Florida State University Libraries Electronic Theses, Treatises and Dissertations The Graduate School 2010 You Can't Forgive What You Can't Forget David Rodriguez Follow this and additional works at the FSU Digital Library. For more information, please contact [email protected] THE FLORIDA STATE UNIVERSITY COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES YOU CAN’T FORGIVE WHAT YOU CAN’T FORGET By DAVID RODRIGUEZ A Thesis submitted to the Department of English in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts Degree Awarded: Summer Semester, 2010 Copyright © 2010 David Rodriguez All Rights Reserved The members of the committee approve the thesis of David Rodriguez defended on March 15, 2010. __________________________________ Mark Winegardner Professor Directing Thesis __________________________________ Elizabeth Stuckey-French Committee Member __________________________________ Julianna Baggott Committee Member Approved: _____________________________________ Kathleen Yancey, Chair, English The Graduate School has verified and approved the above-named committee members. ii For Elizabeth iii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS There is not enough space to thank everyone who has helped me along the way, but I would like to single out Elizabeth Kelly, Kathy Rodriguez, John Wang, Rose Bunch, Azita Osanloo, Mark Winegardner, Elizabeth Stuckey-French, and Julianna Baggott. Without their patience, guidance, and support, this thesis would not be possible. iv TABLE OF CONTENTS Abstract ................................................................................................ vi Ogre Battle ................................................................................................ 1 Let Me Lay a Truth Bomb on You ............................................................. 14 Promenade ................................................................................................ 17 Survivor ................................................................................................ 27 Toot Sweet ................................................................................................ 39 A Mansion down the Road ......................................................................... 53 Go to Sleep ................................................................................................ 64 Biographical Sketch.................................................................................... 74 v ABSTRACT You Can’t Forgive What You Can’t Forget is a collection of short stories submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Masters in Fine Arts. The stories are responses to the various ways Hurricane Katrina devastated not only the Gulf Coast region, but also the inner lives of the region’s inhabitants. However, the stories do not always approach the subject directly. Rather, they are thematically connected to the event by raising questions about recovery, progress, and compassion that speak to the universal emotions surrounding any kind of tragedy that might disrupt the structure of a person’s daily life. For instance, in “Ogre Battle” a boy comes to recognize the similarities between himself and his parents, and he is led to the epiphany that he is not as strong as he thought. In “Let Me Lay a Truth Bomb on You,” a man is faced with the sudden destruction of his home and tries to convince himself that something impossible has happened, because the reality of the situation is too hard to take. In “Survivor,” two teens set out from their backwater town and are irretrievably drawn back into the world they wish to escape. In “A Mansion down the Road,” the protagonist reaches the symbol of his escape and finds it to be no better than where he came from. Finally, in “Go to Sleep,” a man lies in bed with his children, considers his legacy, and recognizes that he must take control of his life because the world will not simply offer him pity. This thesis arose from a long and complex process of revisiting personal experiences and trying to find a prism through which they could be viewed by others in more universal terms. Along the way, inspiration was found in the works of Junot Diaz, George Saunders, Ethan Canin, Adam Haslett, Donald Ray Pollock, Tom Piazza, Wells Tower, Roberto Bolaño, Michael Chabon, Richard Yates, Stokes Howell, Stuart Dybek, Richard Ford, Antonya Nelson, Tim Gautreaux, Tobias Wolff, Steve Almond, Tom Franklin, Ron Carlson, Haruki Murakami, Chuck Klosterman, Arthur Miller, Margaret Atwood, John Biguenet, Raymond Carver, Flannery O’Connor, Richard Price, Dave Eggers, Andrea Barrett, Kevin Canty, Sherman Alexie, Richard Bausch, and my committee members. vi OGRE BATTLE Pete ran so fast he became a blur, starting at his bedroom door and hurtling towards the end of the hallway where he made a pinpoint turn right, bouncing off the doorframe on his way outside. His mom choked on the words, “Where are you going?” She was crying again. No doubt his dad would