Chapter Two

This is the second chapter in my novel. It's not done, this is an extremely rough draft. I;m posting it here so I can print it out on campus.

Dan Feuerbach
English 352
2-27-2006
Chapter Two

Tom Menke got out of his BMW and quickened his pace. He opened the car door and extended his hand. Jenny took hold of it and he helped her out.
“This is going to be nice,” he said, “between work and Evan we don’t get to spend very much time together. You know, just the two of us.”
She smiled and agreed, arm in arm they walked to the elevator and took it down to the street level. They were heading downtown when they turned a corner and ran right into Harvey Kopelson.
“Tom, Tom Menke? Is that you?”
“Harvey?”
“Yeah, how’s it going?”
The men shook hands.
“That’s quite a grip you’ve got there, Tom. How you holding up these days? I haven’t seen you in what, five years?”
“Not since the funereal for Bill.”
“Yeah, he was a good roommate. Those were good times. Back when we were studs right out of college, trying to make it in the world and all that romantic crap. Remember that time the three of us went sledding over at Pioneer’s Park? I think I still have the bruises.”
Menke was glad that Kopelson left out the part about being severally drunk, in the park after hours and having to hide in the woods until the police stopped looking for them.
“Harvey, this is my wife, Jenny, we’ve been married for twelve years. Jenny, this is the guy I lived with many moons ago.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Harvey said, and he kissed her hand, she blushed.
“Are you still in the transplant business?”
“Yes I am, Tom, but I can see your busy tonight, plus some friends from work are waiting for me at Zen’s. Here,” Harvey took out his business card, “call me sometime.”
Menke put the card in his wallet.
“It’s been nice seeing you again Harvey; I will definitely give you a call.”
“I hope to see you two again sometime, I got to get moving.”
The couple went the opposite direction from Kopelson.
“He seemed nice,” Jenny said.

Everett Gibson sat at home. Hooray for Saturday nights, he thought. He got off his couch and went to his kitchen. He opened the cabinets; hoping food would have magically appeared so he didn’t have to spend money. As usual, there was a can of cheap beans and a few noodles that fell out the last time he made spaghetti.
“Shit,” he said to the walls and carpet.
He looked at the clock. It was only eight-thirty. So much more time to be alone. He got into his Escort and drove slowly to the Burger King a block from his house. He didn’t care much for fast food, but shopping on an empty stomach didn’t appeal much.
He pulled up to the drive-in and made his order.
“Can I get that drink with half-Coke and half-Diet Coke?” he asked.
“What? Was that sir?” the androgynous voice crackled at him.
“Never mind,” he said.
When he got his food he parked in the lot of the restaurant and ate his food.
When the post-chicken-fry ingestion nausea wore off he drove north on Seventeenth Street to the Russ’s. He liked the remodeling. The store was cleaner and much nicer.
He went to the clerk with his cart full of boxes and cans, relieved another menial chore in his life was completed, so he could go back to sitting in his apartment, waiting for work.
He noticed the clerk had a small mark on the inside of his left elbow. A tiny puncture wound. The man’s bony face and glazed expression led Gibson to believe his clerk used intravenous drugs.

Gibson only hoped this man would never come through his shop. Intravenous drug users were a mortician’s nightmare. It would take so long to get his man’s body prepped for burial it wasn’t even funny. Twice as long as the average person.
What was wrong with this man? Didn’t he think of anyone besides himself? Formaldehyde couldn’t be pumped through the shattered veins in the man’s arms. If Gibson had to work on the intravenous drug user, he would have to go in through the jugular, which meant extra care to avoid scarring.
It also meant having to massage the arms and legs and anywhere else he found little puncture wounds so the fluid didn’t build up. It meant a much slower pumping rate to avoid rupturing the neck veins of the cadaver, not to mention the risk of HIV…

“Forty-eight dollars and sixty-seven cents, sir” the intravenous drug user said. He was nervous because Gibson kept staring at his arm.
“Huh? Oh. Uh. Yeah.” Gibson reached into his pocket and set down the money.
Gibson was turning around to leave, trying to ignore the intravenous drug user.
“See you later, sir.”
I certainly hope not Gibson thought as he took his groceries to his car.

