Aces High Bulletin Board
General Forums => The O' Club => Topic started by: Wolfala on December 14, 2004, 02:31:14 AM
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http://www.newyorker.com/printable/?archive/030616fr_archive02
The beginning is as follows....this is 10,000 of 43,000 words.
The Smoker
by David Schickler
Issue of 2000-06-19 and 26
Posted 2003-06-09
In this week's Début Fiction issue, The New Yorker introduces the work of Daniel Alarcón, Heather Clay, and Lara Vapnyar. This story, by David Schickler, débuted in the June 19, 2000, Summer Fiction Issue. Schickler's short-story anthology, "Kissing in Manhattan," was published in September 2002 by Delta.
Douglas Kerchek taught twelfth-grade advanced-placement English at St. Agnes High School on West Ninety-seventh and Broadway, and Nicole Bonner was the standout in his class. She was the tallest, at five feet ten, the oldest, at nineteen, and the smartest, with a flawless A. She wasn't the prettiest, Douglas thought—not beside the spunky nose of Rhonda Phelps or Meredith Beckermann's heart-shaped derrière—but Nicole was dangerously alluring. She had a chopped black Cleopatra haircut and wise blue eyes, and her recent essay on "Othello" had ended with this note:
Dear Mr. Kerchek:
Last night in bed I read Fear + Loathing in L.V. It is puerile, self-involved gamesmanship. I suppose I don't love drugs enough, although my parents make me drink brandy with them every night. They consider it a gesture of affection.
I saw you yesterday, outside the locker room, changing your shoes to go running, and your ankle looked quite blue. What did you bang it on?
Respectfully,
Nicole Bonner
This note caused Douglas some concern. He, too, disliked Hunter S. Thompson, but Nicole had also written "in bed" and mentioned his bruise. It was Nicole's habit to do this, to call out random, intimate specifics from the world around her and bring them to Douglas's attention. She'd done it that day in class.
"Iago is filled with lust, Mr. Kerchek," said Jill Eckhard.
"He's a Machiavellian bastard," said Rhonda Phelps.
"You know what's an excellent word to say out loud repeatedly?" Nicole Bonner chewed her hair. " 'Rinse.' Think about it, Mr. Kerchek. Rinse. Rinse."
That evening, as always, Douglas walked home to his shabby studio apartment. Douglas was thirty-one. He lived alone, five blocks north of St. Agnes, in an apartment building filled with Mexican men who drank Pabst and held boisterous, high-stakes poker games every night in the lobby outside Douglas's first-floor apartment. They were amiable, violent men, and their nickname for Douglas was Uno, because whenever he sat with them he had one quiet beer, then bowed out.
"Uno," cackled the Mexicans. "Come take our money, Uno."
"**** us up, Uno."
A twelve-year-old boy named Chiapas rattled a beer can. "Come get your medicine, Uno."
Douglas grinned wanly, waved them off, and opened his door.
Rinse, he thought, frowning. Rinse. Rinse.
After a quick sandwich, Douglas corrected essays. He was a fastidious, tough grader. Also, he had short black sideburns with streaks of gray in them, a boxer's build, a Ph.D. in English literature from Harvard, and no wife or girlfriend. These qualities made Douglas a font of intrigue for the all-female population of St. Agnes—both the lay faculty and the students—but in truth Douglas led a sedentary life. He loved books, he was a passionate, solitary filmgoer, and he got his hair cut every four weeks by Chiapas, whose father ran a barbershop down the block. All told, Douglas was a quiet and, he thought, happy man. He was also the only male teacher at St. Agnes. Cheryl, Audrey, and Katya, the three single women on the faculty, would have taken up the crusade of dating him, but he wasn't drawn to his co-workers. Cheryl wore electric shades of suède that confused him, Audrey had two cops for ex-husbands, and Katya, despite her long legs and Lithuanian accent, was cruel to the girls. So Douglas spent his nights alone seeing films, correcting essays, and occasionally chatting with Chiapas and company. On this particular night, Douglas was barely into his stack of essays when the phone rang.
