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Helter Skelter Issue 06
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|_| |_|elter |___/ kelter 6^ (digital)
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Editors note:
I'm kinda excited about this issue. I've got some burroughs, some
fiction, some other shit, it doesn't get any better than this, at least not
until #7 comes out. hahaha whatever. anyway, keep sending me stuff people.
I love it. I hope everyone likes the pictures and everything and the slick
little things I can do with my dtp program. It's getting more and more fun to
play with. If you missed some of the earlier issues and you have internet
access you can grab the text from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/HelterSkelter/ or
from my bbs, Omniverse, at (301)718-0225. I love trades (be sure to mark
trade on the zine somewhere, otherwise you'll only get the issue you were
reviewed in [if I review your zine] and not the one you wanted to trade for.
if you write trade somewhere, you'll most likely get both). Back issues are
available, but not always in stock. It make take a week or to for me to get
around to copying things, so if you want a specific issue, it may take a
little while. Of course, for $5 you could just subscribe for the next 6
issues or get the entire Helter Skelter catalog, 1-6. Just use the handy
dandy cut out coupon later in the issue for ordering. ok, say you want to
reach me. the usuall way is normal mail:
Helter Skelter
c/o Derek Teslik
3519 Woodbine St.
Chevy Chase, MD 20815
but the quickest, cheapest, and fastest way is through e-mail, use my netcom
address first:
dteslik@ix.netcom.com
but if there seems to be any problems with that, you can always try these two:
derek.teslik@sbaonline.gov
or
dhorse@cult.empire.org
Anyway, enjoy the issue, mail me stuff to review, and have a good
spring/summer
(whenever you get this)
(issue finished 3:53 am 3/5/95. ahhh...a go, and interviews. Just send $1 to: Melt
Away...
P.O. Box 081431 Racine, WI
53408-1431
---
Monty Python zine out now. $1 Us and Canada. $2 elsewhere. The cheese shop has
actually ordered a block or two of cheddar for the occasion. Siue, box 75, 240
Jarvis St., Toronto, On, M5B 2L1, Canada. First 20 get neat postcard.
---
"ACK! A new Humor / Music zine. News, reviews, interviews, etc. Send a stamp
(American or Canadian) or a buck to: ACK!, Box 115, #105 - 10277 135th
Street, Surrey, BC, V3T 4C3 CANADA"
---
Hell Bound MEGAzine, a total experience within the pages of a all for fun, fun
for all zine. Interviews with NOFX, Rancid, Face to Face, Fugazi, and Teen
Generate. Reviews and all kinds of stuff. $2 Post paid to:1001 Cooper Pt. Rd.
Sw., Suite 140-194, Olympia, WA, 98502.
--
Outback Records presents the release of the Eternity east coast hardcore
compilation featuring Ressurection, Battery, SOulow, Lifetime, Ashes,
Dayspring, Damnation, and Trial by Jury. CD is $10 ppd US and $12 world. Also
don't forge Outback Magazine is now a bi-monthly publication featuring the
best in hardcore and more...send $2 US/ $3 world for the latest issue and
info. Send SASE for other info. and catalog to 5255 Crane Rd., W. Melbourne,
FL. 32904 or fax at #(407)728-4161.
---
"COME PLAY AT THE MONK- Blue Monk is a coffeehouse and ice cream shack that
doubles as a punk venue. We want your band. We want your zines. We want your
love. Contact: Carl Hirsch (614)772-1204 17 E. Main St Chillicothe Oh 45601"
---
Hey all you hip cats, this is just another reminder to get your fluxx fix
every saturday night from INFLUXX, the radio show that brings you only the
best ambient grooves and wierded out poetry and caller participation you can
get. Remember, 1150 AM WMET, every saturday night at 11.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Letters+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I haven't gotten any letters that wre THAT interesting (interesting enough to
print) but I posted the "punk jazz" article to alt.punk on the internet, and
here's a response I got. It basically sums up what I was trying to say:
From: "Lydia A. Bartholow" <lydiab@alpha.pr1.k12.co.us>
cripes
i couldn't agree more about jazz...so many shitheads today who think they can
only be punk if they listen to super underground shit or the DK's its become
this huge orthodox type thing, which in my opinion is exaclty what punk shant
be and all these punks who claim to be the first ones....when punk has been
going on for millions of years, it just wasn't called punk no one understands
that when jazz was being developed it was completely underground and punk rock
there just ain't enough beauty in the skene anymore and i guess i feel that
jazz could bring unity back in... lets get this shit flowing...
