oPPOSITE dAY
______
A Thesis
Presented to
The College of Arts and Sciences
Ohio University
______
In Partial Fulfillment
of the Requirements for Graduation with Honors in English – Creative Writing
______
by
Ben Guenther
November 2009
This thesis has been approved by the
Department of English and the College of Arts and Sciences
______Mark Halliday Professor of English
______Dr. Benjamin Ogles Dean, College of Arts and Sciences
oPPOSITE dAY
Ben Guenther
CONTENTS
01 An Introduction
A. POETRY
The Difficulty of Kicking a Habit
04 To Let
I. Maybes and the Nice Guy Fallacy
06 The Difficulty of Kicking a Habit 07 Maybes (For the Girl in Seat 18D) 08 Stationary 09 How They Get Along 10 Lebanese Bombshell 11 The Romance of Starving Artists (PB&J) 12 Inscription To Be Written Inside An Overdue Library Book 13 Dating
II. Doppelgänger
15 On Blowing It With the Same Girl Twice 16 It Starts a Tropical Depression 17 Another Poet's Woman Once 18 Vagary
III. Venus Karma
20 Carpe Diem 21 Lady Predication 22 There Are Days the World is Set Against You 23 The Move-On Cycle 24 Olfactory Memory Has a Minimum 13-Year Shelf Life
IV. Fiorella
26 About This Lovely One Night Stand 27 Post-Show Depression 28 Before Waking 29 Glom 31 She Makes Scones for Jane Austen Tea Parties 32 Meeting for Cocktails to Say Goodbye 33 Twenty-First Century Chivalry 34 Musa Italiana
V. Hope Less, Romantic
36 Inscription Found Inside a Copy of Neruda’s Twenty at a Library Book Sale 37 Relationship in Eight Moves 39 Novelty 40 Portland, 7pm 41 Purge 43 Chopping Block
Epilogue
45 On Kicking This Habit
B. NONFICTION
46 I Can Live With The Days I Won’t Die
1
An Introduction
In elementary school, there was one game that we played time and again that extended beyond the confines of the playground: “Opposite Day.” There wasn’t much to it, really, both in terms of structure and outcome. One would make a statement to someone else, and after that individual reacted to said statement, the initiator responded with “It’s Opposite Day!” That was it; a silly way for us to pass the time before that long-awaited bus ride home.
It was a funny game, especially if the class clown had the guts to involve the teacher. In such an instance, an interaction like this might occur:
Ernie: I love math, Miss Vaughn. Miss Vaughn: That’s great, Ernie. I’m glad to hear that. Ernie: It’s Opposite Day!
The classroom would erupt in laughter, and a lot of times it included the teacher (depending on his or her mood). However, the game could also be cruel. Kids are mean, and “Opposite Day” could be used more as a prank than a game. The kid who always gets picked on is approached by a group of popular kids; one of them says something like “Hey, we want you to be a part of our club” or “We’re having a sleepover tonight – you should come.” Instantly, an innocent childhood game turns into a heartless joke.
At times, life can be quite similar. For example, much of what we are taught is a truth about the world is, in fact, the opposite. We have expectations and hopes about life that end up with opposite results. And we often find ourselves saying and doing the opposite of what we’ve told ourselves we would. But just like the ridiculed child who returns to school the next day to face his tormentors, we shake it off and press on toward whatever positive outcomes we might possibly find. Because, in the end, this is just a game. 2
The Difficulty of Kicking a Habit 3
I was about half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty ... you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. – J. D. Salinger
4
To Let
For some forgive, for some forget, but underneath both understand that love is what you let.
In case you’ve not discovered yet – whether a woman or a man – some forgive and some forget.
But some cannot permit regret, and some bear guilt they cannot stand, yet love is what you let.
Perhaps a beer and cigarette, or bruises from a callous hand; yes, some forgive and some forget.
Some mussed up hair and stains from sweat, or dirty dishes, pots, and pans. Oh! Love is what you let.
You lost the rent on one last bet, and she was caught with some strange man; well, some forgive and some forget. Yes. Love is what you let. 5
I. Maybes and the Nice Guy Fallacy
6
The Difficulty of Kicking a Habit
I swore off girls under the age of 25, complaining that those who lack the experience of the Quarter-Century Freak Out are nothing but trouble. Even 24 1/2 doesn’t get it. I’ve done my research + I’ve tested my hypothesis = I’m successful at being unsuccessful.
This morning I had a conversation with myself as I walked by an old flame’s old house on my way down that slippery slope of a street of thinking that she was the one and I blew it by not calling her this weekend when she was in town visiting, but reminded myself: She’s short of 25.
So that’s it: I mean it this time: I’m not going to date or pursue or be pursued by any girl yet to cross the threshold of age requirement, no matter how much we have in common, like the same bands and movies and food and seeing life in the same light. It’s not going to happen.
Venus must have heard my declaration, and conspired with whomever else is up there and likes fucking with the minds and hearts and souls of the single people trying to turn the tables on love by not looking but rather allowing themselves to be found unexpecting:
A beautifully witty young woman not much more than 20 strikes up a conversation with me about music and keeps talking and smiling and mentions her favorite band is The Strokes and I admit I like them but don’t own any albums so she says I should make you a mix CD which is exactly what I would do for her if she was 25 and I were the one making the move, but no – she’s the one who’s all over me verbally and when she finally leaves the coffee shop and I’m barricading my thoughts against love and how great a lazy Sunday on her couch might be the barista puts on a CD by The Strokes that begins with “You Only Live Once.” 7
Maybes (For the Girl in Seat 18D)
Imagining her foot tapping in unison, crying out for connection, as if saying Me too.
Maybe she’s dreaming of romance. Maybe she’s writing a poem. Maybe she’s thinking about joining The Mile High Club.
Maybe during the layover in ATL she’ll tap me on the shoulder. Maybe she’ll buy me a drink. Maybe she’s flying to PBI, too, and will need a ride to Jupiter, and I’ll tell her to hop in the car because I’m headed that way.
Maybe I’ll take her to Jetty’s for a top-notch dinner on the water. Maybe I’ll ditch my friends for the week and spend it with her on the beach, in the water, at her hotel. Maybe.
Perhaps just fascination, perhaps flattery – legitimate and contrived –
Maybe she’s reading this over my shoulder and blushing. 8
Stationary
You are selling funnel cakes. I really want a funnel cake. I really want to see you. I’m waiting for mine. I’m waiting for you.
We’re going to your friend’s place. I’m excited. I’m with you. We’re standing in her room. Her friend is leaving the country. She wants to get her a gift. Something thoughtful. I suggest nice stationery. You add adding addresses would be nice. She loves our idea. I love that it’s ours.
We’re still standing in her room. She’s letting us listen to our laughter and Vampire Weekend. “A-Punk.” I like it. I like you. A lot. The way you like someone on the playground: Easily. I think you like me, too.
We’re still standing here. Perhaps it’s time we get moving. 9
How They Get Along
Daintily she dangles her indulgence, peering up from its presence.
First those sweet lips, then the tip of the tongue, caressing incessantly until…
She gives me that giggle I’ve grown to love, her fingers fluttering, her stare suggestive.
Maybe she just enjoys her food. 10
Lebanese Bombshell
In the ideal of fantasy, this is how I imagine you taking in the Nadine Khouri album I lent you, a favor in return for you turning me on to a book that would surprise and inspire me:
You lie on your back atop the covers like clouds on your queen size bed, your tinted skin bare and fresh from the bath, dark hair sprawled across the pillow, brown eyes easing narrow and dancing off into the infinite, plush lips creeping upward at each end, body half-turned at the long curve of your hips, left hand craned above your crown, nibbling at the damp locks, the oscillating fan swaying in the corner, kissing the beads of water on your body farewell, your other hand resting over your heart, fingertips tracing the shallow crease beneath your breast as her first gentle note slips through your vintage stereo speakers. 11
The Romance of Starving Artists (PB&J)
Butter, baby, I turn to jelly ‘round you.
A slice of you, a slice of me. And together?
Sustenance. 12
Inscription To Be Written Inside An Overdue Library Book
I just wanted to say that
- because it's the time of year when people (perhaps permanently) part ways and have the chance to / not to say things they should – our conversation today was bittersweet for me. There are few people I've met during my time here with whom I can hold such dialogues. Timing is a fickle thing:
Finding out you're such a creative, intelligent, and inspiring person fills me with regret that we didn't become better friends while we were both in this town.
I hope you realize that the few moments we have shared this week have meant a great deal to me.
I'm not sure if we'll meet again, but I look forward to a maybe.
Best of luck to you; you're going to do great. Go set the world on fire. 13
Dating
Your feline stance tells me you’re afraid of falling into the pool.
Scrape the surface with your big toe. Dip your foot below the ripples.
You’ll find the water to be like a baby’s blanket.
I promise. I’m not going to pull you in until you’re ready.
