Writing / Andy Warhol's Sister / 1989 / Deep & Savage Way / Helen of Santa Zita / Moscow Film World / Guide

N O T E S    F O R    A     F U T U R E    N O V E L The moon had set, but the sun would not rise for three hours. Mike Wilson walked to the window and stared out to the dark wood outside. He lived in the uppermost floor of a college dormitory, which stood like a wall holding back the dark green sea behind. —The winedark sea, Mike thought to himself. He retreated from the view to his desk. He read back what had typed minutes before. IT IS EASY ENOUGH FOR A MAN TO DESPAIR IN THIS WORLD. LOST BETWEEN CHOICES. LOST That was where he had stopped typing. Mike felt he was lost in his own words. He sat and rested his fingers lightly on the keys. Not yet, not yet. He pressed lightly, just a touch. Mike was writing a novel to make Helen Zachary fall in love with him. Helen was Mike's TA in American Fiction, and he was very much in love with her. He didn't know what the novel was to be about, exactly. He wanted it to be serious, so Helen would take him seriously. For that reason, he wrote in all capital letters. What in a novel would make a girl be attracted to the writer, was the question Mike asked himself constantly. Rising again, Mike looked over to his bed. Masturbation occurred to him, and considered it seriously. His roommate had left early for the weekend, so there was nothing to stop him, no fear of being caught. He lay on his bed and closed his eyes, swooning darkly and imagining Helen, the word made flesh before him. She looked at him as if her were unclothed, raising her hand to invoke him, or perhaps ward him off. —Mike, I've been searching for someone like you. How can you masturbate? Write instead. It's all the same thing anyway, she added, suddenly smiling kindly. Mike opened his eyes, dispelling the vision of his Helen. He went to the typewriter and started to write without sitting. WE ARE LOST SOULS, ADRIFT. SOME AIMLESSLY, SOME ALWAYS IN ONE DIRECTION, BUT UNSURE ULTIMATELY WHERE. IT IS A NATURAL DISTINCTION TO MAKE IN PEOPLE. ANOTHER IS: THERE ARE THOSE WHO ARE PATHETIC BY NATURE, AND THOSE WHO ARE PATHETIC BY CHOICE. —And where, Mike asked himself, do I fit in? He thought of himself adrift, rowing a small boat across a great lake. Helen was with him, reading from a map, telling him to keep going the way he was–but nothing was to be seen in any direction. Mike considered adding this to his novel, but rejected it as too frivolous. He pushed his black manual typewriter forward, lying his head down on his arms. He intended only to rest, but instead fell into a deep sleep. He dreamed of the crossing, except that now he was being pursued by three formless, nameless shapes, and Mike had not no one to guide him. *     *     * At ten the next morning an insistent pulse woke Mike through the walls of his room. He was still slumped in his desk chair, cramped and sore. The pulse continued, resounding and rebounding. Mike recognized it as his neighbors' stereo, but he no idea what the name of the music was. After listening, he started to recognize words–someone was chanting along with the beat in an uncompromising, stentorian voice. Clear all the madness, I'm not a racist Preach to teach to all 'Cause some they never had this... Mike shook his head and stood up. He needed to urinate. In the bathroom humming with constant ventilation, Mike went into a stall, unzipping his soft black pants. He could hear two of his male hallmates talking at the sinks. —How low can you go? Philip Yau asked. Mike didn't actually know his name, but recognized the voice as belonging to an Asian freshman who lived in the room across from his own, one of two Asian males on the floor, the other being a quiet and eccentric upperclassmen who had a single room. The other voice laughed in response to Philip. Mike recognized Tim, who had the other single. Mike knew him as tall, thin, and a literature student. —Shall we ask Todd? said Tim. —Only a brother knows, Tim. I heard him last night, raving about the black panthers, in the 60s. How the government killed them all. Tim grunted in response, and began humming loudly, which was muffled. Mike realized he was brushing his teeth. He had stopped urinating, but stood without closing his pants, listening to his hallmates. —If the government did kill the black panthers, it was to protect people like Todd–white upper middle class. —Yeah, you're right. Philip sounded unsure. Mike exited the stall, and left the bathroom hurriedly, feeling that Tim and Philip knew he had been listening. Mike hated for them to know he was curious about Todd and what was happening on the hall. All fall quarter he had ignored his hallmates the way he had set himself apart in high school, feeling the uselessness of contact, the gulf. Now he wanted to understand them. Back in his room, Mike looked at the hands of the clock. They demarked a perfect quarter section of its face. Two hours to section. Two hours to Helen. Tim lowered his glance and found his translation of Homer's Odyssey & Iliad. Telemachus or Achilles, Mike wondered. Which mythic archetype was running amuck? Or was it, as he was considering more often now, just one element of some greater fabric which encompassed Homer, Joyce, Dante, Mike Wilson and Helen Zachary alike? The volume of Homer reminded Mike of something. When he was in high school, his habit was to come home everyday and look for the quote from philosophy or literature which perfectly fit his feeling of the day. He would then write down the date, page and line in a blank black book. Doing this, Mike hoped to remember his entire life. But when he later looked back through the endless citations, and the appropriate quotes, he could make no connection to what had actually happened. January 20, 1987 brought forth the reference: Portrait pg. 198 Mike decided to look it up, pulling out his worn copy of James Joyce's first novel. On page one-ninety-eight he found it, carefully underlined; Stephen Dedalus talking to his fellow-student Temple. —He thinks I'm an imbecile, Temple explained to Stephen, because I'm a believer in the power of the mind. What had happened to make him think that? Mike thought to himself. He could formulate a likely explanation for it, but the specific palpable experience was a dull void, in which only a vague feeling of resentment lingered–which was true for all of high school, and had nothing to do with the whatever was uniquely belonging to page 198 of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Of that day in school, only the citation remained, in Mike's neat black script. Mike again looked at the words, and instead of remembering his own life, he could only imagine the two serious young men, stout Temple and the pale, unwashed Stephen Dedalus, standing in the moist grey-green world Mike always imagined Joyce's Dublin to be. When Mike had leafed through his Homer, he considered finding a quote which explained he and Helen: What did Achilles say about the Queen of Troy? Now he felt too tired and impatient. Helen of Troy. Helen Zachary. Helen Troy. Helen of Palo Alto. He compared the two names and closed the book, the retort of the covers seemed loud to his hearing–louder than a book ought to. Mike picked up his towel and resigned himself to a shower. He never liked washing himself–it was too boring to just stand under water for fifteen minutes, and the sight of his naked body in the mirror never gave him pleasure or satisfaction. Nevertheless, it had to be done, he told himself. *     *     * —Like, I think Melville was like really showing how society totally forces people into a certain, you know, mold and stuff–Bartleby's totally oppressed by his boss- Mike followed these comments with a slightly sardonic expression. The student, who was a good-looking upperclassman, was saying this to Helen and the literature section as a whole. Mike's faith was that Helen could tell the upperclassman was an idiot. —Well, Todd, I think that's a good point to consider Helen said. Mike felt that now was the perfect opportunity to counterpoint his own intellectuality to Todd's feeble efforts. He raised his hand. Helen smiled at him, and Mike began speaking. —I think Melville is really showing the degree to which everyone creates their own hell, and is ultimately responsible for their own fate, no matter how harsh. Helen's eyes became wide. She inwardly wondered how her section would respond to this ultra-existentialist formulation. The feminist coterie of the section salivated at the prospect of setting the young boy right. She decided to deflect them by stating, in a more gentle way, what they were champing at the bit to say. —Well, Mike, I think you're right to a degree. But you know, there are many things beyond Bartleby's control. The feminist coterie stared hard at Helen, as if to say: no mercy no mercy! Helen looked them off, and returned her attention to Mike, who sat with worshipful eyes. —Jesus, she thought to herself. I hope he's not in love with me. —To place all the blame on the individual removes any responsibility from society. And I definitely think that Melville intended a critique of society. Helen smiled, hoping that the crisis has passed. Unfortunately, the workers of the world unite ponytail couldn't let such a statement pass. —I think that saying someone's responsible for everything that happens to them is just a way of blaming the victim. Here we have Barteleby totally screwed over, and then you're saying it's his fault? Mike felt, as he often did, like he was being picked on. —But the question isn't society, the question is the individual's response to society. —But society makes the individual said the worker of the world. Mike found that concept abhorrent and incomprehensible. He sat still, and seemed to withdraw from the world. Helen shrugged, and decided it was time to move on. When she looked at Mike again, he was looking at her, questioningly. She could almost read him: You don't think like these people, do you? Helen wondered how she would answer, while she mechanically asked the class: Does anyone