Display by Label: Exercises

I've decided to stop having the title of these Fiction Friday exercises be the name of the exercise. Because the names of the exercises are kind of boring. I had actually been thinking this for the last couple of ones I posted, and then this week's exercise was called "God." And that settled it. Because I didn't want to call any post "God." That just seemed weird. So here's the gist of this week's number:


I have a confession to make with this one ... I chose it from the book mainly because this week was a busy week of getting caught up and I needed something short. Two-hundred words is pretty short. But then I got even lazier than that. I didn't actually write anything. Instead, I pulled a section of text from the novella I wrote in college called "Riding the Line," which had this quirky, all-seeing, all-knowing, omniscient narrator, because—back then—I wanted to be the next Tom Robbins. And okay, maybe I still do. So, this is the first couple of paragraphs of the first chapter of the second section of that novella. Originally, it was simply titled "Robby." There are several characters in the story, and many of them are alluded to in this passage, though not by name. Just something to keep in mind as you read. Have a good weekend.


Some people see life through rose-colored glasses, others through a shade of blue. Some people's glasses are mirrored, reflecting life back at itself, while others' are endlessly dark, absorbing everything into their murky center. Most people's glasses are clear, but translucency is a strange thing and clarity can be painful. That's why some people prefer to wear 3-D; the distortion keeps them sane.

Drinkers see life through the bottom of their beer glass, smokers over the end of their cigarette; dippers keep it safely tucked away between their gum and lip. Performers on the big stage try to see life, but life can be hard to make out when you're staring in those bright lights all the time. Movie directors look at life through the eyepiece of a camera, creating the scene, telling actors where to stand and what to do. Actors look back at blank lenses. Visionary. Visionless. Vision-fed.

Mathematicians see life as an endless arrangement of numbers, writers, as an endless arrangement of words.

Some little red-heads see life in the reflection of a full-length mirror and some big-bellied raw-looking men see it through banana peels, grass clippings, and cat claws.

Robby Plum saw life through the tailpipe of a 1973 Buick.

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Once again, this is what I'm doing. And this week's exercise is The Execution:
I pretty much failed at this exercise. I went way too long. And though it was supposed to have consisted mostly of dialogue, I stayed in the narrator's head most of the time. But in failing at the exercise, I kind of stumbled on something that intrigued me and which I might continue down the road. So in that way, maybe it was a success. Earlier this week I listened to a This American Life episode which had this piece about NYC School's "Rubber Rooms," and suddenly I knew the larger context of the story and I had to go with it. And so the story wound up becoming more about that than the actual execution. Anyway, it's too late for a do-over ... (If you have time, download the TAL podcast. It's good.)


Fat Larry leaned over and said in his low, Brooklyn-tinged voice, "Meet us in the other corner, Jack." He wrapped his meaty knuckles on my desk as he said it.

I didn't look up from my book. But I nodded.

If breathing through your nostrils and using your eyes to see things around you were two things you didn't do on a regular basis, then Fat Larry wasn't too bad a guy to be around. He had a dry sense of humor I could appreciate. He had introduced himself to me as "Fat Larry," and I thought there was something profound in that. But the problem with Fat Larry was that it always seemed like he'd been mowing the lawn or something. Like, yesterday. And he still hadn't showered. He was just tremendously ... unkempt. He didn't actually talk that much, unless he had something to say. And that something was usually a joke. But the thing he had just uttered was no joke. It sounded ominous.

"Be there in a sec Fat Larry ... let me just finish this paragraph ..."

