ABSTRACT a SEAHORSE RODEO by Shawn Harwell This Novel Details

ABSTRACT A SEAHORSE RODEO by Shawn Harwell This novel details the events of the weeks following the graduation of Lipton Greely from college. Lipton is a history major planning to spend his summer at his father’s house in the small furniture town of Lenoir researching a hypothesis. At the end of summer, he’ll be moving from his home state of North Carolina to Atlanta for graduate school, and Lipton can hardly wait. Unfortunately, his enthusiasm suffers an instant blow the moment he spots Evan Barnes, one time friend and current nemesis, standing on the lawn outside the graduation hall smoking a joint. This is the same Evan Barnes who played a part in Lipton’s first real heartache seven years earlier, and the wounds still sting. Evan is friendly and casual, but Lipton can’t help suspect his old friend has an ulterior motive for the sudden appearance. A SEAHORSE RODEO A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of Miami University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts Department of English by Shawn David Harwell Miami University Oxford, Ohio 2005 Advisor__________________________ Eric Goodman Reader___________________________ Kay Sloan Reader___________________________ Brian Roley TABLE OF CONTENTS A SEAHORSE RODEO by Shawn Harwell Part One…………………………………………………………………p.1 Part Two………………………………………………………………....p.73 Part Three………………………………………………………………..p.150 Part Four…………………………………………………………………p.172 ii ONE “Whoop!” Lipton Greely allowed, as he stepped into the sunlight from the massive domed blob where phase one of his college career had come to a ceremoniously dull resolution. A history major specializing in the Civil War era, Lipton had a theory positioning the oft-heard phrase “The South Shall Rise Again!” alongside recent advancements in the production and marketing of pharmaceuticals aimed at treating erectile dysfunction. It wasn’t much more than a theory in its current state, a hypothesis really, for a project that would require much research, the conducting of interviews, and, perhaps, embarrassing measurements, over the course of the summer and beyond throughout his beloved South. This theory, or hypothesis, along with his overall academic record had landed Lipton in a prominent graduate program in Atlanta, and it was the illuminated promise of future studies which kept him awake during a multitude of numbing speeches about metaphorical paths, roads, and intersections. So, unlike most of his fellow undergrads, Lipton’s celebratory caw was one of relief more than release, and his demeanor was relaxed despite his naturally hunched bony shoulders. Then, like a horse crashing into a wall, he saw him. Evan Barnes. Barnesy. Barnbuster. Barnacle breath. The nicknames were the first thing Lipton thought of when he saw him leaning against a tree in a grassy area a more civilized person would have thought to keep off, smoking what Lipton could tell was definitely not a tobacco cigarette. Barnacle breath. He had on khaki shorts well above the knees, a white t-shirt, no pocket, a visible orange stain near the neck, too small sunglasses over his eyes, and a full milky face as if he were going to vomit or had recently. Although Lipton had sworn off the words as derogative, he couldn’t help but think redneck, another nickname, and then hillbilly, yet another. Lipton had a spot on his eye, something he’d only noticed recently and had begun to develop a slight concern for as it seemed to be permanent, that was small like a fleck of ash, gray and in the shape of a tiny seahorse. He noticed it mostly when he was looking at some undistinguished image, and when he turned to the pale, humid Carolina May sky, the seahorse swam back and forth in between blinks, and disappeared again when Lipton decided he had no choice but to approach Barnesy. 1 “Nice gown, Cujo,” said Evan, his own nickname for Lipton. It had been seven years since anyone had called him that, and the fact that he had no idea how he had earned said nickname simply made hearing it again all the worse. Evan took his sunglasses off with some difficulty due to their tightness against his face, which left lengthy slender imprints above his ears. His eyes were muddy brown, the skin below puffy and dark like grapes. “I guess this whole college thing is something you done real good.” Hick, Lipton thought unable to help himself. Bumpkin, cracker, cornpone. Evan moved closer, his hand outstretched to shake, but the stench of marijuana overwhelmed Lipton and spun him into a coughing spell. As if he had forgotten it were there, Evan looked at the joint then took a quick sip