Walking Distance

More than once in The Eye-Dancers, Ryan Swinton wishes he could go back to a simpler time, when he was just a little kid, unconcerned with his reputation and the pressure he now feels to continually come up with new jokes.  Ryan is the class clown, and everyone expects him to be a one-man comedy show.  He lives with the pressure of always trying to make people laugh.  If he arrives at a punch line and no one “gets it,” it’s one of the worst feelings in the world to him.  But if they laugh . . .  if they laugh . . .

It’s a harmful cycle Ryan needs to work on.  Being too dependent on others’ approval causes him a great deal of stress.  And so he yearns for that simpler time–when he didn’t worry about punch lines and first-rate deliveries and searching far and wide for fresh, funny material.  He sees five-year-olds, six-year-olds, and wonders if they realize how fortunate they are.  If only he could return to those carefree days . . .

But Thomas Wolfe would say, “You can’t go home again,” and for all of Ryan’s longing, ultimately he must learn to find more peace in the present.  Wishing he could go back to his early childhood will avail him nothing.

Someone else needed to learn that, too.  Martin Sloan, a stressed-out thirty-six-year-old executive in an episode of The Twilight Zone called “Walking Distance.”

When getting his car serviced at a gas station, Martin realizes he’s not far from his hometown.  He hasn’t been back this way in years, and asks the attendant how far away the town is.  When he learns it’s just a couple miles–“walking distance”–Martin decides to leave his car, and walk back to the town where he grew up.

But when he arrives, a strange thing happens.  Everything appears as it did twenty-five years ago, when he was a kid living in the town.  He smiles at the old-fashioned cars and reminders of his youth.

Walking around aimlessly, he eventually encounters an oddly familiar boy–himself as a child!  He sees himself carving something onto a post . . .

Remembering the act, amazed that he’s witnessing himself from a quarter-century ago, Martin tries to strike up a conversation with the boy–with his child self.  But the boy, startled, runs away.

He doesn’t know how, but Martin is back in time, back where he wants to be.  He doesn’t want to return to his hectic job, his fast-paced life in the city.  He wants to stay here, in the small town where he grew up, marooned in an idyllic and eternal childhood.

Later, Martin sees himself as a boy again, on a carousel.  He gets on the carousel himself, wanting to talk to the boy.  He wants to tell his childhood self to enjoy this time–there’s no other time in life like it.  But once again, the boy is scared, panics, and falls off the carousel, injuring his leg.

Suddenly, the adult Martin shrieks in pain, too, and grabs hold of his leg.  He resolves to visit his old house, see his parents.  We see him walk away with a noticeable limp.

When he reaches his childhood home, his mother and father don’t recognize him.  Martin tries to convince his father.  He shows him his ID, his drivers license from twenty-five years in the future.  Finally his father understands–this is his adult son, returned.  With compassion, Martin’s father tells him he must go back.  Go back to the year where he belongs.

“You have to leave here,” he says.  “There’s no room, there’s no place.  Do you understand that?”  He goes on to say, “We only get one chance.  Maybe there’s only one summer to every customer.  That little boy, the one I know–the one who belongs here–this is his summer, just as it was yours once.  Don’t make him share it.”

At the end of the episode, Martin walks back to the gas station, back, in essence, to the present day, still with a limp.  He tells the attendant the limp is from an old accident, a long time ago, twenty-five years ago–when he fell off of a carousel.

It’s a lesson learned the hard way–we can’t go back.  We can only go forward.  The closing narration of the episode goes like this . . .

“Martin Sloan, age thirty-six, vice-president in charge of media. Successful in most things, but not in the one effort that all men try at some time in their lives – trying to go home again. And also like all men, perhaps there’ll be an occasion – maybe a summer night sometime – when he’ll look up from what he’s doing and listen to the distant music of a calliope, and hear the voices and the laughter of his past. And perhaps across his mind, there’ll flit a little errant wish, that a man might not have to become old, never outgrow the parks and the merry-go-rounds of his youth. And he’ll smile then, too, because he’ll know that it is just an errant wish, some wisp of memory, not too important really, some laughing ghosts that cross a man’s mind – and that are a part of the Twilight Zone.”

These “errant wishes,” these “laughing ghosts” are things we all must face, at one time or another.

Ryan Swinton, perhaps, is fortunate.  He faces them, and has a chance to deal with them, at a very early age . . .

Thanks as always for reading!

–Mike

Making Sure Grronk Doesn’t Turn Into Chuck

Have you ever read a novel or watched a TV series where a character of some prominence appears near the beginning of the story, but then never shows up again?  And, even worse, is never even mentioned again?  It’s as if they never existed in the first place.  Granted, for very minor characters, this isn’t an issue.  In fact, it would be an awkward tale indeed if we felt compelled to bring back even the most trivial of characters for an encore scene.  But if a character leaves an impression, if a character exchanges in a lengthy dialogue or does something noteworthy for the story, it’s probably a good idea to bring them back at a later point, or, at the least, mention them again.

Perhaps one of the most notorious (though often laughed-about) occurrences of this character-who-disappears-act comes from the 1970s sitcom Happy Days.  I have watched reruns of Happy Days many times–guilty as charged!  I especially enjoy the first two seasons, when the show really tried to portray a 1950s look and feel.  Of course, the story revolved around Richie Cunningham (played by Ron Howard).

 

And one of the supporting characters during the first season was Richie’s older brother, Chuck.

 

Now, it’s true that they never developed Chuck as a character.  He pretty much just chewed gum and dribbled a basketball around everywhere he went.  He had all the depth of an eight-by-ten white envelope (non-self-sealing at that!).  Nevertheless, he was the main character’s brother.  And yet, after season one, he just . . . disappeared.  Gone without a whisper, without a trace.  It was as if he’d never existed at all.  Just a wisp, a figment of viewers’ imaginations from that inaugural season of the show.  Again, given that his character offered nothing of substance to the story line, his boot off the set wasn’t a big deal.  But not to mention him?  Not to say, “Oh, we just got a letter from Chuck.  He’s doing okay at college”?  Not to give even the smallest of details about what became of him?  That’s just sloppy, even if it has morphed into something of a pop culture joke.  They should have acknowledged Chuck’s existence post-season one.

When I wrote The Eye-Dancers, I wanted to make sure I didn’t follow in the same footsteps as Happy Days.  In chapter four of the novel, we meet Marc Kuslanski for the first time.  He of course is one of the four main characters in the story.  But in that same chapter, we also meet Matt Giselmo.  Or, as Joe Marma likes to call him, Grronk.  Grronk is not a major character–but he is significant in his own way, and that becomes clearer after the boys find themselves in the variant town of Colbyville.  I tried to make sure, when I introduced Grronk early on, that he was a memorable character–annoying enough to stay with the reader.  Obnoxious enough to leave an impression.  So when we see him again (or someone very close to him–I’m trying not to insert a plot spoiler here) much later in the book, hopefully we remember him from chapter four.

The key, though, was–after giving Grronk so much screen time in chapter four, I needed to reintroduce him at a later point.  Not to do so would cheat the reader.  Just like Happy Days did with their audience.  I know that I, for one, would like to know what became of old Chuck Cunningham.  Maybe he went off to star in the NBA.  Maybe he drifted around and never found a direction in life.  Maybe he settled down, got married, worked in an office.  The possibilities are endless.

What happened to Chuck? . . .  Sounds like the basis for a story.  Maybe I should go ask Grronk.  He’s bound to have some ideas.

Thanks for reading!  I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday.

–Mike

A Very (Corny) Christmas

I admit it.  I enjoy corny things.  The kinds of things that make you shake your head, mutter under your breath, and yet . . . and yet . . . they just have a certain charm to them you can’t resist.

Take It’s A Wonderful Life.  It’s corny, sure it is.  But it’s also my all-time favorite movie.  Don’t get me wrong.  I enjoy hard-edged, gritty drama just as much as the next guy.  But if I want something to put me in a good mood, I’ll pull out an old comic book, tune it to The Honeymooners, or watch Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed in this timeless holiday classic.

In fact, in The Eye-Dancers, I did give a tip of the author’s cap to It’s A Wonderful Life.  In the movie, the small town where the action takes place is called Bedford Falls.  In The Eye-Dancers, the story begins in Bedford–without the “Falls”!  Much of The Eye-Dancers takes place in the variant town of Colbyville, but it’s definitely no accident that it begins in Bedford.

I’ve seen It’s A Wonderful Life  many times, yet I still choke up at the end.  Yes, I shake my head.  Yes, I tell myself not to be such a sap.  But then Jimmy Stewart starts singing “Auld Lang Syne” and the bell rings and Clarence gets his wings . . .

Maybe I’ll get a chance to watch some of it again this week.  And it’ll get to me.  It always does.

Wishing everyone a wonderful holiday!

–Mike

The Very Inspiring Blogger Award

Once again, I am reminded how fortunate I was when I decided to create a WordPress site for The Eye-Dancers.  When I started this site, my knowledge of blogging and website-making was about as close to zero as one can get in this information/technology age.  I’ve been learning as I go, and have really enjoyed the process.

More than anything, I’ve enjoyed the wonderful interactions with fellow writers and bloggers.  This has been fun, and, hopefully, things are just getting started.

