Here are excerpts from versions of my novel that I wrote around 2006:
The Tale of the Tiger
There was a dispute over who the apartment complex belonged to, who had the higher claim. The truth was, it was owned and maintained by two old geezers who hadn’t set foot on the property in twenty years. They rented the place out to their grandchildren---the oldest, Michael, got the top apartment, his cousin Jaclyn got the bottom and her younger brother Julian shared the middle floor with his best friend from high school.
Michael was twenty-six, liked to think himself mature, liked to think he’d moved beyond the childishness of adolescence. He’d graduated from college four years ago with an English major and the desire to be a published writer before he hit thirty. He wanted to make a difference in the world, he wanted people to read what he had to say and be better for it. The only thing he really needed was peace and quiet in the evenings so that he could spend that time at his computer.
His cousins had a different idea of what life was all about. They were the spawn of his permissive aunt and uncle, they’d been raised among wild children like themselves in a city where everything you could possibly want was right there in front of you---you just had to grab for it . Seize and attack. They grew up thinking that the only way to end a week was to throw a huge party, get drunk, nail down everything that moved. Julian would join his sister on the first floor, and he’d bring his roommate Nick, along with half the city or more. They’d turn up the music so that Michael couldn’t hear the shouting, grunting and crashing so much, but Busta Rhymes or whomever the hell they listened to still blared through the thin boards of his floor, interrupting his train of thought, making him momentarily think the characters in his book were sex-crazed gangsters in the ghetto. It would seep into his writing and would result in pages of wasted time. If he happened to be writing long-hand, it would be wasted trees.
Lucifer’s Oven had once been called Luigi’s Pizzeria. It had been owned back then by a tiny Italian who bore a comical resemblance to Stalin, and his doughy brother who looked more like Groucho Marx. After their deaths, the place had passed into the hands of a family of Pagans. The red and green booths were a little too Christmasy for their liking and so they‘d redecorated, using an orange and black motif instead. Rumor had it they slaughtered the animals out back and served them up on a pizza twenty minutes later. Hardly anyone in the town remembered the way the pizzeria once was, except for the regulars. Guys like Jimmy Viola, affectionately dubbed “Jimmy the C“ (C stood for “cripple”) as a way to differentiate him from another regular, also named Jimmy, who was not a cripple. Then there was “Crazy Steve” who wore the raccoon hat and always staked out the same booth from which he glared at anyone who happened to be within his line of view. When Michael walked into the place, Jimmy nodded at him. Funny how people could recognize you after so long.
Michael pressed his finger on the delete key and watched everything he’d written earlier that day disappear from the screen. He leaned back in his desk chair. He thought of Jocelin’s tiger bracelet, the one she‘d worn to the restaurant. A gift from Jude, she‘d said when she‘d caught him looking at it. Jude the Obscure. He realized what bugged him the most about it. He wondered what kind of guy gave his girlfriend something he’d clearly gotten out of a machine. He knew there must have been more to that story. A whole novel there.
At the top of the blank page Michael typed The Tale of the Tiger. The only problem with a title like that was the reader would be expecting an adventure, a romp through India, full of cultural misunderstandings and violent near-misses. Man’s confrontation with the beast. Michael had no idea what or who the tiger was. But its home would be his.
“You look like shit,” Jocelin said. “You got so wasted last night. Do you remember any of it?”
“A little. Kinda.” He remembered sitting up with her, watching some movie on Lifetime. It was about a woman who, when charged with the crime of killing her father, suddenly realizes that she had repressed memories of being molested by him. It was called Death of a Father; The Barbara Benchley Story. It was awful, but Jocelin’s beer was good, which made the movie almost beside the point. His sister had gotten so mad at the TV screen, as if it were an actual person. As if she were in some kind of political debate with it. It might have been the alcohol, but halfway through the show she’d started to throw things from the bed---stuff like pillows, shoes, the Bible. Fortunately they’d fallen safely to the floor before they could hit anything; her aim was shitty. The neighbors must have assumed they were a couple of pissed off rock stars, what with all the thuds and cursing. “Bullshit,” she’d say to the characters. “I hope they fry her, Jules. I really do.” Despite her antics, he’d felt himself relax in his sister’s company, more comfortable with her than he‘d been in a long time. He’d even laughed at her. And here he was, the morning after, paying for that short period of happiness, almost wishing he’d not remembered what it had been like.
“Well nothing happened,” she assured him. “You didn‘t do anything stupid, like streak across the motel parking lot.” She found this very amusing for some reason. He wiped at his nose with his arm and made a sniffling sound. “You crying?”
“No,” he snapped. “My nose is stuffed up.”
What Others Said
“These are two very effed-up people.”
“Julian’s feelings … contradict themselves so much---sometimes within the same sentence---that the only conclusion I could finally draw is that he’s schizophrenic and quite possibly insane.”