"Hello?" sighed Douglas. He expected it to be his mother, who called weekly from Pennsylvania to see if her son had become miraculously engaged.
"Good evening, Mr. Kerchek."
Douglas frowned. "Nicole?"
"Yes, sir."
"How did you get this number?"
"Off the Rolodex in the principal's office. How's your ankle?"
Douglas sneezed, twice. He did this instinctively when he didn't know what to say.
"God bless you," said Nicole.
"Thank you," said Douglas. He glanced around, as if expecting his apartment suddenly to fill with students.
"How's your ankle?"
"It's . . . it's all right. I banged it on my radiator."
"Really?"
The truth was, Douglas had slipped in his shower, like an elderly person.
"Yes, really. Nicole—"
"Do you know what's happening to my ankle as we converse?"
"No."
"John Stapleton is licking it. He likes to nibble my toes, too."
Douglas blinked several times.
"John Stapleton is a domestic shorthair. Sometimes he licks, other times he nibbles."
"I see," said Douglas. There was a substantial pause.
"John Stapleton is a cat," said Nicole.
"Of course," agreed Douglas.
"Do you enjoy gnocchi?"
Douglas set his essays on the couch beside him. "Pardon?"
"Gnocchi. Italian potato dumplings. We had them for dinner tonight. Father makes them by hand every Thursday. It's the only thing Father knows how to cook, but he's good at it."
Douglas crossed his ankle over his knee.
"So, do you enjoy them?" said Nicole.
"Gnocchi?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Yes meaning you enjoy them, or yes meaning you understood what I was asking?"
"Yes. I mean yes, I like them."
Nicole Bonner laughed.
"When should I start hearing from colleges?" she asked. "It's nearly April."
Douglas was relieved at the topic. "Any week now. But you'll get in everywhere. It's all about what you want."
"I want Princeton."
Douglas imagined Nicole sitting on a dorm bed, reading, sipping soup. He imagined baggy sweater sleeves covering her wrists.
"Fitzgerald went there," said Nicole.
"Yes," said Douglas.
"He was a career alcoholic."
"Yes."
"Did you know that John Stapleton is toilet trained?"
Douglas laughed out loud, once. This usually happened only at the movies, if he was alone and the film was absurd.
"Toilet trained. Meaning what?"
"Meaning that he uses the toilet, like a human being. He crouches on the rim of the bowl and does his business and presses his paw on the flusher afterward. He's very tidy."
"Nicole," said Douglas.
"It's the truth, sir. It took Father aeons to train him, but he did it. We don't even have a litter box. Father was a marine."
Douglas checked his watch. "John Stapleton's an unusual name for a cat."
"He's an unusual cat," said Nicole.
"I think maybe I should hang up now, Nicole. Why don't we talk in school tomorrow?"
"All right. I don't want to inconvenience you in your evening time."
"It's all right."
"Really?"
"Well," said Douglas. "What I mean is, it's no problem. But, um, we'll talk in school tomorrow."
"Inevitably," said Nicole.
Douglas had written Nicole a letter of recommendation for Princeton. In the letter he'd said this:
Whether she's tearing across the field- hockey grass, debunking Whitman, or lecturing me about Woody Allen films, Nicole exudes an irrepressible spirit and a generous, unguarded tenacity. She reads an entire novel every night, not to impress anyone but because she loves to do it. She is organized, clever, and kindhearted, and once she knows what she wants she will pursue a thing—a line of argument, a hockey ball, a band to hire for the prom—with a charmingly ruthless will.
Douglas prided himself on his recommendations, on making his students shine on paper. It was one of the few vanities he allowed himself. When it came to crafting words, Douglas felt that he'd been blessed with a knack for always knowing what to say. That was why, the morning after the call from Nicole, Douglas awoke feeling flummoxed. He'd spent ten minutes on the phone with a nineteen-year-old girl and tripped over his tongue like a schoolboy the whole time. During the night, he'd also dreamed he'd been walking barefoot down a beach with Nicole. In the dream, she wore a lowrider black bikini and a lovely blue scarf in her hair like Jackie Kennedy. Douglas, meanwhile, wore green Toughskins jeans and a shirt made of burlap. Every time the waves washed over their feet, Douglas scampered back and yelled, "Beware the manatees!"
