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I SCORN TO CHANGE MY PLATE WITH KINGS A Thesis Presented to The Graduate Faculty of The University of Akron In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Master of Fine Arts John Leonard Skarl May, 2009 I SCORN TO CHANGE MY PLATE WITH KINGS John Leonard Skarl Thesis Approved: Accepted: _____________________________ _____________________________ Advisor Dean of the College Mr. Eric Wasserman Dr. Chand Midha _____________________________ _____________________________ Faculty Reader Dean of the Graduate School Dr. Mary Biddinger Dr. George R. Newkome _____________________________ _____________________________ Faculty Reader Date Ms. Varley O’Connor _____________________________ Faculty Reader Mr. Robert F. Pope, Jr. _____________________________ Department Chair Dr. Michael Schuldiner ii DISCLAIMER This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. iii DEDICATION for Wyatt Leonard iv EPIGRAPH When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries And look upon myself and curse my fate. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least, Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, (Like to the Lark at break of day arising) From sullen earth sings hymns at Heaven's gate, For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with Kings. —Shakespeare, Sonnet XXIX “More and more he was becoming convinced that it was only through children that one could connect with anything anymore, that in this life it was only through children that one came home, became a home, that one was no longer a visitor.” —Lorrie Moore, Anagrams “Give up learning and you will be free / from all your cares.” —Tao Te Ching v TABLE OF CONTENTS Page CHAPTER I. ONE .................................................................................................................................1 Mark’s Triangle .......................................................................................................1 Six Months Later....................................................................................................21 The Emptiness of Experience ................................................................................53 Ben .........................................................................................................................68 II. TWO .............................................................................................................................95 Employee of the Month .........................................................................................95 Some Weird Father-Son Thing ............................................................................103 Diana ....................................................................................................................112 Business ...............................................................................................................128 Echoes ..................................................................................................................135 The Director .........................................................................................................138 The Better Homes and Gardens Lending Library for the Domestically Deranged ............................................................................................................146 III. THREE ......................................................................................................................165 From the Sea Journals of Joseph Fuller ...............................................................165 Cooking and Love Go Hand in Hand, and I Have No Love for Tuna Fish .........174 Rehearsal ..............................................................................................................177 Raga Vasant .........................................................................................................183 vi Love Doesn’t Have to be Hard ............................................................................192 Mark .....................................................................................................................201 The Old Man of the Bees .....................................................................................206 vii CHAPTER I ONE Mark’s Triangle Ruth Bishop was radiant in a lilac, flapper-style dress, the slight muscles of her back gleamed with the sweat of exertion under the ballroom lights, and she continued to intrigue Mark the way she had intrigued him from her easel. It had been the way she held the charcoal—her talent was in her shoulder, and he had watched that lightly freckled shoulder, the red band of her tank top, the dip of her clavicle, until the art professor had clapped her hands and directed him. Alphonse Alexander was a mystery. For instance, Mark wondered how he could drink glass after glass of wine and still dance as if the music were emanating from him instead of the big tweed-covered speakers at the front of the art gallery ballroom. Alphonse was relatively steady on his feet, yet he had led Ruth off the dance floor onto the carpet. A semi-circle of spectators had formed, lending to their dance a kind of public spectacle quality that fascinated Mark. How a man as old as Alphonse could get away with spinning a girl like Ruth was beyond him. “They’re something else.” The art professor was without her usual half-moon spectacles, swirling dark wine in a glass. Ruth had spent most of the evening failing at small talk with the professor, who in Mark’s opinion was nearly as unsavory as Alphonse. Mark conjured images of something by Thomas Eakins or even Lucian Freud 1 when modeling, but the way she doled cash into his hand from a green metal box never failed to make him feel a bit like a prostitute. “Yep, those two are something special,” Mark said crossing his arms. She touched his shoulder and told him to have some wine. Their table was lustrous with glass. Mark couldn’t say when the yellow jonquil corsage had fallen from Ruth’s dress, but in the final throes of the waltz, shuffling feet must have scattered bright petals across the dark carpet. Just hours ago Mark had very nearly wrung his hands over the different styles of bouquet—he used to bring a spill of red roses to Julie’s play openings, but he didn’t know the difference between a play opening and a gallery opening and didn’t wish to appear either overzealous or overly sentimental. The old florist in the tatty brown cardigan had finally sold him the yellow jonquil corsage. Mark had studied the long needle as he waited for Ruth in the foyer of her building. He had kept his eyes on hers and apologized for his cold hands. Even then a single yellow petal had pirouetted to the floor between their feet, and as he looked at the scattered petals in the ballroom, they came to exude the quintessence of his romantic immaturity. Never before had the idea of dating two women at the same time seemed so hopeless. The art professor held up her empty wine glass and Alphonse caught the cue. Ruth approached the table, features imbued with color. Mark stood. “It’s damn hot in here,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “And all that dancing.” “Oh, I know,” Ruth said, fanning herself with one hand. “I’m sweating.” “Where did you learn to dance like that?” She exhaled. “My dad taught me in our barn. When I was, wow. When I was 2 thirteen. We started.” Mark thought only Ruth could make dancing in a barn sound delectable. “Do you want to get some fresh air?” She laughed. “I was afraid you wanted to go back out there.” “Oh no. I wouldn’t put you through that again,” he said. His own dance steps had been embarrassing improvisations. “That’s not what I meant—” she said. Alphonse produced a bottle of wine from under his suit jacket and began pouring, but he knocked over the glass and a dark stain grew across the tablecloth. “Pretty sloppy for such a good dancer,” Mark said. “Yes,” she said. Ruth stood on tiptoes and whispered into Mark’s ear. “He smelled like he needed a bath.” Mark laughed, a bit relieved that she had not been taken with him, and he felt the heat radiating from her skin when he moved to steer her under the archway into the bright gallery, toward the collection of student work. They had saved the student display for last. Mark noticed Ruth’s hands were balled into fists at her side. Some art students were education majors looking for an easy three credits. He happened to be a culinary student with a desire to go au naturale. Ruth didn’t have a back-up plan—art was her major, and he knew she’d be devastated if the professor hadn’t picked something of hers. The first piece was lit by a strong, overhead light. Someone had carved half a man from the block—two legs, buttocks and a penis. The legs looked as if they were walking somewhere. The sculpture was student art, but Mark wasn’t convinced the parts were his. He still felt very much like the half-man—as if he were walking around 3 without knowing where he was going or whether or not he had already arrived. He was unsure about living with Julie, being with Ruth, his culinary pretensions—he was just a dishwasher,