Author Topic: creative non-fiction piece  (Read 883 times)

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©brad

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creative non-fiction piece
« on: May 25, 2004, 01:27:31 PM »
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SENIOR


   and in this bar, or theater I should say, I am standing in the middle of a modestly-sized crowd about ten or so feet from the stage, listening to one of the worst covers of Stairway to Heaven like, ever, and the speaker is obviously blown because it’s making this loud hissing noise every time the lead singer says the “s” in “stairway.” With me are Justin, Cole, Brandon, two Brads, two Chris’s, an Eric, some guy named B.P., and a kid from the Georgia Tech chapter of our fraternity, some gel-haired (with green highlights, no less) French-connection t-shirt wearing tool, to put it mildly, who shouldn’t be hanging out with us. Along with us are four girls, three of whom are named Kerri, the other, um, don’t remember (I’ve actually never seen the fourth one before but she swears she is a little sister in our fraternity). Two of the Kerris’ bump and grind with four muscled-up, coked-up, steroided-up, extra-small-t-shirt-wearing-to-show-off-their-biceps-meat heads, all wearing backwards Abercrombie hats. The other Kerri has been missing for a while now (my guess would be she’s in the bathroom doing coke or in the bathroom looking for coke). “Oooooh it makes me wonder…” the lead singer moans. The crowd is surprisingly really into this, with several people holding lighters in the air, swaying back and forth, moving to this pathetic cover band as they butcher the song. I move along with the crowd just to do it, persistently checking my cell phone to see if she has called (nope). Out of the corner of my eye I see a girl who may or may not have been in my freshman English Lit. class jump around the crowd, letting people draw on her with a magic marker. She wears a paper crown that reads “I’m 21!” and is relentless in her need to announce to every god damn person in this shitty bar that it is indeed her 21st birthday. I want nothing more than for her to just keep on walking past me, but she doesn’t. She sees me, and she gets her little marker ready.

   “Hey! Don’t I like… know you?” She screams over the music.
   “Doubtful.”
   “No, no, no, you’re that… guy I… know… I … know… yoooooou,” she says, struggling to stand still.
   Oh my God. “Don’t think so pal.”
   “It’s my birthday tonight!”
   “Really.”
   “Yeah, here, sign your name!”
   She hands me the sharpie. I consider throwing it at the exceptionally awful bass player but opt not to.
   “Here, I fffhink there’s a spot on my back,” she says, turning around.
   I look at what other people have written: “Happy B-Day baby girl!” “I give great head.” “Chi Hoe.”  Above her ass someone has drawn an arrow pointing down with “over one billion-served” written above it. I take the marker and write in big, bold letters in the middle of her back-- “YOU NEED HELP.”
   “There,” I say, handing her back the marker and turning away quickly, checking my phone again.
   