“Some good moments here, but you have not set it up so the dialogue makes sense.”
The Tale of the Tiger Revised
October 13, 2000
Julian had been running for as long as he could remember. It was a constant, single vision---the vision of him running--- racing through his mind, connecting one moment to the next.
He sprinted down crowded streets in the mornings, empty ones at night, along broken paths leading through thick trees, past tangled branches, his arms and legs covered in scrapes and scars. But that was nothing. Nothing at all compared to what made him run in the first place. Or what must have made him do it. Truth was, he had no clue.
He knew it drove his girlfriend and sister crazy. His sister said that one morning he’d wake up with a torn ligament, a bruised muscle, something that would stay with him forever. Lead to surgeries down the road. New body parts from cadavers.
But he couldn’t worry about something like that. He wasn’t so much afraid of what would befall him in the future. He was more afraid that his life was cyclic and that nothing new would ever happen to him again, that he would remain stuck in the same place he was now for the rest of his life. The future, to him, seemed to be the constant retelling of history, over and over, maybe at best a Martin Scorcese remake of what went on before.
There was no way in hell he was ever speaking to his sister again. The last time they’d spoken was at the Fourth of July party at their father’s house. She’d caught him flirting with the 50-something-year-old next-door neighbor. Actually, his neighbor had come on to him---it wasn’t his fault at all. Rosa had lived in the house across the street from them ever since they were little kids. She was older than their father and had three disgustingly perfect children, to hear her speak, who were now in college. But the moment he hit puberty, it was all “handsome” this and “good-looking” that, as if she couldn’t get enough of it with her own kids. At the cookout, Leila had called him a pervert. A pervert who was trying to take advantage of a poor Italian woman who spoke broken English and who desperately needed a lifelong American citizen like him to make a legal woman of her. It was stupid, really stupid. She’d been teasing him about Rosa since forever. But on this particular day, Rory was right there beside him. His girlfriend had raised her eyebrow at him when his sister had said what she did, and he snapped. The point was, he’d called her a nasty name, and now he couldn’t even look at her. Couldn’t talk to her either. And Rory still hated him for it. She’s your sister. How could you say that to your sister? Rory was an only child.
“I hate her,” Ellie said when he asked about her friend. Delilah. As in Samson and Delilah, Ellie told him. Julian had never heard that name used in real life before.
It had been Delilah’s idea to come here; Ellie would have much rather gone to a movie or something. “I suppose it’s my fault for always letting her get her way.”
“She sounds evil,” Julian said under his breath. He was still thinking of Jennie from second grade. Jennie who ate the hostess cupcakes his sister packed just for him. Jennie who would laugh every time her playground husband, for some unknown reason, called him Karen.
“No she’s not evil.” Ellie gave him the evil eye. She sighed. “Well, I suppose I sometimes act like she is, but we’re practically sisters.
“Well you’d have to have a brother, I guess, to understand. You know, she’s the older one. By only a month, but still, you’d think that month was the most important thing in her life. “
Julian knew. It was as if in that one short month, she not only took a fantastic ride down the birth canal, she was also elected president of the United States, saved a whole endangered species from extinction, prevented the destruction of the rainforest, found a cure for AIDS, ran for president again and was re-elected. That was Leila. That was Leila all over. Only replace one month with three years. The point was, his sister was barely past the pant-shitting stage when he was born and yet she had the nerve to get cocky with him. When he turned twenty-one, it would all change. It had to change. Really, once you turned twenty-one, what did it matter anymore who was three years older or younger? You never heard anyone say, “Oh, well I‘m twenty-six and you’re only twenty-three.” You hardly ever heard crap like that.
Was this what his life had become? Standing in a kitchen with a girl he didn’t even know, trying to look her in the eyes and seeing only a mountain of crap behind her; cans and newspapers haunting a home like old lovers and one night stands you only wish you could discard.
He pulled away. He said he was sorry. So sorry. He didn’t know when he’d gotten to the point where any little thing bothered him.
“Are you ok?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said. He left without further explanation, without looking back.
He left Ellie’s apartment around midnight. He didn’t know where the night had gone. He’d gotten his last image of Rory around seven o’clock. He couldn’t believe he’d spent the past five hours doing nothing. He had nothing to show for it. And there was the realization that hit him upon walking out the front door. It was tomorrow. Tomorrow had come as he was descending the stairs. I have to go home, he thought.
He thought again about how his life was like some indie movie. If he had the ability to cut whole chunks of crap out of his life, this moment of defeat - where he was trapped in his car, not able to go anywhere and absolutely dependent on his sister - would be the first scene to go, but had his life really been a movie, it would probably be one of the few scenes that had to stay. And then Blockbuster would get a hold of it and edit it some more, and just replay this scene over and over again. It depressed the hell out of him.
Nick was obsessed with Culture Club, not because he thought they were fine musicians, but because he was convinced that Julian was gay, and he wanted to be supportive of his friend.