have any questions on the papers? *     *     * The first time Tim talked to Mike, he asked him in the bathroom. —So what are you doing in Santa Cruz? Mike had replied without hesitation. —I'm writing a novel. This reply so intrigued Tim, that a few days later he stopped by Mike's room. He had never given the small dour freshman much thought, distracted by the two attractive girls who lived right across the hall from him, but the idea of a UCSC freshman writing a novel had to be investigated. Tim found Mike fascinating. Mike was serious about aesthetics, serious about philosophy, in fact, he was serious about everything. —How's the novel going, Tim called through the open rectangle of the door, which framed Mike sitting at his desk by the window. Mike sat contortedly, as if he were supporting a great weight on his head. Mike's left hand gripped the neck while his right hand lurched spasmodically across the page. Without moving or even stopping his pen, Mike answered. —Fine. Tim entered and sat on Mike's roommate bed, first moving a pair of jockey shorts and a damp towel aside. Mike's roommate was a basketball junkie from L.A., and the two couldn't have been more ill-matched by the UCSC housing office if they had tried. —You write by hand? Tim asked. Mike placed his pencil down, parallel to the lined page resting on the desk. He turned on his chair without moving it, so he faced Tim at a right angle. —All great novels are written by hand. —Or typewritten. Mike acknowledged this point with a sigh. —Or a typewriter. I'll use a typewriter for the final draft. —Wouldn't it be easier to use a word processor? —No. The suggestion was slightly absurd to Mike. Computers make to easy to rewrite and streamline. —That's true, actually. You can rewrite so much, that whatever you came up with originally is lost. The original inspiration gets lost in the shuffle of cutting and pasting. As usual, Tim was surprised at Mike's acuteness. —Joyce didn't use a computer. Neither did Dickens. —Or even Dante. —Yes, him neither, said Mike, missing Tim's small joke. Mike turned, and ran his finger along the row of books on the shelf above the desk. Mike's volumes were all hard-bound, with titles embossed in thin gold letters–the aristocracy of the printed book. Tim studied him: What makes him tick? What's he doing in Santa Cruz? What's he doing in this century? —When will you finish it? Mike let breath out rapidly–it was the question he hated most. Six months. I've written thirty pages in a month. Tim was impressed. He was impressed by anyone who accomplished something aesthetic, especially in Santa Cruz. Thirty pages in a month was a lot. Then again, Mike didn't seem to have much of a social life, or any kind of life at all. Mike had begun writing again. Tim decided he needn't to know more. Mike was beginning to suggest a story to him, and demanded inspiration. The question has to be innocent, though. —What classes are you taking? Mike answered without moving. —Introduction to American Fiction, Literature 1 and Latin. —You're in Intro to American Fiction? My friend's a TA in that class: Helen Zachary. Mike turned to face Tim, and showed more animation than Tim had imagined possible in the dour freshman. He expected a quick answer, but instead, Mike studied him as if he had taken on an entire new dimension. Tim asked: Is she your TA? —Yes, she is. Is she a very good friend of yours? —Yes, one of my best. She's a really cool person. Mike looked down. Tim suddenly felt embarrassed. He hadn't intended such intimacy, such revelation, to come from his questions. He rose from the bed. —Sometime I'd like to read your writing. I write too–creative writing, I mean. —Sure. Tim left the room, went down the hall to his room and closed the door. Without stopping, he turned on his Macintosh. He opened a new file, and typed out an immediate questions: What is Mike? What is he doing? Tim desperately wanted to write a story about him, but he didn't know enough. Instead, he wrote a list of questions to answer. i) Why is mike at ucsc? ii) What's up with him and helen? iii) What's his novel about? iv) What does Mike think about ucsc? And finally, though reluctantly: v) What does Mike think of me? Tim thought the answer to the last was probably: I annoy the hell out of him. However, none of the other four questions had immediate answers that weren't cliches. And Tim hated cliches. It was five o'clock–time to eat. Tim saved the file, calling it: MacStoryXV, and turned the Mac off. *     *     * WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE? HOW CAN WE HOPE? were the sorts of questions facing Mike on the sheet of paper in his typewriter. He produced page after page of reductive catchetism. WHY DO WE HOPE? WE HOPE BECAUSE IF WE DID NOT HOPE, WE COULD NOT GO ON. DOES HOPE CHANGE WHAT HAPPENS? HOPE DOES OT ALTER THE EVENTS THAT HAPPEN TO US, DOES IT? BUT CAN HOPE CHANGE OUR RESPONSE TO THOSE THINGS THAT HAPPEN? IT CAN, BUT IT MAKES NO SENSE, BECAUSE IT DOESN'T CHANGE WHAT HAPPENS. OTHER PEOPLE, PLACES, THINGS REMAIN