Ridiculous, thought Douglas. Embarrassing. He put on a smart coat and tie, and decided to give the girls a pop quiz.
At school, in the faculty lounge, he forced himself to make small talk with Cheryl, the suède-clad mathematician. When the bell rang for his class, Douglas strode into the classroom with confidence.
"Mr. Kerchek." Meredith Beckermann jumped from her desk. "Jill's going to ask you to come watch softball today, but you promised to see our Forensics meet against Regis, remember?"
"I remember," said Douglas.
"Suckup," Jill told Meredith.
Meredith glared at Jill. "Avaunt, and quit my sight," she sniffed.
Douglas set his satchel on his desk, surveyed the room. His advanced-placement class consisted of six girls, the brightest lights in the St. Agnes senior class. There were Meredith and Jill, the arguers; Rhonda Phelps, the bombshell achiever; Kelly DeMeer, the agnostic; Nancy Huck, who was always on vacation; and Nicole Bonner, who sat by the window.
"Where's Nancy?" asked Douglas.
"Bermuda," said Rhonda. "Snorkeling, with her aunt."
Jill tapped her copy of "Othello." "Can we discuss the last act?"
"Desdemona's a dip****," said Meredith.
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Hmm... read all of it.
What made you decide to post this?
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Thought it was different and off the beat of the typical O-club.
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Academically oriented romance story. Either Wolfala is looking for potential Harvard candidates Octavius, or he may be seeking advice from distinguished gentlemen found here in AH. Maybe he's just sharing a story from the New Yorker, which I've heard is a good magazine to read. Heck, maybe he's the author and wants some feedback.
But seriously, it sounds like a college professor's dream world and greatest challenge, dealing with love, professor/student relationship, and courage in decision making. The lonely professor is a poet warrior (boxer) and deals with his personal dilemma of daydreaming about his female students. When confronted with reality, he is not very enthusiastic and postures for a stomach punch from Nicole, who warns him about what's coming. The impression is the prof has met his match, with the expectation of future happiness (depending on whether Nicole delivers a good punch or not.)
This leaves the reader wondering if it'll be wedding bells, or the bell at the end of round one. But the bet is on Nicole to win the match.;)
Good prose style and contains verisimilitud, i.e. this situation is believable and probably occurs often between professors and students.
Les
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Former physics TA - been there - done it.
But I just thought it was a thoughtful story - something away from the bigotry and nonsense that permiates the OC. Thats all really.
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cc Wolf :cool:
This leaves the reader wondering if it'll be wedding bells, or the bell at the end of round one. But the bet is on Nicole to win the match.
I was under the impression that Douglas had already committed to the marriage.. the stomach shot is merely representing the future.
The punch also creates an extremely bold contrast between both Douglas and Nicole's areas of expertise. Since literature consumes most of their lives - through correcting essays for six years or reading a frickin book an evening - both characters routinely analyze everything in small detail. Even the marriage had been discussed and dissected by the family. They are now jumping into something that cannot be analyzed and it is indeed a shot to the gut.
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My reading skills aren't up to par, but I do have an excuse. I read the story mostly from the end and skipped around. Dumb huh?
The story is about HS and not college. It's the first paragraph of the story and I missed it.
I'll accept my dunce cap and sit in the corner and drink beer.
However, the story seems more like college than HS. Unforgivable overlook on my part and I apologize Wolfala and Octavius.
Les
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No apologies necessary chief !
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I thought it was a depressing story.
lazs
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That was the most boring crap I've ever read. Where were the Ninjas or the Pirates or the Ninja-Pirates?
-SW
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Gheyest thread EVAR.
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My brother was Chief of Propulsion and Aerodymic Design at NASA for several years. He worked at Nasa for over 40 years. Now there was someone who knew about physics.
Les
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Originally posted by lazs2
I thought it was a depressing story.
lazs
Lonely, intelligent 31 yr old man finds out a beautiful, smart, wealthy 20 yr old girl wants him. You find that depressing?