This was my thirty-second week in the Rubber Room. It was loud, as usual, but my desk in the back corner, which I had recently acquired, was one of the more quiet places to sit. It was against the far wall and there was nobody on my left or in back of me. To my right was a balding math teacher named Bill. He had coffee breath that I can only describe as "evil" and when you were confronted head-on with its sickening darkness, it left you feeling cold and scared. Luckily, he mostly kept to himself and didn't say much. The woman in front of me knitted all day. She kept a photo of her dog on her desk. Occasionally, she would begin crying loudly and uncontrollably. But these outbursts only occurred once or twice a week and were relatively short and easy to ignore. The florescent light above me was constant and didn't flicker at all. And my desk/chair combo was of the newer style that had the cushion in the seat, not the all-plastic variety I had sat in for so many months.

When you're in the Rubber Room, it's the little things that matter. Your seat. Your immediate neighbors. The light above you. These were small things outside of the Rubber Room. But inside, these things were of vast importance. This seat I was in, for instance, had been Tony's. Tony had sat in the seat for nearly two years, drawing his salary from the City of New York while doing crosswords from The Times. Most people didn't mess with Tony. And so he kept his seat. But one day Tony didn't show up to the Rubber Room. Maybe he had finally been fired. Maybe he had died. Whatever. It didn't matter to any of us still in the Room. What mattered was Tony's seat. And there were four of us in the room who wanted it and who had the seniority to take it: Me, Jerry, Greta, and Fat Larry. The first day Tony didn't show, nobody sat in the seat. But on the second day, I went ahead and claimed it. Because I knew if I didn't, one of the other three would. And in this world, you don't wait to be given anything. You take.

The Rubber Room is the place where New York City teachers go to be "re-assigned." Usually because they've done something wrong or they have a "personality conflict" with somebody they shouldn't. And instead of getting fired, they get sent to one of the Rubber Rooms in the Education building, so the school system can figure out what to do with them. And the proper way to do it.

Actually, only those of us who are sent here call it the "Rubber Room." The school administrators call it the "Re-assignment Center." The thing about the name "Re-Assignment Center" though, is that most people who get sent here never actually get re-assigned. Instead, the person's job becomes ... to simply come here. Every day. Indefinitely. You still get a salary, paid for by New York's tax-payers. But nobody comes to talk to you. Nobody re-assigns you. You're just forgotten. And so you begin to carry out your days by reading, or playing cards, or talking to the others. For six or seven hours a day. Every day.

I wound up in the Rubber Room because one of my students walked in on me and another teacher fucking in my classroom. The teacher was Miss Carter. We weren't particularly fond of one another, Miss Carter and I. She'd leave rotten apples on my desk and I'd "re-assign" them to her car. But, man Miss Carter looked delicious in a black dress, which is what she'd been wearing that day. And one afternoon she came to see me about something and before I knew what was happening, she was up against the black board and my pants were down around my ankles and her skirt up around her waist and the door was closed but—bloody hell—not locked, and my hand, searching for something to help keep me balanced and upright, found a tray full of chalk dust instead, and the white powder wound up all over Miss Carter's chest, and well ... this was certainly no way for a young girl, nine years old, to see sex happening for the first time. And she would probably go on the rest of her life with this being her first impression of that thing and all the sex education classes in the world wouldn't get it out of her head, and who knew the layers of psychological damage that Miss Carter and I had inflicted on her that day. The student left the room and ten minutes later I was visited by Principal Evans. Miss Carter and I got "re-assigned" to separate Rubber Rooms. And that was thirty-two weeks ago. My wife still thinks I drive my car to a classroom every day to teach third graders how to read and write. She doesn't know I park my car at the New York City Board of Education building. That the only reading I'm a part of is my own. And that teaching is no longer part of the equation at all.

I wasn't exactly sure why the school hadn't fired us. Maybe they didn't want a scandal to erupt. Headlines ... Teachers Caught Having Sex in Classroom. Schools are deathly terrified of bad press. They probably struck some kind of deal with the parent of the girl who walked in on us.

I got up from my chair and walked over to the other corner to meet Fat Larry and the others. It was louder here, which sort of made it easier to talk without really being overheard. But it also meant you had to get close to each other. And Fat Larry's lawnmower smell washed over me.

