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BRETT L. ZELMAN’S MASTER THESIS BRETT L. ZELMAN Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Cleveland State University May 2016 Submitted in partial fulfillment of requirements for the degree MASTER OF FINE ARTS IN CREATIVE WRITING at the NORTHEAST OHIO MFA and CLEVELAND STATE UNIVERSITY May 2016 We hereby approve this thesis For Brett L. Zelman Candidate for the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing degree Department of English, the Northeast Ohio MFA Program and CLEVELAND STATE UNIVERSITY’S College of Graduate Studies by Thesis Chairperson, Professor Imad Rahman: _______________________________________________________________________ Department of English, May 4, 2016 Professor Mike Geither: _______________________________________________________________________ Department of English, May 4, 2016 Professor Eric Wasserman: _______________________________________________________________________ Department of English, May 4, 2016 _______________________________________________________________________ May 4, 2016 BRETT L. ZELMAN’S MASTER THESIS BRETT L. ZELMAN ABSTRACT This thesis is a work of fiction. It is a collection of short stories and one novel-in- progress. The work is written mostly in the literary realism genre along with some satirical aspects, satirizing pop culture and the millennial generation. Main themes are personal experience, familial dynamics and community. iii TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT…………………..…………………..…………………..………………….iii STORIES I. I SAW HER SITTING THERE………….…………………..………....…….1 II. SOME PEOPLE…...………..………..………..………..………..….……..28 III. CANE AVOIDANCE IN THE ERA OF HERM………..……..……...…..48 IV. NANJING ROAD…………..………..………..………..………..……..….58 V. BRIEF SPEED DATING WITH APPARENT IDIOT…….....…...……….85 VI. BEING A JEW IN MODERN DAY AMERICA (AND NOT DISAPPOINTING YOUR BUBBE)…………………………………………...93 VII. ON THE UP AND UP…………..…………..…………..……………….106 VIII. FIELD WORK..…………..…………..…………..…………..………....110 IX. BIRD ON A BROKEN WING.…………..…………..…………..….…...133 iv STORIES I. I SAW HER SITTING THERE I first saw her at orientation; we were both starting our first year in an MFA program, getting our masters in creative writing; me in fiction, she in poetry. We were sitting at the same table. Well, she was sitting there when I walked in and something drew me towards that table. I sat a couple of seats away from her as to not make it so obvious that I wanted to talk to her. I introduced myself and told her I was really looking forward to classes starting. She didn’t seem to have much interest in me because she barely said a word when I introduced myself. Just her name and that she was there to write poetry. “What kind of poetry do you write?” I stupidly asked her. I really didn’t know a damn thing about poetry at the time. I guess I still don’t know all that much today either outside of teaching some of the classics like Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman and those types. “What do you mean what kind of poetry?” she said. 1 “Like sonnets or prose or whatever?” I asked. I knew this sounded stupid; a poet doesn’t have to specialize in one form of poetry. “Whatever comes into my head, I guess,” she said. “Awesome,” I exclaimed, sounding like an idiot. The orientation began to start which was probably a good thing for me. This first conversation didn’t go anywhere, but it wasn’t a big program and hopefully we’d be forced to have some more interactions in the future, either readings or taking a class or two together. That first semester for me personally was about getting settled into the program. I was taking a fiction workshop, a playwriting workshop and a literature course, none of them with her unfortunately. There were also a couple of events scheduled for people in our graduate program, things like readings and outside guests coming in to give workshops to our program. She was absent at all of these events. We had a graduate lounge on campus where we would hang out and talk before class, or read the stories we were suppose to have commented on for that week’s workshop if we waited until the last minute. I saw her in the lounge a couple of times. I’d already be sitting in there, marking up a classmate’s story, and she would come in and sit in the opposite corner of the lounge. She’d smile at me when she walked in, probably more out of politeness than anything having to do with our exchange during orientation, but that was about it, not much of a ‘how are you’ or even a ‘hello’. I was infatuated with her though. I tried to work up the nerve to go over and say something but she never really looked up from 2 her work and I told myself I was trying to avoid being rude when in reality I was just intimidated by her whole being. I asked around to some other people in the program what her deal was and if she was always so standoffish. A couple of my classmates told me that she pretty much kept to herself. My friend Adam said that during their break from their poetry workshop, most of the class would gather outside of the class and talk, while she’d stay seated in the classroom playing on her phone. Adam also said that the poetry class had gone out to the bar close to campus a couple of times after class and she didn’t come nor seem to have any interest in coming. “One thing I’ll say though, man, is she can be very passionate in class when discussing poetry. She either absolutely hates something or loves it with a passion, and she almost always lets the class know which way she’s leaning. It can get pretty intense,” Adam said to me. “How’s her poetry?” I asked him. “It’s not amazing, but I think it could be. Very raw.” He also told me that she seemed to have a rough upbringing, one that led to her interest in poetry but he was unsure about the details that brought her to poetry. I think I might’ve recognized that passion in her the first time I saw her; maybe it was the way she carried herself, like she was going to kill it in this program by any means necessary. I still remember what she was wearing the first time I saw her, at the orientation. She was rocking a badass leather jacket even though it was still quite warm out, with ripped black jeans, but not the kind 3 you buy ripped, just ones that she must’ve loved so much that she continued wearing them even with the holes in them. I’ve never understood the fashion of the other type of ripped jeans, the ones that come pre-ripped as some sort of fashion statement. It’s sort of like the clothing companies powers that be are commodifying poverty. Anyway, she stood out, not just her clothes, but also the confidence that she carried herself with. That confidence and passion that just oozed from her was probably what drew me to her and the main reason I thought about her a lot and had this crush on her even though we never really talked much. I’d had crushes before, but it was usually after I got to know someone. This was something different, something that I played out almost exclusively in my mind because that’s all I really had to go on with her. My life at that point consisted of hanging out with friends’ from school, writing, going to classes, doing my graduate assistantship which consisted of working/tutoring/proofreading in the writing center on campus and also walking my dog. Finally one day, about a month into our second semester in the program, we were both sitting in the lounge and I got up and sat at the computer right next to her. “How’s it goin’?,” I asked. “Fine,” she said. She wasn’t going to make this easy on me; I was perfectly fine with having to work for her attention, but I at least wanted her to be aware of my existence in 4 the room and in the program or at the very least my existence on the planet. At this point, I knew she knew I existed, but highly doubt she thought anything of me besides that I existed. “I know we’ve seen each other around, but not sure we actually ever met. I’m Craig,” I said. “Fiona,” she replied. “Nice to meet you Fiona. You ever watch Shameless? Fiona’s such a great character. Cool name,” I said. “No,” she said. “Are you from the area?” I asked. “Not really. I grew up in a pretty rural area,” she said. “I’m Craig by the way,” I said. “Yeah, you already said that,” she said. I was pretty nervous to finally have this exchange that was playing out in my head for the past couple of months. “So what are you working on?” I asked. “A poem,” she said. This was proving to be difficult getting her to open up. But my questions could’ve probably been a little more intriguing. “How’s the program treating you so far?” I asked. “The program sounds like we’re all in AA,” she said. Maybe that was something I could use, I thought to myself. She finally gave something besides a one or two word answer. 5 “Ha, yeah, I know what you mean. Maybe we all should be in a 12-step program though, the way some of us fiction writers drink,” I said. “Poets and playwrights too for that matter.” She smiled. “Anyway, I was wondering if you’d maybe want to grab a drink sometime? Not just with me, like one on one.

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