I know you’ll fall, eyes clinched and arms wide, when you’re comfortable. Don’t forget that, as you splash into the deep end, I’m a strong swimmer. 14
II. Doppelgänger 15
On Blowing It With the Same Girl Twice
I. 1997 – amusement park sopping curls wrinkled nose naked teeth dripping skin arched shoulders dangling arms glistening legs shaking knees drenched clothes silent laughs longing eyes lost love
II. 2005 – parked sedan dangling curls wrinkled clothes naked skin glistening shoulders arched knees shaking legs longing laughs silent eyes love lost 16
It Starts a Tropical Depression
I danced with a gal named Fay, windswept and wispy, her feeder bands wrapped ‘round me, her eye and mine, locked.
We slowed from rumba to a waltz up the Florida coast through Jupiter to Melbourne, inland to DeBary, spinning and pressure and rain like beads of sweat on our foreheads, pressed together, heaving, and all the while I thought of another woman. 17
Another Poet’s Woman Once
I study your work sad, sad to know I will soon inspire in you so much more good poetry.
How I’d written to you that one piece in your collection particularly moved me! It might be your best poem. And now hindsight’s slap has left a yellow blotch on my wheelhouse: It was about her.
Your respect for me my fellow writer will soon be trampled in the gears, stuck to my shoe and I just can’t shake the Oh no feeling when I’ve figured that to the pain I’ve admired I’m also a contributor; she evoked such beautiful slaughter within you and I’ve yet to heed its Don’t-even-think-about-it.
This time I write to ask where to find you, hope you hold in your hand anything but a pen. 18
Vagary
I talked to your belly like a child, pulled you out of smokey jazz bars, put your boogie shoes to rest in your cluttered storage unit, somewhere between your tent and old vinyls, and when you went to return to him, believing there was a baby, I cleansed my mind with turpentine, so that when you asked Take me back? I could not recall who you were. 19
III. Venus Karma 20
Carpe Diem
She was always taken. The best ones always are. His window of opportunity had seemingly been nailed shut long ago, just like the ones in that old warehouse on Fillmore Street.
He saw her one day – it was June – it had been a long time. Her birthday was coming soon. He knew. She was home visiting for the weekend. Said she wanted a dog to keep her company. He gave her the birthday card he had for her in his car, the one he had planned on mailing in a day or two. They said goodbye.
A few days later he caught word she was single. The next he heard of a puppy for sale. He bought the dog.
He drove to Michigan. Five hours. He pulled up to her house on Hope Street. She answered the door, surprised. She invited him and the dog inside.
He explained to her that the dog was a gift. It was hard for him to drive home and explain why he had a new dog. 21
Lady Predication
This is how it will happen:
La Guardia at 3pm Tuesday. Taxi to the West Village. T i m e l a p s e at Grounded Coffee. Text her: here til sunday In bed by midnight.
Day 1: Greenwich. [beat] Day 2: Greenwich. [beat] Day 3: Greenwich. [beat]
Night 1: Nadine Khouri plays an acoustic set through the cigarette smoke at Sidewalk Café.
Night 2: Dinner for one in a back corner booth at Funayama.
Night 3: Room service and a bottle of Patrón.
Saturday afternoon her reply: Sorry I missed you.
La Guardia at 7am and a shrug at this. 22
There Are Days the World is Set Against You
It starts with a flat tire in the driveway so I walk into town as the snow comes down and drowns my hopes that Spring will spring early and I arrive and sit over cold eggs at breakfast talking to a friend about the girl who left me in the dust and moved away but how she’s in town visiting her friends when suddenly she walks by the window and I spew Shit there she is and she comes into the restaurant with a guy she’s known longer and likes better and they sit at the table next to mine and don’t order anything but instead point and laugh at me and they follow when I exit hastily and now I’m running up the street and they’re in her car blasting a laugh track on the stereo and now they’re driving on the sidewalk about to run me over but don’t and when I look back in wonder for why I’m not dead but only wishing I was I see them naked and he’s driving and she’s riding him and writing about how great it is on a whiteboard so that I can clearly read it because there’s no way I can hear her above the laughter and when I face forward I run into the arms of two policemen who cite me for voyeurism and they ask for her autograph because she takes it like a porn star and they tell her You’re so sexy, baby and she likes the attention so she takes them both at once and a crowd has gathered and everyone is pointing and laughing at me so I hail a taxi that stops only so the driver can tell me that he doesn’t take white boy fares and he speeds away cackling and now she’s taking two more guys and everyone is still laughing at me and when I try to walk away she stops me and looks into my eyes like I’m disappointing her and says It was really nice to see you and she gets in her car and drives back to Venus and the crowd begins to disperse and no one will give me a lift home. 23
The Move-On Cycle
In love’s shooting gallery you collapse and rise after each recoil of my mind’s 9mm, the hammer clapping the casings of all forgetting, neurobullets snapping and tinking against the steel of your bull’s-eye, bottoming out the clip until forking over more cash to the carnival worker who haws Take yer bess shot. 24
Olfactory Memory Has a Minimum 13-Year Shelf Life
The smell of my 16th year lingers in the downtown café after a young vixen blows in with the new cool that replaces the cool of all that was once cool and you tried so hard to be. Suddenly you are earth tones and flannel and Bush CDs and Saturday night drives whooshing home angry from your girlfriend’s house because you’re not getting laid or loved and you’re weary from hearing about last summer in Germany and the guy who nabbed her virginity, knowing you blew it with the virgin you dumped to be with this fresh, exciting, 18, sexy mess of perfume who leaves clothes in your room for your mother to discover and worry over and hate you for not staying with the girl she liked so much better, even though you’re only 16 and it will certainly end anyway when she goes off to college and studies how to exploit your insecurities with everything that’s new and not you and you are left behind to act cool in coffee shops, pretending people outgrow all that’s planted in their mental window boxes, the façade holding for years until you smell another flower wearing her scent. 25
IV. Fiorella 26
About This Lovely One Night Stand
You had people over for dinner and a bad movie. I stayed after. We were going to a small get-together. I perused your other movies while you got ready.
Came across an unopened copy of Before Sunrise. Familiar with its existence, not the synopsis, only now do I know the story:
American man. French woman. Meet on a train. Spend the night walking around Vienna. Talk about everything important in life. Everything between men and women. Then the sun comes up. Then they part ways.
After the party – where we kept to ourselves and you taught me Cribbage over a few beers – we sat in your car. For hours. Discussed everything important to us. Things between men and women. Reviving the lost art of letter writing. Your plans to visit Europe in the summer. You were especially excited to see Vienna.
And then the sun came up. 27
Post-Show Depression
Today there was the strike of our set. Dismantled and ambling away with the sun. The people we were: gone – like the JUST MARRIED! bride’s maiden name – I the lovesick fool and you calling the shots from your director’s chair.
The packing of props, the folding of costumes, the stacking of flats; we stuffed the storage shed, like a turkey or closet with skeletons.
I shook your hand and said Good work. Your words thanked me, your eyes said something else I can’t quite decide.
Riding back to town in silence, watching your VW play peek-a-boo in the rearview, near then far, something perhaps closer than it appears.
Thinking of how you made me dream of Oregon and other things, camping on Hatteras in a Westfalia bus, having adventures we discussed, and everything in between the past forty days at your mercy and the phone call last summer when you decided to spurn me.
This story likely to continue, perhaps another poem or two; for now you’re in the rearview.
I pass the monument on Union. Your yellow Bug slides onto Court Street, gliding away down the bricks.
28
Before Waking
I met Julie Delpy in an unfulfilling dream, as if I were the Jesse to her sweet and soft Celine.
I was far from lucid and was whisked along instead, walking down a sun-bleached road when this is what she said:
You cannot have your ambition and hold onto love. You cannot have both. You must choose.
She left me standing silent as I watched her walk away, and fade into the backdrop of breeze and trees and sway. 29
Glom
It was there under the awakened Japanese maple, the one furthest to the right, next to the row
of night blooming jasmine that lined the brick sitting wall that extended toward the brick street. It was there
that – after we walked to the secluded theater courtyard after stopping by O’Betty’s for tofu
dogs after slow dancing close at the Royales show she nearly missed after I helped with her
spoken word performance after staying up all night agreeing that things between
us were quite like a perfect fit after seeing Knock Me a Kiss after she glommed
onto her VW Bug with her entire body to illustrate what it meant after
lying on my bedroom floor reading O’Hara and Collins and Hass after
driving to Marietta just because and becoming reciprocal muses after
the Hoagland reading after opening her passenger door to discover her
rolling her shoulders as she sang along with Nina Simone after giving
me a lift home after leaving a fresh- picked tulip on her windshield
after finding out how hard her year had been after showing up on her
doorstep with the letter I’d written after a stack of coincidences prompted me to after
portraying the love fool in her play after avoiding her completely after 30
she told me she preferred him to me after a summer of believing a romance
was developing between us after that one improbable night we spent together – she sat.
It was there I stood facing her with the early morning cool moving in
on the warm spring night on a breeze like fingertips that hers found my
shoulders and introduced her palms to my back as my hands met her
hips as our temples clicked together and inched toward the possibility
of the scene into which we’d been cast, the open eye sliver of the moon
peeking around the corner with a line of stars waiting to see what was about to occur,
our embrace like that of those few moments on the dance floor. It was there
that Fiorella left me standing. 31
She Makes Scones for Jane Austen Tea Parties
There are mundane moments and there are those slow dances when the world stands still. At least that’s how the cliché goes.