Greta, who had been in the Rubber Room for just over a year, who always tried to talk to me about food, was clicking nervously on a pen. She had been a gym teacher in Queens. She landed in the Rubber Room after she called an eight-year old boy a pussy. I think the exact phrase she used was "fucking pussy." Either way, seemed like a terrible choice of words, but who was I to judge? Jerry was sucking on his teeth, which he was apt to do, and which drove me crazy. Jerry was probably the most normal of any of us there. And he liked to portray that about himself. He wore suits. And he maintained that he really shouldn't be in the Rubber Room at all. That he was a victim. And he told us he had a lawyer working on things and that they would be coming to get him any day. All Jerry had done to get himself in the Rubber Room was flunk a student. But that student had very influential parents.

"I'm just going to tell you straight, Jack," said Fat Larry. "Susan needs to go."

"Susan?"

They all three nodded.

I turned my head to where Susan stood now, talking to several others, one hand occupied with a cup of coffee, and the other fluttering and gesticulating wildly like a bird. Susan Lee was by far the loudest member of the Rubber Room. She was from Arkansas and had a loud shrill voice. She smacked her gum a lot and butted into people's conversations and told them what they should do with their lives. She also had tough skin, so there was no convincing her to shut up. She just didn't care. It was like she had to talk or she would explode.

I looked back at this weird trio that had pulled me aside. "Go?" I asked.

"Go," said Greta.

"We're going to kill her," said Jerry. There was a lilt in his voice when he said it, like he was stifling a laugh and it kind of creeped me out.

I waited for the punch line. But it never came. Jerry sucked on his teeth. Greta clicked and clicked.

"What are you talking about?"

"Sometimes you're a little thick, Jack," said Fat Larry. He wrapped his knuckles on my head.

"It's no longer acceptable, Jack." This was Jerry again, speaking with this weird rational tone, like he was trying to explain the concept of gravity or something. "This behavior. We will go crazy. She needs to die."

"Are you kidding me?"

"We're not joking," said Greta. "Susan will die. And here's the deal, Jack: You're going to be the one to kill her. Because we know what brought you to the Rubber Room. And we know that if you don't kill Susan, we're going to tell your wife all about it."

"You want me ..." I lowered my voice. "You want me to kill Susan?"

"Jesus, Jack. I thought you were quicker than this." said Fat Larry.

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So ... it's Friday. And this is what I'm doing. And this week's exercise is Unreliable Third:
It's been a while since I've written in third-person. The novel I've been working on is all first-person. And of course this blog is first-person most of the time, except when I like to refer to myself in the third. Third-person is fun, though, and I miss it. I'm sorry if, like the passage says, I "irritate" you. All I can say is, "I don't mean to bug you." Also, I went over the 500-word instruction, with about twice that many. But I guess I see the word-count thing as a floor, not as a ceiling.

Anyway, here you go ...



Unreliable Third

"I didn't order chamomile," said Jan. "I ordered English Breakfast. I come here several times a week and my order is always the same, you know? English Breakfast."

From behind her dark sunglasses, Jan looked at her hands as she said this. She turned her wedding ring around on her finger. The waiter retreated from the table and went inside to return her chamomile. She hadn't meant to snap. He was new, after all. She'd only seen him once before. She would apologize when he came back. Or not ... why should she care, anyway? Service was not what it used to be. Anywhere. She had been to New York recently and had been bitterly disappointed at just how average the restaurants had been there. The food and the service. Both were utterly ... average.

In Palo Alto, the day was white with sun. Warm and pleasant on the patio of The Blue Heron, where she often took a mid-afternoon tea and read a book. She took a paperback from her bag and set it on the table next to her silverware. Then she sat back in her chair and waited for her tea and felt the warmth of the sun against her face and chest and thought it was nice and good.

