ONE TRACK MIND by Joel David Kassay A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of The Dorothy F. Schmidt College of Arts and Letters in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Fine Arts Florida Atlantic University Boca Raton, Florida August 2003 ONE TRACK MIND by Joel David Kassay This thesis was prepared under the direction of the candidate's thesis advisor, Dr. Jason Schwartz, Department of English, and has been approved by the members of his supervisory committee. It was submitted to the faculty of The Dorothy F. Schmidt College of Arts and Letters and was accepted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts. SUPERVISORY COMMITTEE: Date 11 ABSTRACT Author: Joel David Kassay Title: One Track Mind Institution: Florida Atlantic University Advisor: Dr. Jason Schwartz Degree: Master of Fine Arts Year: 2003 One Track Mind is a world wherein characters, driven by their unique, individual sexualities, are both prey and companionship for each other. The resulting, incessant shifting between cooperation and competition comprises the dramatic action of the stories. However, more dramatic than much of the action are the stylistic shifts of narration-both within and among the stories. This diversity of narrative style, much more so than invocation of place-names, describes and defines the myriad landscapes of the world of One Track Mind: serene and absurd, lush and sparse, sincere and sardonic. 111 Table of Contents Quondam Quarry ..................................................................................................... 1 Because Sometimes Awakenings Come Right on Time Like Trains .................... 24 Cure for Insomnia .................................................................................................. 3 7 Another Encounter ................................................................................................. 41 The Girl Who Took to Practicing Dying ............................................................... 60 Palm Trees; Nightclubs; Coffee ............................................................................. 80 Reassessed .............................................................................................................. 96 Hollow Conversation ........................................................................................... 113 What There Is ....................................................................................................... 11 7 Loser .................................................................................................................... 128 Echo-Stroke .......................................................................................................... 144 Nominal Fee ......................................................................................................... 164 One Bedroom Over .............................................................................................. 191 Special Weapons and Tactics ............................................................................... 205 Filled to Over:flowing ........................................................................................... 211 lV Quondam Quarry When it comes to humping, I'm nothing like your usual panda. This fact occurs to me as I spank a six-foot-tall, fluorescent orange, velour rabbit, or perhaps while said rabbit spanks me. I can't say I remember exactly. What I do remember are the pads of those front paws-white, not the black you might expect (to go with the harshness of the orange )-and my marvel at how they stay so clean. Especially when the two ofus are being so dirty. I wonder about myself; if my animal identity is supposed to match my original one, how come I didn't pick a creature more representative of this libido I'm always failing to contain? Why did I pick a panda instead of a rabbit? Why are my white belly and head a little grimy all the time, when these rabbit paws I'm sucking on are nearly pristine? I dress up in bigger-than-people-sized, fuzzy animal suits, and I have sex with people who do the same. Certain questions persist, even for me. At least one or two of the answers come when I'm at work the next day. Work, like play, involves my panda self. (After a while, you try not to call it a costume.) Work also involves walking around Wally's Wonder World-the largest amusement park in Oregon-and having my picture taken with the children who run up and hug me. "Smile honey, just like your panda friend there." The little girl's dad, clearly an object of resentment for the unfortunate people who work under him wherever it is he collects a paycheck from, says to his pretty-but-clingy daughter. 