ema
anarchist/socialist/progressive
authority questioned - revolutions started - government overthrows planned
anyway, I print letters, so if you want to continue discussion on any point
brought up, e-mail a response to me (dteslik@ix.netcom.com) or just mail them
normally. It would be cool to have some sort of continuing debate on some of
this stuff.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Feature+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
As I'm sure all of you already know, the debate over signing to a major label
has raged here for a very long time, as well it should. However, it has
unfortunately become redundant in many cases. The following post is an
attempt to point out the larger picture, a very important perspective
that has not been voiced her or, at least, one that I have not come across.
The arguments most frequently presented focus on two primary effects of
signing to a major label: 1) the band compromises its artistic integrity by
ceding control to people outside the band, e.g the label bureaucrats, and 2)
the band is making profits for an evil corporation. And both of these are
true. They are also well recognized and documented and, therefore not worth
repeating over and over. Other elitist concerns enter the discourse, the basic
thrust of which is "I don't want to share my favorite bands with frat-boys,"
which is also valid, but less important.
Bands who choose to sign, as well as their apologists within the scene,
respond by claiming that 1) their particular contract grants full artistic
control and 2) that they get distribution and tour support, etc. that they
need in return from the label. (I think Fugazi pretty much proves this point
wrong but that's another story). These arguments aside, there is a larger
picture which has been overlooked which has to do with precisely to whom the
bands are "selling-out" their fans.
Bands who sign to major labels (and this also includes "independent" labels
who behave as major labels by playing the same game, Epitaph records for
example) create advertising markets. That is, they sell-out their fans to
advertisers. The band becomes an audience getter, in other words. This is best
demonstrated by giving an example.
Take Green Day, a band who sold out their fans to the mega-corporation Time-
Warner. Their hit single "Basket Case," as well as succeeding releases, was
used as a marketing tool to grab the same audience being called "generation
Xers" and other meaningless names. So here's roughly how it works. MTV makes
darlings out of them by making them a "buzz clip," which basically means MTV
says they are one of the coolest new bands now and you should love them. It
also means that they play the video over and over until you agree. Now MTV has
an audience that is tuning in to see Green Day (and other "punk" bands like
Offspring, now Rancid, Bad Religion, etc.) that would not normally have
watched MTV before "punk" was co-opted by the majors. These people added
together with the Green Day fans deliberately created by the network form a
marketable group which MTV then sells to advertisers since, according to Green
Day's press kit, "Green Day is voicing the feelings of every kid just out of
high school, bored with the present and dreading the future." The same type of
market creation has occured on radio though the medium is less significant.
Just think of the number of "modern rock" or "alternative" stations that have
sprung up since the Nirvana bandwagon has given them someting to play. Just
think of how many products are sold between "Basket Case" and "Smells like
Teen Spirit" whether on radio or on MTV. Of course, this has longer tentacles
and includes such industry greasers as talk shows and the like.
Although "Basket Case," to continue the example, is not a jingle, per
se, it doesn't need to be; it is far more insidious and effective. Bands who
play this game have not only sold out their fans but they have betrayed the
core beliefs of "punk." I don't want to enter into another hotly debated
topic/thread (what is "punk"), but I think that it is fairly obvious that punk
is way more than a sound and that the concept of a major-label punk band is
oxymoronic.
Thanks for listening. If you have any comments or whould like further
clarification or whatever, feel free to write me direct. Response guaranteed.