And timing – no one really knows why all that happens does until the routine evenings infect all of those magic ones and they decompose like bugs in your Volkswagen’s grill. Some say that’s how it goes.
You’ve always kept me on my toes and if you ask you know I will tell you our kiss was like one of those in an Austen book, which you’d call perfect prose yet the sentiment makes you ill. That’s not the way life really goes.
I saw this coming I suppose: Your new life just beyond the hill where new emails don’t have room for those old ones. [Delete] I guess that’s how it goes. 32
Meeting for Cocktails to Say Goodbye
The bar ice clung, hung on the high-wire straw spanning the empty margarita glass, like a tightrope walker who’s slipped off and lost his footing in yet another attempt at daring.
And now his moist hands are losing their grip, bracing for the involuntary letting go, the tremble of inevitability beaded and dripping, until that release when all potential falls to the rocks below, melting into oblivion. 33
Twenty-First Century Chivalry
After you left, I walked around the perimeter of the castle in my Medieval sneakers and my chain mail jeans.
The sirens’ singing stopped, and I thought I heard battle cries in the imminent distance.
There were maidens to rescue but not a single princess. At least not yet.
I sat on Rocinante, and lamented, and held my pensive breath with my eyes closed and my heart cold in your pocket. 34
Musa Italiana
You kept me grounded, like lying on the bedroom floor on a Wednesday afternoon in May on a mostly sunny day with the window open and breeze blowing in through the swaying curtain catching and wafting the scent of the fresh fettunta bread and soft Italian red resting by my makeshift bed as my head drifts on the pillow and my eyes ease narrow
and my thoughts turn toward dreaming and my arm hugs your waist
and my hand finds your belly and pulls your hips toward my lap
I press my chest to your back and you whisper to me
You should write a poem about this. 35
V. Hope Less, Romantic 36
Inscription Found Inside a Copy of Neruda’s Twenty at a Library Book Sale
Miriam:
I've been scouring poetry sections of bookstores, looking for a book that reminds me of you, of how it is when we are together – the passion, the laughter, the endearments, the sense of playfulness, and, yes the love I feel. This book does all that. Some of the poems are dense with mystery. Maybe we'll figure them out together; maybe they'll remain opaque; maybe we'll just read one and then fall on the couch kissing. Happy Valentine's Day.
Fred 37
Relationship in Eight Moves
I. Due for a Single
Chicks dig a fastball. I hurl the curve.
No knucklers. No sliders.
When I step to the plate, all I see are change-ups.
II. She said
make something of nothing and I will call you poet.
III. A Note to The Girl I Know
Please remember that – while you are off dancing through a tangent universe –
I am thinking of you, I am thinking of you, and I am thinking of you.
IV. Little Darling
Queen bee’d and pollen ready, Make of me your favorite song, Flower upon your pillow waiting, My work be done as night is long.
38
V. Paramour
In the dillydally afternoon a feathered breeze swims through the bathroom window, tickling the marble sculptures in front of a fogged mirror.
VI. Repudiate
I, the fisherman, her countenance the red morning sky,
yet I set sail, bracing – split-knuckle tight –
for the sea of words that awaits, her mouth the churning inlet.
VII. Ten Night Stand
You said you’d wished to be swept away, but not just yet.
Meanwhile I am a mile down the river, the life preserver resting at your feet.
VIII. Romance
Literature calls it noble, life calls it impractical, and you don’t call. 39
Novelty
I am your Hoola Hoop;
your Cabbage Patch Doll;
your Tickle Me Elmo.
I am here spinning in circles,
staring back blankly,
waiting to amuse you.
When the time is right,
set me on the curb
next to the grass clippings. 40
Portland, 7pm
I have winnowed my way through the feminine possibilities of the Eastern Time Zone with nothing but to dream left to do.
I imagine you and your red wine three hours behind, ten thousand seconds of opportunity, second chances I’ve already squandered, that you will spend reading meticulously placed syllables by a young, debonair poet far more clever than me.
As the minutes and tannins flow through you, I will succumb to a slumber in my bed with vacancy. When ten o’clock rolls around, will you ponder those sleeping in Ohio? Or will you open another bottle and turn the page? 41
Purge
Jimmy: Who’s the prettiest girl in town?
Mac: Well, I used to admire the banker’s daughter.
– The Gunfighter (1950)
This is the last poem that I will ever write for you. Now that may or may not be true. Because even if I wanted to,
I just can’t get these feelings to leave me; eager as ever for you to deceive me. Believe me.
Your cleaver is sharp and ready to swing, and it won’t mean anything
if I have a limb or two go missing, because you clutch the blade and it’s wrist-deep and twisting.
Many have beauty, are virtuous too, failing in only that they are not you.
A hard lesson learned like a hand to the stove, embedded so deep that it finally drove
a boy to a man, a man to a puppet, attached to a string ‘til he finally said Fuck it.
Never a chance, just some bait on a hook; if love was a crime then you’d be a crook.
Now I know what you’re thinking: I’m speaking as if I were the victim. Well, you know my wounds and you’re quick to inflict them.
42
If I’d done things different would they end up the same? Still you free and clear and me with the blame?
You standing mute when questions are asked, playing it off so sweet – but I know your mask.
You see, coming from you friend is a four-letter word. You pocket my heart like it’s something deserved.
If you didn’t want it you could have given it back. But you kept it and rejected me for all that I lack, acting as if I’m the same person I was ten years ago, pursuing you since while you’ve always said No.
Saying you needed something consistent – I told you – I love you – and I fucking meant it.
Over and over while my chances worsened; I can’t help that you’re my favorite person.
So now here we are – October twenty, two thousand seven.
I’m up on stage unloading all this weight that I’ve carried, and you’re somewhere else – right. now. –
getting married. 43
Chopping Block
Like a forgotten pail huddled next to the stump with that old rusty axe swallowed up – remnants of the last chickens stuck to the dried blood on the blade – so too will be the hearts of the lonely ones once the romantics are sent to the slaughter. 44
Epilogue 45
On Kicking This Habit
They say you only live once, This life experiment our lone Chance in the lab, To mix the chemicals, Start our fires. Or We can split the molecules, Put ends to things:
I am an atom bomb dropping On the defenseless village Of your emotion, no sparing Children who will never wear A white, pressed coat and goggles. All potential Kodak moments Evaporated in the blast, like developer In reverse, extirpating all would-be memory. Rejection’s mushroom cloud booming Over your mind, the trenches dug deep. Love is war. I am the atom bomb Dropping, aimed at that little white flag.
46
I Can Live With The Days I Won’t Die 47
No ideas but in things. Invent! – William Carlos Williams
It’s always ourselves we find in the sea. – e. e. cummings
I am on a ribbon of sand swaying in the Atlantic. Some of the locals say that the island
rocks everyone to sleep at night, that if you really try you can feel it while lying in bed.
[ blog entry ]
Ocracoke Island Sunday, June 14, 2009
I’m holed up in a house on Ocracoke Island attempting to finish the essay portion of my creative thesis. I brought with me a box of poetry books and journals, ranging from 14th-century Hafiz to this year’s edition of Sphere. The room I ended up with in the house has a bookshelf adorned with such titles as Don Quixote, On The Road, Mere Christianity, High Fidelity, early poems of Yeats, selected poems of Cummings, collected poems of Roethke, and my favorite book – Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist.
I think it’s safe to say I’m in the right place.
Saturday, June 13
Another head aches, another heart breaks, I’m so much older than I can take. And my affection, well it comes and goes, I need direction to perfection, no no no no, Help me out. – The Killers
The quantitude1 of my efforts in regard to this thesis has been completed; that is to say,
I’m done writing my sad-sack sappy poetry. Now, with another year behind me and my annual
summer escape to the Outer Banks ahead, I will pen the most scholarly of thoughts for the proper
1 This is not a real word. Don’t bother looking it up. 48 portion of this academic endeavor – the essay. I have a week on the island of Ocracoke, which will be sufficient time to unveil my profoundries2 to academia. I can then spend the second week
of my trip on Hatteras Island, relaxing by the ocean, free from the weight of this project.
The sun is sinking into the Pamlico Sound, a red syrup oozing into the glossy ripples.
The village of Ocracoke is bustling: the year-round locals; the semi-locals; the summer help; the
tourists; we are all engaged in the stumbling waltz of “island time.” What a relief to return to
this place. Nothing but fond memories of my journeys to this mystical epicenter: reading poetry
at the Deepwater Theater; performing during open mic night at The Pelican, the local dive
bar/restaurant; square dancing at the Ocrafolk Festival with Mya Rose, a singer/songwriter gal
who lived on a sailboat in the harbor; I can only hope for more of the same this time around as I
try to channel my inner, drunken Hemingway3.
Well, The Pelican is no more; new ownership and a new name – Dajio4. This is not
good. What about open mic night? What about “Shrimp Hour,” the famous afternoon staple
filled with 15-cent peel ‘n’ eat shrimp and ice cold beer? What about the dumpy dive bar vibe
that I’ve grown to love? This is not good. They’ve classed up the restaurant portion. Uh oh.