1 We're not friends, I think to myself, we're really only acquaintances. It's not like I wouldn't be friends, but really, let's recognize a professional relationship when we see one. It's not like this child and I have anything in common, any shared experience other than that photograph. I watch the kid run back up to her dad as though, all of a sudden, I'd tried to eat her or told her she was ugly. (They all do that, to all of us; children's photo op is a thankless job.) Behind me is a topiary in the shape of a dragon; it's even got fire-like fern emanating from its mouth. Something about the overall affect strikes me as laughing. Right now, at me. Of course, I'm still looking at the kid, not the dragon tree, but I know it's there the same way all of my dreams take place in this park, I've worked here so long. "Actually, if you note the ovular mouth, and the bottoms of the eyes, you can tell it's really more of a surprised panda. There's not really a smile there at all." This from Gabe, my art-student escort, who thinks he's smart. Wally's Wonder World requires that all "costumed personalities" be accompanied by an unfettered escort, for security reasons. "Thanks, big guy," the dad smirks at Gabe, and walks away, dragging his daughter along. Another picture of me in tow, somewhere inside his camera. "Dick," Gabe offers to the man's back. A sneeze is my contribution. I tell myself that the sneeze is an allergic reaction to that suggestion of confrontation. (Mine is not a job one wants to do with a stuffy nose; a full-blown cold is grounds for retirement.) The dad looks back at us, and must tell himselfthat all he heard was the sneeze, because he doesn't say anything and just keeps walking away, his daughter already pointing to a purple-bulldog colleague of mine 2 standing just outside the building that houses the Haunted Castle Ghoster Coaster. I don't even bother to care, this time, about the little girl's reaction. I don't bother with reminding myself that she just sailed through the emotional landscapes embarrassment, anxiety, and enthusiasm all right in front of me. At that moment, the only thing I want is to not be sneezing in the close, closed quarters of a faux-fur and polyurethane head, wherein the breathing hole is the same black scrim I see out of and that multi-purpose portal (disguised and doubling, on the outside, as a panda's mouth) is currently covered with my snot. Mine is not a job one wants to do with a stuffy nose. Removing my head in public, though, would not only cost me my job, it would also end the cute little game I've got going with Gabe, a game that, even though it's clearly flirting, I still find fun. Lunch, for me, consists of a cold grilled cheese sandwich (it's weird eating meat while wearing a panda suit, and bamboo tastes like feet), a couple extra doses of cold medicine, and a lot of paper-towel scrubbing of the inside of my panda head. Gabe, carrying a manila folder, runs up to me as I leave the employee locker room, having just replaced my head. I know what this means, and it's not fair, because I already don't feel well. "Damn. Just missed it," Gabe nods in the general direction of my panda head, pointing his eyes at my plastic versions. In the three weeks that Gabe's worked at Wally's Wonder World, and, therefore, with me, he's never seen my face. But he wants to. Bad. "What do you say you take off that helmet, just once, just for me?" he says, actually a little joking this time. 3 "It's a head, not a helmet," I say, and point to the folder, "Boy or girl?" Gabe may be inclined to denial, or distraction, but I just want to get it over with. "Come on," he says, "just one little drawing, of your head on the panda body; it won't take an hour." "Gab e." "Boy," Gabe says, "a young one." Police departments have the right idea; whenever a kid goes missing, the first place they call is us, the amusement parks. A call comes in, a fax follows it, and in a matter of minutes the park's entire staff is carrying around a picture of the child and any-what they call-expected escort. This is the right idea for the cops because kidnappers have the right idea, too. Gabe holds the folder open for me, where I can see the picture, and the briefing on the boy's situation paper-clipped behind it, but I can't make out the words. He keeps looking at my panda face, as though my expression will somehow clue him in on how to feel. Every time, he's greeted with the same, surprised panda. You'd think he'd figure that out after the first few looks. Even my eyes are hidden behind that scrim; you can only see through it if you're looking out from within. Especially in the first few hours of a kidnapping, the little one's bound to be frantic over the anxiety of separation, at least, and that's not even considering anything awful that might have happened during the moment of what the authorities call "departure." So, the first thing any smart abductor does is distract all would-be tantrums, and probably the best place to do this is a lulling world of rides, candy, and fantasy 4 animals who talk and hug. Also known as Wally's Wonder World if you're in Oregon. Or, in my case: work. "What's his name?" "Parker Ketchum," he says. The "costumed personalities" at all relevant parks get a photo of the kid, which we're expected to study and know, since we often have such intimate contact with the park's youngest visitors.