Kip Manley's Blog, page 15

Zoobombing (Act III)

“Le Trash Blanc?” says Jo.

“Go on,” says Ysabel. “For another fifty cents you get a can of beer.”

Jo shrugs. “Why not.”

“Demi-vegan,” says Ysabel, handing their menus up to the waitress. “And a glass of the Bordelet sydre doux.”

The room is dimly lit and red. Jo and Ysabel sit side-by-side on a low couch under the front window. Over a ringing cocktail-hour piano and a lonely trumpet an unearthly chorus is singing Dare no harienu, daiya no kokoro tsumetai watashi no. Past the closely packed tables toward the back there’s an open kitchen, where a goatee’d man pours batter on a hot griddle, swirling it in a circle with a wide flat paddle. “Ah,” says Ysabel. She’s wearing black jeans and a tight white T-shirt. A black leather jacket rustling with fringe slumps on the couch next to her. “This is nice.”

“Yeah,” says Jo. “We’re under twenty bucks, with booze.”

Zoobombing (Act II)

Ysabel triumphantly lifts her hand, her middle finger poised, circling the phone’s disconnect button. “Why, no,” she says into her telephone headset. “Thank you. I can only apologize for how badly the questions were written, and how boring it must have been for you. Not at all. And you have a good evening yourself. Goodbye.” She punches the button. Sighs. Peers at the computer keyboard that takes up most what little desk space is left by the monitor and taps a couple of keys with index fingers poking out of loose fists. She peers at the screen, then punches a couple more keys. Becker kneels down next to her chair as she reaches for the phone again. “Hey,” he says. “It’s after nine. You’re done.”

“Oh,” says Ysabel, leaning back in her chair.

“You’ve been on the phone about five hours. You logged 42 complete surveys. That’s, ah, pretty much a record.”

“Oh,” says Ysabel. Jo comes up behind Becker, her arms folded, her mouth wryly turned. Behind her, other dialers are scooping up bags, books, empty water bottles, candy wrappers, gathering their things and heading for the door.

“Yeah,” Becker’s saying. “Seth monitored several of your calls– you did a fantastic job. We could maybe do with a little less, you know, insulting the survey, but–”

Zoobombing (Act I)

“You don’t have to be any good at it,” says Jo, punching the fourth floor button. A dusting of powdered sugar is left behind. “Hell, you don’t even have to try. You just have to make do for a week or so.” She stoops and plucks another donut from one of the plastic sacks of groceries at her feet.

“You want me,” says Ysabel, “to work. For money.” One hand hangs by a thumb from a beltloop on her plum jeans. The other holds a bottle of peach tea.

“You said yourself it wasn’t work. It’s just talking to people on the phone.”

“You want me. To exchange my time– hours out of my day– for money.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. “Well, yeah,” says Jo, hauling up a sack of groceries in either fist. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Ysabel rolls her eyes.

Things to keep in mind (The secret of burning your tongue)

Rereading is the key here. We’re familiar with rereading whole stories that we like or ones with endings that puzzle us. But what Lish, and writers of this ilk, ask us to do is to reread sentences in the course of making our first reading. This assumes a reader, a listener even, with the patience to linger over the page, its construction. (Gary Lutz prefers a “page-hugging” to a page-turning reader.)

Zoobombing (Opening)

In one of the Club’s private dining rooms, long tables have been laid with dazzling white cloths and arranged in a blocky U. Two places have been set, on either side of one of the corners: bread plates and soup plates, fish forks and salad forks, butter knives and steak knives, wine glasses and tea cups. Dressed all in black the Queen sits before one of the settings, facing the door, her back to a window overlooking a parking garage. Her head nods. Her eyes close. Her chin brushes her chest. Behind her stands a woman wearing narrow black-rimmed glasses and a black sweater over a white shirt with an enormous stiff collar shading her shoulders. At some unseen signal she bends down to whisper in the Queen’s ear. The Queen sits up, blinking. Smiles uncomfortably.

There is a bustle at the door.

The first to enter is a young man backing carefully, both hands held out with some concern, murmuring encouragement to an old man tottering slowly on two grey orthopædic canes. Ivory hair makes a wild crown about a pink head bobbing loosely, a delicately balanced counterweight to every hesitant step. His arms and legs are quite thin, lost in the copious folds of a soft blue suit, but his belly strains its buttons as raises up a little and croaks, “You’re losing it, Duenna.”

