“Look, man, it’s great to see you. Riding around in your van is just like old times, but if you’re going to get all moody on me why don’t you just drop me off and go on home.”
“Oh, were you talking to me? I’m sorry, Greg; I thought you were narrating again. We need some kind of signal so I’ll know it’s me you’re talking to and not the reader. What did you say?”
“I was telling you about when I used to play golf. If I were narrating, I would have used a bunch of internal description to paint the scene. You know, like: Greg remembered how good he felt to be the first person at the driving range. His untarnished brain cells didn’t need some foreign chemical to supply his energy, and he stood just as nature wanted him: full of potential and full of hope; as far as he knew, the morning sun rose just for him.”
“Okay, I get it. But just tell me when you want me to listen. I don’t want to have to sort out everything you say. And why do you narrate at all; it’s only you and me here, why don’t you just talk to me?”
“I’m sorry, Michael, it’s a bad habit of mine. I spent so many years alone I never learned to talk to people. I kept everything in my head and needed a bunch of speed just to say hello. If you catch me doing it, just poke me in the arm or something.”
“Yeah, right. So, why’d you think about golf? Was it seeing the golf course in Griffith Park? It’s a bitchin’ day, we should have stopped.”
“Michael, you’re time tripping again; that was back in 1972 when we were in Griffith Park. Don’t you remember; we had all that morphine and I got so paranoid? This is 2009, brother. We just drove past the back-lot for Universal studios. That’s where I played when I was twelve; it used to be a driving range.”
“That was a driving range? I parked there when I worked at Universal. I’ll be damned.”
“Well, it was a while ago. I rode my bicycle there every Saturday morning for a lesson. I only had one club—a five iron—and I hit balls for hours.”
“Did you meet any movie stars? Did a lot of them play there?”
“One day I saw Joe DiMaggio practicing with his sand wedge. He was married to Marilyn Monroe and that’s all I could think about. I asked him if it really was him, and he smiled and said that it was. Then, with the impetuousness of youth, and with the thrill of discovery, the young man bolstered up his nerve…”
“Greg! You’re narrating again. Talk to me brother.”
“Sorry, man. I asked Joe if I could have his autograph and he said that I could. I was in the sixth grade and had an autograph book at home so I raced back there and got it. It was a four-mile ride, round trip, and I went full out the whole way. Man, I couldn’t do that today. Anyway, when I got back to the driving range he was still in a sand trap hitting balls. I handed him my book and he signed it.”
“What did you say to him? Was he a nice guy?”
“After I asked for his autograph I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I said, ‘you are really lucky.’ He thought I meant because he played for the Yankees, so he said, ‘you can make it too, son. Just practice every day and don’t give up.’ That confused me because I meant he was lucky to be sleeping with Marilyn every night; not baseball!”
“Do you still have the autograph? It’s probably worth a lot by now.”
“Naw, I traded it to Doug McLaughlin for some acid. I’m sorry I did it now. It would be worth a lot. It would be worth a lot to me just to have it. Man, I do some stupid stuff. But never mind that. Why don’t you try narrating? You might like it.”
“How do I do it? Do I just start talking all funny—like you’re not here?”
“Don’t be a smart ass; just remember a thing that stands out as being important to you. Or, funny—remember something and talk about it as if you wanted to write it down. Don’t do like I do, though: I don’t give the reader credit for knowing what I’m talking about so I go on and on. Keep it brief and think your audience is really smart.”
“Okay, how about when that truck full of cantaloupes turned over on the 101 and we thought a plane had crashed. That was pretty funny.”
“Yeah, that’s good. Talk about that.”
“All right, here goes: ‘one dark evening in December, having just smoked some of that new weed from Hawaii, my friend and I became really stoned. The freeway stopped looking like a place for cars and took on the aspect of a jungle landing strip. Although my VW bus could go faster, I thought it prudent to do no more than 35 mph. I felt the need for caution as we approached the Van Nuys exit, so I slowed even further and it’s a good thing I did because it looked like a plane had crashed right in front of me. We were the first ones on the scene, and if we could have gotten out of the van, we might have been able to help. But, alas, we were too stoned to move, and all we could do was watch as what appeared to be blood, but was actually cantaloupe juice, ran down the gutters. Eventually, the police came but paid no attention to my van except to motion for me to drive up on the curb to get around the old farm truck lying on its side. My passenger, Greg, wanted to jump out and run, but he couldn’t get out of the van either. The End.’”
