Across the Lawn - Section Two - Jerome

After posting the first section of Across the Lawn I realized that for as long as this story has been around, I still hadn't described Simon at all. In later pages, which take place later in life, I describe him, but the context then is that he's physically changed from the way he looks at the beginning--a mystery which I'd not solved with words and lines until now. Of course, and this has always been a writing fault of mine, I could see him in my head so I never realized I needed to describe him.

Also, I think some writers, especially me, are afraid to give details about main characters. It's easy and necessary to describe other characters, but for some reason there's a tendency for vague main character description. Maybe I leave main characters indistinguishable because they are supposed to be the vicarious connection between the reader and the story. Maybe I want the reader to have some say in what my character looks like.

But that's pretty much bullshit. And lazy. One of Dick Terrill's most important lessons is that a writer will achieve a more universal accessibility not by writing in universal terms, but by being as specific and personal as possible. A reader will always react stronger to specifics than to generalities.

Anyway.

So I described him--rather I gave that job to a the most brutally honest judges of attraction, the executioners of hopeful hormones: Female High School Flautists.

Here are the revised paragraphs from the first section:

--

Sometimes the girls played cards. He wanted one of them to turn and ask him to play. He knew it would never happen, so he was content to watch the flautists’ ponytails bounce and sway as they gossiped. Simon couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were talking about him. They couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or creeped out. They didn’t think Simon was ugly. They agreed that he could be cute, but his plain looks needed help. He had a build that struggled between athletic and just skinny. His hair needed to be more deliberate and his clothes updated, straightened, etc. His jaw line was strong, so facial hair wouldn’t be necessary, and boring, brown eyes could be livened up with glasses--which would look fine since his nose was an inoffensive shape and size. Those deerskin choppers would certainly have to go. Yes, they decided: With the right help, like from the right girl, he might be cute. They were sure, however, that not one of them was the right girl.

They didn’t know what his personality was like because they had never talked with him. There were rules: Flautists just didn’t talk to drummers. They could tell, though, he wasn’t too much of a dork, but he wasn’t cool either. Somehow, and this really puzzled them, he was friends with Jerome Kilbourne, the star defensemen of the hockey team. That was the only thing about Simon that intrigued the girls. They went on smiling and waging their ponytails for him, deciding any attention was good attention. He wished he was one of their red and white scrunchies.

--

This will transition nicely into the next section, titled...

--

Jerome

The pep band welcomed the team back to the ice with another once-through of “Hurrah for the Red and White!” The crowd applauded and cheered. Many cheers were directed at Jerome. When the band finished, the flautists held up a sign reading, “♥ Hit one for us, Killer! ♥”

Simon rested the beaters on the drum’s shell. He was anxious for the drop of the puck. He watched his friend skate in slow, tight circles on his blue line. Jerome was supposed to be lined up on the faceoff circle with his other defender, with the offense lined up at center-ice. But Jerome never left his defensive zone. He was the best stay-at-home defenseman the North Shore area had seen for years. All Jerome did was hit people. That’s all he wanted to do.

Even bent over, his stick resting across the tops of his knees, Jerome dwarfed the competition. Six-foot-four and he wouldn’t turn eighteen until summer. Coach said Jerome would grow another inch before he’s done. Visiting teams feared Jerome’s shoulders, which were at their head-level, and his hips, at their chest-level. As the ref prepared to drop the puck, each member of the Trojans' cross-town rival, Duluth East, had one eye on the ref and one on Jerome. Simon swore he could see the Greyhounds shaking in their skates. Jerome looked at Simon, a half-smile on his face. Simon chuckled.

The ref slapped the puck down and the game was on again. The second and third periods played out just like the first period, just like all the other games over the last three years. No one crossed Jerome’s blue line unless hip-checked ass over head and sent sliding across on their backs, groaning, dizzy, and looking forward to the low-impact nature of spring baseball.

The crowd kept tally of Jerome’s hits, shouting the count with each slam of the boards. Coach Kilbourne screamed orders from the bench but only at the offense. He didn’t have to worry about his defense, at least not when Jerome was out there. Coach had been quoted in Duluth News Tribune, prophesying to scouts, “You think scoring is down in the NHL now? Boy, once Jerome gets drafted, the rearguard position will never be the same! Forwards’ll rather take shots from center-ice than cross into his turf.”