Then again, I’m hungry; time for some late-evening sustenance.
The place isn’t so bad; seems the change has been for the better. The food is great, and
they still have beer. Wonderful. Our server, Crystal, is nice enough, but conversation seems to
be lost on her. Bummer. There’s another server, though, with wild hair and some serious ink5.
Her hair is short and messy, one side black and the other bleached out in a leopard pattern.
2 Not a real word, either. But if it were, I’d imagine its definition to read along the lines of “the act, process, or art of casting intellectual depth and insight.” 3 Yes, I realize I’m being redundant. 4 Pronounced dä-ʒə-ō; an acronym for “Doug And Judy In Ocracoke”, a reference to the new owners. 5 Tattoos. 49
Groovy. She’s tall and thin (not quite lanky) with dark-rimmed glasses and black Chuck
Taylors6. Cool. Too bad I’ve given up on the whole idea of romantic love and whatnot; I’m
kicking that habit. No summer lovin’ for this guy.
Ah, the digs. This year’s rental is easily the nicest house to date. High ceilings, lots of
windows, hardwood floors, superbly clean, and decorated with numerous pieces of art; stunning,
really. I am pointed into my room: a bay-windowed bedroom at the front of the house with an
old treasure chest and stocked bookshelf. The first title I notice is a collection of short stories by
Raymond Carver, named after his most famous, Cathedral (about which I once wrote a paper
arguing that smoking a joint is a form of communion). There are numerous other titles that stand
out to me, books that I’ve attached to my existence as having some importance in my personal
history. I then notice, on the bottom shelf, an old California license plate; yet another item I
associate with my personal history, as my various trips to California over the years have all had a
profound effect on my life. It was in Southern California, after all, that I first experienced the
ocean. Curious. Of course, in the end, none of this means anything. I’m merely clutching at
straws in an ill-fated attempt to discover a greater purpose, a compass toward deciphering the
Great Mystery.
I’m looking for answers. I’m looking for inspiration. I’m looking forward to getting this
essay written and this thesis finished. I am not looking for romance; repeat – am. not.
Sunday, June 14
Would you believe in a love at first sight? Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time. – The Beatles
6 Converse All-Stars, first manufactured in 1917 by Converse Shoes; renamed Chuck Taylor All-Stars in 1923. 50
Here comes the sun. I need a venue swirling with energy to get my creative juices
Flowing this morning. What better place to wax intellectual than a coffee shop? I stuff my backpack with my laptop and as many poetry books as will fit, then head for Ocracoke Coffee.
I’m going to write this essay even if it kills me.
I spend a few hours leafing through my books, attempting to decide which poems will best reflect the tiresome poems of heartache and romantic nonsense that I’ve built this project around. So far, my list includes the following: Keats, Philip Larkin (goldmine!), Yeats, Kenneth
Hart, D.H. Lawrence, Pound, Eliot7, Pablo Neruda, Hafiz, Kim Addonizio, and one of my contemporaries, Ami Iannone (the girl’s got talent). I pick some poems, I pluck out some lines, I write a little drivel, then head outside for a break. I lounge in the shade, let my brain rest; all this thinking really takes it out of me. In the midst of zoning out, I look up and notice that girl with the crazy leopard hair ride by on her bike. I bet she’s pretty cool; just a hunch.
Thankfully, Dajio has continued The Pelican’s tradition of Shrimp Hour. I meet up with my housemates (i.e. my family, immediate and extended) for some mid-afternoon edibles. The seven of us grab a table on the palm-engulfed patio, and we are promptly greeted by Megan, our server, the girl with dark-rimmed glasses and leopard-spotted hair. Why hello. While she takes our drink order, I recognize the song playing over the restaurant’s speaker system. Based on that hunch from earlier, I ask: “This is The Killers, right?” Her reply: “Yep.”
We’re a chatty bunch, and Megan’s a spunky, talkative girl, so we get some background on her. She’s from Sacramento. An artist who has had a myriad of odd jobs, including hair dresser (ah ha!). Has never really traveled, but has always wanted to, so she’s on the island for
7 Big fan of the footnotes. 51 the summer to work and hang out; she says so far, so good. Shows off her tattoos, the most impressive of which is a large, colorful flower on her right calf that has “California” written across it. She’s armed with a quick wit and a fun personality. I wish they could all be California girls. No matter; she’s probably got a boyfriend, and I’m over this silly romance hubbub.
After exhausting our shrimp-devouring capabilities, we head up the street to The Slushy
Stand, one of the many bike rental spots on the island. My younger cousin and his friend each rent a bike for the week, then head off to enjoy some teenage independence. A few moments later, the über-chill dude working the Stand pipes up: “Whoa. Wipeout.” We turn to see my cousin’s pal lying face-down in the middle of the street. The sandy edges of Irvin Garrish
Highway8 prove to be a bit treacherous. No worries; he’s fine.
Part of my self-assigned duties in the house is to provide mood music. Naturally, reggae
seems to dominate my playlist; we’re on a sun-soaked island, after all. I decide to put on the
new album by Easy Star All-Stars, Easy Star’s Lonely Hearts Dub Band, a reggae/dub rendition of The Beatles’ classic9; previous albums of theirs include versions of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of
the Moon and Radiohead’s OK Computer. Anyway, it’s a hit.
Monday, June 15
I’d be safe and warm if I was in L.A. –The Mamas and The Papas
Day Two of sitting in this funky little coffee shop, sifting through these books of poetry.
8 A portion of North Carolina Highway 12, which serves as the only roadway connecting the two ends of Ocracoke Island; Irvin Garrish Highway is the only major road in the village of Ocracoke. 9 Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band 52
I’ve got my introduction written; I am on my way. If I can keep up the momentum, this is going to be the best essay I’ve ever written! Surely this stellar pontification will enrapture the readers of this insightful commentary:
As a writer of poetry, I’m just another guy in a long line of failures. There are those of us who (quite foolishly) have believed that there is some truth, some nobility, in upholding the ideal of romantic love as something attainable. We are those who try time and again to make our words jump off the page and take action, seeking to create reality from our faulty scripts. We, for some unknown reason, scramble for some thread of hope in believing that the ideal notion of romantic love can exist in this life. But more often than not, it is our actions that end up on the page, filtered down into some semblance of what has occurred in our lackluster quests. Our poetic endeavors become therapeutic rants rather than lofty, swoon-evoking proclamations.
Wow. Who am I kidding? I can’t use this; I’ll be accused of soliciting some junior high emo10 kid to write my essay. I really can’t get past this poem – “Blues For Roberto” – by Kim Addonizio:
It’s an ugly circus, to leave you again. It’s a carnival act: bound, chained underwater in a glass tank, near-drowned (ll. 1-3)
Once you loved me, but walked away. Once was too often, for a girl like me– Since then I’ve made you pay and pay. (ll. 10-12)
And this is the end. I’m leaving town. This is the end: the tents torn down, the animals making caged animals sounds. (ll. 16-18)
Still sitting in this coffee shop. There’s a guy standing in line with a large, colorful tattoo
of a flower on his left calf with “California” written across it. Guess that clears that up.
There’s also a mother in line with her teenage daughter. Based on appearances, it’s as if
10 A pop subculture of music, art, clothing, etc. typically characterized by a brooding nature. 53
they’ve swapped bodies, much like the late Dudley Moore and former “Just Say No” poster boy
Kirk Cameron in the 1987 movie Like Father Like Son11. The mother is decorated with multiple
tattoos and piercings (including a hoop through her nasal septum), while her daughter is dressed rather conservatively. An intriguing duo, likely visiting the island for the week as well.
Bummer that Megan’s got that boyfriend. And why not? Any girl with that kind of personality is bound to be off the market. Not that it matters; romance is an inconsequential brouhaha. Still, a hip Cali12 girl would be fun to talk to.
“California Dreamin’” by The Mamas and The Papas just came on the radio.
Sonofabitch. The daytime bar crowd at Dajio is nonexistent; it’s just me and the bartender, Mike,
shootin’ the breeze. He’s down for the summer. Studying business at Eastern Carolina
University. Seems like a solid dude. We end up talking music, which leads to requesting that he
change the station/playlist to something a little more funky; specifically, I ask for some reggae.
He obliges. Easy Star All-Stars come up. Chris, one of the servers working the day shift,
remarks that he really likes their version of Dark Side. I inform him that their cover of Sgt.
Pepper’s recently came out, to which he responds: “No way! That’s my favorite album!” I tell them that I’ve got the albums back at the house, that I’ll bring them by later tonight. They’re stoked. Nighttime. I snag my cousin’s rented bike and head back to Dajio (or, as the staff refer to it, “The Daj”). The bar is hoppin’. I find what appears to be an open seat – the only open seat – and I inquire to the gnarly biker/pirate-looking guy standing next to it if the seat is taken. He
11 In the movie, Moore and Cameron’s characters inhabit the other’s body yet continue to behave in accordance with their respective ages. 12 California 54
responds: “Well I was sittin’ there, but go ahead.” I insist that he should keep his seat. He once again suggests otherwise: “No, no. Sit your ass down, take a load off.” He’ll get no further argument from me.