Take care, David Tritelli (Robitusin@aol.com)
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Feature+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"Anyone but me....I've got to think about my own life"
Well, I've got some news for you buddy, everything you see, the
existance of the world, the congress of this country, freedom fighters in
Mexico, everything, everyone, it's all YOUR life. Anything and everything
around you, this magazine, your friends, and whatever you're sitting on right
now are figments of your imagination, or at least reflections of your
perception of reality. That perception is different for everyone, and for
most people it is relatively the same, but the world as you know it all has to
do with both your knowing it and how you know it. As such, there are two
basic ways to change it: changing what you see, hear, and know by working
within the framework of reality as you see it or trying to escape that
reality, wether through mind altering drugs or through flat out insanity. The
easier, more dangerous, and to some most attractive choice is the latter. It
certainly is the path most traveled by those who are disgusted with life as
they see it and want a way to escape, because that's just what it is, an
escape. The former, however, is the most fruitful in the long run, as both
drugs and insanity are usually termprary escapes, and they both have some
pain-in-the-ass long term effects if you happen to change your maind and
return to reality. Working within your reality is the only legitimate way to
make things happen.
In other words, don't just ignore shit going down around you, or try
and make it go away. It won't.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Feature+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The Ugly Spirit
It was completely dark in the native-American sweat-lodge, save
thirteen red hot coals in the center of the sealed tent. The temperature
approached one hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit. William Seward
Burroughs, thin and wrinkled at the age of seventy-nine, remaining seated near
the entrance flap of the small hut, felt drained and uncomfortable. A shaman
took each of the hot stones in his hands, one by one, and with each circled
first the tent and then Burroughs with the stones in an effort to rid the
writer of what he has become accustomed to calling "the ugly spirit." He
believes much of his writing has been an attempt to deal with this spirit in
any way possible. After the ceremony the shaman remarked that Bill's was the
toughest case he had ever handled, and for a second he thought he was going
to lose.
Most people who know anything about Burrough's relationship with the
"ugly spirit" agree it began on September 6th, 1951. Bill was living in
Mexico City with his wife Joan and two children. Both he and Joan drank
heavily, and often used narcotics such as Benzedrine and heroin. On the
afternoon of the 6th, Bill was walking through the streets of the city to have
a knife sharpened. "I was walking down the street and suddenly I found tears
streaming down my face. So I said 'What the Hell is the matter? What the
hell is the matter with you?'" He was overcome with a profound sense of
depression and it became difficult for him to breathe. At the time there was
no explanation for his breakdown. He composed himself and returned to his
apartment, where he and Joan began their afternoon drinking. Later that night
they went to a friend's apartment with the intention of selling a gun -- they
were low on cash. The buyer was late in arriving, and everyone at the
apartment, with nothing to do but wait, just kept drinking. Bill, very drunk,
pulled out the gun and said to Joan "It's about time for our William Tell act.
Put a glass on your head." They had no William Tell act, but Joan, also
drunk, complied. Bill fired the gun, and Joan fell over in her chair. The
glass was unharmed, rolling on the floor. She died instantly of a gunshot
wound to the head.
From that day on Burroughs fought a war against control in every sense.
He felt controlled by this entity, the ugly spirit, and needed a way out. His
escape route was his writing. From his earliest, biographical works Junky and
Queer to his masterpiece Naked Lunch to his later, more introspective works
such as Cities of the Red Night and The Western Lands there is a continuing,
everpresent attitude of both anger towards those who control others and
disgust towards those who allow themselves to be controlled.
***
The grandson of the inventor of the adding machine, Burroughs was born
in St. Louis and lived there until the age of fifteen. He was sent to the Los
Alamos Ranch School, a boarding school that was destroyed during the second
world war; Los Alamos was the sight of the initial tests of the H-bomb. After
graduating from Harvard he rambled throughout Europe and the U S, living
mainly off of a two hundred dollar a month allowance from his parents, a
graduation present. He eventually found himself in New York, near Columbia
University, where he met the circle of friends that would evolve into the core
group of the beat generation, most notably Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac.
It was in New York that Burroughs was introduced to junk (heroin). It was
also there that Ginsberg and Kerouac introduced him to Joan Vollmer, his
future wife. He and Joan took to each other immediately. Together they
traveled around the south-eastern United States, settling briefly in Louisiana
and Texas, in an effort to both find and acceptable home and avoid the law
(both Bill and Joan used narcotics heavily). They ended up in Mexico city in
1951, and it was there that Burroughs lost Joan and acquired his need to
write.