UNALTERED BY OUR FEEBLE HOPES AND DREAMS. THEREFORE, IT IS IRRATIONAL TO ALLOW HOPE TO CHANGE OUR REACTIONS TO THESE THINGS. THEREFORE HOW CAN IT AFFECT OUR WILL TO GO ON? OUR WILL TO GO ON SHOULD DEPEND ON OUR REASON'S EVALUATION OF THE EXTERNAL. BUT DOES REASON SUFFICE? This was the question Mike was stuck on. Did reason suffice? Did it suffice for him? He sat and tried to figure it out 'reason.' What was that? Reason was the faculty that allowed one to make sense of what happens. There was always a cause for what happens. Mike began to sit more comfortably. He slipped in his seat as the words settled themselves and followed each other in an orderly and reasonable manner. For example, there was a reason for what happened yesterday. The reason Helen has been in a hurry was that she had a lot of due, because she was a TA. The reason she was a TA was for the experience. The reason Mike was attracted to her was– —was because she was attractive. There: that made sense. That was reason. Mike ripped the paper out of the typewriter, and inserted another one. THE REASON THAT I AM ATTRACTED TO HER IS THAT SHE IS VERY ATTRACTIVE. Equilibrium had been established. Mike allowed himself to stand erect. All seemed well. Except that Mike was standing in his doorway, smiling. —Hey, Mike. Been writing hard? —Yes. Before Mike could think or act, Tim went to the typewriter and read the block of print. —The reason that I am attracted to her is that she is very attractive. What is this, a poem? A haiku? —No, no. Not at all. It's just a statement of reason. An explanation of something. Something personal, Mike added in a low voice. —It's not logical, though. It makes no sense. —What? Tim explained: It's like saying, the sky is blue because it's coloured blue. It's not really saying anything, but it has actual verbal structure, and sounds like it makes sense. It's kind of cool, actually. Tim was intrigued, and started to think of more examples. Mike felt his insides collapsing. Tim was right. It explained nothing. Tim was going on: It's a new kind of poetry. Weird sentences that mean absolutely nothing, every though they sound like they do. You should submit it to a lit. magazine Tim bubbled forth, waving the page at Mike, actually looking at his hallmate for the first time. Mike was distraught. He looked imploringly at Tim, as if to say: Help me, help me make sense of what I am. Tim put the page by the typewriter. Well, anyway, I think it's cool. I'll see you around. Tim left Mike to his words which looked like they meant something, but really meant nothing at all. *     *     * Mike tore the page to shreds, but he could not forget the words: THE REASON THAT I AM ATTRACTED–it was useless. Did reason suffice. What about hope? Love? He would repeat the sentence word by word, but it didn't help. Each word might make meaning on it's own: THE –REASON –THAT –I –AM –But once Mike arranged them, it all fell apart. Mike wondered if Tim would help him. He was the one who had revealed the meaninglessness of his words–perhaps he could make restore meaningfulness, as well as destroy it. When Tim answered the knock at his door and saw Mike waiting, he could not have been more surprised if it has been the devil himself, handing over the keys to Hell. —Hey, Mike, what's up. Come on in. This is my room. As you can see, I've got a bed over here, and that's the desk, and a bookcase, stereo. Since Tim's room was six by eight feet, this verbal tour was entirely useless. Tim's inanity ran out and seemed to dribble out of the room as if by some invisible drain, in the face of Mike's set eyes. —Could you help me, Tim? —Sure. What about? —You were right, earlier. What I wrote didn't have any meaning. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. Tim had an almost inestimable urge to hug Mike and hold him close to his self, but instead: You don't need to be sorry, Mike. I liked it. —You like meaninglessness? —Well, yeah, I guess. —Well, you liked it for the wrong reasons. I'm trying to make sense of things. —You should never try to make sense of things, Mike. Waste of time. Learn to enjoy nonsense. It's much more fun. Christ, though Tim to himself, what am I babbling about? Mike's seriousness seemed to irresistibly pull Tim in the opposite direction, towards an unsupportable embrace of absurdity. —No, no, never–I could never... do that. It would be... failure. —Failure. Where has reason gotten you? —Well, I just haven't been doing it right. Not trying hard enough. —Maybe you need to do something different. Mike, you're in a rut. You're in love, aren't you. —Yes. —And you want to know why. So what did you figure out? 