Next to Jan, a young couple—early 30s perhaps—touched hands across their table. They spoke to each other in soft, whispered voices, backs hunched, heads leaning low and close to one-another. They had on nice clothes, as if they had come from church. But the man's tie was undone. And the woman's blouse was wrinkled. They each wore bands on their fingers. And they softly touched finger to finger, palm to back of hand, like people in love do. Married ... probably recently, thought Jan. Enjoying a Sunday afternoon brunch together. They reminded Jan of a straighter, less hippy version of she and Roger. Back in the Haight, talking forever in cafes, high and in love. Roger had always enjoyed his photography, and so she had plenty of pictures from then, and she kept them in worn cardboard boxes in her bedroom closet. They had never had kids and so the pictures were all she had left of him now. Even so, she rarely looked at them. His memory was alive enough in her mind.

The waiter came back with a check for the young couple and an English Breakfast for Jan. He set the tea and a saucer in front of her, along with a white porcelain creamer and sugar bowl.

"Would you care for anything else, Miss?"

"No, thank you," said Jan, looking at the tea set in front of her. The waiter turned to leave, but Jan stopped him.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

She turned her head toward him but kept her gaze down, about level with his chest. "I ... um ... oh nothing. Thank you."

"Of course," said the waiter and turned away again.

Next to her, the couple left some bills on the table and got up to leave. The man walked over to the woman and took her hand as they left the patio and went inside.

Jan put some sugar in her tea and stirred it and listened to the clanking sound the spoon made against the cup. She thought about how, if Roger was here now, he'd be sitting across from her with a paper. His bald head shining in the sun. Those last few years it had been strange to watch that baldness happen where once, many years ago, there had been long, pony-tailed hair.

She glanced at her book, started to pick it up. Then she noticed a pair of women's sunglasses on the table where the young couple had just been. She looked around for the waiter, but he was inside somewhere. Normally, she would have left the sunglasses and carried on with her reading, but the couple had seemed so adorable and those looked like really nice sunglasses and it would be a real shame for the girl to lose them. Maybe Jan could still catch them if she hurried.

Jan grabbed the sunglasses and headed quickly inside. She surveyed the restaurant from over the rims of her own dark sunglasses, but the couple was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully they were still in the parking lot. Jan walked as fast as she could without making a spectacle of herself, through the restaurant, between tables where people were dining and talking, and out the front door back into the sunlight. She saw the man next to a car, his back to her. She recognized him by his clothes.

"Sir?" she called.

The man turned toward Jan as she hurried over to where he stood.

"Sir, I think your wife left these at the table." Jan glanced inside the car and saw nobody in the passenger side. She looked around the parking lot. She did not see the woman, but did see a blue BMW pulling onto the street. She turned back to the man and for the first time saw his face. His eyes were red and he seemed sad. Like he'd been crying. Jan turned her gaze to her hands and the sunglasses that she held.

"My wife?"

"Yes. I was sitting next to you. On the patio." Jan said to her hands. This was definitely the same man. Jan could tell by his shoes. The ring on his finger.

"Oh ... she's not ..." the man stopped.

"I'm sorry?" said Jan, looking up.

"Oh, nothing," said the man and smiled. "Thank you." He held out his hand to accept the sunglasses.

"They seemed like nice sunglasses," said Jan, handing them to the man. "And I hope this isn't inappropriate, but I couldn't help but notice you two in there and you seemed so ... well, in love ... and you reminded me of my husband and me. A long time ago."

"Yes, thank you. That's ... very kind of you." He took the sunglasses and put them in his shirt pocket. Then he opened his car door and got in without saying anything.

Jan stood there for a moment, while the man started his car. Then she turned and went back into the restaurant, walked through the interior dining room and out the rear door onto the patio.

Her book and her tea were on the table. She sat down but made no effort to drink her tea, or read her book. She just sat back and closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on her face and chest and remembered.

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In case you missed it, this is what I'm doing. And this week's exercise is The Reluctant. (Also, this is completely unrelated, but it's my first leap-year post. How cool.)