When he noticed they were heading in the direction of Oz, he shook his head hard. Just the sight of it made him sick. He didn’t realize how much he hated that place until he saw it in the daylight. He said, “No. I’m not going there. Not tonight, OK?” Not ever.
His friend threw him a look. “What’s wrong with you? You love going there. Where do you wanna go then?”
“I don’t know.” His voice rose an octave. “I don’t care. Just anywhere else.”
“No shit. Was that where you were last night?”
“Keep your eyes on the road! Do you want to get us killed? Look, you almost hit that lady with the walker.”
“What lady?” Nick squinted. “The one on the sidewalk, Jules?”
“You were swerving.”
“Bull shit. You’re crazy.” They were silent for a moment. “Where we gonna go, then, if you don’t want to go to Oz. Is there a gay bar around here somewhere?”
“I’m not gay.”
“Sure. Sure you aren’t, Julia. Unlike you, I’d rather go somewhere packed full of women.”
“Aren’t you and Katie supposed to be getting serious? Mr. I Know How To Act With Women?”
“Sure, I know how to handle women. Like for instance, guess who I was talking to at the video store the other day. You’ll never guess.”
Julian rolled his eyes and turned his head to look out the window.
"Your sister," Nick said. “Why didn’t you tell me she was back? You should invite her to come out with us sometime. I still can’t believe she’s your sister. It’s like Oscar the grouch being related to…Catherine Zeta-Jones.”
“Catherine Zeta-Jones is a cow,” he said, insulted that anyone would compare his sister to her.
“Says the gay boy.”
Julian decided there really wasn’t any point in trying to correct him. That’s what Nick wanted. Besides, maybe he was right. Maybe Julian really was gay. Or maybe he wasn’t bent any particular way. Maybe he just fell in love with random people who showed him the slightest bit of attention.
Nick hesitated, his eyes slowly taking him in before turning away.
Julian pushed his plate away, only half his sandwich eaten. He couldn’t stuff anything more down his throat; he’d throw it all back up. “You done? I gotta get home.”
“Are you OK?” Nick asked.
“If I wanted bull shit psychoanalysis, I’d see a shrink. I wouldn’t hang with you.” He grabbed his wallet out of his pocket and took out enough money to take care of both of them.
“Aw, you’re gonna pay for me too? How chivalrous. Can I at least pay tip?”
“Let’s just go,” Julian said.
“That’s really interesting,” Rory said, and she meant it. She wasn’t saying it in the way most people would, as if they were pretending to care. Man, that Leila really had his girlfriend in a trance. Everyone seemed to think she was so mystical and mysterious, they all wanted to get to know her. If they knew the Leila he knew, they’d figure out pretty quick that she wasn’t so hot. The kind of person who makes great conversation over cocktails is the exact kind of person you’d never want to have any kind of real relationship with. There’s a reason they’re so damned fascinating; they’re completely self-absorbed and they don’t give a damn about anyone but themselves and all the cool little adventures in their own self-absorbed life.
She laughed. “Ever since he was a baby he’s been terrified of the zoo. I remember my mom and dad took him there once when he was about three and I was six, and the whole time he was shaking.”
He snorted. “She’s exaggerating,” he told Rory.
“Oh yeah? Elephant,” his sister said, as if that one word would send him into convulsions. “Giraffe.”
“I’m not afraid of elephants. “ He snorted. “You crazy?”
She blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Well you don’t like ‘em much.”
“And I was never scared of giraffes either. It’s just, have you ever taken a good look at one of those things? They’re butt ugly.”
“Oh, and I’m sure they think you’re real hot yourself.” She winked at Rory, scattering ash on his pant leg. “I’m sure the giraffes all get together and have a good laugh the moment they see you coming.”
“Makes me think of a ‘Yo Momma’ joke,” Rory said.
Leila’s smile was tight. “Oh yeah?”
Rory shrugged and brushed at something on her sleeve.
What Others Said
“This is very fine work. You are building a complex relationship between [Leila and Julian].”
“Some nice moments here. The way they act w/ each other is still a bit confusing to me --- nice one minute, awful the next. It might be easier if there were longer periods of niceness + meanness, or if I understood their mood swings, the reasons behind them. Rory slaps J’s face and the next scene he says he loves her. … What internal chemistry causes them, because most people do not behave this way.”
“I’m surprised [Leila would] hang around people so far below her intellectual level.”
“What did she taste like? A good opportunity for some sensory details.”
“I really liked the line describing Ellie’s hair as the color of peeled corn.”
“His attitude toward Elle also confused me. Most eighteen-year-olds would have tried to get down her pants even if there were dead bodies lying around, but he was put off by the hoarded items that reminded him of old lovers and one night stands that should be discarded. I did not understand what this meant, and this kind of observation did not seem like one an eighteen-year-old would make.”
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