Thanks so much to Sheri Bessi and her great site, The Other Side of Ugly, for nominating me for this award.  It is very much appreciated!  If you haven’t visited Sheri’s site, please do.  It is full of inspirational and thought-provoking posts that stay with you long after you read them.

The rules for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award are:

To thank and link the blogger that has nominated you.

Then post the award logo to your blog.

Write a post on the nomination and nominate 15 other very inspiring bloggers.

Notify them and then tell 7 things about yourself.

Here the 7 things about myself:

1.  I have long been a big fan of old, collectible comic books.  I started collecting them at a young age, and still enjoy opening an old comic, looking over the decades-old mail-order advertisements, and reading the often-corny, but always-entertaining stories.  I have individual comic book issues dating back to the 1940s, and that old thrill still hits me when I pull a comic out of its Mylar sleeve and dig in.  Favorite titles include:  The Fantastic Four, Action Comics, Superman, The Amazing Spider-Man, Strange Adventures (a charming sci-fi title from the ’50s and ’60s), and Mystery in Space (likewise, a sci-fi title from the ’50s and ’60s).

2.  Back in the eighth grade, my English teacher instilled in me two lasting things:  One was an appreciation for grammar. (Her pet-peeve was when people say, “Just between you and I,” or, “That’s for you and I  . . .”  “Never, ever, use a subject as the object of a preposition,” she would say, fire in her eyes.  “Take out the ‘you.’  Would you then say, ‘That’s for I?'”  I think–conservative estimate here–she must have gone over this two-dozen times that year.)  She also introduced me to the world of Anne of Green Gables.  For a long time, I was the only male I knew who admitted to liking the book!  But I’m sure there are many others who do.  It’s a timeless classic.  Because of my enjoyment of the Anne books in particular and L.M. Montgomery’s writing in general, I’ve had the privilege of visiting Prince Edward Island, Canada.  I cannot recommend it highly enough.  It is, in short, the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.

3.  Even though I grew up in upstate western New York, just outside of Rochester, and now live in northern New England, I am not a Buffalo Bills nor a New England Patriots fan.  I’m a lifelong Pittsburgh Steelers fan.  I started liking them at the age of eight, and haven’t stopped since . . .

4.  I have been a vegetarian since 1994.

5.  When I was growing up, one of my very best friends in the world was a cocker spaniel named Poopsie.  He was my forever friend–and always will be.  But don’t blame me for the name!  He was actually Poopsie IV.  It was a family tradition that had started before I was even born–all dogs in the family were to be named “Poopsie.”  My nickname for him was “Bubba,” which, come to think of it, may not have been much better . . .

6.  When I was a kid, I was remarkably shy.  One day, in first grade, my teacher, surely recognizing this, decided it would be good for me to go into one of the sixth-grade classrooms, stand in front of the “big kids,” and read to them.  Dutifully, I trudged to their room, knocked, and entered, with my back to the class.  I sidestepped over to the sixth-grade teacher’s desk, my back still to the class, as I looked at the black board in front of me.  Then I began to read whatever it was my teacher had assigned me to read aloud–I don’t remember what it was.  I do remember reading the entire text, and then, finished, sidestepping my way out of the room.  I never once looked at the class.

7.  I tend to be very nostalgic and sentimental.  It sometimes comes out in my writing–and I always need to guard against it.  Sentiment is fine.  Feeling, heart . . .  But overly sentimental usually is a problem when it comes to storytelling.  It’s a fine line between the two, as it is with so many aspects of good vs. bad writing.

And now, to pass the baton!  Here are 15 wonderful websites, listed here in no particular order.  Each offers something different, and all offer something great.  I strongly recommend that you click on each of these links and visit these wonderful websites . . .

http://jenniferpaetsch.com/

http://kelihasablog.wordpress.com/

http://evilnymphstuff.wordpress.com/

http://howevernever.wordpress.com/

http://yourejustadumbass.wordpress.com/

http://reshumalhotra.com/

http://seyisandradavid.org/

http://tammysalyer.wordpress.com/

http://bringmorebooks.wordpress.com/

http://zendictive.wordpress.com/

http://wideawakebutdreaming.wordpress.com/

http://shannonathompson.com/

http://deannaswriting.wordpress.com/

http://talesofbooksandbands.com/

http://patspublishing.wordpress.com/

Thanks so much, as always, for reading!

— Mike

The Hardest Words . . .

In The Eye-Dancers, each of the main characters has his issues, his hang-ups that he needs to get a handle on.  For Joe Marma, his number-one hang-up is his temper.  He is quick to throw a punch, reluctant to stop and think, and reconsider.  But at one point in the story, his impetuous nature nearly ruins everything.  It takes his friend Ryan Swinton to intervene–a very unlikely occurrence, since Joe has always been the leader, and Ryan the follower.  It’s an epiphany moment for Ryan.  He finally realizes he can make the hard decisions, confront a difficult and tense situation head-on.

But it’s also an epiphany moment for Joe.  He at last comes to see that sometimes it’s better to walk away from a fight.  He’s no angel–he never will be.  But a lesson is learned, and he realizes he’s been wrong before.  He’s lost his head.  Gotten into trouble.  He finally admits it, and resolves to do something about it.

Admitting you’re wrong isn’t easy.  “I’m sorry, I was wrong,” may be the most difficult words to say in our or any language!  They often curl up and die before ever leaving the lips.  But wouldn’t things often be better for all of us if we did say these words?  I know I have regrets. . . .

One of them occurred over twenty years ago, when I was a sophomore in high school.  Looking at the details of the situation, it may not seem that important–it may seem trivial, in fact.  But it meant a lot.  It was a big deal to me.  And it changed the dynamic of an old friendship.  Besides, aren’t the “small” things, the “little” things, often the triggers that set off a conflict?  Maybe we have unspoken frustrations we’re feeling toward someone else.  We bury our hurts.  And then . . . something small, something that should be insignificant (a misplaced item, an errand forgotten due to a busy and stressful day . . .) sets us off, and we spew out our pent-up anger.

Joe Marma learned this difficult lesson, just in time.  I wish I could have.

What follows is a personal essay I wrote recently.  I guess I wrote it for myself.  But I’d like to share it.   And, Tony, if you ever come across this post–I hope you read it, old friend . . .

“I’m Sorry, Tony”

Copyright 2012 by Michael S. Fedison

**************

Tony eyed the just-thrown card, shook his head.  “You don’t want to play that,” he said.  “Pick it up.”

Ken looked at him, puzzled.  I was, too.  What was this about?

“What do you mean?” Ken asked.  All around us, the sounds of the cafeteria buzzed—students carrying their lunch trays back to their tables, girls laughing and talking, varsity lettermen bragging about their conquests on the ball field.

“Just pick it up,” Tony said.  “Throw something lower.”

As soon as Tony said that, I knew what he must be up to.  If Ken threw a lower card, Tony might be able to nail me with the Queen of Spades, hitting me with thirteen points.  But why did he want to resort to such extreme measures?  I was the one who had taught these guys how to play Hearts a few weeks ago.  Each day, during lunch, Tony, Ken, Joe, and I played.  And now he wanted to cheat, just to dump the Queen on me?

Ken picked up his card, threw a lower one, just as Tony had said.  I guess that was to be expected.  Tony had a way about him.  It wasn’t only that he was the most muscular tenth grader in the school.  People just responded to him.  If he said to do something, usually you did it.  But this was crossing the line.  I felt the blood rush to my face.

Tony smiled at me.  Well, smirked was probably more like it.  “There you go,” he said, and laid the Queen of Spades atop the small pile of cards, face-up, on the tabletop.

I swallowed.  “No way,” I said.  How did he think he could get away with this?  And why did he do it in the first place?  We’d been friends since the third grade—he was my oldest friend in school.  I thought we liked and respected each other.  I wondered if I had been wrong about that.

Ken and Joe both sat there, probably not too worried about any of this.  Surely, Tony and I could resolve it.

“I’m not taking the thirteen points,” I said.  From the table behind us, someone told a joke, and his friends moaned at the punch line.  “I mean, c’mon, you cheated!  You told him to throw another card.  You can’t do that.  Let’s just replay the hand.”

Tony smirked again.  “We don’t need to replay any hand,” he said.  “That Queen is yours.  You’re the one who got stuck with it.”

Brilliant.  Just brilliant.  My heart rate accelerated.  It was getting more difficult to think clearly.  He couldn’t just expect me to go along with this nonsense.

I told him again I wouldn’t take the points.  It wasn’t fair.  But he would hear none of it.  When I realized he wasn’t going to budge, I decided I’d make a deal with him.

“Okay,” I said, “listen.  Why don’t you take seven points, and I take six?  I mean, you told Ken to pick up his card.  Why don’t we just split the points, then?”

Tony shook his head, and actually appeared offended at the suggestion.  “I’m not taking any points,” he said.  “That’s your Queen laying there.”  He muttered under his breath, as if to say, Stop being such a stupid jerk.

I couldn’t believe it.  How could he be getting mad at me?  He gathered up the loose cards, placed them onto the deck, then put the deck away.  We were finished, at least for today.  I noticed that Joe and Ken now looked a little troubled.  I’m sure neither of them had expected this situation to escalate.  I hadn’t, either, but why was Tony being so unreasonable?  Couldn’t he just admit that he cheated and put an end to this?