After Gibson had put away all his food he sat down to smoke. He looked at the clock. Only forty-five minutes had passed. He lit up his cigarette and tried to think of something to do. He looked at his meager nineteen inch television.
Another disappointing Saturday night for TV. Why couldn’t they put anything worth watching on? Didn’t the networks even think about the lonely old men scattered across the country? He turned the box off and stood up. He went back to the kitchen to grab his keys. He noticed the advertisement for South Street Video sitting on top of his mail pile. Now he had an idea.
He got in his car and drove the half block to his most local of local video stores. He wanted porn. He had so little of an idea with what to do that evening he could be extra choosey.
For the next hour he perused the small store’s three rooms of porn, in addition to the wall of currently released Hollywood movies.
After rejecting the first two rooms, he came to the back row of the back room and noticed something interesting. A video titled “MILF Meat.” He read the back. It started with something he could completely understand:
“Do you hate your mom?” the video asked him.
From there on it described the horrible things mother did and the way this video would punish them for you. He couldn’t resist.
He went to the clerk and had to endure the agony of setting up and account with the video sitting in the man’s sight the entire time. He can see into my life, Gibson thought, he can see all the disgusting things I’m going to do and he’s judging me.
Five dollars and eighty-nine cents later Gibson walked out of the store, glad to have survived the trial. His excitement for the video returning.

Sample Chapter

Author's Note: This is a hypathetical last chapter to a hypathetical novel entitled "Tag at the End of All Things." The set up is simple: The people who play tag are hiding in a bomb shelter in the basement of Buffalo Wild Wings at thirteenth and "N" streets in Lincoln. The city was marched upon by, I don't know, Chinese soldiers or something. Please suspend your disbelief, I thought this up at the Hi-Way Diner during a particularly painful shit.

The rumbling stopped two hours ago and the thirty-six people in the black tomb under buffalo wild wings were getting anxious. They were there for too long, shuffeling in cramped darkness, not knowing were anybody or anything was. The scents of three dozen people were blending into a stink unheard of before. Nobody knew exactly how long they were there, but the uncomfortable shifts and quick, "accidental" jabbings were forcing Dan to consider bashing his head into the wall until he couldn't feel. The only time keeping device, the watch around Jeff's wrist, was functionally useless in the dark. The nightlight had broken on the flight from his house to the bomb shelter.
"Well, Jeff, what do you think? Is it time?" Dan's disembodied voice echoed of the bare concrete. "We gotta get out of here," John shouted.
Jeff paused for a moment.
"Yes," he said, "by this point I don't care if I get shot."
The rusted bolt's squek was a lot quietr this time. JJ and Jeff forced their shoulders into the cast iron door and slowly pushed it open.
The fading twilight burned their eyes. What felt like years in pitch black had shrunk everyone's pupils to the size of atoms.
Eevery man and woman in the shelter climbed the steps and stretched. Grasping for a sky that was filling with stars. Maybe if they reached high enough they'd escape this wasted land.
"What time is it?" John called.
"It's nine-thirty," Jeff responded.
"Well...what do we do now?"
Looking around at the rotting flesh, crumbeling buildings and bleached bones, there was only one unspoken answer.
"Get around me in a cricle," Jeff said.
As the soiled faces and tattered clothes enclosed him, a sense of purpose came over everyone.
"Well," Dan said, "I guess we don't have to worry about hitting civillians."
And Jeff started counting...