before throwing it on the ground and extinguishing it beneath the toe of his camel colored work boot. “How’s it feel?” he asked. “How does what feel?” Lipton spoke short, still struggling for breath. He certainly hadn’t invited Evan and knew this sudden appearance was cloaked in the ulterior. Evan wanted something, he was sure of it. “Graduating college,” Evan said, an air of excitement in his slow, low registered, voice. “Now, you can pretty much do whatever, right?” He smiled at him and it was then Lipton noticed how closely Evan resembled the sun, round and unrelenting, full of something hot and unbearable. Lipton’s face was damp with sweat, his ribcage wet with the runoff from armpits caged beneath a starchy button-up and the stifling black gown. He looked at the sky and his seahorse galloped across lines of clouds like fuzzy ice, and Lipton saw things from his own history with Barnbuster, Hickbilly, Redbreath that made him feel like he could die at any moment; his future Atlanta nothing but a fiery march for days that would only end draped over a bayonet, sliding, sliding, sliding. Call it a premonition, of sorts, the motivating intangible. Whatever it was, it stirred. Lipton, with the springing force of seven years, struck forth a lanky arm and punched Evan in the stomach as hard as he knew how. Surprised and elated, he darted back into the throng. * * * 2 Seven years; the proverbial Itch. Wars were fought in seven years, notably the Seven Years’ War, though scholars disagree over the accuracy of that title in regards to the battles in North America. Between Evan and Lipton, however, the dates were unmistakable; when something happens on New Year’s Day, you remember it. And it was January 1st, 1997 when Evan did what he did, so, and not so, long ago. The temptation to label it a typical sophomore grudge is strong – for it involves matters of the heart and was very much a high school thing. But then grudges tend not to itch for seven years, do they? Surely, after seven years it must be called something else entirely: conflict, bitterness, rivalry, war. And for seven years the two men engaged in their particular brands of dispute, which when between one very out of shape stickly young Lipton and one diabolically unfit rotund Evan, translated mostly to silence, avoidance, and utter dismissal. So, you can see why Evan’s appearance, like Sherman’s, on territory that was decidedly Lipton’s would strike such a rekindling spark. But there could be no surrender now. Things had to burn awhile yet. Among the crowd, Lipton found and embraced his father and girlfriend, threw his cap to the non-existent wind, and escorted them immediately towards the parking lot. Over his shoulder he saw no signs of Evan, and knew that his victory here would stand, small but decisive. “Sic Semper Tyrannis!” he screamed and his fellow graduates cheered wildly in response, orgasmic in the mere joy of making a collected noise one last time. 3 TWO Paul Greely was a man who accepted more than he understood. He accepted that his son Lipton was a history major, though he didn’t understand what that meant for him in today’s marketplace. He accepted Lipton had a watchamacallit about the South and those blue pills he’d seen on TV, but he didn’t understand what in the world the two had to do with one another. He accepted that Lipton seemed to be in no hurry to marry this girl, Nora Varner, a sweet, perfectly good looking thing, but he didn’t understand why not. A man needed a good woman, at least for a little while. His Jenny had left him ten years ago, but he didn’t regret what they had together, not a single day of it. He thought she should’ve shown up for her son’s college graduation, but she had a life in Florida now, and this too he accepted. At a table in a fancy restaurant that was actually a house, Paul sat across from his son and his son’s girlfriend, and tried not to smile. His teeth were crooked and yellow from smoke, and altogether too big for his lips, which made concealing them even harder. He was sure proud though, boy. He didn’t need to understand things to feel that. He patted his short messy hair, a mound of mulch faded by the sun, with thin fingers whose skin was starting to wrinkle. “You two get whatever you want. My treat,” he said and it was something he’d always wanted to say, though never had the occasion, save for a few dinners while on vacation before his wife left the family. He’d said it once to her, he remembered, and she’d ordered soup. “Thanks, Paul,” Nora said and smiled at him. His teeth came loose from his lips and he tried to recover.

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