Apparently, he couldn’t.  I don’t remember the rest of that lunch period very well.  All I remember is feeling betrayed and disgusted that my friend would act this way.  Tony didn’t say anything more to me the rest of the afternoon.

♣

The incident stuck with me, didn’t let go.  That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about what to do in the morning.  Should I go up to Tony and tell him to forget about it?  That we should just drop the matter?  No!  The more I turned it over in my mind, the angrier I became.  He had some nerve acting upset with me for telling him to split the points between us.  I had been trying to do him a favor with that idea!  And I still didn’t understand why he’d cheated in the first place.  What was his angle?  Whatever it was, he was the one who had done something wrong, not me.

♣

Tony avoided me the next morning.  Normally, he walked down to my home room and struck up a conversation with me for a few minutes to start each day.  But he was nowhere to be seen.  Later, in class, neither of us regarded the other.  The same rage I had felt the day before rose up in me again, only this time it was even stronger.  I hadn’t expected him to act like this.  I had really thought he would apologize, or at least admit he’d cheated.  But he didn’t do anything.  He acted as though I were the one who should come clean.

By the time I sat down at lunch, next to Joe and across from Ken and Tony, my nerves were as taught as coiled springs.  I hoped Tony knew better than to break out the cards.  I didn’t want anything to do with Hearts.  Not now, not ever.  At least, not with him.  Not until he admitted that he’d cheated.

Sure enough, after we had eaten and still had a good half hour left before we had to go back to class, Tony reached into his pocket and took out the box of cards.  Then he opened it, removed the deck, and prepared to deal.

“Wanna play?”  He made it seem like he was asking everyone, but I knew he was asking me.  There was no apology, no “I was wrong.”  Apparently, there never would be.  He wanted to pretend he had never told Ken to pick up his card and throw another in its place.  He wanted yesterday’s game to count.

I knew this was the key moment.  If I said, “Okay, let’s play,” everything would be forgotten.  Except . . . that wasn’t true.  I wouldn’t forget.  And I couldn’t let him get away with this.

“No,” I said.  “Never again.”

It’s funny.  As soon as I said those words, I felt both justified and terrible.  Mine was a righteous stance.  I would no longer play cards with a cheater.  If Tony wouldn’t come right out and say he had cheated, if he wouldn’t agree to disregard yesterday’s game, why should I ever play with him again?  But at the same time, I knew I was making a mistake.  It seemed like a small thing—just a card game at lunchtime.  But it had sprouted bristles and fangs and long, sinuous veins, and turned into something much larger.  Even back then, even in the heat of the moment, I understood that.

Tony’s features hardened.  His face turned red.  I could tell he hadn’t expected me to say that.  He acted as though I had slapped him, or embarrassed him.  Maybe I had.  Any opportunity we might have had then to talk the problem out, to come to some kind of agreement, passed in an instant.  He picked up the cards, put them in the box, then back in his pocket.  I just sat there, silent, wondering what I had done, and questioning whether or not it had been worth the price.

♣

Tony and I didn’t speak after that.  We’d pass each other in the halls without even a glance.  Oh, we still sat together at lunch with Ken and Joe, but we never talked to each other.  I would talk to Ken and Joe, and so would Tony, but I wouldn’t say a word to Tony.  Ken and Joe must have hated it.  They were caught in the middle . . . though I didn’t take that into consideration too much at the time.

After a while, I hoped Tony and I might patch things up.  But I expected him to make the first move.  Besides, this new silent treatment had begun to define our relationship.  It’s strange how something like that can seep into your bones and steel your heart.  I hated it, but felt powerless to do anything about it.

The worst moment came a few weeks later, in English class.  The teacher wanted us to pair up, and Tony sat in front of me.  He was supposed to turn around and work with me.  But he didn’t.  Everyone waited.  All the other students were paired up, but Tony remained seated, face forward, back to me.

Finally the teacher said, “Tony, what’s up?  Why aren’t you working with Mike?”

There was a pause.  Then Tony said, “Because I don’t like him.”

I wanted to fall through the floor, into the basement amidst the boilers and rusty metal pipes.  I hadn’t wanted to work with Tony, either, under the circumstances, but I was shocked he would publicize his new attitude toward me in front of the whole class.  And was it really true?  Did he actually despise me now?  It was all so weird.  We had been friends for years!  How could one card game completely overpower everything else?

But it had.

♣

The remainder of tenth grade was trying.  I continued to eat lunch with Ken, Joe, and Tony, even after the English class fiasco.  I just wanted summer vacation to arrive so I could get out of school.  I breathed a sigh of relief when it finally did.

But the fall came too quickly, and before I knew it, it was time for my junior year to start.  I hadn’t thought about Tony much throughout the summer, but as September neared, I resolved that something had to be done.  We couldn’t just avoid each other.  And yet . . . I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to go up to him and try to set things right.  I’m not sure if it was pride, fear of rejection, uncertainty about his response . . . maybe it was all three.  Maybe I was just stubborn.

♣

Before home room, the first day of school, Tony walked up to me.  I tensed.  But then he just started talking, acting as if the last semester of our sophomore year had never happened.  Acting as if we had never argued over a stupid card game.  He didn’t come right out and apologize, and I didn’t, either.  We just picked up where we had left off before our quarrel.  Or so it seemed.

It was a great relief to have Tony back as my friend.  But it wasn’t the same.  Sure, we got along fine, but there was something unspoken between us, something that flowed beneath the surface like a toxic river.  We had buried the hatchet, it was true.  But we hadn’t dealt with the issue.  Why had he cheated?  Why had he gotten so mad when I called him out on it?  Why did I make such a big deal out of it?  We never addressed any of these questions.  And I don’t think our friendship was ever quite the same again.

I haven’t seen Tony or talked with him since we graduated from high school.

♣

Now, more than twenty years later, I still look back on that card game with regret.  I wish I could go back in time, shake myself, and say, “Don’t take it so seriously!  It’s not worth the cost.”  Or I wish I could whisper in the ear of my sixteen-year-old self and say, “Did you ever wonder why he cheated?  Maybe you did something to get under his skin without realizing it.”  That is certainly possible.  I never thought of Tony as a cheater.  He was a good kid.  And I did sometimes mouth off back then, get a bit too full of myself.  Maybe I had made him feel stupid when I was teaching him how to play Hearts.  Maybe I had said something condescending about the way he played a hand once.  I don’t know.  I don’t remember.  But I wouldn’t be surprised if the root of the trouble began with something just like that.

More than anything, I regret my smallness, my pettiness.  I cringe when I think back to that moment when Tony had pulled out the cards and said, “Wanna play?”  In his own way, he was trying to move on, I think, to put the argument behind us.  I could have said, “Okay, but don’t tell anyone what card to throw anymore,” and I’m sure he would have responded well.

And I feel bad that, on the first day of eleventh grade, he had walked up to me.  He had made the first move.  I wish I had.

All I can do now is say, “Tony, you did cheat, and that did make me mad.  But you must have had a reason, I guess.”

And I can say, also, two decades after the fact, but better late than never, “I shouldn’t have overreacted the way I did.  I should have been able to let it go.

“I’m sorry, Tony.  I was wrong.”

*******************

Thanks so much for reading!

–Mike

The Eye of the Beholder

One of the fundamental themes in The Eye-Dancers is self-acceptance.  Each of the main characters suffers in one way or another from a low self-esteem, and each struggles with insecurities.  As the story unfolds, the characters must confront these struggles within themselves.  They ultimately find themselves a long way from home.  There are dangers and pitfalls seemingly around every corner.  But amid the turmoil and threat of a strange and alien world, they realize one essential truth–they cannot hope to survive, cannot possibly find a way out of their predicament, unless they learn to come to terms with their own inner demons.

For Mitchell Brant, his insecurities often manifest themselves through lies and tall tales.  Not content with the way things are, he invents stories to make himself seem “more” than he really is.  It takes the gentle guidance of a new friend to help him begin to see that he doesn’t need to pretend.  He doesn’t need to elaborate.  He’s okay the way he is.

It’s a problem all of us have struggled with at one time or another.  Are we “good” enough?  Are we attractive enough?  Smart enough?  And one of the things science fiction can do is challenge our beliefs, take us on a fantastic journey that, ultimately, causes us to look at things more deeply–to examine ourselves, or the larger world around us.

The original Twilight Zone, the black-and-white show from the early 1960s, with Rod Serling as the host, was often able to accomplish this.  There are many memorable episodes, but perhaps none more so than “Eye of the Beholder.”

In the episode, a woman, Janet Tyler, her face heavily bandaged, lies in a hospital bed.  We cannot see what she looks like, but we quickly realize she is terribly disfigured.  This latest attempt was the eleventh surgery to try to make her look “normal.”  She openly calls herself a “freak.”  And the doctors admit she is a “bad and unfortunate” case.

The first half of the episode deals with Janet’s emotional state, her hopes and dreams that maybe, just maybe, when the bandages are taken off, she will look like everyone else, no longer a freak, a pariah, an outcast.  And then the bandages are removed . . .

The doctors and nurses gasp and pull back.  Before we even see her face, we realize the surgery must have been a failure.  But the true discovery is about to take place.