“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about. Pretty cool, huh? And you respected the reader by not adding all kinds of extraneous bullshit like I do. Maybe you shouldn’t have explained about it being juice instead of blood… but overall it sounded good. Michael, I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, but you’re the writer, not me. It’s almost time to go so why don’t we park and say goodbye?”
“It sure is good riding around with you again. I’ve missed you since you died. Do you wish you could come back permanently?”
“No, I wasn’t happy here. Everything was just so hard for me. The only thing I regret is that I had to die sitting in a recliner with my mom on the couch watching me. She knew I was stoned and it broke her heart. I just wanted to stop feeling so bad. I had nine different drugs in my system when I got autopsied and that nearly killed her. She blames herself, you know. That’s the only bad part, otherwise I like where I am now.”
“Where are you, brother? Are you in heaven or hell?”
“I don’t know. We don’t talk about it. We just are. I don’t hurt; I’m not sad; I’m never hungry; and I don’t need to sleep. I came to see you because I worry about you, but I see you’re doing okay. I’m glad you’re off the drugs and that you don’t drink any more. Kicking the nicotine was a really good thing. The folks I meet who died of lung cancer are really pissed at themselves. You know, it being preventable and all.”
“You better watch out, my friend; that was almost a narration. I might have created a monster here. Seriously, though, I miss you terribly. You were my best friend, and you still are. I’d go see your folks, but they think I got you started on drugs. I don’t argue with them, but you can straighten them out when they get there, or not. Whatever; it doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, Greg. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’ll see you soon. You’re what now, sixty-six? Your will’s made out and you’ve lost your fear of death, so it should be a smooth transition. There really is no down side, so from here on it’s all good. Check this out—‘and now the young man, Greg, became the old man, Greg. He had transcended his selfishness and could be happy for other people’s victories. His last day was not on any calendar, and his departure from this life was not pre-determined. He would continue to narrate, but was now able to listen to those struggling to teach him the value of dialogue. He was growing and making good use of his final stretch. For it was his final stretch, and…’”
“Whoa! Michael, that’s enough. Now I have to tell you to stop narrating. Please don’t get anyone else started when you get home. You’re fading, so I guess this is it. I hope you’ll come back again, but if not I’ll see you on the flip side. Oh! Say hi to my mom if you see her. Adios, brother.”
“Oh, that’s right; your mom’s a trip. She runs everywhere and can’t stop laughing. She’s having a ball. But you’re right; I am fading. Thanks for being home, and I’ll see you when I see you.”
“I was telling you about when I used to play golf. If I were narrating, I would have used a bunch of internal description to paint the scene. You know, like: Greg remembered how good he felt to be the first person at the driving range. His untarnished brain cells didn’t need some foreign chemical to supply his energy, and he stood just as nature wanted him: full of potential and full of hope; as far as he knew, the morning sun rose just for him.”
“Okay, I get it. But just tell me when you want me to listen. I don’t want to have to sort out everything you say. And why do you narrate at all; it’s only you and me here, why don’t you just talk to me?”
“I’m sorry, Michael, it’s a bad habit of mine. I spent so many years alone I never learned to talk to people. I kept everything in my head and needed a bunch of speed just to say hello. If you catch me doing it, just poke me in the arm or something.”
“Yeah, right. So, why’d you think about golf? Was it seeing the golf course in Griffith Park? It’s a bitchin’ day, we should have stopped.”
“Michael, you’re time tripping again; that was back in 1972 when we were in Griffith Park. Don’t you remember; we had all that morphine and I got so paranoid? This is 2009, brother. We just drove past the back-lot for Universal studios. That’s where I played when I was twelve; it used to be a driving range.”
“That was a driving range? I parked there when I worked at Universal. I’ll be damned.”
“Well, it was a while ago. I rode my bicycle there every Saturday morning for a lesson. I only had one club—a five iron—and I hit balls for hours.”
“Did you meet any movie stars? Did a lot of them play there?”
“One day I saw Joe DiMaggio practicing with his sand wedge. He was married to Marilyn Monroe and that’s all I could think about. I asked him if it really was him, and he smiled and said that it was. Then, with the impetuousness of youth, and with the thrill of discovery, the young man bolstered up his nerve…”
“Greg! You’re narrating again. Talk to me brother.”
“Sorry, man. I asked Joe if I could have his autograph and he said that I could. I was in the sixth grade and had an autograph book at home so I raced back there and got it. It was a four-mile ride, round trip, and I went full out the whole way. Man, I couldn’t do that today. Anyway, when I got back to the driving range he was still in a sand trap hitting balls. I handed him my book and he signed it.”