Rico, Mike’s fellow bartender for the night, gets me set up with my beer of choice for the night – Magic Hat #913. Mike notices that I’ve returned. I pass him the Easy Star All-Stars
albums, and he immediately kicks things off with Dub Side of the Moon. Good vibes.
A seat next to me becomes available, so I move over and invite Harry (the biker/pirate) to
have a seat. He gladly accepts, and we get into a dialogue. He tells me about how he used to be
in the military, that he’s lived on the island – year-round, “through hurricanes and all” – for
fourteen years. Dispenses some local history, including some of the families who’ve been here
for decades upon decades. Gives me a piece of his mind about certain law enforcement officials
on the island. Tells me about his family, including his stepdaughter and her no-good boyfriend.
Then he gets quite serious: “You seem like an honest person to me.” Uh oh. I’m not going to be
your alibi, Harry. Actually, it turns out to be okay. He proceeds to reveal to me that he almost
never goes out at night, that this is a special occasion. Damn, Harry. I’m honored to be here.
According to him, he and his buddy had to “handle some business” tonight. Okay, maybe Uh
oh. He doesn’t really elaborate – save for something about a couple guys “running their mouths”
and needing to set them straight – but he stares at me intensely without a word to convey just
how serious a man he is. I believe you, Harry.
Our conversation gets interrupted by a couple of touristy blondes, both in their late-40s
I’m guessing; Harry heads off to converse with them. I figure he’s glad he came out tonight.
13 Magic Hat Brewing Company’s “Not Quite Pale Ale” 55
I scan the bar and notice a girl walking toward me with long, black hair and dark skin; she stands next to me at the bar. “Hey” I say. She returns the salutation, smiles, and walks away. Weird.
Mike kills the music. Apparently there’s this acoustic guitarist who had been playing earlier, and he’s ready to begin another set. Dig it. He begins by playing covers of some well- known songs.
Mike sees that my beer is empty and slides me another without question (he continues to do this throughout the night). Thank you kindly. I let my eyes wander around the room. It’s quite obvious who’s a local and who’s a tourist (guilty), yet we’re all successfully mingling
(well, except for my brief colloquy with the girl a few moments ago). As one might expect in such an establishment, there’s a lot of guy/girl chitchat at very close proximities. I suddenly get the urge to write the following in my notebook:
We are the barflies who have blown it. There's Harry, the 60- something semi-native; the various, transient men and women on the island for the summer; the generational misfits. Everyone's looking for what they've lost in someone long ago. We want it back, quick and easy.
As I’m writing, the guy playing guitar launches into “With a Little Help From My
Friends.” You don’t say... “Ohio” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young comes next. Hmm...
Shortly thereafter, now that I’ve finally come to my senses, he plays “Wagon Wheel” by Old
Crow Medicine Show. Okay, I’m paying attention. But to what? None of this means anything; mere coincidence.
Back story: The aforementioned song always makes me think of this gal named Chelsea.
She struck up a conversation with me one night in Jackie O’s (my favorite bar back in Athens,
Ohio) last fall, and this song came on during our conversation. I had just recently been
56 introduced to the tune by a friend, and it happened to be a favorite of Chelsea’s. Anyway, after we talked about the song (and the band), we started talking poetry. I ended up telling her about a poem I had recently written about numerology and coincidences, all centered around the date
July 17th. Come to find out, Chelsea’s birthday is July 17th. And no – she wasn’t joking.
Tuesday, June 16
Cross the street from your storefront cemetery, hear me hailing from inside and realize I am the conscience clear in pain or ecstasy and we were all weaned my dear upon the same fatigue. – TV on the Radio
Just walked into the coffee shop. Pretty short line. Think I’ll hop right in. Two people
get in line behind me: Megan and the dude that was in here yesterday morning. California
tattoos. Duh.
It’s just about dusk. My mother, aunt, cousin and his pal, and I have signed up to go on a
“Ghost & Historic Walking Tour,” a bi-weekly event offered by The Village Craftsmen, a local
shop that has dealt in artisan wares for nearly 40 years. The tours provide an in-depth local
history, as well as much of the folklore and ghost stories for which the island is famous. The
shop is located on Howard Street, reportedly the most haunted place in the village. It features
the Howard Family Cemetery, one of more than 80 known cemeteries in the area. The name
Howard is the most famous name associated with Ocracoke; in fact, The Village Craftsmen is
owned and operated by Philip Howard, whose great-great-great-great-great grandfather
purchased Ocracoke Island in 1759. 57
There are two different tours offered: Creek-side and Point-side. We choose the former, which concerns itself with the heart of the village. (The latter focuses more on the Springer’s
Point area, which is the famed stomping grounds of the pirate Blackbeard). As we wait for others to decide which tour they will embark on, I notice members of our group include the
Dudley Moore/Kirk Cameron mother/daughter tandem, as well as the girl from the bar last night who simply said “Hi” and walked away. Small island, small world.
Our tour guide is Lou Ann Homan, who I immediately recognize, as she was the emcee for the poetry open mic at Deepwater Theater a few years back. I remember her not really digging my stupid love poem about the girl I was dating at the time. Anyway, Lou Ann is nice as pie, and she’s decked out in a light blue dress with a flower tucked behind one ear. She later explains her getup: It was an outfit known to be worn by Margaret Eaton, a.k.a. “Mad Mag.” As the legend goes, young Margaret (a Maine native) was taken against her will back to Ocracoke
Island by schooner captain John Simon Howard to become his wife. Years passed, she became increasingly unhappy, and she became more and more eccentric, eventually earning her alliterative moniker. Some say she once branded her forehead with a hot iron. Others tell of the night she cooked the family cat for dinner. And now, people speak of seeing her apparition around the village late at night. According to Lou Ann, just a year or two ago, a young woman visiting the island was walking home one night and came across an old woman dressed in white standing in the middle of Back Road14. The girl spoke to the woman, who said nothing. She knew immediately that it was Mad Mag.
Other stories on the tour include the tale of a woman buried alive, whose coffin – when excavated years later – had nail marks dug into the lid from where she had attempted to escape.
14 The main road that circumvents the center of the village. 58
There are also stories about empty rocking chairs in the windows of a house on Fig Tree Lane15 that are known to mysteriously move on their own. And then there’s the tale of an Ocracoke local taking a walk on the beach a few years back. He went out for a stroll around 3AM because he couldn’t sleep. While walking, he heard the laughter of a small child, a girl, coming from behind him. He turned around and scanned the darkness with his flashlight: no one was there.
He continued on, and heard the laughter again. He thought perhaps there were people camping nearby (as is a common occurrence on the beaches of Ocracoke), and he wrote it off as such.
But as he returned along the route on which he had come, he noticed the footprints of a child within his own. These footprints, however, did not emerge from anywhere; they simply began and ended within the path he walked.
Wednesday, June 17
There’s a natural mystic blowing through the air. – Bob Marley
My cousin woke up this morning with his boxers torn right down the middle, almost
completely in half.
Day Four at Ocracoke Coffee. Mike moseys in and plops down next to me. Rough night he says, but a good time. Tells me I should stop in The Daj tonight; he’s on bar and will hook me up again. Well all right.
Lunchtime. Plans are to meet the family at Dajio; there’s an award-winning gourmet
grilled cheese sandwich on the menu that we all want to give a whirl. Rather than take the long
15 A sandy cut-through street nestled in the majestic oak trees. 59 way down Back Road, I cut down Howard Street. Even in the middle of the day, the sandy trail is eerily quiet and the towering oaks are oddly still; it’s as if time stops on this hallowed path.
After lunch (the grilled cheese was fantastic), I head down Back Road to Zillie’s Island
Pantry. They specialize in fine wine, specialty beers, gourmet cheeses and cigars, etc. They have an expansive deck on which to relax, and also free Wi-Fi; seems like a good place to set up shop for the afternoon.
A couple glasses of wine and a bottle of Chimay16 later – I’m feelin’ groovy17. Yet I’m
not getting anywhere with this essay. For some reason – I honestly have no idea why – I’m
compelled to Google the Challenger Space Shuttle disaster. I still remember watching it on live
television at my grandparents’ house. (My mother still insists I was in school and that there’s no
way I could have possibly seen it happen. However, reviewing the date of the explosion18, I know I was in kindergarten at the time. The kindergarten program at my school was every- other-day, which means there’s a completely reasonable chance that I had the day off and
therefore was at my grandparents’ house watching it live. But I digress…).
The fam and I end up at sMacNalley’s for dinner; it’s a chill little outdoor spot at one of
the marinas on the harbor. Rumor has it they’ve got the best burgers on the island; my mom and
I don’t eat red meat, especially when in a locale with a robust selection of fresh seafood. But hey
– majority rules. There’s a wait for seating, so I take charge and head to the bar to order beers
for everyone. The bartender, Beetle – a skinny island girl with “12 piercings, all in her head, no
tattoos” – asks to see everyone’s I.D. This gets a good laugh out of everyone; even funnier,
16 A Trappist ale brewed at Scourmont Abbey in Belgium. 17 You know, like Simon and Garfunkel. 18 January 28, 1986 60 she’s serious. I gather up all the driver’s licenses and hand them over; she gets a good laugh out of it once she realizes the situation. Good times. Anyway, while I’m waiting for her to get all the beers, I have a fun little banter with the waitress, Callie – a curvy island girl with hair bleached by the sun. She seems like she’d be a lot of fun to hang out with; great personality, and cute to boot. Forget about it. Romance is dead.