Throughout the episode, the doctors and nurses have been in the shadows, the lighting eerie, the camera never showing us anyone’s face.  While watching the episode for the first time, you don’t even really consider this.  After all, the scenes are shot through Janet Tyler’s point of view, and since her face is completely concealed beneath her thick bandages, she cannot see the doctors and nurses either.  Besides, we are all focused on her.  What does she look like?  Will she be healed?

Now, the bandages removed, the medical staff gasping in horror at her features, we finally “see” Janet Tyler.  She is young, beautiful, with flawless features.

And now we see, for the first time, the doctors and nurses–they have distorted, misshapen faces.  Grotesque.  And yet they are recoiling from the beautiful woman before them.  And she wishes she looked like them.

It is a memorable story that proves the old cliche.

I will let Rod Serling finish this post for me.  This is his closing narration from the episode . . .

*************

“Now the questions that come to mind. Where is this place and when is it, what kind of world where ugliness is the norm and beauty the deviation from that norm? The answer is, it doesn’t make a difference. Because the old saying is true. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, in this year or a hundred years hence, on this planet or wherever there is human life, perhaps out among the stars. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Lesson to be learned – in the Twilight Zone.”

*************

If you haven’t ever watched The Twilight Zone, I strongly encourage you to do so.  It’s an old, old show, but it holds up very well, and the themes it explores are universal, timeless, and enduring.

Just ask Mitchell Brant.  I’m sure he’d agree.

Thanks as always for reading!

–Mike

The Next Big Thing

One of the really nice things about starting The Eye-Dancers blog has been the interaction I’ve had with fellow bloggers.  As a part of that, I was lucky enough to be invited to take part in The Next Big Thing.  Many thanks to Maddie Cochere for her invitation.  Please take a look at Maddie’s website–she is doing great things!

The Next Big Thing is a lot of fun and it offers writers a chance to pass the baton, as it were, from week to week.  It’s a wonderful opportunity, and again, I am thrilled to be a part of it.  There are a series of questions to be answered–the same for everyone who takes part in The Next Big Thing.

1. What is the working title of your book?

The Eye-Dancers

2. Where did the idea come from for the book?

On the surface, this is a simple question, but really, “where did you get your idea” questions are never altogether straightforward–at least not for me!  I am of the belief that writers don’t “get” ideas so much as ideas come to them.  This particular idea came to me first a long time ago–when I was a teenager (longer ago than I care to admit)!  I had a dream.  In the dream, I was looking out through the front window, into the street.  And there, beneath the street light, was a little girl, seven, maybe eight years old.  She was partially transparent–like a ghost, a spirit, not of this earth.  She had the bluest eyes I had ever seen, and she gestured for me to come outside with her.  (To anyone who has read Chapter One of The Eye-Dancers, this scene will be strikingly familiar!)  I woke up from that dream, and for years couldn’t figure out what to do with it.  The image of the “ghost girl” remained locked away, in an “ideas-vault,” and I wondered if it would ever be opened.  Then, just a few years ago, I had the same dream!  But this time, upon waking up, the basic idea of The Eye-Dancers took shape.  That’s how ideas so often happen. They come to you, unasked for, unplanned.

3. What genre does your book fall under?

 I would call it young adult sci-fi/fantasy–though it is not hard-core sci-fi, nor is it high fantasy.  It’s a young adult story with sci-fi and fantasy elements, and, it’s my hope, an imaginative plot that will take readers on a wild ride.

4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Is it okay to skip a question?  I have such clear, distinct images of the characters in The Eye-Dancers, I honestly cannot think of any actors to play the parts.  Of course, if the day ever came when a decision on such matters had to be made, I’d consider that a wonderful “problem” to have!

5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book? 

A one-sentence synopsis is very hard to come up with!  But if I had to, it would go something like this . . .

Four seventh-graders are transported to a strange world, and the only one who can help them find their way back home is the mysterious little girl with the swirling, hypnotic blue eyes.

6. What is the longer synopsis of your book?

 I will go ahead and use the blurb I have up on Amazon and Barnes and Noble . . .

Seventh-grader Mitchell Brant and three of his classmates inexplicably wake up at the back edge of a softball field to the sounds of a game, the cheering of the crowd. None of them remembers coming here. And as they soon learn, “here” is like no place they’ve ever seen. Cars resemble antiques from the 1950s. There are no cell phones, no PCs. Even the spelling of words is slightly off.

A compulsive liar, constantly telling fantastic stories to garner attention and approval, Mitchell can only wish this were just one more of his tall tales. But it isn’t. It’s all too real. Together, as they confront unexpected and life-threatening dangers, Mitchell and his friends must overcome their bickering and insecurities to learn what happened, where they are, and how to get back home.

The answers can be found only in the mysterious little girl with the blue, hypnotic eyes. The one they had each dreamed of three nights in a row before arriving here. She is their only hope. And, as they eventually discover, they are her only hope.

And time is running out.

7. Is your book self-published or represented by an agency?

 It is an indie e-book (self-published).

8. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

 The first draft took about two and a half years. 

9. Who or What inspired you to write this book?

 Another question that, on the surface, seems simple, but which is really quite complex.  First and foremost, my experiences growing up in Rochester, New York, the friends I shared, the adventures we had, the ideas and speculations we discussed–just kids having fun and wondering.  Imagining.  Those experiences are still very much alive in me, and they were the primary motivating factor when I wrote The Eye-Dancers. 

But also, I have always been the kind of person to ask, “What is the meaning of it all?  What, in its essence, is the ‘reality’ we all speak of?  Are things perhaps not quite what they seem?  Are they more layered?  Are there other realities, other truths, which we know no part of?”  The Eye-Dancers is a composite of all those questions and (hopefully) more.  It is the story of young friendship, overcoming obstacles, learning to believe in yourself, and keeping the faith.

In the end, it’s the characters in The Eye-Dancers who kept me dialed in, who kept me focused even on the days when the writing was hard and the creative process an uphill climb.  In a nutshell, the book was inspired by the child in all of us, the part of us that wonders why things are as they are, and that is eager to discover new and exciting frontiers.

10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

I think (hope!) that there are various elements to The Eye-Dancers, enough disparate qualities to attract readers from across the spectrum.  If you enjoy character-driven fiction, I hope you give The Eye-Dancers a look, because it is the characters–their problems, their overcoming of adversity, their self-discovery and need to confront their own insecurities–who lie at the heart of the story.  If you enjoy sci-fi and fantasy, there are “ghost girls” and dreams and parallel universes, quantum physics and world-building and possibilities of time travel.  If you like mainstream fiction, there are many subplots and character-driven moments that, with hope, will cause you to care about and root for the boys in their quest to get back home.

And, it’s my earnest hope . . . if you simply like an interesting, imaginative story, then you will you enjoy The Eye-Dancers.

Once again, I am very grateful for this wonderful opportunity to participate in The Next Big Thing.  It was a lot of fun answering these questions.  And it’s also a privilege to pass the baton on to two other remarkable authors.

Jennifer Paetsch at her site, JenniferPaetsch.com, and Sheri Bessi at her site, The Other Side of Ugly, will answer these same questions next week!  Please join them for the next installment of The Next Big Thing . . .

–Mike

 

Short Story — “The Christmas Figurines”

As I mentioned last week, I will gradually post a few of my short stories on The Eye-Dancers website, and since it’s the holiday season, I thought I’d post one today that fits right in with the time of year.  I wrote “The Christmas Figurines” several years ago, and that is evident in the scene where the protagonist, Chad, goes to the video store and rents a VHS tape.  Ah, yes–the “old” days!  I could have gone in and updated that scene, made it more suitable for 2012.  But I’ve decided to leave as is.  After all, it’s not video-transfer technology that is at the heart of this story!

In The Eye-Dancers, the four main characters all have to deal with a sense of isolation–and not just due to their other-worldly surroundings as the story unfolds.  Even in their “normal” lives, Mitchell, Joe, Ryan, and Marc all struggle to “fit in.”  This fitting in, or not fitting in, is a major theme in “The Christmas Figurines.”

I hope you enjoy it . . .

“The Christmas Figurines”

Copyright 2012 by Michael S. Fedison

****************

The first thought that popped into Chad’s head when he saw Mr. Coomtromb was, This guy doesn’t have any teeth.  But then the old man started to talk so much, it was hard to think at all.  Chad had been standing in the kitchen, munching on a handful of stale potato chips and staring at the boxes he still needed to unpack when there came a sharp knock on his door.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath, and a few chip remnants fell from his mouth to the tiled floor.  “Just what I need.”  He walked through the maze of boxes and furniture, while the knocking persisted.  “Hold on!”  he shouted.  “I’m coming, okay?”

By the time he opened the door, he was in a foul mood.  Why the intrusion, now of all times?  He had so much to do.  He—

“Hi there,” a tall man wearing a stained white shirt and faded corduroy pants said.  He was old—at least seventy, Chad estimated at first glance—and his cheeks were covered with a gray five o’clock shadow.  “I’m John Coomtromb, but all my friends just call me Coom.  I live right across the hall, young man.  So, seeing that we’re new neighbors, I took the liberty of coming over here and saying hi.”

For a long moment, Chad was at a loss for words.  Then:  “Uh, well, I’m really sort of busy unpacking, and—”

“Nonsense,” the man interrupted, holding up a hand.  “I won’t mind at all.  Besides, what are neighbors for?  I’ll help you.”  Without an invitation, Mr. Coomtromb brushed past Chad, into the apartment.