   I look at my watch, hoping at least an hour has passed, but it has only been like four minutes. I polish off what is my fourth bourbon and ginger-ale, not even noticing the bitter-aftertaste of this cheap ass, redneck, inbred, Tennessee whiskey I’ve been drinking (only thing I can afford at the moment). Three frat-tastic guys all decked out in short short Patagonia’s and polo shirts and New Balances and camouflage Georgia hats (I’m actually wearing all of this too) stand unusually close to me, as if it’s that crowded in here to warrant this closeness. One of the guys accidentally rubs his knee into my thigh, and continues to do so periodically. Now, usually, I would immediately turn away in such an instance, or walk away, or laugh, or be disgusted, for this kind of thing has happened before, but at this moment, something, this dirty little scheme comes to mind, and I can’t help but act on it. I’m broke now. I have no more cash and I seriously doubt there is any money left in my account. I’m almost done with this drink, and I am no where near done with the amount of drinking I want to do tonight. This guy, like so many closeted, fag-bashing in public, apparently also homophobic fraternity guys with girlfriends and pick-up trucks would give up a kidney to hook up with another dude if no one were to find out. And even though that kind of thing does not really interest me, for I have considered and declined on one particular night, I find myself now in the unique position of getting a free drink from this dude. So here’s the plan: the next time he pulls this little knee rubbing shit, I will inadvertently drop my drink (which now consists of nothing more than a few melting ice cubes) onto the floor. There is a good chance that he will feel so bad about this, especially since it’s fairly obvious that he secretly wants to take me into the bathroom anyhow (most definitely) that he will insist on buying me another drink. I look over at his friends. One of them isn’t drinking but is undoubtedly on coke because he keeps grinding his teeth. The other friend is drinking, and his beer cup is near empty.
Perfect timing.
   The band segues into another slow song, this one I’ve never heard before but the cover is equally terrible. The frat dude’s elbow touches mine, almost rubbing it (could this be more perfect). I look around to see if any of my buddies are taking notice to this. The Chris’s and Brad’s and Cole and Brandon are in front of me. The two Kerris are still dancing with those big dudes. No one is really paying attention to anything except the drummer, who has just begun what will be a ten minute drum solo (dear God). Okay, it’s settled. No one can really see me. I sense the frat dude looking at me, and I turn and look at him and immediately he turns and looks at the stage. His elbow hits mine, and I overact (could he tell? Nah) and launch my empty cup forward. No one even notices, not even the three people who the cup flew over. The frat dude freaks out, as I knew he would. He turns around to see if anyone saw him and immediately following, turns to me with a dude-my-bad look.
   “Dude, my bad,” he says, brushing whiskey off his shirt that isn’t there.
    “Don’t worry about it.”
   “Shit man, I’m just so… fucked up, I’ve been… my bad,” he says, fake-drunkenly
                “It’s cool.”
                “Nah man, let me buy you another one.”
                “Nah man, you don’t have to do that.”
                “Nah man, shut up. I’m buying you another drink. What were you drinking?”
I think for a moment. “Crown Royal and ginger-ale.”  
                “You got it bro,” he says.
I’m going to hell. I want to leave right now.

   Later on. Somewhere else. Don’t even know where. I’m sitting on the far end of what is a very long and crowded bar, with my right shoulder leaning up again an unusually sticky wall. I check my cell phone again, still no call. Maybe she’ll just show up here. Who knows. Nah, doubt it. I could just call her, like I was suppose to an hour ago. But no, I want her to call me. I’ll just sit here for a while and order more bourbons and beers and shots of Patron and yager bombs on someone’s tab, in the corner, trying to avoid eye contact with the Brad’s and Chris’s and the other twenty or so people I know in this bar, like Cameron Rickett and Amanda Pritchard, who sit on a love seat near the front door, practically on top of one another (they will be having sex soon, no doubt). Paul Richardson and Kelly Tylers, who date Cameron and Amanda respectively, stand near the bathroom, and unbeknownst to Cameron and Amanda, Paul and Kelly will be having sex tonight as well. Sitting at one of several marble tables that are scattered about the room is Ben Palmer, who has slept and is sitting with two of the Kerris, Amanda, Kelly, Rachel, Lindsay, Ashley another Lindsay, and a blonde who, upon standing up to get another drink, I recognize, and although I can’t remember her name, I think I may have hooked up with her on St. Patrick’s Day last year. She walks by the adjacent table where that guy who is always here tells a not-funny joke to two Asian girls and who desperately wants to join a fraternity but can’t because, mainly, we found out that he’s bisexual and got herpes from some dude visiting from Dartmouth, of all places. I look outside and see Samantha Bradley, a girl I had a crush on since like, ever. She stands outside smoking, drinking a Cosmopolitan while talking with one of the Brad’s, the Brad who slept with the third Kerri this very night before the concert. If he were a good friend he’d put in a good word for me with Samantha, for I was obsessed with her all last semester, but he isn’t and doesn’t.

I check the cell phone again. Nada.