Bill drifted out of Mexico city, released from the seedy Mexican prison
thanks to an expensive and unscrupulous lawyer, and drifted into the
international city of Tangier. Tangier in those days was governed by a nine-
country consortium, and there was no central, coordinated authority; drugs and
sex were both cheap and available. Bill had finally found the freedom he
desired. For the next 5 years, in a marijuana and junk haze, Burroughs
produced the bulk of writing from which came Naked Lunch. The finished book
was pieced together from various material from that period in his life and the
remaining writings would find their way into later books (Burroughs encourages
his readers to view all his work as one long book, and with the reoccurring
characters and non-linear plot structures that can be found in his work it is
not difficult.). Bill frequently entertained visitors in Tangier, mainly beat
generation colleagues or expatriate literary figures. Most were impressed by
the quality of the work he was turning out, but all were disgusted by his
organization. Pieces of the Naked Lunch manuscript were littered all over his
apartment collecting dust and footprints. (Maurice Girodias, who eventually
published the book, was disgusted with the first draft of the manuscript: "The
ends of the pages were all eaten away by rats or something...The prose was
transformed into verse, edited by the rats of the Paris sewers.") Bill's old
friend Jack Kerouac took on the Herculean task of turning the avalanche of
paper into something publishable. He succeeded with the help of Allen
Ginsberg and in 1959 Naked Lunch was published by the Olympia Press in Paris.
The book received little attention until it was published three years later in
the United States, at which point it was heralded for its "strange genius" and
Burroughs himself was praised as a "writer of rare power." His future as a
writer was assured.
Bill continued writing and continued moving. In Paris he met and
befriended painter and writer Brion Gysin, who would become a dear friend and
artistic collaborator of Bill's until Gysin's death in 1986. Together the two
studied the avant garde, including techniques of applying the collage theory
to literature by literally cutting apart and re-arranging texts and examining
the results. Bill was pleased with the outcome of these experiments and
incorporated them into his writing.
Burroughs eventually returned to the United States -- first to New York
and later to Lawrence, Kansas, where he currently resides. New York was great
to him. He was frequently the guest of honor at social dinners and mingled
frequently with the culturally elite. In the late seventies, however,
Burroughs became the darling of the fledgling punk movement. His apartment
was two blocks from CBGB's and junkies and punks would fill his apartment on a
regular basis. Heroin was too available and too attractive to Bill in New
York. In the interest of his health and his writing, which was also affected
by this relapse onto junk, Bill decided to move to Kansas, and has remained
there ever since, painting, writing, and shooting.
***
Barry Miles captures the amazing horror of Burroughs life and writings
in William Burroughs: El Hombre Invisible (1992, Hyperion). Miles has known
Burroughs for thirty years, and the information in this book has been acquired
through interviews with Bill himself and with Gysin. The real power of El
Hombre Invisible, however, comes not from the technical details of Burrough's
life (this book is not as in depth as others on Burroughs with regard to
facts) but from the literary analysis that is interwoven with Miles'
narrative. The reader wanders through the book following the progression of
Bill's life and writing, greeted along the way by alternately lovely and
horrifying chunks of Burroughsian prose:
Gentle reader, The Word will leap on you with
leopard man iron claws, it will cut off fingers
and toes like an opportunist land crab, it will
coil round your thighs like a bushmaster and
inject a shot glass of rancid ectoplasm.
Miles also tracks not only what Burroughs writes but also why he
writes. He chronicles the battle against the "Ugly Spirit" from its
beginnings to what may be its end: the native American exorcism that closes
the book. He also notes that without Joan's death Burroughs would most likely
not have become a writer. Bill's first book, Junky, was drafted before the
incident in Mexico City, and although that original draft has been lost the
published version shows a different style than his other works, that of the
simple prose narrative. The genius of Burroughs' other works is absent from
the well written but rather ordinary Junky. "...The death of Joan brought me
into contact with the invader, the Ugly spirit and maneuvered me into a
lifelong struggle, in which I have had no choice except to write my way out."