Callie takes good care of us as our server, and we all have an enjoyable time. My aunt and uncle are big movie buffs, and they spend the majority of the meal debating about the title of the Dakota Fanning movie they recently saw. My aunt insists it’s an adaptation of the book The
Secret Life of Bees; my uncle believes it to be a movie called Hounddog. Truth be told, Fanning was recently in both movies; the argument is over which one they actually watched. Good thing
I don’t ever have to worry about getting hitched, otherwise I’d have to spend all my time talking about movies. Who wants to do that?19
Dajio is packed. Megan’s chillin’ on the other side of the bar. So’s Mike; not actually
working, but rather hanging with some cute blonde girl. Rico’s behind the bar, though, and he
recognizes me, and after taking a seat I end up with a Magic Hat in my hand.
A few minutes go by and this dude – Chris – sits down next to me, strikes up a
conversation. He’s on the island for a couple weeks remodeling a house; room, board, and a
phat20 salary have him in a good mood (despite the long, brutal hours). He’s a fan of the island;
never been here before. Talks a bit about where he’s been, this and that; after talking awhile he
leans in and asks “You smoke21?” Yeah, I can get down with some communion.
Standing outside in the shadowed parking lot, Chris and I burn one down. He tells me
19 Me, actually. If I ever ended up in a relationship like my aunt and uncle’s, I’d consider myself very fortunate. 20 Really, really good. 21 Marijuana. 61 about being a handyman, that it’s good money. Inquires as to what I do. I tell him I’m in college studying creative writing, trying to finish my thesis. Says he did the whole college thing, majored in Aeronautical Engineering. Wow. “So you could tell me all about how a plane works if I needed you to?” “Dude, I’ll build you a plane.” Fair enough. He starts getting technical on me, talking about shit that’s way over my head (no pun intended). I ask him how he got into such a technical field. “You remember when the Challenger Space Shuttle blew up?” As a matter of fact… “I was really interested to learn about what went wrong and how all that stuff works.” You can’t make this stuff up.
His reference to the Challenger gets us talking about remembering where we were for major events like that. He gets on a roll talking about the PEPCON22 disaster back in 1988,
about how the explosions were caused by someone using a welding torch. Um, what??
Anyway, a fire got going thanks to the highly flammable ammonium perchlorate23 in the area,
and BOOM!! – a series of explosions that registered on the Richter scale rocked the Nevada
desert. I’m so flabbergasted by this incredible story – about an incident I’d never even heard of
– that I forget where he said he was at the time. It all sounds so unbelievable; I’m going to have to fact-check this later. The joint’s out; time to head back inside.
Back at the bar, we’re joined by the dark-haired/skinned girl from the past couple nights, here on Monday and on the ghost walk Tuesday. She’s more talkative this time around. Her name’s Gissette, and she lives on a sailboat in the harbor. Rad. She’s pretty cool, and pretty, but insecure, which is revealed by her ranting about the struggle for female sea captains to be “sexy.”
Uh, I don’t follow. “I mean, I bust my ass to keep my boat afloat, and all these guys think I’m
just another dude. It sucks.” Someone’s got an agenda. Anyway, turns out she knew Mya
22 Pacific Engineering Production Company of Nevada, one of two American manufacturers of rocket fuel. 23 A key ingredient in rocket fuel. 62 when she lived here. Oh, and Callie at sMacNalley’s? Yeah, that’s Mya’s sister. I love it.
A decent-sized group of people stroll into the bar, including Callie and Beetle. I get a nod of sorts, a smile, and that’s that. Chris and I end up getting into conversations with some of the guys who’ve strolled in. I end up talking to another Ben, who tells me I look strangely familiar, which is strange in itself because doppelgängers have been coming up a lot recently.
Whatever; I’ve been drinking and such.
The night grinds on, and somehow Gissette, Chris, and I decide to head over to the harbor to hang out on her boat, “Idafina.” Chris tells us he’s gonna run back to the house he’s staying at to grab some beer and some more smoke, so Gissette and I head over by ourselves. We get to her dock and have a seat. We wait, and we wait; Chris never shows. She and I walk down the dock to her boat. Here it is. Boat. Cat! Her cat hops out. It’s got some clever name, but I don’t pay attention. I follow Gissette onto the boat, but fail to ask permission to come aboard. That’s a big no-no in the ways of the sea; she doesn’t mind so much, though. She strings up a hammock and we nestle in, staring up at the crystal-clear sky full of bright, beaming stars. Amazing. I could lie here all night. It occurs to me that I shouldn’t, though, even though I think it’s safe to say she wouldn’t mind me being here in the morning. Instead, after lounging and talking into the wee hours, I call it a night. I dole out my thanks and nice-to-finally-meet-yous and head out. I hop on the rented bike I’ve once again purloined from my cousin and make my way down Back
Road. It’s pitch black. Seriously – not a single street light. But I find my way without incident, fill my lungs with the late-night air, and keep an eye out for Mad Mag.
63
Thursday, June 18
Like those before me in history who plundered kings’ riches on the open sea, I roam these waters where the winds blow free, sailing without a governor’s decree. – Edward’s Accomplice
I woke up this morning with my boxers on inside-out and backwards. There’s no logical
explanation for this. I think we might have a mischievous ghost in the house.
I’m out on Springer’s Point, trying to imagine life here in Blackbeard’s time. Surreal.
Dinner at the Back Porch, an upscale favorite among locals and tourists. Speaking of – the mother/daughter body-swappers arrive. I hope they’ve had as much fun this week as we have; their body language suggests they have. Right on.
Back at the house, I notice another title on my bookshelf: The Secret Life of Bees.
Friday, June 19
Please believe me Natalie, listen Natalie, this is your last chance to find a go-go dance to disco now. Forget what they said in SoHo, leave the oh-no’s out. – The Killers
Last full day on the island. Heading to Ocracoke Coffee for my final morning of staring blankly at this computer screen. On my walk, I pass an older couple. The woman looks at me and I wish her a good morning. She replies: “Morgen.” I smile and continue on, realizing 64 moments later that she was speaking German to me. Way to put that two years of foreign language requirement to good use, dumbass.
I set up shop in the shop and get my breakfast. The older German couple – along with whom I presume is a son and daughter-in-law – enter and get in line. I get the urge to say something, but I wait until they get outside and are seated. I stick my head out the door and say to them “Entschuldigung... Schönes Wochenende!24” They just stare at me, kind of smile and
wave, so I go back to my post inside.
Well wouldn’t you know – the female versions of Dudley Moore and Kirk Cameron.
They’re probably heading out tomorrow, too. Hope they enjoy their last hours on the island.
I’m wasting time on the Internet. This older gentleman sits down next to me and strikes
up a conversation; apparently, because I’m using a laptop, he thinks I may have some sort of
technical knowledge tucked away in my brain. Anyway, he runs some tech issues by me that
he’s having with his laptop, but I’ve got nothin’. It’s ironic that he’s having trouble, because he
goes on to tell me about how he sold computers on the West Coast through the ‘70s, ‘80s, and
‘90s. Oh my. “Yeah, we had fun.” I can only imagine.
Gissette shows up. “You going out tonight?” “It’s my last night on the island… You
better believe it.” The walk down Howard Street is once again an eerie yet relaxing experience. I wonder
who’s watching me. Claire – a redheaded Ocracoke native – is working the lunchtime bar at Dajio; I’m her
only customer. She must 1) hate her job, 2) be jaded by years of tourists, and/or 3) have a
24 “Pardon me… Have a beautiful weekend!” 65 problem with the way I look because she is neither talkative nor friendly. Maybe her boyfriend kicked her dog or something.
Megan is waiting tables. Rico is milling around on his afternoon off. I’m gonna miss this place and these people. Waiting a whole year to come back is going to be rough, and even then there’s no telling who will be around and who won’t. I scribble in my notebook, trying to come up with ideas for this essay. That’s when the hostess comes over to me.
INT. BAR – DAY
The bar is weathered and decorated with various movie posters, vinyl record album sleeves, random signs, and numerous beer bottles. The walls are made of unfinished wood and the bar top is a large horseshoe-style bar. There are a few tables and chairs and a pool table filling out the space. There are very few CUSTOMERS, and only a couple of WAITRESSES are working. The bartender, CLAIRE – a curt redhead with glasses and a Pink Floyd t-shirt – stands off to the side playing on a COMPUTER.
The HOSTESS, a curvy girl in a sundress with short blonde hair and big dimples, approaches BEN while he sits at the bar and writes in his NOTEBOOK.
HOSTESS Hi. What are you writing?
Ben looks up, surprised.
BEN Hey. [beat] Um, I’m trying to brainstorm. I’m supposed to be working on a nonfiction essay for my honors thesis.
HOSTESS I had a feeling you were doing something creative. I’m a writer, too. That’s what I’m going to college for. Well, sort of. I’m going for (MORE) 66
HOSTESS (CONT’D) English, but I really want to write. I love to write.