'I love because she's lovable.' —I know. I though that was the answer, but you said... —I said it was meaningless. I'm sorry–I didn't mean to be harsh. But there are reasons you're in love. In fact, I can think of many. Biological: You love her because she would an ideal repository for your sperm. Lustful: You love her because you want to romp her. Romantic: you love her because she doesn't love. Practical: You love her because she loves you. Poetic: you love her because she sets your soul on fire with longing and inspiration. Crude: you love her because you want to fuck her brains out. Feudal: You love her because the marriage would be a good match for both your families. Freudian: You love her because she reminds you of your mother. Jungian: You love her because she represents the ideal feminine to complement your self. Marxist: You love her because you have been conditioned by capitalist bourgeois society to believe in the myth of romantic love... You see, Mike, there are thousands of possible reasons. Mike's life, which had seemed so barren of reason just minutes before, now was terribly crowded with it. He looked about himself in all directions as if more of Tim's words were about to come on him unawares. Tim has taken a few breaths after his exposition, and then continued. But do any of these reasons help you? Not really. Not one of them makes you understand it any better. —This sounds like what everyone always says: 'Love isn't reasonable, it's just illogical, and beyond reason, and so forth.' I hate that. Tim realized his predicament. He was treading perilously close to cliche. How could he extricate himself? *     *     * After a minute's thought, an unusually long time for Tim to keep thinking on anything, he had a way to get himself out of the bind. —You're right that saying love is just irrational, and that's the way it, is somewhat cliched thinking. I look at it a little differently–sort of like Tolstoy's view of history. At the mention of Tolstoy's name, Mike's eyes shot up with surprise, as if Tim had suddenly spoken a word of his native language, in a land halfway around the world where such a tongue would not be expected. Tim smiled and continued. —When Tolstoy writes about Napoleon's defeat in his Russian campaign of 1812, he gives many possible reasonable explanations for what goes wrong. He then gives a just as reasonable argument as to why those arguments are wrong. The problem is that there are just too many different causes. To attempt a rational explanation is impossible, because the human mind can't comprehend all of the incredibly complex web of interrelated causes. At the same time, that's not saying that there isn't some rational meaning–it's just beyond our ken. —And this is true of love? —Sure, why not? There are reasons we fall in love, but to try and isolate them is not to understand the whole. Because once you have a reason, everything that doesn't fit into it gets left out. And that can be a lot. Mike leaned over, his face close to Tim and held the back of the chair. —Can you show me? —Show you? —Show me love, and how complex it is–show me people. Show me Santa Cruz. Maybe I can learn this. Well, I... Tim instinctively shied away. He looked to the right, to Mike's bookcase. Books he had never read crowded him. He looked back at Mike. —Do you really want to? —Yes. I need to understand this place. Suddenly Tim felt himself on the verge of greatness. How could he pass it up? Guide Mike through Santa Cruz, explain it all, sum it all up: good and bad, light and dark. —Okay. I'll guide you. —Tonight? —Sure, we can start tonight. Privately Tim had no idea where to start. —Where? —First stop... downtown. My friends' house. In order to learn about love, you need to know them, first-of-all. —What will I need? —Nothing. Perhaps some money. —Okay. —Let's go. *     *     * Helen had called her friend Roxy and decided to go to a movie with her and Roxy's happy-go-lucky housemate, Jake. For that reason, Helen Zachary was not home when Tim knocked on the door to her house. Tim was somewhat hoping Helen would be there, just to see the reaction on Mike's face when his beloved appeared. But Tim's pleasure was not to be. Sean answered the door and let them in. —Sean, this is Mike. He lives on my floor, at Merrill. —Hi, Mike. Glad to meet you. Sean vigorously pumped Mike's hand. Mike's glance rapidly jumped from Sean, to Tim, all around the house and back to Sean. His eyes were wide. —We're not disturbing you, are we, Sean? —No, not at all. I've got some reading to do, but you're welcome to hang out. —Mike wanted to see what a house downtown looked like Tim said as way of explanation. —Sure. To Mike: Well, this is it: Chez Locust. —It's very nice Mike said quietly. He looked around again. Sean nodded, smiled and then went in his room and shut the door. Tim reassumed his role as guide. —Let's look at the kitchen. Tim pointed unnecessarily, since it was possible to see every room in the house from where they were standing. *     *     * The name of the film Helen, Roxy and Jake were attending only the devil could recall, but it's main characters were two young lovers, Tyler and Samantha. They were crossing the United States in a dilapidated camper, trying to get to Chicago for some incomprehensible purpose. The scene in which we join Helen and her friends is one in which Samantha and Tyler have stopped in some nameless part of Colorado. They have run out of gas, and money, and