“What did you say to him? Was he a nice guy?”
“After I asked for his autograph I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I said, ‘you are really lucky.’ He thought I meant because he played for the Yankees, so he said, ‘you can make it too, son. Just practice every day and don’t give up.’ That confused me because I meant he was lucky to be sleeping with Marilyn every night; not baseball!”
“Do you still have the autograph? It’s probably worth a lot by now.”
“Naw, I traded it to Doug McLaughlin for some acid. I’m sorry I did it now. It would be worth a lot. It would be worth a lot to me just to have it. Man, I do some stupid stuff. But never mind that. Why don’t you try narrating? You might like it.”
“How do I do it? Do I just start talking all funny—like you’re not here?”
“Don’t be a smart ass; just remember a thing that stands out as being important to you. Or, funny—remember something and talk about it as if you wanted to write it down. Don’t do like I do, though: I don’t give the reader credit for knowing what I’m talking about so I go on and on. Keep it brief and think your audience is really smart.”
“Okay, how about when that truck full of cantaloupes turned over on the 101 and we thought a plane had crashed. That was pretty funny.”
“Yeah, that’s good. Talk about that.”
“All right, here goes: ‘one dark evening in December, having just smoked some of that new weed from Hawaii, my friend and I became really stoned. The freeway stopped looking like a place for cars and took on the aspect of a jungle landing strip. Although my VW bus could go faster, I thought it prudent to do no more than 35 mph. I felt the need for caution as we approached the Van Nuys exit, so I slowed even further and it’s a good thing I did because it looked like a plane had crashed right in front of me. We were the first ones on the scene, and if we could have gotten out of the van, we might have been able to help. But, alas, we were too stoned to move, and all we could do was watch as what appeared to be blood, but was actually cantaloupe juice, ran down the gutters. Eventually, the police came but paid no attention to my van except to motion for me to drive up on the curb to get around the old farm truck lying on its side. My passenger, Greg, wanted to jump out and run, but he couldn’t get out of the van either. The End.’”
“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about. Pretty cool, huh? And you respected the reader by not adding all kinds of extraneous bullshit like I do. Maybe you shouldn’t have explained about it being juice instead of blood… but overall it sounded good. Michael, I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, but you’re the writer, not me. It’s almost time to go so why don’t we park and say goodbye?”
“It sure is good riding around with you again. I’ve missed you since you died. Do you wish you could come back permanently?”
“No, I wasn’t happy here. Everything was just so hard for me. The only thing I regret is that I had to die sitting in a recliner with my mom on the couch watching me. She knew I was stoned and it broke her heart. I just wanted to stop feeling so bad. I had nine different drugs in my system when I got autopsied and that nearly killed her. She blames herself, you know. That’s the only bad part, otherwise I like where I am now.”
“Where are you, brother? Are you in heaven or hell?”
“I don’t know. We don’t talk about it. We just are. I don’t hurt; I’m not sad; I’m never hungry; and I don’t need to sleep. I came to see you because I worry about you, but I see you’re doing okay. I’m glad you’re off the drugs and that you don’t drink any more. Kicking the nicotine was a really good thing. The folks I meet who died of lung cancer are really pissed at themselves. You know, it being preventable and all.”
“You better watch out, my friend; that was almost a narration. I might have created a monster here. Seriously, though, I miss you terribly. You were my best friend, and you still are. I’d go see your folks, but they think I got you started on drugs. I don’t argue with them, but you can straighten them out when they get there, or not. Whatever; it doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, Greg. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’ll see you soon. You’re what now, sixty-six? Your will’s made out and you’ve lost your fear of death, so it should be a smooth transition. There really is no down side, so from here on it’s all good. Check this out—‘and now the young man, Greg, became the old man, Greg. He had transcended his selfishness and could be happy for other people’s victories. His last day was not on any calendar, and his departure from this life was not pre-determined. He would continue to narrate, but was now able to listen to those struggling to teach him the value of dialogue. He was growing and making good use of his final stretch. For it was his final stretch, and…’”
“Whoa! Michael, that’s enough. Now I have to tell you to stop narrating. Please don’t get anyone else started when you get home. You’re fading, so I guess this is it. I hope you’ll come back again, but if not I’ll see you on the flip side. Oh! Say hi to my mom if you see her. Adios, brother.”
“Oh, that’s right; your mom’s a trip. She runs everywhere and can’t stop laughing. She’s having a ball. But you’re right; I am fading. Thanks for being home, and I’ll see you when I see you.”
No comments:
Post a Comment