BEN Why aren’t you going for creative writing?
HOSTESS Well, where I’m going doesn’t offer it.
BEN So why go there? Where are you going?
HOSTESS U.N.C. Chapel Hill. It’s a really good school, and I got a full ride, so I can’t pass it up.
BEN Right on. Well congrats. That’s awesome.
The Hostess makes a writing motion with her hand.
HOSTESS Write on.
BEN Ah... Clever.
HOSTESS I try.
BEN You know, my thesis advisor tells me not to be clever.
HOSTESS Pssh. Whatever. [beat] Well, good luck with your writing. I’ve gotta get back to my post and do nothing.
67
BEN Cool. Take it easy.
HOSTESS See ya.
The Hostess returns to the hostess stand.
Ben finishes his lunch, writes in his notebook some more, then leaves. As he walks by the hostess stand, he stops to talk to the Hostess.
HOSTESS All done?
BEN I wish. I’ve got some good notes. I just need to formulate it all.
HOSTESS I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You seem pretty with it.
Ben laughs.
BEN Right. Well, nice talking to you. See ya.
Ben gives the Hostess a fist-bump.
HOSTESS Bye.
Ben walks away. The Hostess starts to follow.
HOSTESS Hey!
Ben stops and turns around.
BEN Yeah?
HOSTESS What are you doing? 68
BEN What do you mean?
HOSTESS You know, right now. Tonight. Whenever.
Ben is taken aback.
BEN Um, well right now I’m gonna go to Zillie’s, sit on the front deck, drink some beer, and try and get some writing done.
HOSTESS You should come back tonight. I work ‘til nine. We can go to the lighthouse and watch the fireflies. Have you been to the lighthouse at night before? I was there the other night and there were so many fireflies, it was unbelievable. [beat] So yeah, you should come. Let’s be friends.
BEN (V.O.25) She is too cute.
BEN Uh, sure. I could probably do that.
BEN (V.O. CONT’D) C’mon. What else am I gonna do?
HOSTESS Cool. See you then, friend.
The Hostess gives Ben a high-five. He smiles in amusement.
25 Voice-over. 69
BEN All right.
Ben exits.
Daniella, the kind and beautiful middle-aged Brazilian woman working at Zillie’s, rings me up for a bottle of Chimay. She’s from Rio. Came here for a summer fifteen years ago to scuba dive on some of the famous shipwrecks in the area. Met a guy, got married, had two kids, and has been here ever since.
The other person working is a guy named David. He helps me pick out beers for a custom 6-pack that I’m putting together for Father’s Day. So far we have two: Chimay and
Duvel26. He asks what I’ve been doing on the island. I explain the whole thesis thing, how it’s turned into this story about my trip. “Is it a good story?” “Most definitely.” As we talk, I
realize – people love to be written about.
The fam (minus cousin and sidekick) show up. I have to get sly with The Old Man on
the premises; don’t wanna spoil the gift. I head outside and the others follow, beverage in hand.
We hang out, enjoy the shady deck and calming breeze. Mom, for whatever reason, brings up
Sérgio Mendes and Brazil 66. Specifically, the song “Mas Que Nada27.”
After the fam leaves, I open up my laptop and get busy doing nothing. I space out a little
while. Megan rides by on her bike. This is ridiculous. Then, shortly thereafter, I spot the
hostess from Dajio riding by on her bike. I keep an eye on her, and see that she’s got a big grin
on her face, almost as if she’s spotted me as well. I get some writing done, mainly transposing
notes from my notebook into a document on my computer.
26 Another Belgian ale. 27 Brazilian Portuguese phrase meaning “but that [is] nothing.” 70
EXT. ZILLIE’S ISLAND PANTRY – DAY
The wooden deck on the front of Zillie’s is large and spacious. Shiny metal tables and chairs fill the space in between tall, wood posts. A MIDDLE-AGED COUPLE sits at a table and drinks wine. A single MIDDLE-AGED MAN sits at another table and types on his LAPTOP. Ben sits at a table and stares at his LAPTOP. The Hostess from Dajio enters and sits at Ben’s table.
HOSTESS (out of breath) Hey.
BEN (surprised) Hey there.
HOSTESS I just booked it from Dajio to my house and back. [beat] I just smoked a huge bowl28. I can’t see straight.
BEN Well all right.
HOSTESS I’m Sara, by the way.
SARA extends her hand to Ben. They shake.
BEN Nice to meet you. Officially. I’m Ben.
SARA So how’s the writing going? What exactly are you writing about?
BEN Well, I was supposed to write an academic essay, but this trip has been too interesting (MORE)
28 A glass pipe used for smoking marijuana. 71
BEN (CONT’D) to not write about. So I’m writing a nonfiction essay about everything that’s been happening, all the people I’ve met. But I have to argue some sort of point, not just say “this happened and this is how I felt.”
Sara smiles really big.
SARA So are you going to write about me?
BEN It would appear so.
SARA Okay, well let’s see. I just graduated high school. I was the valedictorian of my class of about 400 kids. I had a four point nine G.P.A. I scored a 2310 on my S.A.T. I was the president of our creative writing club. I wrote over 500 poems in the past year. I’m going to U.N.C. Chapel Hill for English, maybe Philosophy, too. I’m left handed. I’m the oldest of three kids. I’m an atheist. [beat] Anything else?
BEN Wow. Uh, no, I think that’s a good start.
Sara stands and grins.
SARA Cool. Well I’ve gotta go back to work. I’ll see you at nine.
72
BEN Okay. Sounds good. See ya later.
SARA Bye.
Sara exits.
I meet up with the fam (this time cousin and sidekick included) at The Flying Melon, which in my opinion has the best food on the island; I’d go as far as to say it’s the best place to get dinner on the entire Outer Banks. I’m especially a fan of their homemade crab cakes and their seared sea-scallops appetizer. Incredible. Anyway, we’re all sitting around, having a wonderful time recounting what a great time we’ve had here. Then my aunt asks about my thesis, which leads to a longer conversation about my plans for the upcoming school year since I didn’t get into any of the graduate programs I applied to this year. I explain that I’ll be spending another year in Athens doing undergraduate coursework in hopes of strengthening my applications for next year. She wants to know how I feel about being in town for another year. I proceed to tell her the following story:
The first time I visited Athens was in the summer of 2001. I was living in Jupiter, Florida at the time and had made a trip home to Ohio to catch up with family and friends. I took this opportunity to travel to Athens with the valedictorian of my high school class, Kevin; we were going to visit our friend Abby, who we’d known since kindergarten and graduated with in 1998.
She was getting ready to begin her senior year at Ohio University, and we wanted to meet up with her while we had the chance. She welcomed us into her home, and then into Athens by taking us to the local microbrewery, O’Hooley’s Pub (now Jackie O’s). My memory didn’t 73 retain much of the evening’s events, save for the appearance of the bar and that we all drank raspberry wheat beer.
Five years later, I went to Athens for the second time – for orientation as a new student at
O.U. I had moved back home from Florida a couple years prior in order to give college another try, and was in the process of transferring to O.U. from the local community college I had been attending. I arrived the night before my orientation, and decided – since I no longer knew anyone who lived in town that could show me around – to attempt to find O’Hooley’s on my own. Despite the large number of bars in the uptown area, I was determined to find it based upon what I could recall of its appearance; I knew that I would immediately recognize it upon entering due to its distinction of being the only microbrewery in Athens.
I began down Court Street – the main drag through Athens’ uptown section – entering the first bar I saw; the outside looked somewhat promising, so I gave it a shot. Not it. However, since I was already inside, I took a seat at the bar and had a beer. Then I went next door. Not it, either. But again I went ahead and had a beer at the bar. When I left, rather than continuing down Court Street (as would be the logical thing to do), I backtracked and headed down Union
Street for some reason. I passed a couple of bars before deciding to try one. Pay dirt. The large, stainless steel vats of the microbrew welcomed me into the pub. I made my way to the bar, ordered a raspberry wheat brew, and set up along the wall opposite the stage where a local acoustic duo – The Paranormals – were playing. After a few minutes of enjoying music and my beer, a random guy I’d never met walked up to me, handed me a pool cue, and declared “We’re solids.” I knew Athens was the right place for me.
74
Ah, Friday night at The Daj; quite the crowd. Mike, Chris, Rico, Megan – they’re all here. Gissette is roaming around. I take a seat at the bar and Mike cracks open a Magic Hat and slides it over to me.
INT. BAR – NIGHT
The bar is full of people. All of the seats at the bar are full, small groups of people stand around talking, and there are people playing pool. Ben sits at the bar and drinks a BOTTLE OF BEER. Sara enters.
SARA Hey. You ready to go?
BEN Pretty much. Just need to finish this beer.
Ben raises the bottle to show that it is about half-empty.
SARA Hurry up, Hemingway. [beat] I’m so tired. I have to work at the surf shop tomorrow.
BEN Yeah. We don’t have to go, you know.
SARA Oh, no. We’re totally going. You have to see this.
A LAID-BACK DUDE approaches Ben and Sara. He’s a little tipsy.
