ABSTRACT PRETEND This is a collection of short stories that weave together elements of reality with hints of the uncanny in order to juxtapose the idea of stunted hopes and dreams in the modern world. Many of the characters throughout this collection are dreamers faced with the harsh reality of social expectations, love that does not fulfill or is unrequited, and even the dangers of an ever-increasing desensitization to violence and sex as a society. These individuals live their lives through their imaginations, but are impeded by the world around them, their dreams encroached upon by a dark strangeness that is both enticing and repulsive. To survive, in a sense, they must hold on to the memories that tether them to what they hold dear. To remain sane, they must pretend. Brandon Baker May 2015 PRETEND by Brandon Baker A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in the College of Arts and Humanities California State University, Fresno May 2015 APPROVED For the Department of English: We, the undersigned, certify that the thesis of the following student meets the required standards of scholarship, format, and style of the university and the student's graduate degree program for the awarding of the master's degree. Brandon Baker Thesis Author Randa Jarrar (Chair) English Alex Espinoza English John Hales English For the University Graduate Committee: Dean, Division of Graduate Studies AUTHORIZATION FOR REPRODUCTION OF MASTER’S THESIS I grant permission for the reproduction of this thesis in part or in its entirety without further authorization from me, on the condition that the person or agency requesting reproduction absorbs the cost and provides proper acknowledgment of authorship. X Permission to reproduce this thesis in part or in its entirety must be obtained from me. Signature of thesis author: TABLE OF CONTENTS Page DIG ....................................................................................................................... 1 THE ADVENTURES OF DOUGLASS BEAN – “NOT EVERYTHING BEAUTIFUL IS GOOD!” BY DOUGLASS BEAN .................................. 18 THE OCEAN BLUE .............................................................................................. 22 RESTRICTED ........................................................................................................ 41 DEEP NIGHT ......................................................................................................... 57 ANXIETY .............................................................................................................. 61 WAVE .................................................................................................................... 82 SUICIDELAND ..................................................................................................... 84 THINGS UNSEEN ................................................................................................. 92 ROOM 213 ............................................................................................................. 99 THE CHILDREN ON CHESTNUT STREET ..................................................... 107 EBB TIDE ............................................................................................................ 113 BEFORE ............................................................................................................... 117 DARLING ............................................................................................................ 141 Pretend you’re happy when you’re blue. It isn’t very hard to do. And you’ll find happiness without an end if only you pretend. -Lew Douglas DIG I’m not quite sure when I started gaining weight, but I was never aware it was an issue until sixth grade, when a fourth grader at recess jokingly begged me not to sit on him. That was back when I used to report to my mom all of the things that had happened at school every day over ice cream, and I remember her looking sad and saying that she needed to learn to cook. We lived in a small town and everyone knew each other, so we all felt separate from the world but together as a whole. Our family was different because my dad was always travelling, and even had apartments in different bigger towns where he visited often, but that’s what I considered normal at the time. He’d punch me on the shoulder and ruffle my Gecko shirt, and then say that looking at me was like looking in a mirror. Everyone always said I looked like him, but it was hard to tell because I only ever saw him in a suit and groomed to perfection. Sometimes he’d loosen his tie, take it off and wrap it around my neck when he’d come home from his travels. When I looked in the mirror with those ties, I could see the resemblance in spite of the fact that I was a bit frumpy and awkward, growing hair too soon and in places I didn’t want. I never felt like being different was bad, however, until I entered middle school last year and everyone started to separate and act like their differences were superior to mine. When Donald started digging, I simply deflected the shame onto him, though it wasn’t a complete transition. I didn’t think anything of it at first— handicapped kids always had their own eccentricities we weren’t supposed to notice out loud. But the day Jake pushed me in front of a popular girl that I had almost couple-skated with once, I tripped over one of the holes Donald had dug and saw an opportunity. 2 2 “Fat Frankie can’t walk can he, Fat Frankie falls better than he can walk.” Jake checked his collar to make sure it was popped up, and nobody said anything about the allergy-ridden runny nose he constantly fought by sniffling. He also looked down whenever any authority figure would talk to him and he’d mumble out of the side of his mouth but say “Yessir” with sincerity, even if it was a lady. Nobody ever talked back to him though, because somehow the allergies and nervous ticks and Yessirs weren’t different enough to exclude him. And because he liked hurting people. “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t my fault,” I said. “What was that, Fatty?” “It’s Donald’s fault.” “Who?” “Donald, the… the retard. He digs.” “What do you mean, he digs.” “He digs holes everywhere, that’s why I fell.” “He digs holes? Does that make you less fat, you fat piggy fuck?” “I’m just saying, he digs everywhere because he’s retarded and he thinks there’s buried treasure.” As if on cue, Donald, chubby like me, ran out of a nearby classroom, his uneven eyes darting around for a good spot to begin. He ran over to a planter by the science building and started going at the dirt with his bare hands. I pointed and Jake saw Donald. “Is that Donnie?” “It’s the Duck,” one of his cohorts retorted. Donald had grown up with all of us since we were in Kindergarten. His differences stood out immediately, and he had been ostracized at an early age from 3 3 the group activities and classes that once united us all. Everyone made fun of him back then, before we knew it was wrong to point out things we didn’t understand—and sometimes even after we knew. “Hey, Donnie!” Jake shouted across the quad. Donald looked up, clearly thinking he was in trouble, and shuffled off behind nearby bushes. “What’s he doing?” The bushes started shaking and then pieces of dirt flew in a small arc from behind them. “He’s digging. Hm.” Jake contemplated his new victim for the rest of the week. He left me alone after that and he and his cronies started putting things like poop and roadkill in the ground. They even had me help a couple of times, but I didn’t think we were doing much damage. Sometimes, I would hide fun things—well, colorful things like candy bar wrappers and juice boxes—so Donald would find something that made his digging feel worthwhile. I thought I was helping, but I think I was just spurring him on, enabling an unfortunate habit. He didn’t seem to understand that he was being mocked, though, and when Jake would confront him, he would just mumble the word dig over and over again until Jake would push him and walk away. Then Donald would nod and head for the nearest planter. They would make fun of him behind his back, but let me stand just outside of their circle and laugh. They pointed out his moth-bitten shirt with an embossed image of Charlie Chaplin’s face—the shirt that he wore every day. They commented on the delicate gold heart locket he wore around his neck, the red fanny pack he collected his treasures in, and the hair on the back of his ears and neck. They never left out the thick lens on his uneven goggles that made his eyes look like those of a wild tarsier. And all the 4 4 while, Donald never seemed to notice, never seemed to care. I sort of envied the kid, but I could never say it out loud. He seemed happy searching for treasure, and a part of me wished he would find it and shut everyone up. “Dig, dig, dig, dig.” Of course, the faculty attempted to stop the digging a number of times, even confining him to a sort of detention at lunchtime in order to keep him away from the dirt. They eventually just gave up, realizing that he was at least respectful by avoiding grass and plants in his mission—also, he never got very far, stopping as the dirt grew harder. I once tried politely asking him what he was doing, perhaps regretting the passive bully I had become and hoping to make up for my sins with friendship. He just responded by shouting the word dig and clapping. Then he pointed down at where I was standing and said dig over and over again until it didn’t sound like a real word anymore—until I analyzed every sound possible by those combination of letters and came up short. I later came to find out that his parents had died when he was young but that his father used to read him pirate stories full of adventures, kraken hunting and of course, buried treasure. After that, he had been sent to his widowed grandma’s farm and had spent many a Sunday morning ditching church and digging anywhere he could find free soil at home.