“Wait a second,” Chad said, closing the door.  “Look, I—”

“Say,” the old man broke in, “you aren’t from around here, are you?”

Chad shook his head.  Was it that obvious?  “No.  I just moved up here from Georgia.  But, really, I’m still unpacking my stuff.  I’ve got a lot left to do.”

Mr. Coomtromb appeared not to hear any of this.  He opened a box and pulled out a bottle of wine.  “Very nice,” he said, smiling toothlessly.  “Maybe I’ll join you for a toast to celebrate your arrival to this fine city.”

Chad couldn’t believe this guy.  Was he drunk?  He stepped closer to Coomtromb, and sniffed.  Nothing, except maybe the hint of fried onions on his breath.  Was he high, then?  He must have been something.  How else to explain it?

Before Chad could stop him, Coomtromb opened another box.

“Goodness, this is beautiful,” the old man said.  “Where did you get it?”  He pulled out two porcelain figurines, a winged female angel in a flowing, ankle-length dress and a young boy looking up at her with wonder-filled eyes.  The two figures stood on a white base powdered with artificial snow that glittered in the light of the room.

Chad considered taking the guy by the arm and flinging him out into the hall.  Maybe he would, too, if Coomtromb didn’t quit bothering him.  Surprising himself, not quite understanding his patience, his tolerance, Chad merely answered the question.

“It’s my mom’s,” he said.  “She got it as a gift when she was a little girl.  Thought I’d want it now that I’m so far from home.  You know how it is.”

Coomtromb nodded.  He stared at the figurines, as if bewitched.  “Yes.  I suppose I do.  Does it play?”  He looked at Chad, and for a moment, he seemed like a little child fascinated with a new toy.

“Yeah,” Chad said.  “It plays ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’  You wind up the crank at the base.”

“You don’t say,” Coomtromb said.  “Can I . . . can I play it?  Please?”

Chad felt a sense of unreality wash over him.  This whole scenario was just plain weird.  Coomtromb was weird.  But maybe if he let the old man play the song, he would leave, and let Chad get back to work.  This made Chad bristle.  Why didn’t he just kick the guy out of his apartment?  That’s what most people would do.  And it’s not like it would be rude or mean.  He was busy.  He didn’t need this.  Somehow, though, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Sighing, he said, “Sure.  Knock yourself out.  But I got a lot of stuff to finish.”  Chad picked up a heavy box, placed it on a faded-brown sofa, and began sorting through the contents.  Here was a photograph of his father, looking impossibly young.  And one of his mother on her wedding day.  How pretty she looked.  Had she always been so beautiful?  He’d never really noticed, or if he had, he had taken it for granted.  Perhaps it took moving away to appreciate it.  Perhaps that’s how—

Suddenly, the angel figurine was singing.  The melody of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” filled the room, and Chad looked back over his shoulder.  The angel was twirling around the little boy, and he turned in concert with her, his eyes never leaving hers.  They were doing their choreographed routine, a routine Chad had seen hundreds of times through the years.  But he didn’t mind.  He liked the song, and the quality of the sound was first-rate.

Then he glanced at Mr. Coomtromb.

The old man was staring at the figurines, unblinking, mouth agape.  Tears formed in his eyes and rolled slowly down his cheeks.  When the performance ended, he bowed his head, as if in the presence of something holy.  Chad had no idea what to make of it.  He figured he should just ignore the old man and continue with the task at hand.

He emptied the box of its contents, and placed the photos and other paraphernalia on the kitchen counter.  He’d hang them later, when a certain odd old man was gone, safely across the hall.  He opened another box, and began to rummage through it, wishing he were more organized.  There seemed no rhyme or reason to the packing method he had used.  His mom had helped him, but she wasn’t so good at packing, either.  She hadn’t had much practice.  His parents had never moved from the house they bought the year they were married.

“That was . . . breathtaking,” Chad heard Coomtromb say.  The old man was sniffling, but the tears had run their course.  “Just breathtaking.  Thank you.”

Chad shrugged.  It was just an old music box.  Sure, it had been in the family for a while, and it meant a lot to his mother, but still, what was the big deal?  Coomtromb, of course, was more than ready to shed some light on the mystery.

“Do you know what that song means to me, young man?  Do you know?”  He wouldn’t take his eyes off the angel.  He still seemed in a state of rapture.

Chad didn’t reply.  He just waited for the man to continue.  Showing a moment of interest, he set the box aside and planted himself on the sofa.

“When I was young, I adored the movies,” Coomtromb said.  “I know, I know, many children do.  But I loved them.”  His gaze finally left the angel figurine, and locked itself onto Chad.  “They offered . . . I don’t know, an escape, I suppose, a place I could get lost in.  You see, my folks, they died when I was just four—car crash.  Can you imagine?  A fatal crash in 1937?  But we had them back then, too, you know.  My grandparents took me in.  They were old and didn’t understand me terribly well, but they cared for me.  And they knew how much I loved the movies, so they took me as often as they could.  And this one day, back during the war, they took me to see Meet Me in St. Louis.  They had wanted to see it, and asked if I desired to come along.  Me, turn away a movie?  Of course I went along!  And, oh, little did they know, little did I know, how that scene, that wonderful scene, would move me.  Do you know which one I mean?”

Chad shook his head.  He had never watched the film.

“At one point,” Coomtromb said, “when it seems the family in the movie will have to move away, and everyone is all sad and despairing, Judy Garland sings a song to Margaret O’Brien, who plays her baby sister.  Magnificent!  There wasn’t a dry eye in the theatre after she got done with that song.  I cried and cried, and tried to turn my face away, but, oh, who cared, even Granddad was crying!  Don’t you see?  She sang ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’  I can remember it like it was yesterday.  It was at the old Palace Theater that used to be over on Lower Elm Street.  I went home that night and just wrapped myself in my blankets and I wished, I wished I had a big sister like Judy Garland.  I wished she would be there to comfort me and sing to me, and just be my friend.  I wished I could share my Christmases with a sister like that.  My, how I wished.  I guess . . . I suppose, in a way, I still do.  Do you have any sisters, young man?  Or brothers?”

“Yeah.  Two of each,” Chad said, but he didn’t really want to think about them right now.  Looking at the photos of his parents a moment ago, and now this.  Was Coomtromb trying to make him feel more homesick than he already was?

“You’re a very fortunate fellow, my young friend,” Coomtromb said.  “I was an only child.  I could watch Judy Garland, and I could dream of a big sister—or a big brother.  But that’s all it ever was—a dream.  Just a dream.  But here now, do you mind if I play the song again?”

“No, go ahead,” Chad said.

♣

The old man left a few minutes later, after playing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” six more times.  “I’ll be back soon, young man, don’t you worry,” Coomtromb had said.

“I won’t,” Chad responded, wondering if the intended sarcasm was apparent.  “Take it easy, Mr. Coomtromb.”

“Coom!” the man said.  “Coom to my friends!”

“Okay, Mr. . . . Coom.  See you around.”  But not too much, I hope.

After Chad closed the door behind Coomtomb, he went into the kitchen and grabbed another handful of potato chips.  Something about his unannounced guest grabbed hold of him and wouldn’t let go.

“Weird guy,” he said to the bare white walls, the fingerprint-smeared windows, and the smiling faces in the old family photographs.

♣

Throughout the next week, Chad got situated and began to explore his new neighborhood.  He’d take long walks, despite the cold, taking advantage of his free time.  He’d moved in on the first, and he wouldn’t need to begin work until the day after the New Year, so he had ample opportunity to get acquainted with the sprawling city.  He would leave in the morning and stroll through the streets for hours, stopping every now and then at a café for coffee and a pastry.

He walked through the entire apartment complex several times, as well, attempting to see into the building’s past.  Perched alongside the cold, gray river, two stories high and half a football field in length, the structure had once been a paper mill.  In fact, the locals still called it “The Mill.”  It struck Chad as quintessentially New England.  He liked the antique feel of the hallways, the odd angles in the corners, the unfinished wooden stairway at the heart of the building.  When he tried hard, he could almost smell the sweat pouring off the workers a century ago, he could almost hear the clanging of the building’s old machinery and the piercing shriek of the five-o’clock whistle.  But he also felt out of place here.  It struck him as the sort of residence only natives should live in, not transplanted Southerners.  But the price had been right.

He’d run into Coomtromb on several occasions since that first day.  The old man had knocked on Chad’s door and invited himself in a handful of times, and intercepted him in the hall more than once.  It was always the same.  Coomtromb wanted to talk, to prattle without pausing for breath.  Chad would nod and say an occasional “uh-huh,” and then he would tell the old man he needed to get on with some task or other.  He didn’t want to seem abrupt, but Coomtromb would talk all day if he didn’t put a stop to it.  Sometimes he let Coomtromb wind up the angel figurine, and listen to the song again.  That always sent him away happy.

One thing he’d noticed.  No one else spoke, or even looked, at the old man.  Whenever Chad saw someone pass Coomtromb in the hall, they just kept walking, as though the man didn’t even exist.  Guess people just aren’t as friendly up North, Chad thought, and left it at that.

