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1 PLEASE STATE YOUR EMERGENCY by PERRY W PLEASE STATE YOUR EMERGENCY By PERRY W. HUNGERFORD A THESIS PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE MASTERS OF FINE ARTS UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA 2018 1 © 2018 Perry W. Hungerford 2 To Ryan Wynne Taylor 3 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank everyone at MFA@FLA, especially Jill Ciment for telling it like it is, David Leavitt for holding it together, and Padgett Powell for keeping me on my toes. Additionally, I’d like to thank Jacob Guajardo, Charlie Sterchi, and Chloe Lane. 4 TABLE OF CONTENTS page ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS……………………………………………………………………….4 ABSTRACT……………………………………………………………………………………….6 CHAPTER 1 SISTER GOLDEN HAIR SURPRISE.……………………………………………………7 2 LIFE GOES ON……………………….………………………………………………….37 3 ALIEN, ABDUCTION……..………….……..…………………………………………..61 4 THE RAT POOP THEOREM…..……….………..……………………………………...86 5 STUNNED……..………………………….…………..…………………………..…….100 6 DELIVERANCE À LA MODE……..…….……………..……………………………...120 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH……………………………………………………………….......137 5 Abstract of Thesis Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Arts PLEASE STATE YOUR EMERGENCY By Perry W. Hungerford May 2018 Chair: Jill Ciment Major: Creative Writing This novel follows Hope Robinson, a young woman from Greenville, South Carolina, who is graduating from high school during the Great Recession. Throughout the course of the book, she gets tangled up with a gang called the Momma’s Boys. They first attack Hope in downtown Greenville and cut off her hair, but the real trouble begins when they abduct her mother. When Hope finally tracks down her mother, she uncovers the truth about the gang and it is not at all what she expected. 6 CHAPTER 1 SISTER GOLDEN HAIR SURPRISE Hope Robinson stood on the porch in the late afternoon, stack of résumés in hand, and rocked back and forth on her size-eleven feet. Down there, inside those weathered Chuck Taylors, she had long, damp toes crowded together like boiled peanuts. The longest toe looked like it could have held three big seeds, ready to be sucked out, while the pinkie toe looked more like one of those swollen little peanuts that only had one seed. On those large, sweating feet she rocked. Hope was waiting for her mother to get ready so she could catch a ride downtown to apply for summer jobs. Hope might have been eighteen years old, but she didn’t have a car of her own and, if she didn’t have to, she preferred not to walk downtown. It only would have taken twenty minutes but the blocks in between were rough territory. Grown men rode bicycles on the side of the road, the seats too low and the frames too small, crunching over the broken glass of liquor pints. The sound of their rusted, squeaking chains was the sound of going nowhere very slowly. It was May of 2009, well into the Great Recession, and the national unemployment rate was 9.4% for adults and 22.7% for teenagers. The world Hope had grown up in was not the world she was becoming an adult in. She heard her mother moving around inside, taking forever to get ready for a dinner-date with a man she’d met on a website called Rich in Love. Hope twisted her résumés into a telescope and brought the telescope to her right eye. She looked at an apple-headed Chihuahua wandering the sidewalk and kids playing basketball across the street and then her gaze drifted up to the graffitied water tower that overlooked the entire neighborhood of old mill village houses. The houses had been renovated in the ‘80s and had originally attracted white, middle-class buyers who appreciated the history and charm, and also the metal yard art that had been created 7 by a local artist and placed on street corners to add personality, sunflowers in copper and steel, the faces of which seemed to absorb sunlight and reflect the brightness tenfold, catching the eyes of little kids on pogo sticks and knocking them to the ground, temporarily blind, but the neighborhood had suffered ever since the recession hit, just like the greater city of Greenville, South Carolina, had suffered. The sunflowers had been uprooted, stolen, and sold for scrap long ago. Through the paper telescope, Hope saw foreclosure signs up and down the street. This was not a good time to be “entering the world.” That was how her teachers put it, at least, as if graduating from high school meant that a big door was going to open and all of the students would walk through together, hand in hand, heads lifted, and suddenly enter an entirely new arena. Hope knew it wasn’t true. There was no walking from one world into another. It was all the same world, like a football field, and if you craned your neck you could see from one end to the other and know everything there was to know. If you had your eyes open, there really weren’t any surprises. Some people craned their necks and refused to believe that what lay before them was all there was, as if that weren’t enough, as if, for life to be bearable, there needed to be something more. Those were the ones who believed in doors to other worlds. Hope had believed in them, too, when she was younger and still reading her children’s Bible, with the coloring pages at the end of every chapter, and wishing that she could move through a door and be back to the life she’d known for her first eight years, with a family that was whole, or at least appeared, in her innocent understanding of things, to be whole. In those eight years, she had known what it was like to go to bed and have both parents in the house, the two of them nearby, at her service, and if she ever woke up from a nightmare at least one of them would come to her. Once she’d had been a terrible dream, something about a dog’s tail getting 8 chopped off in a screen door, and both of her parents came into her bedroom that night and rubbed her arms and said how amazed they were at the number of tears she could produce. They distracted her in that way, counting the tears that snaked the length of her face, pale and delicate then as if molded from sugar cookie dough, and eventually she calmed down and went back to sleep. That was the only time she remembered them both being there. Not long after, her parents divorced due to a general unhappiness that had been, for years, a dull and nagging pain. Hope’s father moved to Texas hill country, where he lived in a yellow house with a propane tank, a Mexican girlfriend named Maribel, and a pack of dogs. Hope eventually outgrew the children’s Bible and visions of alternate realities. She quit kidding herself and believed that the only real things were the things you could see. It was a survival tactic. In truth, she wasn’t broken-up when the recession hit. Growing up with a single mother was a surefire way to make a child suspicious of stability, like the whole thing could collapse at any minute, and, more often than not, it did collapse. Only a matter of time. Another thing about growing up with a single mother was that it made a child prepared for hardship in a way that other children were not. Hope wasn’t the type to whine or complain or cry out in frustration, even if frustration was what she felt. She thought her job was to be tough, because her mother had been tough in those long years of solitary child-rearing. As Hope waited on the porch, she knew her mother was probably inside, applying more lipstick, dabbing it with toilet paper, using her finger to smudge the color that went outside the lines of her lips, then applying more lipstick. It wasn’t really about getting the makeup perfect. It was more about taking time to think things over in her head, anticipating what the date might be like, if the man would be a good one, a rich one. They were never both. Hope called, “Are you ready yet?” 9 Her mom called back, “One second,” but the calmness of her voice said otherwise. Calmness meant, I’m taking my time, sister, I’ll be out when I damn well please. The sun moved behind the water tower and Hope lowered the telescope of résumés. Everything rested in the blue shadow of the tower and Hope felt the coolness of it on her skin, a relief from the heat of May. She had long, blond hair that made her neck sweat. Her hair was parted down the middle so that it fell like two curtains on either side of her face, much like the older Brady Bunch girls, although she wouldn’t have appreciated the comparison. She liked her hair not because it was pretty but because it was a thing she could hide behind. The kids playing basketball across the street looked at her every so often and she imagined that when the hair fell it front of her eyes, they could no longer see her. The kids, Ben and his little sister Easy Beth, shortened from Easy to Beat, a nickname that came to be because she was so unbearably bad at the game Horse, liked it when Hope used to play basketball with them. She he had gotten so tall so fast, standing six-foot when fully upright, that she had been able to lift Easy Beth overhead and let the little girl dunk the ball, with her brother shouting, “Swish!” below them, like an ant.
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