even the instructors and professors who claim to love their students—and who actually may love teaching, after all—even they hate grading. It’s tough to judge and asses people and then look them in the eye day after day. Beneath that is a cold lurking fear of getting a bad evaluation from an unhappy student, a bad evaluation that can doom your career. One or two bad evaluations from terrible students can get a non-tenured faculty member’s contract canceled, and the teacher can find her or his ass out on the street with no job, no job prospects, and $150,000 or so of student debt to pay off.

And still grading is worse than that, even—grading affects the health of teachers, too. Meet some afternoon with 14 or 18 students to discuss their terrible papers and you’ll be sick the next day—students are notoriously filthy vectors of cold and flu viruses—and you’ll be depressed, too, worried for the fate of the republic after you’ve read students who assert that their “mine is maid up” or that they are not taking something “for granite,” or who argue that Hitler did some good things, like build roads  (and, anyway,  “It was God that judged the Jews”), or who are just plain lazy (“Both of these stories that I am comparing have similarities that me as a reader will know about when I finish reading them”). And I’m not kidding about the depression. Grade 30 or 50 papers and you will feel low, sullen, tired
--you will feel like a loser, like a horrible teacher, like a total failure. The good papers—and yes, there are some good papers always—won’t cheer you up because the bad papers are bad, bad, bad. They are terrible, and they’re terrible because you’re a terrible teacher. It’s depressing. A year ago here an adjunct jumped off the west side of the football stadium and killed himself. His suicide note even made the Chronicle of Higher Education: he blamed grading for his depression—not lousy adjunct pay or not having health insurance. Grading. It’s a killer.

Picture
Professed
Published by Slough Press, October 2013
ISBN 978-0-941720-20-5

Available from AMAZON
Available from BARNES & NOBLE
Available from POWELL'S
Available on Amazon Kindle
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This Happened: Three Flat Tires at Once

12/11/2014

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Guilford, CT. May, 1983.

There also seems to be a problem with the muffler--or lack of muffler....

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Out of Context Excerpt 1

12/4/2014

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This will be the first in what I guess will be a series of excerpts from my various books. Out of context, of course. Take them for what they are...This one: from Long Time Ago Good, "Brindled Pit Bull."

...Later, going home in the free cabs, taking long trips to their homes in the far Southwest or far Northwest sides of town, everyone would be laughing and making calls on their cell phones, gossiping about work, telling each other how wonderful Austin was, with restaurants and Sixth Street and music and all the cool people at work, but how weird and crude and out of it the rest of Texas was—Texas they had seen only from car windows as they drove in from San Diego or wherever, or gazed down on from a mile up in the air as they flew in from Seattle or Boston—and the cab would speed by neighborhoods where the locals lived, the ones they saw on the TV news for winning chili cook-offs, or going on killing sprees, or getting in car wrecks, all those would-be cowboys sitting in the night in their camped little houses drinking beer and cleaning their guns and admiring their Confederate flags while their girlfriends snorted crank and their kids rolled around squalling in dirty diapers—a whole class of left-behind losers that no one would ever take seriously. The cab driver if he was cool would laugh along with them, knowing he was getting a good fare and a good tip, and it had all been such childlike, endless fun, one long party, it was never going to stop, the jobs would get better and better, and pay more and more and more—but, no, now it had ended. It had stopped.

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    Lowell Mick White

    Author of the novels Normal School and Burnt House and Professed and That Demon Life and the story collections  Long Time Ago Good and The Messes We Make of Our Lives.

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