Paper that is only interesting to me

Dan Feuerbach
English 354
2-16-2006

Downtown Lincoln on a Saturday is a zoo. There is some representation of everyone in the City. Homeless people on one corner will ask for change while stiletto-wearing sorority sisters stumble and gawk at them between bars while businessmen relax after a tough week of work with an expensive meal at Vincenzo's. In contrast to these archtypes, on the corner of thirteenth and “P” streets there is a different kind of people is developing in this zoo.
A cluster of people will be gathered on Saturday night. Some will be smiling, some will be smoking, wearing collared shirts or biker jackets with band names written in paint by the owner. These are the men and women of XXXXtreme Urban Street Tag.
XXXXtreme Urban Street Tag, or tag, is a subculture that requires an easily learned literacy to participate. This literacy takes places within the game itself and life outside the game. Before I explain tag literacy, I am going to give some background information about this emerging culture.
Tag is a continuation of the classic childhood ritual. Every Saturday when weather permits, at nine-thirty in the evening a group of roughly thirty-five people assembles. The game is simple: about a forth of the people will be “it” and the rest will try to avoid being “tagged” by them. This event lasts roughly two hours and three thirty-minute games are played. In between each game is a five to ten minute break for players to catch their breath.
At the start of the first game, the administrator, who I will be referring to as “J” calls for everyone's attention. All conversations cease immediately. He shouts off a list of nine rules. Most of the people will have heard them already, but listen anyways.
“J” calls for the cluster to form a circle around him and counts to twenty-seven sequentially pointing at a different person for each number. Once roughly a forth of the people have been selected to be “it,” they will count to twenty-seven while the remaining players leave the area. Players are confined to one city block. They run after or towards other players, ducking down alleys, across sidewalks or any place possible to avoid being tagged.
Within this seemingly simple context, a type of literacy has developed that, although easy to learn, is essential to maximize enjoyment for everyone. The communication falls into two categories: internal and external. Internal refers to all messages within a game of tag. External refers to all contact outside the actual game. The medium for this communication can be oral, written or visual, but it will fall into one of these two categories or occasionally both.
The one aspect that falls into both of these categories is the nine rules. At anytime during or between tag sessions these rules can be found and interpreted for both the recently exposed or indoctrinated. The rules have been quoted in this paper from the XXXXtreme Urban Street Tag facebook group.
“1. Do not hit other pedestrians.
2. Be honest when asked if you are "it".
3. No entering of buildings
4. You must stay within one city block - no crossing of streets.
5. No Douchebags
6. Keep It Awesome
7. No tagbacks
8. Keep It Sober
9. No Bears”
External communication is done through two mediums. The first is facebook; the second is group member contact. In any given week these ways of passing information combined could happen dozens of times.
Members of tag will log on to facebookand find a message waiting for them. They will discover that the weekly “call to arms” by "J" to let members know the session is going to happen. Often the message will be nothing more than two or three sentences.
This is example comes from a group message sent out on October twenty-seventh of last year:
"Next Game: 9:30pm, Saturday the 29th
May be the last game of the year due to the cold, so get your ass out!
Meet at the same place by the Coffee House."
This is effective device because large numbers of players will find out with in a week. In one swoop the majority of the people will know that there is going to be a tag session on the upcoming Saturday. This requires tag members to be literate in facebook. They must know how to get information and respond if necessary.
The second external communication is word of mouth discussion between members. Often two members will bump into each other at the union or between classes. They will discuss tag agree to attend the upcoming event.
Internal communications consist of three different things. First of all is the initial gathering, followed by the “not it” arm raise and verbal warnings/expulsion. These three main ways of sending information are mostly oral, but are absolutely essential to any game of tag.
The initial gathering which signifies the beginning of the tag session uses terms like “awesome,” “douche bag” and “no bears.” To anybody walking by these things may seem slightly confusing, even mind boggling, but to the people this terms have specific, narrow definitions.
The rule “keep it awesome” refers to player moving, not sitting around chatting and not shirking the responsibilities of being “it.” “Don’t be a douche bag” means not causing and petty internal politics or ruining other people’s enjoyment of the block the game is played on. “No bears” is a continuation of an inside joke which basically means what it says, but isn’t funny to people who are tag-illiterate.
When any of these or the six other rules is bent or broken, communication is sent via a verbal warning to members. If they are, in fact, “being douche bags” they will be told on the spot and if the behavior persists, expelled from the game and possibly banned.
In the middle of game players are required to signify if they are it. When asked they must respond by either saying “I’m it” or raising their hands above their head to form an “X” which translates into “I’m not it” to those who are tag literate. This visual communication serves to give people time to get away or pursue, reaching the height of tag pleasure.
In conclusion, tag is a loose community. The rules and regulations are fairly self-explanatory, but essential to its continued operation. While the eclectic mix of people might at times seem rough, they are above all else at tag to play the game. If the communication between members continues, tag has a long, happy future ahead of it.

Hide Part III

Author's Note: I thought I could add a little more depth to the poem I've been working on for two months. Much like in Howl, I think it will be three parts. This is the third part.