are leaning on their camper, talking. Samantha is blond with curly hair, lithe, and seems likely at any moment to fly into a thousand different pieces. Tyler, on the other hand, is laconic and soft-spoken. —Tyler, honey, we've had it for sure. No money means no gas, means we ain't goin' nowhere. Tyler looks at her and nods. Samantha continues: Hell, about the only thing we got is each other. I guess that's a darn sight more than most people got. I remember this story my daddy once told me- Tyler leans back, closes his eye and enjoys the sun's warmth while Samantha goes on with her tale. —it was about these two frogs. Well, wait, let me see, actually, I think it was about a mouse and a frog–yeah, that's right. Okay, there's this mouse and this frog, and they both fall in a vat of cream. Both of them try to scramble out, but the sides of the vat are real slippery-like, and they both fall back. So the frog says to the mouse: Well, goddamn, I'm a goner. So he gives up, and drowns. Now the mouse sees this and says: I ain't goin' out like that. Even though he knows it's hopeless, he keeps treading cream anyway. And sure enough, he churned that cream so well that he made himself a little pat of butter, which he climbed right on. Pause. You know, Sam, I sure wish I could hook the motor of this camper to your mouth, 'cause we'd make it to Chicago faster than a jet plane. Pause. [Helen thought to herself: I really should have told Tim we were going to see this–he'd love it.] Samantha embraced Tyler, and wraps one of her legs around him. She said: Since we don't have particularly nothing better else to do, why don't we make love? —All right. Tyler held the door to the camper open, and Samantha entered, pulling him in after her. The movie cut to inside, where Samantha was riding Tyler. Her hair is wrapped around one side of her face, glistening with sweat. [She looks really good. People never look that good when they romp, thought Helen.] Samantha starts to make the sounds of orgasm, and then hears the sound of someone knocking. She stops her vigorous motions, and looks up. A point-of-view shot of the door. It opens and a man of about fifty with friendly, rotund features enters. He looks at Sam and Tyler in flagrante delicte but doesn't skip a beat. —Don't mean to disturb you kids, but I was wondering if you need any help he said. Sam was slightly embarrassed, and started to simultaneously get off Tyler and wrap a blanket around her naked torso. The man chuckled, and held his hand up. —Don't stop on my account. I remember how it is when you're young. Heck, when my wife and I were your age, we were screwin' darn near four times a day, if you can imagine. Don't know how we ever had time to do anything else! The man chuckled again, and Samantha laughed with him, and let the blanket fall. Tyler was less sanguine. Since Samantha was still mounted on him, he couldn't really move and see exactly who was talking. Finally, he inched forward and dropped his head off the edge of the cot. A point-of-view shot from Tyler's perspective showed the front of the camper, and the smiling man, upside down. The man smiled and waved at Tyler, then explained the reason for his intrusion. —Anyway, I just stopped by, 'cause I saw your camper stopped on the side of the highway. Thought you might need some help. Samantha answered in her rich throaty voice: Thank you kindly. We appreciate that, 'cause we do need some help. But if you don't mind, we've started something that I'd like to finish, before I explain our predicament. The man tipped his cap cheerfully. —Surely. Should always finish what you start. When you folks are all done, just come on over to the house. You'll see, right down the driveway, he pointed out the driveway. My wife and I are there. Come over, we'd like the company. With that, the man tipped his cap again and exited. Samantha hung her head over Tyler's and said: You see, I told you. You just got to keep going, and something good'll happen, sometime. —You may be right, Sam. You just may be right. —You know it. She started to kiss him, and move her body. She's arousing him again. After a scene like that, he probably lost his hard-on, Helen correctly surmised to herself. She looked at Roxy and Jake–were they as turned on as she was by the scene? Roxy has a pleasantly attentive expression, while Jake was sitting with a big wide smile on his face. Helen realized he was stoned out of his gourd. *     *     * After section, Helen quickly stuffed her books in her backpack and rushed to meet her friend Roxy at the Cowell coffee shop. —I really think he's in love with me, Helen told her friend, while they waited in line. —Is he cute? —No, not really. He's kind of underdeveloped, physically. —A nerd? —Sort of. Really serious, though. Never smiles. —Weird. Helen had a sudden vision of Mike, older and wiser, beckoning her to enter Eden, to live together like Adam and Eve: naked, unfallen and transcendent. She shivered, and decided to buy an apple as well coffee. When they sat down, Helen decided she had