The Greyhounds dumped the puck into Jerome’s zone almost every time they got control of it. If an opposing offender decided to carry the puck in, he was crushed, and regretted that last decision. If a forward happened to squeak by Jerome’s blue line unpunished, Jerome would roar, catch up to him in the corner, and crush him twice as hard. The deeper anyone got into Jerome’s zone, the more sorry they were for pressing. Jerome had told Simon that an offender once apologized just before being toppled over the boards of the poor guy’s own bench.

Jerome hit. That’s it. He could score and pass and defend without hitting—but Coach told him to do all these. Jerome didn’t like being told what to do. It didn’t matter that Coach was Jerome’s father. If anything, it intensified Jerome’s defiance. Instead of helping out the offense, between his freshman and junior years, he amassed three whole points (zero goals and three assists). The assists weren’t even his fault. Three times, he just happened to touch the puck right after crushing guys. Then his teammates scored and he was awarded first assist.

By sophomore year, Coach didn’t bother putting Jerome on the ice for power plays because he’d just skate in a slow figure-eights between center-ice and his blue line, waiting like a Great White for prey to enter his reef. While he waited, he’d stare Coach down. Simon sensed something deeper between them than just father-son stubbornness, but he’d never gotten a straight answer from Jerome whenever he asked. Jerome would simply say his father’s just a dick, prick, cocksucker, or an asshole—and sometimes a combination of them all.

--

Next section: Kilbournes

Dumpster Squirrels - A Conversation at The Bank

INT. The Bank - Teller Line

The teller line of the bank is separated into two halves (lobby and drive-through) and connected by a wide arch. JARED swivels with soft oscillations at his drive-through station. He's watching dumpster squirrels diving into an adjacent business' back lot dumpster.

Today's squirrel trapezes across the ledge of the dumpster. It makes its way from one of the front corners, to the other, and back again and repeats. The lid of the dumpster is down, denying the squirrel any sunken treasure. The squirrel scratches at each corner and its paw falls become more erratic from corner to corner.

Jared is content to once again be at his drive-through station after a week-long lobby-conditioning assignment. He's happy to be away from lobby customers' relentless, wandering prattle. This is the way it should be: Jared watching dumpster squirrels and the snow clouds brooding and the wind quaking the property's saplings.

A fellow teller, STEVE, is helping one such CUSTOMER at his lobby-side station. He's been "helping" this customer for quite some time--rather, he's been trapped into one such conversation of wandering prattle.

STEVE
(to customer)
Huh. I guess I wouldn't know
that too well. Lemme ask Jared.

Steve swivels 180 in his chair to look at Jared in the drive-through. Steve's swiveling is an action that Jared can see--nay, feel--in the corner of his eye, an action that he knows will lead to an interruption of his happy dumpster squirrel watching.

STEVE
Jared? What's PayPal all about?
I know a little, but not enough
to answer questions.

Jared matches Steve's swivel, nods, slides out of his chair, and heads lobby-side. The woman Steve had been talking to looks frazzled, confused, and incapable, like a line-backer asked to do a chimneysweep's job or vice versa.

JARED
(to customer)
What do you need to know?

CUSTOMER
Well... What is it?

JARED
PayPal is an electronic funds transferring
service. You could use it to pay for things
on, say, eBay or gambling websites--stuff
like that.

CUSTOMER
Medication?

Jared cringes at the concept of buying medication from the internet, a place that is made up of %99.69 porn. The customer jots something down on a bank receipt from an earlier transaction with Steve.

JARED
I don't know. I guess I wouldn't
buy medication from the internet.

CUSTOMER
(jots another item)
So... You buy stuff on the internet
with PayPal?

JARED
Yes. It's kinda like an internet
credit line you set up and put money
into so you can buy things on the
internet. It's quicker than mailing
a check and safer than using your
credit card online--if you're worried
about that sort of thing.

And she does look worried about that sort of thing.

CUSTOMER
Huh. So how do I get a hold of them?

JARED
(blinks)
Umm... How 'bout PayPal.com.

The customer jots down "PayPal.com." The list of other items includes: "internet," "eBay," and "maybe buy meds."

