ask pryor15 about anything--anything at all

[pryor15]

[ QUOTE ]
Oh, and to pryor:

Are you drunk enough to post some of your novel yet?

[/ QUOTE ]

since you asked nicely. it's the classic mostly autobiographical thing following a guy in college. i have a strong belief that one of art's primary functions is as therapy, so this was something i had to write, if that makes sense. it isn't very good.

this is our hero's introduction to forensics (speech and debate)


As advertised, the opening meeting is exceptionally long and exceptionally boring, but no one seems to be paying attention anyway, mostly flipping through note cards or nodding along to headphones or catching up on homework. Everyone pays attention, though, when lunch is mentioned and you can hear some people in the back muttering their disapproval.

After the meeting, Todd gives me a schedule and points out some of the events he thinks I'll like: impromptu, prose, poetry, debate. Jon makes me promise to catch one of his debate rounds.

But the one I really think you'll like, Todd says, is after-dinner speaking, or ADS. Basically, it's a ten-minute original humorous speech on a serious topic. Without question, it's the most entertaining of all the categories. It's not exactly like stand-up. There's a bit more structure, but occasionally the line gets blurred.
Or erased altogether, Jon adds then walks out of the auditorium.

For such a crowd favorite, there aren't many people at the ADS round when I get there, and only two more show up after me. So there's maybe ten people in the room, definitely no more than twelve. There's six names scrawled in a list on the chalk board, each with a sort of code before it, N2, A7, B1, like an advanced game of Battleship. Some of the names have a DE after them, one has a TE, and I'm not at all sure what that means until someone says they'll be right back because they're double entered in poetry. That must be what DE means: double entered.

In the middle of the room, near the back, a woman in slacks and a red turtleneck pulls a legal pad and a stopwatch out of her canvas bag, pushes her glasses farther up her nose. She produces a pen somehow and when the second hand on the clock clicks past the twelve, she asks if someone will please close the door and tells whoever's first they can go whenever they're ready.

Number one on the list takes one last glance at his note cards before pushing himself up and shuffling to the front. He runs his hand through his short black hair flecked white in a few odd spots and loosens his tie farther past the open top button of his short-sleeve dress shirt. For some reason he reminds me of Snoopy. He mutters his name at the judge's request while shifting his weight from one foot to the next, and looks up apprehensively, waiting for the judge to be completely ready, for her to place one finger on her stopwatch, for her to signal him to begin.

And then comes the transformation. The question mark arch of his back becomes erect. He strides confidently around the room. The muttering nerves disappear into a bass bravado. His topic, if he even needs one by now, is the national debt. He proclaims that in order to relieve some of the national debt we should sell advertising for our national monuments, our modes of government. Just think of the millions we could get for the naming rights. The Windows Oval Office. The Washington Monument brought to you by Viagra. The Starbucks Space Needle. The McDonald's Gateway Arch. The Nike Senate Subcommittee on Fitness. The Armani Inaugural Ball.

For the right price the Supreme Court could forever decide between Coke and Pepsi.

For enough cash, they could decide in favor of both. It's not like they're mutually exclusive.

And the best part, he says, is that this isn't like an artist selling out and compromising integrity. The government did that long ago. We might as well all benefit from it.

You have to imagine, he says, a universe where rampant capitalism is actually a good thing and not just an excuse to expand the continental divide of wealth, of the haves and the have nots. If we can get past our Puritanical ideals of integrity and morality in our elected officials, then we can use the system at hand for good rather than bad, for something we can be proud of--the same way the founding fathers had to destroy the British notions of colonial rule before they could write the Constitution.

If nothing else, it'll make it easier to tell who's fingerprints are all over our public servants, because you know if IBM is paying millions of dollars for the naming rights of the House of Representatives, they'll ensure the Congressmen are running a tight ship. Stockholders have always been pickier than voters about who they're putting in charge.

The worst CEO is more accountable than the best President ever was.


2 parts about a girl


1.
Janet and I have been walking this same street for what seems like ten minutes, but my watch says is closer to four hours, strolling up and down in the three-quarter moonlight, discussing everything and nothing in the same instant. Something close to fifteen times now we've walked past the same oak tree with the low-hanging branch where the leaves caress our hair as we duck more out of habit than a real desire to avoid the foliage.

The breeze starts to bite as autumn starts to descend, forcing out summer, signaling the winter months to come.
Janet buttons her coat in what's become the early morning haze, looking at me as if to ask if I'm too cold without a jacket.

I assure her I'm fine and ask if she's too cold, but she just smiles and says she's fine and doesn't especially want to go in just yet.

As we approach the end of the street, we sit on the park bench we've already passed numerous times tonight. Sitting close on the painted pine, Janet taps her feet to subtly stay warm. I twirl a blade of grass between my fingers.

The birds have composed a score for our daybreak conversation, and looking at my watch, I realize sunrise is just around the corner. I have a 9am test I haven't studied for, but instead of leaving, we sit and watch the sunrise as the clouds paint orange then yellow over blue then purple.
Janet lets out a contented sigh.

And the sun peaks over the horizon, slicing rays of light through the trees. A spot of warmth settles on our perch. We look at each other, and in unison agree it's probably time for bed, so I walk her back to her dorm, buy coffee on the return trip, and fail my test miserably because nothing can ruin my day.

2.
We've hit the soft black pre-dawn by the time we finally turn around at least, best guess, three miles from school. Janet's unwrapped her scarf and is swinging it in lazy circles, every so often touching a bush, a tree branch, the railing of a bridge. I watch as a single headlight comes toward us, slowly at first, then exponentially faster. I mumble a pididdle, but as the headlight flashes by we see it's a motorcycle.

I mutter to myself, embarrassed.

Janet chuckles, then elbows me playfully in the ribs, breaking my stride. I pretend to stumble into traffic, but there's nothing on the road, so it loses some of the effect, still she plays along and fakes terror. Somehow that makes me feel better.

We walk another block and slowly, in tiny increments, the sky becomes more blue than black; the morning birds start to warm up their voices. I try to make a smoke ring with my breath.

We both have the same 9am class we have no intention of attending. We're both walking with the same reluctant shuffle. I wonder if we're both thinking the same thing.

Sighing audibly, Janet tells me this is her favorite time of day, when the sky looks smudged with charcoal like this, as if God were practicing his shading technique for some art class in Heaven taught by Michelangelo or Donatello or one of the other Ninja Turtles who's names she can never remember.

Leonardo and Rafael, I add quietly.

She nods in assent, still twirling the scarf. And that overgrown rat, Splinter. Who was he supposed to be?

I think just a furry Mr. Miagi.

Still walking, our hands brush and our pinkies clutch, then swing linked together like a pendulum. Janet starts twirling the scarf horizontally, whipping it along my back. Catching it with my free hand, I try to wrest it loose, but she's got a good grip and before long we're struggling back and forth in a playful tug-of-war. She spins around and grabs it with her other hand and I do the same. Then we're working hand over hand to get a better grip. I grab the tail she's left behind and pull from both ends, increasing my leverage, pulling her closer and closer until we're finally chest to chest, fighting over maybe an inch of scarf.

At once she lets go with both hands, grabs the front of my shirt to keep me from falling, and pulls me into her, kissing me more violently than I can remember being kissed before.

We press tight against each other. Our hands grasp for a hold.

The scarf falls to the ground and a truck goes by, honking twice its approval.