♣

“Oh, excuse me, I didn’t mean to bump into you,” the voice said as Chad was knocked into from behind.  He was in The Mill’s foyer, taking off his gloves and scarf following another brisk morning walk.

“That’s okay,” Chad said.  “No harm done.  It . . .”  He paused when the person who’d bumped him came into view.  She was a young woman, probably around his age, with long brown hair and large, silver wire-frame glasses that gave her the look of a reference librarian.

“Hey,” she said.  “I’ve seen you around.  You’re the new guy on the second floor, right?  I live down the other end from you.  Name’s Nan.  Nan Butler.  Pleased to meet you.”  She smiled, and offered a red-mittened hand.

Chad shook it, feeling awkward.  He’d never been comfortable around women his own age, and he sensed the blood rushing to his cheeks.  He introduced himself and told her he was pleased to meet her, too.

“Hmm,” she said, cocking her head to the side, “you’re not from around here, are you?”

Smiling, he told her he was from a small town in southern Georgia.  Then he said, “I can’t believe how cold it is here.  Do you ever get used it?”

“Not really,” she said, as someone else rushed past them on the way outside. “I’ve been here all my life, and when winter comes, it still feels cold as ever.  Maybe colder.”

“Great,” he said.

She smiled.  “Let’s go upstairs.”

On the way up, she said, “Hey, I’ve seen that old creep Coomtromb talking with you.  Is he buggin’ you?  You can report him.  Lots of people have.  I almost did, too.  He’s been here, like, forever.  Whenever someone new comes along, he strikes like a vulture.  New people are the only ones who give ‘im the time of day, ‘cause no one who knows him will talk to him.”

They reached the top of the stairs.  The long, narrow hallway was empty in both directions.

“But why?” Chad said.  “I mean, he comes on strong, but what’s so bad about him?  Seems pretty harmless to me.”

She snorted.  “You’ll learn.  He steals, you know, so you better watch out.  No one’s proven anything, but anyone who’s been here knows he does.  Like, a couple years ago, I had a friend who lived in the room right next to his.  Her second day here, he went in and just . . . took some of her family photos.  He tried to, anyway.  Lucky for her, she saw him do it.  He said he just wanted to look at them, that he’d planned on giving them back.  He was, like, ‘Oh, I just wanted to talk with you.  If I borrowed these, I knew you’d come back for them.’  I mean, can you believe this guy?

“And he’s . . . I don’t know . . . weird.  Like, sometimes in summer, he’ll go to the park and just . . . sit there.  Some of my friends have seen him there, sitting on a bench and watching people.  For hours.  I’ve seen him there myself.  Mostly, though, he just stays in his room all day, doing God knows what—at least until someone new comes to live here, anyway.  So take my advice, and tell ‘im to quit pestering you.  That’s the only way to set him straight.”  She started walking toward her door.  Though his room was in the opposite direction, Chad found himself following her.

“But how does he live here, then?” Chad asked.  “I mean, if he stays in his room most of the time.  Doesn’t he have a job?”

“Who’d hire him?” Nan said.  “No, he’s retired, I guess.  Must have a great pension, ‘cause, like I said, he’s been here for years.  I wish he’d go to a retirement home or something.  But at least I’m way down the hall from him.  You’re right across.”  She stopped at her door.  “Hey, I’ll be seeing you around, Chad.  Maybe we can go for coffee or something.”

Again, he blushed.  “Sure,” he said.

“Can I ask you something?” she said then.  “Sorry, but I’m kinda nosey.”

He chuckled.  “Ask away.”

“Why’d you move here?  I mean, why did you come up North?  Do you have family up here?”

He shook his head.  “No.  I graduated this past spring, and couldn’t find a job in my hometown.  I started searching online, and a place up here hired me right over the phone.  Can you believe that?  I start in January.”

“What will you be doing?” she asked.

“I got hired on as a technical writer.”  When she looked perplexed, he explained that he’d be writing how-to manuals for computer software.

“Wow,” she said.  “But, why’d you come way up here, though?  Couldn’t you have found a job in Atlanta or Charlotte?  Someplace closer to home?”  She smiled and looked away.  “Hey, I’m sorry.  Like I said, I’m nosey.  You don’t need to answer if you don’t want.”

Down the hall, a door opened and shut with a resounding, echoing snap.  A tall man in a frayed brown coat emerged, walking briskly toward the stairs, then down them, out of sight.

“No, that’s okay,” he said, trying hard to fight the rising heat in his cheeks.  It was easier when Nan was doing most of the talking.  “I . . . I guess I wanted to get out on my own.  I’ve always lived at home.  I wanted to go somewhere different, while I’m still young.  I’d never been anywhere but the South.  I didn’t think I’d miss home as much as I do, either.  Mom was pretty shook up, too, especially with me being away for Christmas this year.  But she’ll be okay.”

“At least you were home for Thanksgiving,” Nan said.

“Yeah,” he said.  “I guess.”

♣

As Christmas neared, the weather turned even colder, and Chad had serious doubts about his relocation.  How could he live in such a climate?  Yet, there was no snow.  Only wind and gray clouds and raw, cutting rain and dying grass and bare, skeletal trees that seemed poised to reach down and strike.  He had heard of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), but had never experienced it . . . until now.  He had called home yesterday, and it was sunny and seventy-four degrees.  “See?” his mom had scolded.  “You should come home.”

He had met several of The Mill’s residents now, and the ones who lived on his end of the hall often warned him about Mr. Coomtromb.  “Stay away,” they said.  “Old nutcase,” they said.  “Ignore him, and he’ll get the message,” they said.  And Chad had to admit, he was getting close to the point of no return, the point where he would tell Coomtromb to get lost.  If Coomtromb could only show a little restraint, it wouldn’t be so bad, but the old man was almost always there, ready to pounce.

As much as he wanted to tell Coomtromb to leave him alone, Chad knew it would be hard to do.  Coomtromb didn’t mean any harm, Chad was sure of that.  But his reluctance to tell Coomtromb off ran deeper.  He did not really understand it, and could scarcely believe it, but he knew, on a level beyond logic and common sense, that there was something he shared with the old man, some odd form of kinship.  On the surface, such a notion seemed beyond laughable.  What could the two of them possibly share?  But he felt it.  It was real, and as sharp as the cold crack of dawn in that hour just before the sun rises above the horizon.

♣

It was morning on Christmas Eve, and Chad had made it downstairs undetected by Coomtromb.  He was going to take a walk—a nice, long walk in the snow.  Three inches had fallen already, and no let-up was in sight.  He felt like a schoolboy let loose in the playground.  He’d never seen so much snow in his life.

“Hey there,” he heard someone say behind him.  “Where ya going?”

It was Nan, and he was glad to see her.  They hadn’t talked much since that first encounter—only a handful of times—but he enjoyed her company.  He wasn’t the type to go out on the town at night looking for a match.  If he were ever going to meet someone, this would be the way:  gradual, unforced, a natural progression of daily events.

He told her he was going for a walk in the snow, and she said she wanted to come along.  They walked around The Mill, then down the side streets to the west of it, him looking up at the flakes as they fell, like white magic, from the clouds; her pointing at stately colonials that brooded in the distance like old poets contemplating the meaning of life.  “That’s the old Bartlett place,” she said as they strolled past a mansion-sized house.  “They say it’s haunted.”  She proceeded to tell him the stories, the legends, not only of the Bartlett house but several others.  He listened, and asked questions when he needed to, and he laughed with her often.  More than anything, he found himself wishing the moment could linger.  He felt a connection—with her and the neighborhood.  Maybe it was the snow, the time of season, the holiday wreaths hanging from the front porches and doors.  But for once he felt like he belonged here, like he was a part of a whole, a vital link in a moving, living chain.

Then she brought up Mr. Coomtromb.

“When are you gonna give him the boot, Chad?” she said.  “A few people are starting to lump you two together, you know.  You don’t want that.  Trust me.”

“Well, after New Year’s, I’ll be starting my job, and it’ll probably blow over,” he said.

She stopped, suddenly, and put her hands on her hips.  “What is it with you?  Do you, like, like him or something?”

“No,” he said, “not really.  It’s just . . . he needs someone to talk to, that’s all.  He seems lonely.”

“Pss,” she said, and started walking again.  Snow landed on her hat, then melted.  “Big deal.  Everyone is lonely.  Haven’t you ever noticed?”

Chad looked away.  Not until I moved up here, he thought, but he said nothing.

♣

Two hours later, they got back to The Mill, dusted with snowflakes.

“Thanks for the walk,” Nan said as they pushed their way into the foyer.  “That was nice.”  She took off her glasses and wiped them with the end of her scarf.

“Any time,” Chad said.

When they had climbed the stairs, Chad, taking an uncharacteristic chance, invited Nan to his room for coffee and a snack.

“Sure,” she said.  “I’d like that.”  They walked slowly down the hall, and Chad mused that they probably looked like a couple.  “Hey,” she said then, “your door’s open!  Someone’s in your room, Chad!”

At first, he figured it must be some optical illusion, some trick of the light.  But no—his door was definitely open.  “Stay out here,” he told her.  “I’ll go in an check.”

“Be careful,” she said.

He tiptoed into the room, wary, on guard.  He had never learned how to fight, and he didn’t know how he would fare if someone picked one with him now.  Maybe the—

Then he saw him, and he knew there would be no need for a fight.