CUSTOMER
PayPal.com. OK.

JARED
That'd be a good start.

The customer thanks Jared. He smiles, nods, and walks back to his drive-through station. The squirrel has since given up and is gone, but the clouds are still rolling and the saplings quaking.

Across the Lawn - Section One - Intermission

I don't want to write a big introduction for this piece. I'll write these two things: 1) It's unfinished but intended to be of novel-length--probably young adult. 2) The content includes three of my four favorite things and one guilty familiarity. In no order of importance (nor incrimination), those things are: hockey, video games, role-playing, and sex.

Enjoy (?).

--

Across the Lawn
Jared Mason


Intermission

To Simon Jefferies, warming house hockey smelled like ice and sweat. High school hockey smelled the same plus popcorn. He didn’t know what college hockey smelled like since he was just a senior in high school. Sitting in the pep band section in Pioneer Hall, the ice arena of the Duluth Entertainment Convention Center, with his field bass drum sitting in the seat ahead of him, Simon figured college hockey smelled the same as high school hockey plus beer.

The first intermission of Duluth Central’s hockey homecoming game was a third through. Seven minutes and forty-three seconds left. Simon sat next to the aisle on the row reserved for the drummers, about halfway down the section. The band was tucked away on the side where the visiting team played the first and third periods. Most of the band had cleared out for intermission, most likely to sit with their friends in other sections. Simon didn’t have many friends but he didn’t mind sitting there alone, watching the Zamboni’s refreshing ovals.

He was distracted by another smell mixed in with the ice, sweat, and popcorn: perfume from the flute section a few bleachers down. Because of the air conditioning, the underclassmen flute girls wore turtlenecks and fleece mittens. Simon wore deerskin choppers. He hated having to play the school song, “Hurrah for the Red and White!” six or more times a night, but he hated playing with cold hands even more.

Sometimes the girls played cards. He wanted one of them to turn and ask him to play. He knew it would never happen, so he was content to watch the flautists’ ponytails bounce and sway as they gossiped. Simon couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were talking about him. They couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or creeped out. Simon wasn’t ugly, or too much of a dork. He wasn’t that cool either. Somehow, and this really puzzled them, he was friends with Jerome Kilbourne, the star defensemen of the hockey team. That was the only thing about Simon that intrigued the girls. They went on smiling and waging their ponytails for him, deciding any attention was good attention. He wished he was one of their red and white scrunchies.

Simon wasn’t a very good drummer. His chops were good enough to handle most concert snare music and definitely good enough to handle a pep band bass drum. In middle school he wanted to play trombone but there were too many already. Drums was his second choice so he didn’t mind. Soon, though, he found out all drummers were nose-pickers and spazzes. By the time he got to high school, he didn’t care about drums or band at all. By sophomore year, he volunteered to play just the bass drum. This was a job reserved usually for the most rhythm-dead, nose-pickin’ spaz in the section. Simon never understood why since a bad bass drummer could ruin an entire song or concert. Fewer notes to screw up, he guessed. His band teacher was happy to have a competent bass drummer and Simon was happy with fewer notes. He would’ve quit by now except for the free hockey games.

Finally, hockey season had started. He was sick of football. Simon thought high school football was like playing grown-up. Kids in grown-up clothes, saying grown-up things. It looked good on the surface—cute even—but it was just pretend. Hockey was pure, a true team game. An offender only played offense when the team controlled the puck. If not, he’d better forecheck or he’d get benched if the coach found a kid who played offense and defense. For Simon, the purity of hockey came from the warming house. All the other levels, high school, college, pro—just pond hockey with more rules and higher stakes. Football didn’t have that charm for Simon. At the warming house, he had skated with six year olds and sixty year olds in the same pick up game. No matter what point a guy stopped playing organized hockey, there was always the warming house.

Simon smiled, feeling pretty good about his present situation. Hockey was back and he had pretty flautists as a pleasant distraction. Best of all, the game would start in just another three minutes and fifteen seconds. Jerome would be out there soon, crushing guys at his blue line. After all, his nickname was Killer on account of his last name and knack for open-ice hits. He was the only Trojan hockey player worth mentioning. The best thing to happen to Duluth hockey since Central hired Coach, Jerome’s father, twenty years ago. Coach Kilbourne claimed Jerome would go in the first round of the next NHL draft if he’d only get his goddamn game together. Simon knew Jerome couldn’t care less about his goddamn game because he hated his father. What Simon didn’t know, is why.