to tell Roxy about Gretchen. —Oh my God can you believe this? I came back from your house last night, and, like, the first thing, I come in the door, and I hear these sounds from my room. Helen then did a very convincing imitation of the sounds of a feminine orgasm, which elicited a stare from the Cowell provost sitting at the next table. —No. She gets it a lot, doesn't she? —Yes, and it's really irritating. It's bad enough having to listen to it, but worse if you can't even sleep in your own room. And they are just so loud! Roxy laughed. —Maybe she needs the single. —Maybe she just needs to be celibate. Like me. Helen pouted after the last words. She hadn't had a boyfriend in two months, and was starting to notice. —What about you? Any hot prospects? —No. —I would have thought being a TA would have helped. —Not in a lit class. The only good looking guys in literature sectiosn are gay. —Can I quote you on that? —Sure. Helen gulped her coffee. For some reason she kept thinking of Mike. She should have been nicer to him. He didn't know any better. During the pause, Roxy had been looking outside. She looked back at Helen, and let her breath out. —You know, I've been thinking, relationships just don't seem to every work out in Santa Cruz. Look at Melissa and Dave- —Or me and Todd. —Yeah. And I haven't had any better luck, either. It's like the whole place is cursed. —Everyone here just has a stick up their butt, that's all. —I don't know. It's like the coolest people are the ones who have the most trouble. Helen reflexively moved her hair out of her eyes. —Maybe. She took a bite of her apple. *     *     * Helen was talking about love as well. As she had expected since Roxy had given her the news, Melissa stopped by to tell her about her latest crisis with her boyfriend. Melissa sat at Helen's rickety table and cleared a space for her arms by sweeping the previous year's accumulated phone bills and Victoria's Secret catalogs. I don't want love, I need love. I need someone around to make me feel needed Melissa said. Helen boiled water on the stove and responded: A need to be needed? —Yeah. Her affirmative was downcast and sad, as if the effort of comprehension was not the worth the end-result. —Does Dave need you? —I don't know. I can't figure anything out. —Oh. —I need Dave. I hate to admit, but I do. Helen turned her head away, and inscribed the ruts on the table with her finger. Melissa's relationship to Dave seemed to fade from her sight, to recede into the distance. Perhaps, she thought darkly , the only time it truly concerned her was when it intruded on her own life; when Melissa came crying to her over Dave's latest atrocity. At least, that was the voice of one dark, cynical side of her. Helen considered and realized that among her friends, perhaps only Tim would have been interested in Melissa and Dave for their own sake, instead of just how Dave affected Melissa's friendship with all them. But I don't trust Tim. He has his own purposes. Was it all just selfishness, then? Helen didn't know. She just didn't know. *     *     * I've invited Sylvia Maroon, UCSC professor of literature and women's studies, to conduct a feminist critique of the novel in progress. —Well, this novel is doing at least one thing right: it's getting away from the tyranny of male narrative. The linear plot, of course, is a development of determinist male-centered civilization. The rambling nature of this novel at least shows an attempt to question that paradigm. However, you fall into the classic trap of the male writer trying to write female characters. You hubris in attempting the depiction of the inner life of Helen Zachary reaches grotesque heights. From her standing as a subject of male narrative, she becomes a monster, interested only in trapping and devouring men. In a sense, Helen is to real a creation for your peace-of-mind. —Really? —Yes. At every point of the novel, Helen is presented as subject. She is the subject of Mike's novel, the subject of the males in her lit section, and then, in the only moment of female intimacy, we have Helen and Roxy, who can discuss nothing else but their need for men–even men are not physically present, women in the novel still subject themselves to masculinity. —Gosh. I never though of it that way. —It's time for men to wake up, and realize how writing is the most potent weapon for the defeminization and refeminization of women. Discourse is the paradigm of patriarchy– —Well, Sylvia. You've given me a lot to think about. Just one question: Do you think I know what I'm doing? —What? —Let me put it another way. Am I consciously putting women in the subject position as I write, or am I just writing, 'naturally?' Because if I'm just going off my own inspiration, and it comes out that way, then it indicates that I'm just as much a subject as Helen. Then, we have to look at something else, that's not women, or men, which makes us write. What is it? —I don't know. I don't trust your question. —Thank you for your time, Sylvia. Let's get back to the story. *     *     * —So what do you think? Tim asked. —Well, it was nice. They got in Tim's car. Tim pulled out, made a hairpin turn and drove out of Locust street towards the downtown. —Yeah, it's too bad more of them weren't home. —Why didn't you tell me Helen lived there? Tim didn't change speeds as he drove. Well... I wanted it to be a surprise. —You should have told me. If she had been there- —Don't you want to see her? —Not unprepared, Tim. I'm not ready yet, to see her, in her... home. Don't do this again, he finished flatly. —Okay, sorry. Tim turned left to the main street, not really sure where they were going. It seemed that their project had already lost whatever inspiration it had before. Did this always happen? Was there no grandeur in life? Was anything against the grain, fated to fail? Mike looked around while Tim asked himself questions. —Is this the downtown, he asked? —Yes. I think you need to see Cafe Nightingale. —Will I learn about people, and gain much knowledge about life, and love? Tim said he'd do his best, and parked. Tim hated the entire act of parking, from driving slowly looking for a space, to the actual act of fitting the car into its proper slot. Thus, he always parked far away from wherever he was going, so as not have it become too involved. *     *     * Tim and Gretchen were in Literature 161, Cervantes's Don Quixote class together. Usually they sat in the back row while the slightly disheveled professor, whose hair and beard always seemed to be about two weeks late for a cut. He was a friendly and pleasantly disorganized man, who seemed eager for his class never to have any negative impact on his student's lives. —I hope you're not all tired of it; it's not a pain to read, is it? was a typical first comment to his class. By 'it' he meant Don Quixote. One of the students raised his hands and asked in a brisk whine. —Professor Fyres, in what sort of format will the midterm be? —Oh my, said the professor, as if the midterm were a tremendous calamity which he had hoped to avert through never speaking of. —Well, the midterm is ... he continued, calmer. When is it? he suddenly asked, realizing he had no idea. A dull blonde in the front row quickly leafed through her binder and answered: Monday May 1. The absurdity of this date brought cries of recrimination all quarters. As one particularly brilliant student in the middle described it: —Well, that's not possible. Monday is April 30. Does that mean the midterm is Monday, April 30 or Tuesday May 1 he said in a voice suggesting that either date was an affront to his personal sensibilities. Another girl put in: How can we have a midterm on a day when we don't have a class? Professor Fyres shuffled from side to side as if he were trying to physically dodge the questions flying in. He rubbed his chin and looked at the collection of critical texts he had brought. Unfortunately, they all related to Don Quixote and none contained any resolutions for the current crisis. —You're not worried about the midterm? It's not supposed to be a big thing, but just a... The professor stopped, trying to think of a description of the exam that would not be false, and yet not disconcert his students. —It'll be a very simple he finally said. While this scene played itself out, Tim snorted with contempt to Gretchen. In a whisper, he made up the most pointless questions he could think of about the paper. —Do you want them to be printed on paper? Do you want them to be stapled? Or paper-clipped? Do you want them in English? and so forth. As so often happens, though, reality outstripped parody. A pony-tailed upperclassmen in shorts and a T-shirt decided to put his ten cents in. —I went to the library yesterday, and read six different books of criticism which you placed on reserve. I got really excited about a lot of the ideas, and was wondering if it's all right if I can use them in my paper? he said. Tim stammered wildly at this latest atrocity, and, had he a supply of rocks nearby, would have seemed likely to try to incite a public stoning. Gretchen looked slightly askance at her friend. Why did Tim take it all so seriously? she wondered. Professor Fyres was, after a lifetime studying Don Quixote, immune to absurdity, and responded to this question with the same unfailing good cheer. —As I've said before, anything you want you papers to be on, is fine. Any ideas you want to use, that's great. Please, those books on reserve are for your benefit. The pony-tailed upperclassman was thus mollified. Author's Note: Other than the correction of numerous typos and spelling mistakes; and some minor formatting changes, Notes For a Future Novel appears in exactly the same form as it did when I originally wrote it in the spring of 1991, during my last months as a student at UC Santa Cruz. It served as the inspiration for the much longer Notes For a Future Novel that was the main focus of my work as a writer for the next two and a half years. That project was finally abandoned, but its spirit lived on in my novels The Deep & Savage Way and Helen of Santa Zita.