Mr. Coomtromb was seated on a chair, next to Chad’s coffee table.  He was caressing the angel figurine, staring at it with that same rapture Chad had observed before.  But how did he get in?  Had he picked the lock?

“Mr. Coomtromb?” Chad said.  “What are you doing here?”

A gasp escaped the old man, and he quickly put the figurines back on the tabletop.  “I . . . your door was open, it wasn’t locked!” he said.  “Oh, believe me, my young friend, I knocked and knocked, I surely did, but you wouldn’t answer, and I just had to see it, to hear the song, you understand, and I didn’t want to wait, oh, it seemed so cruel to wait.  But I didn’t break in!  I just tried the knob, you see, just in case, and it opened!  I wasn’t going to do anything bad to your place, young man.  I was just going to take—to borrow—your lovely angel for today and tomorrow—for Christmas, you see—and return it after.  I promise, I would.  I will!  You believe me, don’t you?”

“Tell him to get out of here.”  It was Nan.  She had entered the apartment.  “He was trying to rob you, can’t you see that?  I told you!  He’s an old crook!  You better check your drawers, ‘cause I bet he took some stuff and snuck it in his room by now.”

“No,” Coomtromb said.  “I did no such thing.  I just wanted to borrow this angel, and the door—”

“I cannot believe this guy,” Nan interrupted, and Coomtromb shook his head, back and forth, back and forth.  His toothless mouth was set firm.  He looked to Chad like a gradeschooler denying the accusations of a teacher.

“Look, just calm down, everyone,” Chad said.  “Just chill.  No harm’s been done.  I guess it’s just as much my fault as anybody’s.  If I left the door unlocked . . .”

Nan’s mouth dropped open.  “Are you really that stupid?” she said.  “You actually believe this guy?”  The sigh that escaped her lips then had a finality to it, a hard crack of firm, unalterable judgment.  “Look, I need to get back to my room, okay?  Thanks again for the walk.”

“Nan, wait . . .”

But she was already gone.  He could hear her rapid, stiletto footsteps on the hallway floor, receding into the distance.

“I am sorry about that,” Coomtromb said.  “She’s a pretty girl.”

“Yeah,” Chad said.

“But, my young man, I promise you, I did not break in.  When your door was unlocked, I—”

Chad gestured for Coomtromb to stop.  “Don’t worry about it.  And go ahead.  You can borrow the music box, I don’t care.  Just be careful with it.  It’s kinda special to my mom, and she’d be ticked if something happened to it.”

Coomtromb began to speak, but Chad again halted him.  “Look,” he said.  “I really just wanna be left alone, okay, Mr. Coomtromb?”

“Coom to my friends,” Coomtromb said.  “And, yes, I will leave now.  I know all about being alone, you see.  Intimately.  Especially over the holidays.  Have you ever been to a party or a get-together, my young friend, and just felt . . . separated, apart, as though a wall, a barrier, existed between you and the others?  So many people talking and laughing and dancing all around you, but you . . . you’re alone.  Have you ever?  That’s the way it is right here, too, right here in The Mill, right here in the city.  So many people all around, and yet. . . .  But I thank you for your kindness, young man, and do not worry—these beautiful figurines are in good hands.  I will treat them with the utmost care and delicacy.  And I promise, I will return them on the twenty-sixth.”

♣

Chad sat in his apartment that afternoon, trying to feel festive.  It was Christmastime, after all.  But he didn’t.  Nan’s words stung him.  He told himself it didn’t matter, that she didn’t matter—how could she be so quick to accuse Coomtromb, anyway?  She wouldn’t even hear the guy out.  He tried telling himself that she wasn’t his type, that she wasn’t the sort of person he’d hoped she was, that it was no great loss.  But it was a loss, and not all the philosophizing in the world could deny it.

He also thought of Mr. Coomtromb.  He wasn’t sure if he believed the old man’s assertion that Chad’s door had been unlocked, but it didn’t really matter.  What mattered were Coomtromb’s words.  He thought about being at a party, being here at The Mill, surrounded by people, by strangers who didn’t know him and didn’t care.

The snow had not let up.  If anything, it was coming down harder now—a white Christmas was assured.  A white Christmas.  Such a concept was to him, until this moment, a fairy tale.  And that’s how the world outside his window seemed, too.  The snow fell from a bruised-gray sky, covering everything under a veil of silence.  Car tires rotated through city streets without a noise.  Pedestrians, flaked with white powder, walked quietly along the sidewalk, their steps muted, the sound absorbed by the snow cover.  And in the gray-white distance, Chad could barely make out the river as it flowed along like a stream of liquid lead.

He felt an ache to be in Georgia, to be with Mom and Dad, and his brothers and sisters.  They would be laughing now, probably, and drinking eggnog, and sitting in front of the hearth.  “Chilly outside,” Mom would say, though “chilly” to her would mean fifty-three degrees with a slight breeze.  And Dad would throw another log in the fire, then take Mom onto his lap and hold her close.

But all Chad could do here and now was look out at the snow, look down upon the streets and sidewalks and storefronts adorned with holiday wreaths and lights in the windows.  Just sitting there.  Or, was there something else he could do?

He left his room, and locked the door.  Before he walked away, he tested the lock twice.

♣

The video store was down at the corner, just a half mile away.  But it seemed like hours to get there.  The wind had turned harsh, and the afternoon was fading like a dim memory.  It was nearly dark when Chad went out, though it was just barely past four o’clock.

When he entered the shop, he was covered with snow, and very eager to get out of the elements.  The first thing he noticed was the shopkeeper, a balding fat man with a thick, bulbous nose, standing behind the checkout counter.  There were no other customers.

He went over to a shelf labeled “Classics.”  The shopkeeper immediately came up to him.  “Can I help you find something in particular?” he asked.  “I’m about ready to close.  Most weeknights, I’m open till seven, but not Christmas Eve I ain’t.”  The man’s accent was so thick, Chad thought he could hear the chowder coating each word.

Chad asked him if he had Meet Me in St. Louis.

The shopkeeper looked hard at him, as if noticing something about him for the first time, and not liking it.  “Ain’t from around here, are ya?” he said.

Chad shrugged.  “Georgia.”

The man grunted.  Fingering through the movies on the shelf, he pulled one out and handed it to Chad.  “Well, here you are,” he said.  “Lotsa years, this is rented out for Christmas.  You got lucky.”  They went to the checkout counter, and Chad filled out the necessary paperwork to become a card-carrying member of the store.  All the while, the shopkeeper fidgeted and stared at the pen as Chad wrote, as if willing it to move faster.

When Chad released the pen and slid the papers back across the counter, the shopkeeper processed the order at warp speed and handed over the cassette.

“You got it for five days,” he said.  “Live it up.”

Chad nodded, and walked out.  As soon as the door had shut behind him, he saw the shopkeeper flip over the “Open” sign.  “Sorry, Closed,” it now read.  Then a stiff gust of wind came up, and he started back for The Mill.

♣

Knocking on Mr. Coomtromb’s door, Chad was strangely nervous.  It seemed backwards.  Coomtromb was the one who was supposed to knock on his door.  When there was no answer, he knocked again.

“Mr. Coomtromb . . . Coom . . . open up,” he said.  “I rented a movie for us to watch tonight.”

The door swung open.

“A movie?”  Coomtromb was in his night clothes already.  “Which one?”

Chad showed him the case.  For a moment, he worried that the old man was going to drop over from a heart attack.  His hands flew to his chest, and his mouth gaped open.

“My great goodness,”  Coomtromb said.  “Words fail me, young man.  It has been years, years, since I last saw that wonderful movie, that wonderful, wonderful scene!  But . . . but I don’t have a VCR.  Even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to operate it to save my life!  Oh, no!”

“That’s okay,” Chad said.  “I have one, and I even know how to use it.  We can watch in my room.”

“Oh, yes, that would be fine, fine!” Coomtromb said.  “But first, I must pop some popcorn—I have a microwave, you know, and dentures, too, have you ever seen me wear them? I usually don’t like to, but for popcorn, well . . . And I must pour some beverages, and open some snacks, and . . . Come in, come in!  You can help me prepare!”

Chad went in.  The first thing he noticed were the Christmas figurines standing atop a cluttered desk.  He was about to approach them, but Coomtromb had other ideas.

“Come along with me, my young friend,” Coomtromb said.  “I am so looking forward to the show, and we need to get ready.  Let us not delay!  My microwave is extremely temperamental, you know!”

He followed the old man into the kitchen, where they made popcorn—Coomtromb burned it on the first try—opened a bag of pretzels, and grabbed some orange sodas from the refrigerator.  Then, fully stocked, they went to Chad’s apartment, where Chad contributed eggnog and even a little sparkling cider to the mix.

They sat on the sofa, the popcorn bowl and pretzels between them, the drinks on the coffee table, and watched the movie.  Coomtromb stared at the television screen, rapt.  Several times, his eyes widened to the size of silver dollars, and once he laughed so loud it was hard to make out the movie’s dialogue.  He asked Chad to rewind the tape so they could watch the scene again.  “And I promise,” he said, “this time I will not laugh, and we’ll be able to hear.”  But he did laugh, and they didn’t hear.