be, too, after she guilted him about Dominique—the lady with the red curls whose name made Dad yell, “Jesus Christ!” They called Pete “slovenly”? They thought finding him shirtless in his room, fist-pumping to the “Dreadful Fight” during Milon’s transformation, meant he had zero dexterity? They were studies in weakness. Hold on, though. He heard, “Chocolate on your pants.” Glancing over his shoulder, he saw it was true. He must have sat on a Mars bar during E.V.O.’s cut scenes. In the game, Gaia had congratulated him for defeating the Great White with his sea monster, an awesome combination of swordfish horn, shell body, and Kuraselache fin. The battle had taken so long, he’d probably flopped down in exhaustion. He needed to improve his endurance. But no matter. Today only, the game store was holding Ogre Battle. “I gotta get to the mall,” he said. Bills were stacked at his father’s end of the table, held in place by the big Texas Instruments graphing calculator. His mom sat at the other end, holding two drenched tissues and sporting red eyes. “I could take you,” she said. “Don’t coddle him,” his father said. His dad was right. That was the best way to appear weak in public. “I’m fine,” Pete said. “I’ll get exercise.” And he was out the door without saying goodbye. The bus dropped him off at the edge of the parking lot. He started sweating before he got to the mall doors. First thing was first: the food court for chicken tenders to eat as he walked. Sweet, delicious chicken tenders, basting in barbeque sauce in his mouth. He loved their crispiness, and the gentle resistance of the white flesh, and the pepper, and the tangy hit of the barbeque sauce, and the grooves his teeth left after a bite. He loved the mall, too. It was called “Esplanade,” which was a French word that meant “chicken tenders.” He devoured them, jogging up the steps to the second floor instead of taking the escalator. He wasn’t lying to his parents; he really did want to get some exercise. You can’t avoid starting at Level One, but you can improve yourself. Even as a ten-year-old, he understood 1 that. To his Mom, calling the store every day to see if Ogre Battle had come in yet was wasted effort. “Wait,” she liked to say, “and good things will come.” But this was not an ordinary game, nor was it certain it would be released—pre-order or not. A year ago he’d written what he thought was an eloquent and convincing letter to Nintendo of America. He’d read about Ogre Battle in their magazine, he said, and it would be a mistake to keep it from an American release. A real time strategy game for the Super Nintendo was rare enough, but one made by Quest with Mode 7 scrolling and a soundtrack by the, as he deemed it, criminally underappreciated Hitoshi Sakimoto made this a landmark achievement. To be able to watch a sunset as your characters traveled across a war-ravaged landscape, or to use Tarot cards to call upon gods like Loki to bludgeon your enemies to death, would not only advance the cause that video games were art as much as a Monet, but also solidify Nintendo’s reputation as an innovator in the field. He ended the letter asking if it was true what one review said. Could he become the master of his own destiny with this game? Their response was in his pocket. “Yes!” they said. “You are in control of the entire army, and your fate will be shaped by your actions. That is what makes Ogre Battle so special. With more fans like you, Americans will be able to enjoy it, too.” Catching sight of the store clerk shelving copies of the game, a portion of the meager 25,000 that Pete had helped get onto American shores, he repeated those words: “You are in control.” He had done this. It was heavier than he expected, like he was holding the weight of the 120 characters inside the cartridge. The cover showed many of them—two groups of warriors facing off including mermaids and valkyries and sexy fairies on one side, knights and clerics and beastmen on the other. But there were many more named characters, too, plus the sixteen classes of fighters and in each of those multiple subclasses. It was so sweet that he wanted to lick the cardboard box. It was sweeter than sweet. He closed his eyes and breathed in what he dreamed was the smell of Japanese mountain air. He paid the clerk, a lanky teenager in an over-sized Polo shirt, all one hundred dollars without regret. After the scrape of the cash tray, the game made a satisfying thud in the plastic bag. Pete thanked the clerk for ordering it for him and asked that the store manager be thanked, too, which is something he’d heard his mother say when she returned clothes to the department store. Then he wrapped the bag around his wrist and turned towards the door. 2 Two guys were standing in his way. “Kid, you got a lot of money for someone who shit his pants,” the tall one said, so tall Pete had to look up to stare into his chest. He wore an Auto Value shirt that said “King Krunch Racing” and rode up his arms, which were the size of fence posts.