Topic: untitled - short story

[Jake]

edit:: second draft some posts down

I just wrote this tonite. Keep in mind that it is the very first draft. Kind-of long so I converted it to pdf. If someone wants me to copy the whole thing into the body of the thread, let me know.

All critiques, as always, very kindly appreciated.

[Ken Fitlike]

There's a lot of numbers but you don't seem to do much with them. Do you plan to do anything with them?

[Jake]

well, since the protagonist of the story is also its narrator, by the exactness of the numbers I wanted to show a certain trait of his personality.

[Ken Fitlike]

I wondered about that; maybe I was expecting some pseudo-qabbalah, like in PI.

[Jake]

here is the second draft. I reworked some things, and changed almost all the digits to words. They were standing out too much, and really, there is no secret meaning there.

The story is meant to be quite simple with a single message. Nothing more - if you don't want to look for it

one of the key scenes is the book shelf - but it is still not the way I want it to be. BTW, this draft has that a bit reworked as well.

[Ken Fitlike]

>>digits to words.<<

Good move, it reads much better.

>>The story is meant to be quite simple with a single message.<<

Hey! I'm the reader and I'll decide what the message is, okay?

[Jake]

>>Hey! I'm the reader and I'll decide what the message is, okay? <<



so, what do you think overall?

[ygfperson]

If someone wants me to copy the whole thing into the body of the thread, let me know.

could you? i have this thing against pdf... it never seems to render on my computer without causing a crash here or 10 seconds of lag there

[Jake]

>>could you?<<
sure. The paragraph formatting got messed up in the process

26 May 2005
second draft.   

Untitled

   Gently, she woke me up at 6:13 in the morning, "we have to leave at seven to make it there by eight." I got up reluctantly, not looking forward to the two apartments and a big house that were waiting for a thorough cleaning after two weeks of usage.
    My father left the country to take care of some family business; it was up to me to drive and help my mom at work today. She gets too anxious while driving; mixing up the accelerator with the break, and therefore never got a driver's license – or so my father says.

   We arrived at the twenty-seven storey high-rise at 8:03. The doorman opened the glass door, sneering at us walking by. My mom smiled and thanked him – it killed me to see his futile self-worth reinforced with her kind words.

   The elevator climbed lazily to the ninth floor.
   "I'll do the kitchen and the bathrooms; you'll handle the dusting and vacuuming," she said.
    In other words, I got the easy crap, and she just got the crap. 
   "This shouldn't take us more than two hours. Dad and I get it done in an hour and a half."

   As we walked into the spacious apartment I was immediately drawn towards the view from the windows. I stood still, admiring the vastness of Lake Michigan until she handed me twenty-five dollars.
   "That's you share for this one; it's better to do a good job slowly than to do it quickly but poorly, " she said, neatly placing the other two twenty dollar bills into her wallet, "these people are good clients, we can't afford to lose them."

   Three god-damn bathrooms. Three toilets, three sinks, three tubs and only an elderly couple using them all. Who in the world needs three god-damn bathrooms? How do they pick which toilet to piss in? is one his, the other hers, and the last the guests'? I really couldn't live here – the decisions would never let me go. Marveling at this phenomenon my stomach begun to press from the double burger of the night before. Thankfully, the choice was made for me, "use the third one, I'll clean that one last," she said laughing.
   "Like father like son," I heard her say as I closed the bathroom door – I didn't know what to think about that statement.

   Languidly wiping the book shelf I skimmed the worn paperback spines: out of the hundred-twenty-three titles I spotted a solitary classic – The Heart is a Lonely Hunter – the rest was just trash lit about high society and beach reads about the Riviera or the Alps. I had an urge to snag the McCullers book and chuck it out the window into the cool blue of the lake; it looked so lonely and out of place yet towering over the other books.
   "Looks like you're almost done. Make sure not to step on the already vacuumed areas – the 'wow' effect is important."

   In another five minutes we were entering the apartment on the fifteenth floor.
   "This one is easy," my mom said giving me another twenty-five dollars and pocketing thirty herself, "we're usually out of here in an hour."
   Same division of labor as before, I begun wiping down the sills of a window which stretched the length of the living room – fifty-seven feet. The view was to the south and the entire down-town was laid down (and up) in front of me. The workers below looked tiny as they filled the building's swimming pool with water that seemed to be calling me through the hot noon sun. With one swift movement I opened the high window, stepped up on the freshly cleaned sill, took a step forward and jumped. Silently, I twisted my body in mid air; arms stretched long before my head ready to split the surface of the blue upon impact –
   "Don't forget the lamp stands."
   I got my mind off from the clouds and grabbed the Old English and a fresh rag and got on my knees.

   We were out of the building in four hours. The prick doorman didn't even nod goodbye when my mom waved from the sidewalk. Fucker. I've decided to hate him right then and there. For ever.

   "This next one is only ten minutes away."
   She handed me the address and the carefully written directions she took last time she worked here with my father.
   
