TGSNT, Part 7.
I often wonder what we notice first about a strange bathroom. In Jen's case, the tub is on the left side of the bathroom, there is tile everywhere, and I have just been shoved from behind by a guy who has every reason to do so.
His mind was obviously untracked by the inner torment that results from what I call "circumstantial celibacy", that awful time between lovers when the greatest fear is your own inadequacy, and the greatest risk is self-induced tendinitis. He was sweating profusely, and his eyes seemed fogged, as if his frontal lobe forgot to turn on the dehumidifier.
A grave sense of unease grew between us, at least in my mind. How much did he know? Was he aware of my protected status as a non-matriculated loiterer in the Student Center? Did he have a knife (not that the idea worried me, comparatively speaking; the house was sandwiched by neighborhoods full of warring druglords, and I was more concerned about a stray bullet creasing my cerebellum during certain enterprises upstairs, really)? Had he ever dated the Stamford Girl, the one who had called me a "farmer"? What did he have planned, and could I get a hand on his throat before he made his play?
(A quick tale of the tape:
Mr. Pitcher: 6'3", 200 lbs in heavy slacks, about 67" reach, has been drinking and feels wrongly terminated from a sweaty, if not loving, relationship with the aforementioned Upstate Girl. Probably in semidecent physical condition, but fairly inebriated. Typically aggressive.
Mr. Guthrie : 6'7", 330 lbs, 80" reach, has been unjustly deprived of drink but reasonably assured of his favorite form of cross-training will soon be transpiring with the girl in question. Definitely not in superior physical condition, but just plain old big. Typically looking for only one thing in this world, and it's not baseball.)
He staggered slightly, apologized, and peed in the sink. I was understandably reluctant to use the commode at this time, as his aim may have contributed to his single status. (Jen, if you read this, I apologize.)
If I was going to take a preemptive swat at him, now would be the time. His teammates were interspersed throughout the house (many were the bedrooms, and there was never a shortage of outdoor diversions, as well). He was too drunk to use his athletic prowess to break my glasses over my face, then my face over his knee. We were alone in that domestic debir, and his back was to me.
I thought of Jesus, and cleared my throat.
I often wonder what we notice first about a strange bathroom. In Jen's case, the tub is on the left side of the bathroom, there is tile everywhere, and I have just been shoved from behind by a guy who has every reason to do so.
His mind was obviously untracked by the inner torment that results from what I call "circumstantial celibacy", that awful time between lovers when the greatest fear is your own inadequacy, and the greatest risk is self-induced tendinitis. He was sweating profusely, and his eyes seemed fogged, as if his frontal lobe forgot to turn on the dehumidifier.
A grave sense of unease grew between us, at least in my mind. How much did he know? Was he aware of my protected status as a non-matriculated loiterer in the Student Center? Did he have a knife (not that the idea worried me, comparatively speaking; the house was sandwiched by neighborhoods full of warring druglords, and I was more concerned about a stray bullet creasing my cerebellum during certain enterprises upstairs, really)? Had he ever dated the Stamford Girl, the one who had called me a "farmer"? What did he have planned, and could I get a hand on his throat before he made his play?
(A quick tale of the tape:
Mr. Pitcher: 6'3", 200 lbs in heavy slacks, about 67" reach, has been drinking and feels wrongly terminated from a sweaty, if not loving, relationship with the aforementioned Upstate Girl. Probably in semidecent physical condition, but fairly inebriated. Typically aggressive.
Mr. Guthrie : 6'7", 330 lbs, 80" reach, has been unjustly deprived of drink but reasonably assured of his favorite form of cross-training will soon be transpiring with the girl in question. Definitely not in superior physical condition, but just plain old big. Typically looking for only one thing in this world, and it's not baseball.)
He staggered slightly, apologized, and peed in the sink. I was understandably reluctant to use the commode at this time, as his aim may have contributed to his single status. (Jen, if you read this, I apologize.)
If I was going to take a preemptive swat at him, now would be the time. His teammates were interspersed throughout the house (many were the bedrooms, and there was never a shortage of outdoor diversions, as well). He was too drunk to use his athletic prowess to break my glasses over my face, then my face over his knee. We were alone in that domestic debir, and his back was to me.
I thought of Jesus, and cleared my throat.
posted by Thom Guthrie, Bassist and Adventurer at 12:17 PM
2 Comments:
"Nonsense. He does a lot of stuff that annoys the hell out of me. I think you're a better writer."
Ok. I'll explain myself. Certainly, I do like to flatter the Ferrett, but there was some honest criticism behind that. Mostly, your work bothered me because you do many things that I continue to struggle against in my writing.
First: the parenthesis. I'm fucking addicted to them too, but too much is too much. I doubt I was the only reader who had to reread several sentences just for basic comprehension. It's tough because we all want to cram our writing with every clever idea we have. I’ve concluded that it is better to just keep a few of the best and focus on telling the story. It is possible to still sound witty and full of good content without adding every tangential thought.
Look at Ferrett. We both agree Stein is a damn fine writer, yet he hardly uses parns at all. Another thing about the Ferrett. Not only is the guy laugh-out-loud funny and frustratingly persuasive, his work is always flows. I attribute it to the way he varies sentence and paragraph lengths. His rhythm of shorts and longs holds the interest of readers with both kinds of attention spans.
That's all for now. I'll hold my other comments until after you finish. Despite what I've said, I am enjoying the story. I hope I didn't sound to preachy. I'm just trying to help another amateur who is also trying to improve his writing.
Actually, that's exactly the kind of feedback I'm looking for. Thanks.
I've found that Steinmetz doesn't go parenthetical; he just folds the thought into his overall composition. With him, it's commas instead.
Glad you're enjoying the story, and I'll keep working on the nuts and bolts of telling it.
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