III

M.S.! I'm with you in Highland
Where you're more pathetic
than I am
I'm with you in Highland
where you must feel
betrayed and isolated.
I'm with you in Highland
where we both watched
your freedom fall apart
I'm with you in Highland
where you imitate
the life of your roommate
I'm with you in Highland
where a bad deal left you hungry
and alone
I'm with you in Highland
where you've skipped all your classes
for the eigth week in a row
I'm with you in Highland
where you did as you pleased
yourself to downlads and messages
I'm with you in Highland
where the shackles of addiction
deny the gratitude of fortune
I'm with you in Highland
where you banged the keyboard
until your fingers bled
I'm with you in Highland
where you packed up
for another timezone
I'm with you in Highland
where you scheduled two days
but went for three weeks
I'm with you in Highland
where you pack up and return
to your parents’ house in defeat
I'm with you in Highland
where a lifetime of thearapy
won't bring back the mind
I'm with you in Highland
where you sign the papers
and abandon the life
I'm with you in Highland
where you drink your last beer
as a civillian
and,
M.S.--
I'm with you in Maryland
where you march in strict lines
while men in uniforms howl
I'm with you in Maryland
where you tried to get back
together
I'm with you in Maryland
where you saw a doctor
because it was too much
I'm with you in Maryland
where you fixed jeeps and dreamed
of the old life
I'm with you in Nebraska
where the addiction never stopped.

Composite Poem

For shits and giggles I put my ipod on shuffle and took two lines from each of fifteen songs
this is the result:

They Hid Prosperity Down at the Armory

I was feeling sick, losing my mind,
Trevor was still bleeding and still so full
of hate.

There's no security
on the battlefield.

My hand went blind
I make love to my tansister
I empty a bottle
I feel a bit free.

Some people are poison
under the skin like opium
We gonna go to the moon,
put your braces together.

Anything you want dear
fine fine fine fine fine
Vengance will be delivered
door-to-door and right on time

They were given all the foods
of vanity, you're not searching
for the kids. You stay together,
afternoons are quiet.

I know where you are
but I don't care,
I killed all my nerves
and I can't drive so steady.

You're my candle,
I'm your burning wick
just for once
can I be ignored?

Chapter One

This is the rough draft of the first chapter of my novel. Much needs to happen before I call it "done" but I wanted a new posting and this is the main thing I wrote today. Here's a fun game for readers: guess which character is the most developed. Go ahead. I bet you'll never guess.

Everett Gibson sat on a bench on top of Tanker Hill. Six miles from downtown he could see the lights become shrouded in fog and began to think about what happened a few hours ago.
He fumbled for his cigarettes and out it in his mouth. He lit the end and took a drag. It tasted funny. He lit the wrong end.
“Fuck” he said, only the damp grass heard him.
He pulled out another one; he made sure he had it the right way and lit up.
As the fog rolled into the scenery to city looked even more distant than before. He wished he could be anybody else in the city tonight.
He didn’t know why he went to visit her. Maybe it was because of her birthday. Maybe it was an obligation he felt as a son. Maybe it was because she was his only living relative.
“Maybe I’m just a pussy,” he whispered.
She had a gift. Mainly for making him feel like shit. Today was no exception. He did everything he could think of. He took her to lunch. He bought her a rose. He asked her questions about his father.
He thought about how the day started.
“Hey mom, how are they treating you?”
“Not like you care.”
“I do. You’re my mom.”
“Then why did you put me in this place?”
“Mom, we discussed this many times already. After you fell I was worried. I thought it was best if someone could help you if it happened again.”
“Why did you have to become a mortician? I’m embarrassed to tell my friends what you do.”
He must have been right or she wouldn’t have changed the subject. Still she went on.
“Sheila Johnson’s son is a doctor; Betty Goldstein has a son in residence and a daughter who’s a nurse.”
And on.
“I tell my friends you’re a business man.”
And on.
“I don’t want them to know my only son handles dead bodies for a living.
And on and on and on.
His thoughts scattered like vandals from a siren. He heard glass shattering from the area his car was in. He got up and ran as fast as he could.
When he got to his car, a shadow split in three and streaked in opposite directions.
“You stupid mother fuckers,” he said and he kicked a rock as hard as he could while he ran. He heard it clunk against his car, “if I ever find you I’m going to fuck you up in ways you can’t even imagine.”
He got to his car. A rock was lying on the hood. Where the stone had hit was now the center of an elaborate spider web in the windshield.
“Why did I switch to liability?” he mumbled to himself. He got in his car and drove home.