In capturing the spirit and cause of Burroughs' work, El Hombre
Invisible is successful. The reader is left with a complete picture of Bill's
literary efforts (as well as his graphic and artistic ones) and is tempted by
the textual offerings to investigate further into his work. Burroughs'
writing is like Pringles potato chips: once you start reading him you can't
stop. The Word grabs you and captivates you, and Miles does a great job of
baiting the reader into wanting more.
Miles' book, however, is somewhat lacking when it comes to chronicling
the details of Burroughs' life and that of his friends. If one is searching
for a comprehensive book on Burroughs or the beat generation he would do well
to look elsewhere (Literary Outlaw by Ted Morgan is suggested). Many non-
vital but very interesting facets of Burroughs' life are left out, including
his forays into mysticism with Brion Gysin while they were staying together in
Paris. Similarly many colorful characters are ignored or glossed over for
brevity's sake. Burroughs' writing, however, is given more prominence by
Miles than it ever reaches in Morgan's book.
El Hombre Invisible is a wonderful introduction to the life and
writings of one of the founders of the Beat Generation. Along with Allen
Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, Bill Burroughs paved the way for the hippie
subculture of the sixties and the punk movement of the late seventies.
Through his literature, Burroughs conveys the horror and desperation of his
life. El Hombre Invisible is best seen not as a detailed history of that life
but as an introduction to Burroughs' writing, providing context and causes for
his words.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++MUSIC REVIEW++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Oliver Brown and his extra-ordinary ukeleles Vaya Con Queso 7"($4 to 319
Lincoln St, Bungalow A, Santa Cruz, CA, 95060)
Rather interesting stuff. And the name describes it all. A man and
his ukeleles. Sort of happy folky acoustic stuff (of course, you say, you
can't have an electric ukelele, you say. Well, keep reading.). Very 60's
hippieish music.
Gwen Mars 7" (Cosmic Dick b/w Shrink) (Dragster Records [213-883-9666])
This is a smashing pumpkins rip off band. nothing else to say. pretty
bad, avoid this if you can. That is, unless you like the smashing pumpkins.
Dust Black Polish - Jane (Uranium Records, 110-64 queens blvd No. 452, Forest
Hills, NY 11375)
A girl fronted new york band, they remind me of concrete blonde and
10,000 maniacs, more of the latter. They have a very dark sound, and pretty
catchy. Not bad, but nothing worth killing someone for.
Johnny Tacoma & The Electric Uke (I need medical attention records and tapes,
601 3rd st, #82 Providence, RI, 02906)
Now this was the only thing i was sent that I'll keep playing after
writing this. From what I understand, this guy is playing an electric
ukelele. it sounds like really folkish stuff, but not like Oliver Brown, this
is the old anarchist type of folk song, IWW influenced, angry, protest driven,
sung buy a guy with a voive like the violent femmes, and intersperced with
feedback remenecent of early experimental Velvet Underground.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++Zine Reviews++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ack # 1.1(Box 115, #105 10277 - 135th st, Surrey, BC V3T 4C3, Canada/$1/full
size/8 pages) Nothing special. Stuff on pyramid schemes, testing christians,
craig charles, and reviews.
Daze #2 (1525 W. Bradley Ave. #201, Peoria, IL 61606/$1.50/ Half Size/24
pages) I've never been much on collage zines. They never did much for me, but
this one hit me. Not much else to say, except that this baby is jam packed
with love, dense but readable, the sort of thing you could pour over for an
hour or two.
Jigsaw #2(Drillpress, 8201 Hwy. 2715 #31-D, Ft Smith, AR 72903/Free/full
size/1 page) A nice one-pager from the girl who used to do clamp eleven. She
also does DRiLLPRESS distro so send 2 stamps and you can get the catalog too.