What am I missing here?
Wasn't exactly romantic love though, is that why its depressing?
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Pardon me for being dumb, but can this be explained to me?
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No BJs, automatic weapons, or ww2 airplanes?:confused:
nice story...................zzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
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The story reminds me of high school, being assigned to read "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand. I was the lone sophomore in the "advanced" junior English class. It also reminds me of watching a flic called "The Spanish Prisoner" at the theater near the University while getting my degrees. It was a strange experience for me, watching a film which was in English but wondering why everyone spoke funny.
Five years ago I was done with homework, exams, and lectures.
I still get nightmares.
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Nicole said it all "Rinse".
:(
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Originally posted by lazs2
I thought it was a depressing story.
lazs
Wanna fight Lazs? No one will gain glory, but it would be a good wold west show. :D
Le3s
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chercez la femme.
It's "Lolita" or "The Blue Angel" but inside the guy's mind, without the climax and denoument.
I'm not sure that it's universal enough to be worth publishing. It's well told enough. Maybe it needs to be deconstructed or something. Apply semiotics, look for hidden codes, that sort of thing.
The story is in the action taking place within all the things implied by the told details. It's an exercise in form. The meaning comes from our understanding of the juxtapositions.
Tom
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That was a good read. Although I can easily kill an interesting book in a day it takes me FOREVER to read on a monitor and actually concetrate.
Wolf how's the new job treating ya?
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Same ol' - new ****, different week. Had a friend of mine fly out from Chicago for the day and went exploring along the PCH north of Santa Cruz - got some pretty wicked photos.
Link to the photos (http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/wolfala/album?.dir=723a&.src=ph&store=&prodid=&.done=http%3a//pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/wolfala/my_photos)
Other news - goin back for Xmas to the NY area - then heading to Moscow the day after xmas for new years.
So stuff's busy, but at the same time - chill - if that is possible?
Wolf
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fight with someone called....leslie? yer right... no glory in that..
boring and depressing. The guy is such a loser that he has to prey off of vulnerable little girls who have no idea who he is.. The end isn't him getting laid this once in his crappy 30 year old life... after she sees what a loser he is and dumps him he will have to find another teenager to prey on because... that is all he knows and all he has the smarts and energy to do.
lazs
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Typical short story form that passes for "litrature" among the "artsy elites."
I took an almost complete progression of fiction writing classes (in addition to journalism and marketing writing) at college known for fiction and media writing (Columbia College). Most of the courses were taught by professionally artsy types all working towards that MFA and writing (for many years running) that great novel that if published, will only be read by other professionally artsy types (likely only as assigned reading in similar fiction classes). Ride that grant gravy train if you can.
Notice the gobs of description, the gritty urban elements, the dark undertones and human frailty. Also notice how generally boring and disconnected it is, as well as some of the factual liberties like his living in a ganbanger neighborhood (teachers are poor, but they do have some options).
They want stuff like: “You could smell the stench of the rotting garbage, entwined with the light but acrid hint of stale urine from an endless flow of winos and prostitutes that had taken their liberties in the alley behind the once proud Regal Theater. In a happier, more golden times, refined men had walked arm in arm with women resplendent in Edwardian finery to see the notable theater ensembles touring from Europe. Now, greasy men, with bed-sore-boils on their distended guts, pull themselves to pitiful completion watching cheap porn in tattered threadbare seats…” Continue with same for another 3 pages then add a plot point or change of scenery (to also be described to death). Add some stilted dialog reflecting how a middle class white suburban teen or early 20 something thinks urban folk on the edge of darkness actually talk or just some inane chattering to flll the space until the next steaming dump of description.
Most of these literature types have a disdain for plot and movement -- the elements that make things interesting. For old school read Flaubert’s classic “Madame Bovary” -- I dare you. Or anything by Hubert Shelby (the good news is that once you read the first one you’ve pretty much read them all). The artsy types look down on genre fiction (the stuff people enjoy reading like detective stores and science fiction) as being banal and formulaic. But… they ignore the fact that the “gritty urban angst human edginess grand drama” is just as formulaic and banal.