At that same moment, on the thirteenth floor of a building Gibson had been looking at just minutes before, Harvey Kopelson was pacing back and forth in his office.
BioServices Limited was doing well, and that was a problem. People needed transplants, people needed his transplants, and he couldn’t get enough.
He picked up the paper and flipped through it. He came to the obituaries.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. He sighed. All that potential profit wasted. Sitting in the ground. Rotting. Thousands, no, millions of dollars were being turned into worm shit as he sat there trying to think of some way to help people and make a little money for himself.
He went to the bathroom and took a small measure of pride in watching the blue stuff in the toilet turn green, before he flushed five minutes of some hapless dupe’s work into nothingness.
He went back to his office and picked up the invoices. Little Johnny in California lost his tibia in a car accident. Joel’s house in El Paso caught on fire and his legs need new skin. Jimmy needs a heart valve for the time bomb in his chest. All these people had needs he could fill; to bad he didn’t have the products to fill it with.
He lit a cigarette. Fuck the ban, he thought, I pay for this goddamn place anyway.

Tom Menke had been at work for twenty straight hours. Things at the home had been ridiculous. He had to plan three separate funerals. Help select three separate caskets, show three different families books about floral arrangements, comfort three sobbing widows. Gibson had it easy. All he had to do was pump the corpses full of formaldehyde, slap some make-up on and call it a day.
He didn’t have any appointments the next day, so he was going to have Gibson mind the shop. He earned a day off.
He crept into his room where his wife was sleeping, careful not to step on any of Evan’s toys. He took off his suit and carefully folded it and hung it in his closet. He slid into the bed.
“Jenny?” he whispered.
She turned her head in his direction but her eyes were still closed.
“I’m takin’ tomorrow off babe. Let’s take Evan to the museum when he gets out of school.”
She smiled and nodded.
“Okay, go back to sleep,” he said before turning off the alarm. He put his arms around her and felt her bulging tummy right before he fell asleep.

The next day he took Evan to school. When he got back he checked the mail box and a chill went through him when he saw what was in it. The white, gold and blue of Visa greeted him with a sneer. He tried to keep his composure as he walked up the driveway, but found his footsteps were falling faster than usual. When he got inside he went directly to his study.
“Tom? Where are you?”
He began to panic. He moved to his desk as quietly as he could and opened the bottom left drawer. He fumbled with his keys.
“I swear to god I can never find the right key when I need it,” he muttered as he looked at the hunks of metal mocking him from their ring.
He heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He new his time was running out.
He snickered when he found the right one, opened the box and put the bill in it. Then he locked it, took a deep breath, smiled and opened the door.
“Good morning sweetheart. How are you today?”
“I’m fine. What were you doing in there?”
“Just some work stuff.”
“You work to hard, I’m going to make you breakfast.”
He smiled.

Instant Mesage Rudeness

I was sitting at my computer the other day, minding my own business. Between sessions of Warcraft and talking to JJ about urination, a friend of mine sent me a message over the AIM.

It was a link.

How rude is that? I'm trying to masterbate and some mother fucker thinks I need to take time out of my busy schedule of self-pleasure to click on something he/she thinks is important?

If I was really that interested in what you have to show me, I probably would have found it myself and the fact that you find it neccesary to shove this on my screen when I have better things to do is really annoying.

How would you feel if you were hanging out somewhere, talkng to people or ruffeling your junk and I randomly ran up to you and threw a magazine in front of you and expected you to read the whole thing. You'd be pissed.

If you're going to send a link, at least have the courtesy to provide some context. If I ask you what's going on and you tell me what you're looking at, then offer to hook me up, that's fine. Maybe if it's some important major news event that is changing the world as I flog the dolphin, then I'll go.

But if it's some random link to the next shirt you're buying or some conspiracy that isn't even remotely accurate, please, keep that shit to yourself. I don't care.