BEN Okay then.
LAID-BACK DUDE (to BEN) Hey man. You wanna play pool?
Ben looks at Sara. She shrugs.
75
BEN Sure, dude. What’s your name?
LAID-BACK DUDE Steve. Tonight you can call me Bo Jangles.
BEN Cool. I’m Ben.
Ben extends his hand to STEVE and they shake.
SARA I’m Sara.
Sara extends her hand to Steve and they shake.
STEVE (to BEN) Cool, man. What are you drinking there?
Ben lifts his bottle to show Steve the label.
STEVE (CONT’D) Magic Hat Number Nine. I’ve fallen for that trick before. I know that number.
Steve cackles. Ben and Sara laugh. Steve walks over to the pool table. Ben and Sara follow. A COUPLE stand at the table.
STEVE This is Austin and his girlfriend, Paul Newman. Keep an eye on her.
AUSTIN Nice to meet you.
BEN Likewise.
They all shake hands. Steve racks the POOL BALLS and picks up a POOL CUE.
76
STEVE I’ll break.
Steve lines up the CUE BALL. He lines up his shot, but misses the cue ball completely.
STEVE Shit. I’ve been drinking since daylight, man.
Steve tries to break again and is successful. The red THREE BALL goes in.
STEVE Looks like we’re solids.
MUSIC CUE: “Bandelero” by Slightly Stoopid.
A SURFER BRO enters and approaches Sara. Ben eavesdrops.
SURFER BRO Hey. You know where I can get some fire29?
SARA I don’t have anything with me.
SURFER BRO Aw c’mon. I was told you had the hook up.
Sara looks at Ben. He widens his eyes a bit and subtly shakes his head.
SARA If you wanna come with me I can maybe find something.
SURFER BRO Sick. Let’s do it.
SARA (to BEN) I gotta go do this. I’ll be back.
29 Marijuana. 77
BEN (quietly) Right on. Be careful.
Sara smiles. She and the Surfer Bro exit.
Steve and I rap a bit in between our turns. Pretty interesting guy. Says he’s lived all over the place, including a two-year stint in Colorado when he was homeless and living on the streets.
As one might imagine, he says that was the period of his life when he learned the most. He’s been in Ocracoke for a little over a year, works at the Slushy Stand renting out bikes. That guy.
He maintains that it’s the best place in the country. Dig it. He says he likes Ocracoke because of the people. “Other places, man, they’re wearing suits that are worth more than they are.” He pauses. “It’s about this and this…” He points to his head and heart, respectively. “Not this.”
He waves his open hand around his face and body, conveying the idea of appearance. Couldn’t agree more, man.
I suck at pool, but somehow I miraculously sink the last two shots and we win the game.
I shake hands with Austin and his girl, then with Steve. I buy him another beer and head outside.
EXT. LIGHTHOUSE ROAD – NIGHT
The street is calm and quiet, and there are no streetlights. Residential houses line either side, and there is very little traffic. Ben and Sara walk down the middle of the street. As they pass a thicket of trees, the Ocracoke Lighthouse appears to their right. Across from the lighthouse is a swampy area where a gigantic swarm of fireflies flash and glow.
SARA Isn’t this amazing??
BEN Wow. [beat] This is stunning.
78
SARA (grinning) I told you.
BEN (V.O.) I’ve never seen so many fireflies. They’re everywhere! Thousands! [beat] This is something truly to behold. I can’t even begin to describe this.
SARA Couldn’t you just live here? You know, minus all the mosquitoes and stuff? Imagine your perpetual existence being this moment. Just this incredible scene as the only thing you ever see.
BEN This is so surreal. This whole trip has been nothing short of peculiar. [beat] I feel like I could wake up at any moment.
EXT. MARINA – LATER
The marina is dimly lit and quiet. Boats line either side of a long, wooden dock. They calmly bob up and down with the outgoing tide. The sound of water sloshing against the seawall can be heard. Ben and Sara sit on the edge of the dock by a sailboat named “Idafina” and dangle their feet in the water.
SARA I never decided how I feel about the sound of water lapping. [beat] The water looks like a pulsating membrane.
Sara laughs.
79
BEN I don’t even know what to say to that.
SARA Yeah, I say the weirdest shit sometimes.
BEN It’s not weird. You just have an interesting way of saying things. It’s not the normal, boring stuff most people say.
SARA I like to mess around with words and phrases. One of my favorites is “Prove you this fact.” Think about the different ways you could say that. Prove you this. Fact. [beat] Prove you. This fact. I just like to play with words.
BEN That’s pretty—
SARA Or this one. “A woman without her man is nothing.” How would you say that?
BEN What do you mean?
SARA Well it implies that a woman needs a man to become relevant. But what if you changed it up? A woman. Without her, man is nothing.
BEN Slick. [beat] I think you’re gonna do just fine with your (MORE) 80
BEN (CONT’D) creative writing. The last poetry workshop I took, the prof always harped on the idea of reinventing. I think you’ve got a good handle on that.
Sara sits quietly for a moment.
SARA I hope so. I’ve got so much I want to do. Hopefully writing can get me there.
BEN Like what?
SARA After college I want to spend ten years as a wandering aesthetic. Then I want to be a professor for awhile. Then I’ll run a halfway house for kids. I wanna adopt a little black boy with dreads and name him Jelani30. [beat] I wanna do a lot.
Ben stares at Sara for a while.
SARA (CONT’D) (sheepish) What?
BEN Nothing. It sounds like you’ve got it all figured out. Just remember to be flexible with what life throws your way.
SARA Yeah, I know. I know it’s (MORE)
30 African Swahili name meaning "mighty." 81
SARA (CONT’D) gonna be a wild ride, that I’ll probably have some big hills to climb. But it’ll be okay.
Sara pauses and toes the water.
SARA (CONT’D) I can live with the days I won’t die.
EXT. BACK ROAD – LATER
The street is sparsely lit with streetlights. Ben and Sara walk down the middle of the street. Sara walks her bicycle alongside her. Ben stares up at the stars. As they arrive at the intersection of Back Road and Sunset Street – right by Ocracoke Coffee – Sara stops Ben.
SARA (motions down Sunset) Well, I’m this way. [beat] I guess good luck finishing your essay. Have you figured out what you’re gonna argue yet?
BEN I don’t know. Maybe. I think it’ll have something to do with everything being connected. You know, that there’s something to coincidences, that they mean something. The idea that life’s random connections are not so random after all.
Sara gives Ben a huge grin, but doesn’t say anything. She’s waiting for him to continue.
BEN What?
82
SARA I’m waiting for you to finish.
BEN Oh. Um... Well, I guess the question I still have to figure out is what IS the connection? What does it mean? [beat] I guess I’d like to think that it has something to do with the universe pointing you in the right direction. That when coincidences start stacking up, you should pay attention. [beat] Kind of like a compass helping you decipher the Great Mystery of things.
SARA [long beat] I’ll accept that.
Ben laughs. Sara grins.
BEN Thanks, ’cause that’s all I got.
Sara hugs Ben.
SARA (softly) Goodbye, friend.
BEN Bye. It’s been fun.
They end their embrace.
BEN (CONT’D) Take it easy. Do good work. [beat] I’ll catch ya on the flip side.
SARA You too. We shall meet again. 83
BEN Right on.
SARA WRITE on.
Sara makes a writing motion with her hand. Ben smiles.
SARA (CONT’D) See ya.
BEN Peace.
Sara gets on her bike and pedals away down Sunset. Ben watches as she slips into the darkness.
EPILOGUE
Thursday, June 25
When I feel alive, I try to imagine a careless life. A scenic world where the sunsets are all breathtaking. – Beirut
Day trip to Ocracoke to tie up some loose ends, i.e. do a few things I didn’t get around to
doing while staying here last week. I head down Back Road, destination coffee shop. As I hit the bend in the road, Megan comes cruising onto the street on her bike.
I’m out on Springer’s Point again. Trying to soak in some more scallywag vibes. This time around I brought an empty bottle of Grape Nehi31 to fill up with sand and take home. I
don’t know if you can bottle mystique, but I’m trying.
31 The favorite soda of Radar on the television series M*A*S*H (1972). 84
I swing into the surf shop to see if Sara’s working. Nope. My next thought is to head by Dajio and sneak a peek. Maybe she’s hostessing. I stand at the edge of the street, held up by traffic. Car coming from the left, two trucks from the right waiting to turn left into the parking lot. C’mon, hurry up. Car from the left passes. I cross the street, but not before the driver of the first truck decides to move on; he sees me walking and stops. His passenger, though, decides to get out of the vehicle. As she does so, I hear a scream: She has opened her door into the path of a girl riding a bicycle. The girl narrowly avoids the door and stumbles off her bike, nearly falling to the ground. I stand on the sidewalk, frozen, watching it all unfold.
The girl has a few “It’s okay, I’m fine” words with the passenger. She starts to walk in my direction with her back to me. She turns to face forward, nearly plowing me over.
EXT. IRVIN GARRISH HIGHWAY – DAY
A young woman nearly runs into Ben on the sidewalk.
BEN Hello friend.
SARA (grinning) Um... So what do you think this means?