“Grandfather Count is honored as ever to join you for brunch, your majesty,” says the young man over his shoulder, “and he offers his every felicitation to your illustrious reign. May it last forever.”

“And we are delighted, as ever, by his company,” says the Queen.

Fidessa (Closing)

“Fareless,” says Christian to the bus driver. His hands are jammed in the pockets of his old grey sweatshirt, tugging it low. He doesn’t flash a transfer or a pass. He doesn’t drop quarters in the fare box. The driver shrugs. “Lloyd Center?” she says.

“Yeah,” says Christian. “Whatever.”

The bus is nearly empty. He swings himself into the seat just behind the back door. His reflection glowers at him in the black window-glass.

“Running to Northeast,” says one of the men sitting in the very back seat to the other one. “Now that seems pretty smart, first time you look at it.”

The other man, the big one, doesn’t say anything.

“Nobody’s going to look for you up that way, at least not right off the proverbial bat,” says the first guy, the little one. “Certainly not the people you pissed off. And not the people they pissed off, neither. You’re out of the middle of them, and yay team for that. Plus, you’re crossing water.” The bus changes gears, surging up and around an on-ramp onto a bridge. “Always good to get some running water between you and your troubles.”

Things to keep in mind (The secret of skating)

If, as the reader, you drew moral conclusions about them, if you drew conclusions of any sort, they were yours. Of course she was cheating. She wasn’t absent from the text. She had gone underground and you were hearing her voice speaking from every part of the fiction, even the furniture in the central character’s front room.

Fidessa (Act IV)

The music’s loud. Jo in her leering devil T-shirt slumps in the dark red booth, laying her head back against the pillowy vinyl. Ysabel slides in next to her, her heavy black hair swinging as she leans over the table. Roland leans his sword against the table and slides into the booth across from them, ripping open the velcro of his fingerless gloves. A woman’s voice is singing about how you can make dew into diamonds, and pacify the lions, but you know you can never love me more. Roland tugs his gloves off and lays them flat on the table. Looks up at Ysabel. Lifts his eyebrows, tries on a smile. Her expression doesn’t change. “My lady,” he starts to say.

“You really killed him, didn’t you,” says Jo, her head still lying back against the booth.

Roland looks down at his gloves on the table and tries again. “My lady. I am sorry I have not been with you directly these past few days.”

“It’s no longer your office,” says Ysabel. She holds one of her hands in the other, her thumb absently stroking a wet red patch, rubbed raw, on her palm.

“It is no longer my office,” says Roland. He looks directly at her again. “And, I am sorry I was not with you sooner tonight.”

“We got by,” says Ysabel.

“You really did kill that guy,” says Jo, glaring at Roland. “He’s dead.”

Fidessa (Act III)

“Chickie chickie?” says Jo, laughing.

“Shut up,” mutters Christian, tugging a bottle off his thumb. He tosses it up the sidewalk, spinning sideways. It smashes against the doorstop of a diner. “Would have worked. Would have scared the fuck out of you, you didn’t know me.”

“Christian, man,” says the girl with the mohawk, digging her toe into the groove of a trolley track.

“Shut up, Mel,” says Christian.

“You know these people?” says Ysabel. She’s looking up toward the bridge over the highway, back down the street toward the unseen river.

“I know Chris,” says Jo.

“Christian,” he says, throwing the last bottle down the street to pop against the curb.

Fidessa (Act II)

Light from the fluorescent ceiling panels careens about the white kitchen. At the small table under a darkening window sits Ysabel in a white plastic chair. Tortoiseshell sunglasses, a can of Diet Coke, and a small plastic baggie lie next to the small thick book she isn’t reading. Her eyes are closed. One corner of the baggie holds a pinch of something golden.

A thin man whose dark-nailed hands glitter with silver rings pushes open the door, letting in the mutter of an active phone room. She doesn’t look up. His black T-shirt says Elegant Casualty. He yanks open the refrigerator, takes in a deep breath, blows it out half-heartedly. “You smoke?” he says.

“Who,” she says, looking up at him. “Me?”

“Do you?” he says, closing the refrigerator. “Because the idea of warmed-over tempeh goulash is not revving my motor.”

“Sometimes,” says Ysabel. “Did you want a cigarette?”

“No,” he says, looking down at his hands, over at the coffeemaker. “I don’t smoke. I just thought you’d maybe like to have something to do. When we go outside to talk.”