Motorbooty #7 (PO Box 02007, Detroit, MI 48202/$3.50/ Full Size/ too many
pages for me to count) hilarious (from the table of contents: "Who put the
'hernt' in the 'hernt dedernt de dernt'" and "Ering go Braghless: The Wymmin
of the I.R.A." and no those aren't really articles. Aside from the jokes
there's a great interview with the last poets, a black nationalist recording
group who set the foundation for rap (and Hendrix gets a mention in the
article too. Jalal Nuriddin, one of the Last Poets recorded "Doriella du
Fontaine" with hendrix under the name Lightnin' Rod, and they talk about that
a bit). This is one to look for
Pawholes #5 A "Do-Me Feminist" reader. (PO Box 81202, Pittsburgh, PA,
15217/$3/Full Size/ 56 pages) More quality stuff. This is a really slick
one, worth the $3. Interviews w/ Azalia Snail, stock car driver Mitzi
Shaulis, Mudwimin, No Safety, and articles on revenge, and breasts. (internet:
deborah@english-server.hss.cmu.edu)
Pondering Hedgehog #4 and #5 (PO Box 358, Glen Echo, MD 20812-0358/$.50/half
size/20 pages) Personal zine, in color this time. There's some reall cool
stuff in here, but sometimes when I read this zine I just get the feeling
things were thrown together a bit to hastily. With a bit of focus, PH could
get to the next level.
Surplus attack 13 #1(9401 Corsica Drive, Bethesda, MD 20814/ $1/Full size/10
pages) a silly little zine a kid at my school put together. He wanted me to
review it. It's basically a bunch of poetry and some reviews and christian
propaganda.
Sacchrine #2(PO Box 65083 Nepean, ON, K2G 5Y3, Canada/ $.50/full size/12
pages) Cool stuff in here, nothing that quite stands out, but a nice solid
zine in the, well, gold old personal/punk vein.
The Ugly Review #2 (PO Box 4853, Richmond, VA 23220/Free /Oversized/12 pages)
Another installment of this consistently good poetry zine. Only two issues so
far, but both have been great. this is just a bunch of poetry with artsy
layout, but the difference between this and most lit zines is that this is
GOOD POETRY. hard stuff to find these days. Send them some stamps.
Velvet Insane #1 (16420 5th Avenue N, Plymouth MN 55447/ $1/ half size/ 28
pages) A nice, if a tad run of the mill, personal zine. Our host is becky
(internet: brews002@gold.tc.umn.edu), a 13 year old girl who writes poetry,
likes black olives, and has an 8 year old brother. Nothing groundbreaking
here, but a good solid zine with mucho potential, if becky keeps churning it
out for a while.
What Now #1 (303 Nicholas Ave. Staten Island, New York 10302/?price?/full
size/50 pages) A bunch of reviews. and when you turn the page, more reviews.
mostly new york bands, zines, etc. blah
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++FICTION++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
This'll be an experiment. I'll print some of the stuff I've written, and if
you all want to see more, just let me know and I'll put more in here.
Maenad
Samantha groaned and rolled onto her face to shield her eyes from the
light. Why do my windows have to be so fucking big? Her apartment was
beautiful in the morning, objectively at least. A warm blend of light-colored
furniture and shiny hardwood floors, the three room complex was littered with
white socks and empty CD cases, cases that just happened to reflect the first
rays of the rising sun into Samantha's groggy eyes.
She thought back to the previous night, hoping to recall wild partying
or a night out on the town. She couldn't remember a thing. Nothing that she
had hoped to at least. She did stumble upon memories of David Letterman and a
small pizza, alone, memories that seemed all too familiar. At 8:03 on the
morning of March 6th, Samantha Lee made a pact with herself. Tonight, she
promised, I will take this city by storm.
***
Things had been easier in kindergarten. During recess Samantha would
sit on a hill with Jack Corso, idly chatting about the universe and grass and
such.
"How big's the world, dya think?"
"Real big. Two billion miles maybe"
"Yeah"
The kissy boys would chase the kissy girls while another band of
children played angels on the jungle gym, but the two of them just talked and
talked about nothing and everything while the sun shone bright upon their
young faces.