   So Fresh-So Clean plays for the third time tonight, and it is so loud that it drowns out all the talking and bitching and gossiping, and I’m able to sit here in the corner for a moment and just close my eyes, my mind wandering. I think about random stuff, like whether or not I paid the power bill last month, or if there is any beer left in the fridge for after downtown, or when the last time I talked to my mom was. I think about school. Should I go to class tomorrow? I wonder if my piece will get read out loud. Maybe. I think about this class, the people in it with me, most of who I never see out, most of who are probably good kids, kids with goals and ambition. I think about the other kids, like the quiet black girl who sits in the back whose writing is so-fucking-brilliant that when read out loud, it renders the rest of my day spent, my ass kicked, my brain fried. I hope she’s okay right now. I wonder what she’s doing. She’s not here. She’s too smart to be here.
   Some chick orders four red snappers and two shots of Grand Marnier and in an attempt to carry them all at once spills the red snapper on my leg. “Oh my god I’m so sorry” she might have said. My teeth clench a little. I take a deep breath, sucking in a lung-full from my cigarette, subsequently exhaling a fierce stream of white smoke into the air, wanting nothing more than to scream bloody murder as I look around this room and see that everyone is apparently having a good time except me. As I scan the crowd I see Bridget Neumann, a girl I semi-dated for a month or so (longest month of my life). She seems drunker than the rest of us drunks, or at least appears that way. She stumbles over to me, spilling what is probably a vodka tonic. I turn away, starring at a bartender whose chest is growing before my eyes and who already looks hotter than she did five minutes ago, biting my lips, hoping Bridget doesn’t see me.

                “Hey there ssss-stud,” she spits out.
I am nearing my breaking point. “How are things,” I say, not turning my head.
                “What are yeeeeew, doin’?”
                “Trying not to communicate with anyone.”
                “You smoke now?”
                “Nope,” I say, putting out one and lighting another.
                “And you drink liquor?”
She’s asking for it. “Like its goin’ out of style, sugarbutt.”  

Stacey Middleton walks in with an entourage of fellow blonde, big-breasted, tiny waisted, well, whores, to be blunt. Following them are two guys named Matt who both look like David Schwimmer, and Bridget’s attention is immediately drawn to them, for she hooked up with one of these Schwimmers two nights previous, as one of the Kerri’s had informed me on the way to Biology the other day, and she looks a little upset when she sees Stacey give one of them a kiss on the cheek. I know Bridget likes this dude, and I know I have no real reason to pick on her. I mean, it was me who stop calling her, even though I would promise to do so on every run-into we had on campus or downtown somewhere. This girl does not deserve this, but I’m near a breaking point, and it’s only getting worse, and I need a punching bag. Because of this, I can’t help but give her some unfortunate news:

                “You know man, not to be rude or anything, like… I just want to be a friend here. That dude has crabs,” I say, about to crack up.
                “He… what? Crabs? What? Who?”
                “You know who.”
                “You’re such a fucking… piece of shit.”
                “Hey man, I have no reason to lie or care, just saying. Do what you will.”
I take a long, long drag, giving her a sucks-to-be-you look. She looks worried.
                “Dude, don’t fret. All you have to do is pick up one of those lice shampoos at Kroger and…”

She drops her drink onto the floor (surprisingly it doesn’t break) and runs out. My whiskey-induced asshole side comes alive as I start to chuckle.  
The Kerri’s leave Ben’s table and walk up to the bar with two other good-looking girls, all talking simultaneously, with topics ranging from how drunk they are, how big their boobs got when they first got on the pill, what song they would strip to if they were strippers, which guys in the bar are fuckable. My buddy Cole is preaching to Matt about the differences between “making love” to a girl and “fucking” a girl, as if he’s uncovered something grand. Matt responds with a report on how to fuck on coke.

In the bathroom. Taking a piss in the urinal. The dude next to me, who apparently knows me but I don’t know him, does coke out of a small plastic baggie with a BMW key, and he passes it to me, and even though coke is such a frat-boy-sophomore thing to do now, and my days with it are pretty much over, I do some out of sheer boredom. I then continue to piss in an overflowing urinal; beer, piss, throw-up, cigarette butts, and even a little blood all marinating together, combining forces into this funkified, mutagenic stench that suffocates me. On the wall the following things are written: “FUCK BUSH THE OIL PUPPET” “FOR A GOOD BLOW-JOB CALL 543-2123” “Every time you masturbate, God kills a Kitten” (written directly underneath this one is “Well, I fucking hate cats.”) Some dude runs in and throws up in a stall that two guys are doing coke in. Two other dudes primp themselves (guys do primp) in front of a small, stained mirror. I cannot breathe. This is it.

