NOTE TO USERS This reproduction is the best copy available. MISSING By Ivy Lynne Porpotage Submitted to the Faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences of American University in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Fine Arts In Creative Writing Chair: (& :::,, Richard Mccann ~ Dean of the College ~a~ Ztr7y Date 2008 American University Washington, D.C. 20016 AMERICAN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY °I 3 OS UMI Number: 1460504 INFORMATION TO USERS The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. Broken or indistinct print, colored or poor quality illustrations and photographs, print bleed-through, substandard margins, and improper alignment can adversely affect reproduction. In the unlikely event that the author did not send a complete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if unauthorized copyright material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion. ® UMI UM I M icroform 1460504 Copyright 2009 by ProQuest LLC. All rights reserved. This microform edition is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code. ProQuest LLC 789 E. Eisenhower Parkway PO Box 1346 Ann Arbor, Ml 48106-1346 ©COPYRIGHT By Ivy Lynne Porpotage 2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED MISSING BY Ivy Lynne Porpotage ABSTRACT Missing is a collection of original stories whose characters, both imagined and real, struggle with dissatisfaction in their connections to others and bewilderment about their relation to the world. Some characters long for something that's been absent from their lives for years, like the narrator in "Elvis has Left the Building," who, after the death of her mother, seeks out the father she has never known. Some characters, like the narrator in "Couch Potato Chronicles," yearn for an intangible source of fulfillment they can't quite identify, much less articulate. And other, more hapless characters simply flounder, unaware that what's missing is right in front of them. The roots of their emotional voids and ignorance are revealed through the journeys they take as they explore their past, present, and future lives-some recognizing and filling the empty spaces and others unwittingly moving on, undoubtedly destined to face what's missing again. 11 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I would like to thank Professor Richard McCann, PhD and Associate Professor Keith Leonard, PhD for their support, patience, and thoughtful feedback. I am also grateful to former Assistant Professor E.J. Levy for her early contributions to this work. 111 TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT ....................................................................................................................... ii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ............................................................................................. iii STORIES YOU ARE THE MUSIC WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS ............................................ 1 EL VIS HAS LEFT THE BUILDING ......................................................................... 13 COUCH POTATO CHRONICLES .......................................................................... 32 SEARCHING FOR FAIRIES ..................................................................................... 43 GIOVANNI'S CELL ................................................................................................... 59 NOWAKE ................................................................................................................... 66 AMOTHER CONVERSATION ................................................................................ 70 CHARACTERS ........................................................................................................... 74 NOVIE ......................................................................................................................... 78 IV YOU ARE THE MUSIC WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS Some people's lives have a sort of music. Mine has never been like that. Sure, I've had musical moments-periods of time that are defined by the music that I listened to-but they are all in the past and seem to exist most prominently in memories of old boyfriends. It probably started with my college boyfriend Ted, who had U2 vanity license plates on his Ford Taurus. He was my first boyfriend and a pretty good one at that. He was devoted and adoring, generous and kind, and eventually that seemed like too much for me. We couldn't harmonize. His range was too great or perhaps my vibrato too strong. He was giving more than I could return. Much as I love U2 myself, I still cringe when I hear "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For." Perhaps because the song is / infused with the ~elings I was experiencing in the emotional end to our relationship. I started se ing Joey-my first love-about a year later. He was the most unlikely of boy riends and yet I fell for him with the impassioned drama of a cadenza. Our r lationship began during a hot Charlottesville summer when 1 2 I the Dave Matth~ws Band played a local club called Traxx. Joey talked to them after their sets id fancied himself an inspiration. But it was Sade-Lovers Rock-that hep' ayed when we made love. The gentle and soulful odes still remind me of ~at summer and the encore I've been waiting for since. I Shortly aft~r college, during a group retreat in West Virginia, I was I reintroduced t4 Keith, who had been a grad student while I was in undergrad. We had friends/ in common. The attraction was immediate and obvious. So when he follo.jed me outside that first evening and kissed me under the bright white moon, it ~med only natural that Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight" played on the tmtable in my mind as we danced in perfect rhythm to the I sounds nature provided. I lost that song to him that night and though the relationship wt short, I've never gotten it back. Perhaps a [ear later, I hosted an old friend interviewing for residencies at east coast med 1schools. John's feelings for me had never been a secret in high I school. He war a romantic and had written me a sonnet-derived from the I Occitan and It1lian words meaning little song-it was the only love poem I ever I received. But jf-st like the volta in his sonnet, his visit took a tum when he I played"Alonelwith You" by The Outfield, telling me the song makes him think I I I I 3 I of me, even tho~gh his fiana', Caitlin, thinks ifs hers. I realized then that I was I experiencing ieone else's musical moment. Several ye*s later, I met Tom at work. We got to know each other during a number of grot outings and found common ground in our affinity for sarcasm. I He indoctrinated me into country music with his love for Junior Brown and the sardonic deligh~ he took in songs like "My Wife Thinks Your Dead." Strange I I considering his inability to see the satire in the face of his own relationship is what eventually led to our surmise. Somehow we could never quite get in tempo. I I I There hav, been no Teds, Joeys, Keiths, Johns, or Toms in my life for some time. Somewh¢re a long the line I retreated into my own day-to-day routine, I ignoring my n+d for human companionship. Though I continued to visit with I my erstwhile £lends, I spent my nights in the company of the strangers on my television. It c uld be that I was trying to fill a hole in my life when I got Lola- 1 that I was looig for that music I missed. I just knew I wanted a dog. I don't think I got Lol~ to replace something. I didn't need to receive love; I needed to I give it. At Ieasj that's what I told myself. I' 4 Lola has m y friends I don't know. She meets them trotting along the chain link fence body wagging, thick tail sweeping the air, offering a neighborly "hello, I'm-happy-to-see-you." With her back legs planted on the ground, brindle-colored paws gracing the top of the fence, pink tongue with one black spot lolling, sh talks to the condo kids coming home from school, the work-a­ day commuters heading home from the bus, and the Fed-Ex drivers delivering Ballard Design purchases to my next-door neighbor. Lola is a classic mutt-a mid-size combination of breeds I can't identify. And like most mix-breeds, she has a sweet an even temperament. The mailman claims she is the nicest dog in Morning is her favorite part of the day. I hear her saunter into my bedroom, tags jangling. She sits down next to the platform bed, relieving a heavy sigh into my face with h r warm breath. It's the first thing I see when I open my eyes­ her face. The a arm clock with its blaring red letters is the second. 6:05 a.m. I reach over and my fingers across the top of her head and down her silky ear. She licks my hand. "Good morning, baby. You need to go outside?" It's really forgone conclusion, but I ask the question anyway-more for my benefit than he s. She's the closest thing I have to a warm body next to me in the 5 morning and I take the opportunity to remind myself I'm not alone. The minute the question is jpoken, she heads toward the door, turning back only to make sure I am reallylgetting up. Rubbing my eyes, I walk to the stairs, where Lola stands patiently eyeing my movements. I almost trip over her as I take my first step. It's her cu~ and she retreats down the stairs in a smooth cadence I can't quite match. Sle'll be waiting when I arrive at the back door. I fumble with the lock then pull the door open and reach to push open the creaky screen door. Periodically, I ~ance out the window and see her sitting in the front-most comer of the yard. The spot is now bare, no grass will grow there. She watches the kids approach the Jddle school across the street from all directions. Parents pull into the circula1 drop-off and yellow buses unload their cargo. Then she begins her a capella recital.