I probably wrote over 600 pages of fiction in the various classes, but only completed several full stories because it mostly involved exercises in writing these descriptive passages. One to three of four chapters worth and then move on to the next idea. The only instructors that required a beginning, middle and end with movement were from the handful of “genre” instructors that were tolerated. A few in the fiction department and then those in the separate broadcast media department -- screenwriting, science fiction writing, and I was able to be one of eight writers for a two semesters writing a soap opera that was actually acted and filmed and broadcast on local cable. Hell, the science fiction instructor, Phyllis Eisenstein was tough as nails, formal, and had written 9 novels and over 60 short stories which were published. I remember one artsy instructor giving a particularly tough critique of Science Fiction, but to this day I doubt he’s published his first novel.
Charon
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I thought it was a good read.... only read the part in the post because of time.
One of the post above reminded me of a girl that I knew. She had a girlfriend that was seeing a guy that had some problems. I don't remember exactly what he was doing but the 2 girls, between them, had the guy completely psychoanalyzed to have some kind of serious and dangerous social problem.
They came to that conclusion because they took a psychology class once.....
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Here's the beginning of a really great story:
That Sam-I-am!
That Sam-I-am!
I do not like
that Sam-I-am!
Do you like green eggs and ham?
_____________________________ _______
It just doesn't get any better than that.
eskimo
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charon.... wouldn't "boring and depressing" have been good enough? you are a cruel man.
lazs
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charon.... wouldn't "boring and depressing" have been good enough? you are a cruel man.
It was a bit harsh, but since the purpose is to have a discussion :) I did pay my dues getting to that level of irritation over several years and it's a bit of a burr on my ass.
I learned a lot about the fiction writing process in those classes, and put a lot of words on paper. But you always had to deal with the approved though on what constituted good literature and that artiste attitude each class. But, it was obvious that in addition to the occasional great work, there are a lot of trash grant junkies out there getting far more credit than they deserve, publishing “literature” that follow some general formulas to appeal to a small, niche market. Like those performance artists that piss on the flag for attention or put their **** in catfood cans and call it art.
Then, there were the writing instructors who actually made money with their fiction writing and pushed you to be tight, create flow, and have a middle, beginning and end. Description is important, dialog is important, but they have to move the reader somewhere in the process and move at a reasonable pace. IMO of course, there is no right or wrong answer, just what you like. Ther is certainly a lot of junk popular fiction in the market as well, but plenty of quality if you're open to it.
One of the greatest works of literature ever written is, IMO, The Lord of the Rings. It's dripping with description, character, darkness, morality but it has movement and excitement. War for the guys and Old World romance for the women. But, it gets no respect from the “litrature” scene.
Charon
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Institutionilized literature classes are boring and redundant. You are told to be creative, and to explore with your mind, then they shove the same old crap down your throat to read and analyze. Or someone's interpretation of what is good literature which typically turns out to be more of a lobatomy than an eye opening experience into literature. You are then expected to memorise the spew they call literature to be graded on it, or give your thoughts on the topic. If you admit it was nothing more than the author's brain retching on paper, you fail and become disillusioned with the whole idea of becoming a professional writer because the education "required" is simply brain washing.
It's conformity to the extreme, yet they want you to be an individual and express yourself.
If I could get away with it, I'd poop in my hand and throw it at the majority of english professors I've come across.
-SW
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I remember having to read a short story called "The Incubus" when I was in lit classes in the '70s. It's about a female artist who has a short affair with a frat-boy type when she's in college, then they break it off. Over the next 20 years, he occasionally is in her town and looks her up, and they have dinner and sleep together. Eventually she kille herself. He goes to her funeral, and all her artist friends turn on him and tell him that at every point in her life that she was about to make a breakthrough, he would turn up and bring her back down to mediocrity, that he was her incubus.
That was the last time I took academic writing seriously.
There is far more truth about life in the work of James Ellroy than there could ever be in the work of Annie Proulx.
Tom
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I agree with you Charon. The Lord of the Rings was a great read. Hard to put it down at times no matter how late at night it was. Was just as refreshing reading it for the second and third time.
:aok