I shouldn’t be driving right now, but I am, and if my dad saw me driving this expensive black car of mine he so generously paid for, I would really be in deep shit. And a girl named Karen is in the passenger seat, singing along to the whatever-hip-hop-song-of-the-moment that plays over the radio on a decent factory sound system. The white lines on the road are not only blurry but appear to be square dancing across my windshield, and I dance along with them, bouncing around in my seat, but they are dancing too fast and I can barely keep up.

Karen. Karen. This girl’s name is Karen. Do not forget.

In bed, I stare at my ceiling fan, and I swear one of the blades is significantly shorter than the other, and even though my roommate and several visiting friends have all assured me that the blades are indeed all the same size and that I’m a fucking lunatic, I know otherwise. My roommate is having loud sex with his girlfriend’s best friend in the other room. Kate-… Kathleen, something or other, the girl who I guess rode home with me, is in my bed, and we start to go at it but I can barely get it up because of the coke and whiskey, so we just make out for too long a time, and finally, she passes out, snoring really loud-like, her nostrils pressed up against my forehead, each snore blowing my bangs into the air. I turn onto my side, then on my back. I check my cell phone for a final time, no missed calls. Maybe I’ll call her in the morning. I think I have an advising appointment tomorrow. I have to go. I already missed the first one and if I miss this one I’m fucked. I’ll get all 8:00 classes. I know I won’t be able to sleep tonight. I’ll just chain-smoke and drink this warm Rolling Rock and stare at that short blade on the ceiling fan, following it as it goes around and around and around

Ghostboy

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creative non-fiction piece
« Reply #1 on: May 25, 2004, 04:43:12 PM »
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Good stuff, man.

I haven't read more than a few pages of Brett Easton Ellis, but I know you like him, and having seen the films based on his books, I'm guessing you're writing in a similar, ventricular vein.

I especially liked the (I'm actually wearing all of this too) bit.

So how non-fiction is this? Having not experienced more than a semester of college (and a private one at that), I've often wondered how wild it actually gets (and, sometimes, if I'm missing anything, although I know for the most part that I'm not). I'm guessing that it's at least partially fictive, at least as far as details go, but either way, I'll bet you're sorta glad you've already graduated and made it out of there.

Pedro

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creative non-fiction piece
« Reply #2 on: May 25, 2004, 04:49:44 PM »
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yeah, he likes ellis...he even starts in the middle of a sentence

pretty good shit

A World Apart

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creative non-fiction piece
« Reply #3 on: May 25, 2004, 04:50:53 PM »
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I particularly enjoyed that. It kept me interested the entire way through. And, dam, it was funny...in a really messed up way.
No, I've never seen that, I've never seen anyone drive their garbage out to the curb and bang the hell out of it with a stick.

©brad

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creative non-fiction piece
« Reply #4 on: May 25, 2004, 10:04:24 PM »
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Quote from: Ghostboy
Good stuff, man.

I haven't read more than a few pages of Brett Easton Ellis, but I know you like him, and having seen the films based on his books, I'm guessing you're writing in a similar, ventricular vein.

I especially liked the (I'm actually wearing all of this too) bit.

So how non-fiction is this? Having not experienced more than a semester of college (and a private one at that), I've often wondered how wild it actually gets (and, sometimes, if I'm missing anything, although I know for the most part that I'm not). I'm guessing that it's at least partially fictive, at least as far as details go, but either way, I'll bet you're sorta glad you've already graduated and made it out of there.


it's um, well... for starters, yeah, mr. ellis is one of my many idols, and yeah, it's really ripping off him.

as far as how non-fiction it is, well, let me put it this way. I toned it down quite a bit.

 had to read this in front of about 40 students (all excellent writers) and teachers on a stage w/ a microphone. my stomach was turning like a muther fucker. pretty intense. my dad was there. kinda fucked up thing to read in front of pops.

thanks for the feedback y'all. i have to finish this... thing in a few days.

 

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