Here's the gist (From: The 3 am Epiphany):
First-person narration? After writing this blog for so long? Piece of cake. But not using the first-person pronouns? Holy crap. A lot harder than I thought it would be. The I's and me's wound up slipping out all over the place. And I had to change the trajectory of this snippet a couple of times in order to fit the narration. I guess it's difficult for me (me, me, me!) to accept the premise of a narrator who isn't primarily and absolutely interested in himself above all other things. A definite leap for any blogger. Anyway, here goes ...


The Lovers Lane Tom Thumb near The Village was a busy place at six on a weeknight. Single twenty-somethings picking up TV dinners after work. SMU kids buying beer and cigarettes for parties. Hipster couples discussing the merits of ginger root ... Did you know, honey, that ginger root can do all sorts of great things ... relieve nausea, reduce cholesterol, fight inflammation. It can even boost the immune system. This was all explained in great detail by the pale-skinned, mid-20s guy in a blue winter hat speaking loudly to his ... let's see, what might she be? Girlfriend? No, too familiar with one another for just "girlfriend." This woman, this small elfin creature with pointy nose and cute little rosy cheeks and a matching blue winter hat ... this was his wife. Ding, ding, ding. Twenty points to the tall, slightly overweight, nerdy-looking dude with the thick, black glasses and long nose. The woman did, in fact, know that ginger root had these health benefits and, she added, it was also great served in a chicken fondue. Well, shit. Perhaps they should get some. Guy: Yeah, but you're not supposed to eat ginger root when you could be pregnant. Remember? The nutritionist advised us against it. Woman: Aww, honey. You're always looking out for me. Then there was a kiss, this benign little peck that had all the passion of something you'd give your grandma. Fucking married people.

This was clearly a couple who knew a thing or two about ginger root ... and blue winter hats. Their conversation was enough of a distraction that I failed to notice the girl with cart directly ahead looking at grapefruit.

Our carts bumped. Just barely. The impact was light. But I was blind-sided.

She smiled. She didn't seem bothered or hurried or annoyed like so many people do. Her eyes spoke something like an apology. Something like sincerity. Then she continued on to the berries. Picked up a small plastic container of the black variety, weighed it in her hand. Her mind? Her imagination? Then set it in her cart. She did the same with a pack of Driscols. Sweet, sweet Driscols. God, now here was somebody you could eat strawberries with. She pushed her cart toward the apples, her dark thrift-store jeans tight against her persuasive curves. Her long brown hair sweeping down her back in these thin wispy curls. Her jean-jacket insulated with lamb's wool. Like a fighter pilot's. Somebody was bound to get shot down.

Love in the produce aisle? What was this, a Woody Allen movie? It made perfect Woody Allen sense to walk up to her at that very moment and ask her for her name, her birth sign, the way she liked her oatmeal in the morning, the particular type of lettuce she enjoyed. Her philosophy on organic versus conventional? Did she take her tea with sugar or milk? Both? Neither? Yes, if this were a Woody Allen movie, this might be the thing to do. It might spark a long meandering conversation that would lead to a highly neurotic love affair, filled with self-doubt and over-analysis, and ultimately end up as a dead shark. It sounded delicious. But sadly, this wasn't a Woody Allen movie. This was just the Lovers Lane Tom Thumb at six in the evening. This shark was surely dead already.

The girl lingered around the broccoli while this 30-something car salesman from Louisiana—recently divorced and broke, Katrina'd out of his home, starting a new life in Dallas selling Toyotas all day and eating frozen pizza and ice cream for dinner every night in front of a TV set in a one-room apartment with a single lamp and a futon mattress on the floor, and a DVD player and a stack of Wicked films—dallied among the apples, thinking how much he'd like to eat strawberries—or any sort of fruit, really—with this brown-haired girl in the jeans-jacket.

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