   "There might be people here, so wait in the car," she said as we pulled up in front of a three storey brick house.
   "If she is home, find something to do and I'll call you before I'm done."
   She glanced at her cheap watch.
   "Probably around four or so."
   I watched her knock on the front door with no response. She took out the keys and waved for me to go ahead and follow her inside. Just as we stepped in, the house alarm started wailing loudly.
   "I don't know the code!" she exclaimed and ran towards the kitchen phone digging through her purse for the little red phone and address book. Thumbing through the pages, she grabbed the handset and begun to dial.
   
   Apparently the owner left the house this morning forgetting to turn off the security alarm.
   "Look," she said with a grin, pointing at the alarm's command pad, "I had nineteen seconds left. Made it in the knick of time – otherwise we would have to deal with the cops."

   I took the mop, bucket, vacuum, and a basket of cleaning supplies from the basement and climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor. Christ was this place filthy. The parent's bedroom was even dirtier than the kids'. Nothing seemed to have its own place; the flowers died a week ago and the green water stunk up the whole place.
   "I told you this one's tough! It's like this every time we come."
   Hell, it really did look tough. After changing the sheets and fixing all the beds I grabbed the lemon oil, went into the office and stood in awe. I was lost. I didn't know what to touch and what to leave as it stood. It seemed that no amount of work, short of throwing everything out, would produce any positive effect. She spotted the look of helplessness on my face, tilted her head slightly to the right and smiled.
   "Go and wait in the car, or drive somewhere."
   Pause.
   "They might come back any moment, its better if I do this alone."

   I felt bad, and at the same time, relieved as I slipped into the seat of my car. Bad for leaving her at the mercy of this filth, and relieved that I wont have to deal with any of it. With the fifty in my wallet I drove off to a bookstore which I knew was close by.

   As she was bending over a stranger's piss tainted toilet, I sipped a five dollar cup of coffee.
   As she threw their shit stained underwear into the washing machine, I was handing over $37.58 to a cute brunette for two books.
   
   I was there some time before four. When she got done, I handed her a bottle of water. She gently took six sips. Screwing the top back onto the bottle I noticed her work beaten, vain checkered, hands. God did I feel rotten. I wanted to get on my knees to kiss her feet and weep. 
   She smiled that kind smile of hers again, "let's get some sushi, my treat. And thanks for helping me out today."

   "No mom, it'll be on me – I really love you, you know? Thanks. Thanks for everything. And – I'm sorry."

   She didn't need an explanation; she just looked at me as I put the car in first and drove off.             

[Ken Fitlike]

so, what do you think overall?

It was readable but didn't really grab me in any real way. I'd be inclined to think your protagonist is coming to terms with emergent homosexuality, though, on account of his housewifery and mother fixations.[/stereotype]

I think you handled the character interactions well enough; the mother's thoughts and feeling have to be largely deduced since it's the son who seems to express the emotional context for the day and you've maintained consistency with this. The 'I love you, mom' makes me sick but that's maybe because I don't think nor speak like that. I'd be tempted to drop that - the emotional shift in the son can be seen/implied by his offer of 'sushi on me' but it may require a bit more extravagance of language than the bare simplicity (which is good, btw) you're using.

The reference to the book on the bookshelf is above my head; it might be a huge signpost in your piece but my ignorance prevents me from reading it. That's not your fault, of course.

[Jake]

Thanks Ken, as always your pointers and comments help out a lot

It was readable but didn't really grab me in any real way. I'd be inclined to think your protagonist is coming to terms with emergent homosexuality, though, on account of his housewifery and mother fixations.

Actually, my idea here was that the gender of the narrator could not be determined from the story. Of course, I wrote "like father like son" which initially was meant to be "just like your father" - I'm not sure why I written it the former way when typing up the first draft but in the draft below uses the latter statement.

The 'I love you, mom' makes me sick but that's maybe because I don't think nor speak like that. I'd be tempted to drop that

you're right...I don't talk that way either - sounds rather corny.

The reference to the book on the bookshelf is above my head;

I was afraid that "non-america" readers might have difficulty understanding the reference. I don't imagine that McCullers is read by people in other countries. Maybe, if I think of a book that tackles a similar theme, but is more international I'll replace it.


Overall, here is one thought: what if the story was really about the father?

[Ken Fitlike]

I'd suggest dropping the title or, at least, drop the 'American' as there seems nothing distinctly US American about what you're writing and it's rather cliched.

The last line seems superfluous, particularly, "She didn't need an explanation".

>>what if the story was really about the father?<<

1. There's not enough ambiguity to even suggest that as a possibility. The piece is linear and only examines a very compact aspect of the relationship between mother and son - I know you're trying to get 'child' but again the observations made seem more stereotypically male(aggressive), probably due to narrative necessity.

or

2. Perhaps, re-title it as 'father?' - it would probably do more work for you than 'sacrifice' which is bolted into the story framework anyway and therefore makes its use, perhaps, tautological.

As it stands it still doesn't grab me - I'm not moved, interested, enlightened, engaged etc. by these people nor their circumstances, although there is a mote of sympathy for the mother.

Since your 'story' is short in length I might be tempted to rewrite this from several perspectives: the mother, the father, the doorman, the client(s) in order to explore those relationships and then, maybe, return to the original and see if anything useful could be injected back in.