***
These things got harder in High School. Samantha had just finished her
grape soda one Monday afternoon when Jack happened by. He had a strange walk
to him those days, and most likely still does. It wasn't quite a swagger or a
strut, just a groovy little stroll, his legs flowing from step to step, not
quite in touch with the earth but floating a few inches above. It was funny:
they had been best friends so long ago, she happened to remember, but since
second grade they had shared maybe a couple of words a week, and most of those
in passing. Here it was, the spring of their senior year, and they knew no
more about each other than they had some ten years earlier. They knew the
little things, of course, those pointless events in peoples' lives that do
little but make good stories (Samantha's brush with death at the beach when
the giant wave had picked her up and thrown her on the ground and had nearly
taken her unconscious body back into the ocean, Jack's debate team triumph,
soiled only by his shirt, which had happened to be inside out). They knew the
general situations of each other's lives (Samantha: good grades and a perfect
family, Jack: average grades and divorced parents), but they no longer knew
why the other laughed or smiled or kept on living. So, all this and much more
in mind on that warm March day, as soon as she had slurped the last of her
grape soda through her straw, Samantha called out to Jack through the mellow
din of the cafeteria.
"Hi." He turned to attention, a bit surprised.
"You got any time?" She smiled and offered the chair next to her.
"Uhh, yeah, I guess..." He took the seat and smiled back, but the look
of surprise never left his face.
They talked for twenty minutes or so, rambling this way and that. They
talked about topics large and small, finite and infinite, but they never
reached the depths and heights that they had at age five. There's a certain
profundity that exists only in early youth, when kids are learning to use
words, and others haven't used their words against them. When words begin to
trap, the innocence is lost. The words exchanged after that grape soda
covered about as much ground as possible, but Samantha could never take them
where she wanted to go most. She wanted, most of all, to know where he was
headed. More than the name of the college, of course. She knew that: he was
going to the University of Rochester. She wanted a crumpled piece of paper to
carry in her purse with an address and a phone number. She wanted a promise
to write. She wanted to know that she could have, at any time she wanted,
what she had ignored for ten years.
Life isn't like that, she knew, and with her help the conversation
skated lazily but skillfully around the issue of the future:
"Do you think the lacrosse team will beat Springfield?"
"I think so, but Jimmy's still hurt, and he usually scores a goal or
two."
"Yeah..."
In the end Jack had mumbled something about his car's headlights and,
pulling his baseball cap around so the brim faced backwards, he walked out
towards the parking lot. He had the same walk, but slower. His feet seemed a
lot more firmly planted on the ground.
Samantha bought another grape soda and sat down to think about things.
This was a bad habit, thinking too much. Thinkers become brooders and
brooders never have a good time. They just sit around and brood. It's always
best to just cut the whole thing off at the pass and not think too much. In
the end, you'll get more done. Samantha hadn't thought of this, however, and
as she savored her less-than-cold grape soda she realized that she could never
pull a stunt like that again. Although leaving the whole thing alone could
mean loosing touch with him until some twenty-five-year reunion when they were
both old and fat, the alternative, to try something like that again and this
time get some promises, presented its own problems. What if her friends
started to give her weird looks? What if he gave her weird looks? What if he
said no? No way, it was a much better idea just to smile and maybe wave in
passing every day, hug him good-bye on graduation day, and be done with it, at
least for a while. If he wanted to say something, if he wanted an address and
a promise, she would give it without thinking. But she wouldn't put herself
through all of this awkwardness and nervousness to get back something she had
hardly missed.
That was how she left it, and that was how it stayed. On Tuesdays,
Wednesdays, and Fridays, he usually walked through the cafeteria during third
period while she had her morning can of grape soda. She would wave and smile,
sometimes muttering a "hello" under her breath, and he would wave back, or at
least flash a smile. His walk was back to the same old groovy stroll. On
graduation day, after a polite good-bye hug, she almost blurted out everything
she had been trying not to think too much about for the last two months. She
didn't however, they had parted with a hug, and had seen each other once, from
a distance, over the course of that summer.
***
That bright Saturday morning, as she struggled to get to sleep once
more, Samantha knew, deep down, she would be stuck at home that night with
Saturday Night Live and Moo-Shi Pork. Clubs were boring, her friends from
work were annoying, and she hadn't dated anyone in two months. All that in
mind, she rolled into a ball, pulled the sheets up above her head, and decided
to sleep it all away.
-------------------End-Helter-Skelter-Digital-#6^----------------------------