Chad enjoyed the movie more than he thought he would, but he kept waiting for the pivotal scene.  The scene Coomtromb had talked about so often.  And when it came, the old man cried like a little girl.  “I’m sorry,” he said when it was over.  “I can’t help it.  I’ve never been able to help it when Judy Garland sings that lovely, lovely song.”

An hour later, standing in the doorway, Coomtromb thanked Chad.  “That was the best Christmas present I’ve had in a long time,” he said.  “You have no idea, my friend.  And, whatever you do, don’t concern yourself with the figurines.  I’ll bring them back, day after tomorrow, you’ll see.”

♣

Christmas came and went, and Mr. Coomtromb failed to deliver the figurines.  Whenever he talked to Chad, the topic of the figurines did not come up.

He talked to Chad less and less as time pushed on.  Chad started his job at the beginning of January, and usually worked late.  Additionally, a couple of new residents had moved in, which distracted Coomtromb.  But sometimes, on a Saturday, the old man would knock on Chad’s door and come in; sometimes, early on a weekday morning, Coomtromb would stop him in the hall and ramble on about the past, about the old Palace Movie Theater, about wishes and dreams.

Regarding the figurines, though, Coomtromb was silent, and by the time spring at last beckoned, Chad knew he would never see them again unless he requested their return.  And he planned to.  His parents had called and told him they wanted to visit in the fall, to see the New England foliage at its peak of color.  That wasn’t the holiday season—but it was close enough.  He knew his mother would inquire about the figurines, and probably would want to see them, or even ask for them back.

The evening after his parents’ phone call, he stepped into the empty hallway and approached Coomtromb’s door.  He raised his hand, ready to knock.  That’s when he heard it.

Coomtromb was in there, playing the song.  Through the solid wood of the door, Chad could hear “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and he could picture the old man, his eyes as wonderstruck as a little boy’s, staring at the singing porcelain angel.

“After all this time,” Chad said softly.  “After all these months.”

The song stopped.  A moment of silence.  Then the song began to play again.

Chad let his hand drop to his side.  “Sorry, Mom,” he said, “I just can’t.”

He turned around, walked slowly back across the hall, and went into his room.

******************************

Thanks so much for reading!

–Mike

Marc Kuslanski, “Know-It-Alls,” and the Sixth-Grade Spelling Bee

Marc Kuslanski is a know-it-all, plain and simple.  From the time we first meet him in The Eye-Dancers, in chapter four, it’s all too evident that he loves the sound of his own voice, and rarely doubts that his theories or explanations are accurate.  Marc’s the kind of person who, when asked a question about anything, will be quick to offer his opinion.  Even if he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he acts like he does.

I have to admit, I used to be a little bit like Marc myself.  I like to think I’ve matured a bit over the years, and no longer go around trying to prove my point or picking arguments about inconsequential pieces of trivia (though some of my friends may disagree!).  But when I was right around Marc’s age in The Eye-Dancers, I was all too quick to try to prove how much I knew.  Geography?  I memorized the state capitals of all fifty U.S. states, not to mention numerous nations around the world.  Presidents?  I made it a point to recite all the U.S. presidents, in a row, in under twenty-five seconds.  When my parents had guests, I’d go over to them and say, “You wanna hear something?”  And then:  “WashingtonAdamaJeffersonMadisonMonroeQuincy-AdamsJacksonVan BurenHarrisonTylerPolkTaylorFillmore . . .”  I don’t think I ever stopped for a breath.  And when I ended with Reagan (this was the ’80s, after all), I checked my watch.  My record was eighteen seconds.

Looking back, I shake my head.  I needed a humbling experience in the worst way, and in the sixth grade, I got one. . . .

The Spelling Bee.  I had done well enough in the preliminaries to make it to the final bee–in the school auditorium on a cold, snowy western New York winter day.  The auditorium was full of parents, teachers, students.  Was I nervous?  Who, me?  I would win the bee, no problem!  I didn’t have a doubt.  I looked to my left and right–sizing up my competition.  A dozen students sat in a line, on metal folding chairs.  Onstage, we looked out over the auditorium.  I saw my mom and dad four rows back.  They caught me looking and waved.  Let’s get this show going, I thought.  Time to win.

Mrs. T. asked the questions.  She had been my third-grade teacher and was once again my teacher for sixth grade.  She approached the mic, and asked the first word to be spelled.  The boy next to me, Tom, from my homeroom, misspelled it.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Mrs. T. said somberly, her curly red hair a shade too light under the harsh, bright stage lights.  She held the mic with her left hand, the multiple bracelets she always wore jangling on her wrist.

Tom, defeated, bowed his head and walked off the stage.  I saw him slink in beside his parents in the audience, forced to watch the rest of the competition from the crowd.  Beside me, his empty gray chair seemed lonely and forlorn without its occupant.

“Michael,” she said, smiling at me.  I stood up.  And then she asked me the same word that Tom had just misspelled.  Honestly, I can’t remember what the word was.  But I spelled it right, and sat back down.

By the time the next word came my way, three other students had been sent to sit with their parents in the crowd.  There were eight of us left.

“Okay, Michael,” Mrs. T. said, the sound of her jangling bracelets competing with her voice.  I stood up, ready.  “The next word is ‘boundary.'”  And then she used it in a sentence, the way she always did when introducing a new word.  “The boundary between the two nations was well defined.”  Thinking about it later, I realized, she had pronounced the word in a very clear manner–stressing the “a” between the “d” and the “r.”

And yet, at the time, standing there under the lights, looking out at the audience, I somehow overlooked it.  And I didn’t think through the spelling.  I just whipped off a fast response.  After all, it was simple, right?

“Boundary,” I repeated after Mrs. T.  “‘B-o-u-n-d-r-y.’  Boundary.”  I prepared to sit back down in my metal folding chair, without a doubt in the world.

But then Mrs. T.’s voice cut through like an ice pick.  “I’m sorry, Michael.  That is incorrect.”

For a moment, I thought I’d heard her wrong.  Incorrect?  But how could that be?  How could I get such an easy word wrong?  I stood there, frozen for a second, and the clinking of Mrs. T.’s bracelets seemed like giant metal boulders clashing into each other, creating a cacophony of sound.  I glanced at my parents, and they looked at me as if to say, “It’s okay.  No big deal.”

But it was a big deal.  It felt like one, anyway, at the time.  I walked off the stage, looking down at the floor the entire while, and quickly joined my parents in the fourth row, eager to merge with the crowd, turn invisible.

I can’t tell you who won the bee that day, or what any of the other words were.  But “boundary” stays with me, even to this day.  I laugh over the memory now.  It was a lesson I needed at the time.

Marc Kuslanski needs the same lesson.  And over the course of The Eye-Dancers, he does in fact learn it, however reluctantly.  In the end, he has no choice.

So, here’s to you, Marc.  Here’s to the know-it-all in each of us . . .

“Boundary,” huh?  No problem.  Piece of cake.  “B-o-u-n-d-r-y.”

Next question, please . . .

–Mike

Blog of the Year~2012

Hello on a snow-less early December day in the rolling green hills of Vermont.  And yes, that is right–green in December.  There has been no snow to speak of yet in the Green Mountain State.  Surely that will change soon. . . .

I want to thank The Other Side of Ugly for nominating The Eye-Dancers for the “Blog of the Year~2012” award.  If you haven’t been to Sheri’s website, please pay it a visit.  It is full of enriching and insightful posts that make you stop and think and appreciate.  It is especially nice being nominated for this award from such a great blogger.  Thanks, Sheri!

It’s very surprising being nominated at all, in part because I am brand-new to blogging.  I began The Eye-Dancers site a few months ago as a platform to talk about my novel, The Eye-Dancers.  Since then, thanks to the wonderful interaction with fellow bloggers, the site has gradually grown to include more diverse topics.

Thanks to everyone who has read these ramblings of mine.  I like to think this is just the beginning.  There’s a lot still to talk about!

The ‘rules’ for the 2012 Blog Award are simple:

1. Select another blog or other blogs who deserve the ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award
2. Write a blog post and tell us about the blog(s) you have chosen – there’s no minimum or maximum number of blogs required – and ‘present’ them with their award
3. Include a link back to this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award at the The Eye-Dancersand provide these ‘rules’ in your post (please don’t alter the rules or the badges!)
4. Let the blog(s) you have chosen know that you have given them this award and share the ‘rules’ with them
5. You can now also join our Facebook group – click ‘like’ on this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award Facebook group and then you can share your blog with an even wider audience
6. As a winner of the award – please add a link back to the blog that presented you with the award – and then proudly display the award on your blog and sidebar … and start collecting stars…

When you begin you will receive the 1 star award, and every time you are given the award by another blog, you can add another star! So until now I have only 1 star!!

There are total of 6 stars to collect.

You can check out your favorite blogs, and even if they have already been given the award by someone else, you can still award them again and help them to reach the maximum 6 stars!

For more information check FAQ on The Thought Palette

I would like to nominate the following blogs for the Blog of the Year~2012 award.  They are all wonderful places to pull up a virtual chair and settle in for a spell, and I hope you pay them a visit . . .

kelihasablog

The Other Side of Ugly

Crusades and Crusaders

Deanna’s Writing

renxkyoko

Thanks again to everyone.

–Mike