Jerome’s girlfriend, Sofia, was at the game, sitting in a section near center ice. She sat with her parents, sharing popcorn in a generic barber-striped box. She chatted with Jerome’s mom, who sat directly in front of Sofia’s family. That’s the way it was every game last year and Simon knew this year would be no exception. He liked that Sofia wasn’t sitting in the rowdy section full of popular kids decked out in red and white, taunting the away penalty box. She was a popular girl and would have belonged to that section if she wanted to sit there. But that wasn’t her style.

He watched Sophia from the safe distance of halfway across the arena. Winter-themed tuque over straight, wheat stock hair. Double-dimple smiled. Her eyes killed Simon most. One blue, the other green. He couldn’t actually see the colors of her eyes from where he sat. Since he knew their colors, though, he thought he could see them like fraternal twin stars, blue and green twinkles in the crowd’s muddy haze of motion. Sometimes, like now, Simon would catch himself looking a little too long. She was with Jerome and he shouldn’t look at her like that, right? He always looked at girls too long, though; but since he knew Sofia and admired her as a person as well as a pleasant distraction, pulling his eyes away was never easy. Normally, he’d look away and mentally slap his own wrists. Now, though, he felt safe enough to watch as long as he wanted.

During a lull in Sofia’s conversation with Jerome’s mother, she scanned the pep band section for Simon. She was a bit surprised that in a sea of otherwise engaged faces, he was looking right at her. Simon was confident that she wasn’t really looking at him, just in his direction like all the other girls. Her smile caught him off guard. He looked away for a second. She was still smiling at him when he looked again. She gave him a friendly wave, one that pleaded for him to loosen up, break out of that shy shell of his. His smile and shrug were apologetic, telling her, “You know me.”

He almost crapped his pants when she excused herself from her company and headed for Simon’s section, popcorn in hand. Simon sweated, trying to think of something to talk about. Hockey? No. Dating Jerome, she’d be sick to death of hockey talk. Drumming? Hell no. College next year? No. They’d already talked about that last week. She would attend the University of Minnesota, Duluth for nursing and he would study computer science in Madison, Wisconsin. What then? Too late. She’d was already descending the stairs to his section. God, those eyes. And the way her hair fluttered up with each step. She made gravity sexy.

She sat on the arm of Simon’s seat, nudging his shoulder with her hip. His attempt to make room for her was clumsy. He almost sent the bass drum bounding down the section. He recovered and she giggled. She extended the barber-striped box toward him. Sofia smelled like sweet pines, like lilacs planted at the bases of Norway Reds. Simon could barely pick out her scent within the over-barring odor of salted butter. “Popcorn?” she asked.

Simon pinched a few and ate them even though he didn’t like popcorn. He hated the kernel skin or whatever it was that got stuck in his gums. Sofia tongued one such skin somewhere deep in her molars. Simon wished he was that chunk of kernel.

“Umm…” he said. “Enjoying the game?” He sighed, cursing himself for bringing up hockey after deciding not to.

Sofia thought Simon’s shyness was cute in a helpless, poor-guy way. She wished she could be his social coach. She’d teach him that talking to a girl didn’t require sweat and stammering. “Better than those damned football games,” she said.

He rolled his eyes but not because of football, which is how she read it. He rolled his eyes because he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to say, “Don’t tell me that. I don’t need another reason to lust after you.” Instead, he said, “Yeah. Football sucks.” Nice.

Simon liked everything about her. Now, he liked that she completely ignored his bass drum. He was puzzled by others’ urges to bang on drums. When he’d carry the bass drum though the halls at school, on the way to the pep band bus or to the gym for a rally, everyone reached out to swat, pound, or flick the drum. They’d look at Simon first to test whether they should or not. They’d see his indifferent face and mistake it for permission. They’d hit away, producing an awkward, unsatisfying noise from the drum, somehow wrong in timbre and pitch. They’d smile anyway and expect Simon to smile back. He’d just look at them and think, “What the hell sound did you expect it to make?” He wasn’t annoyed out of fear for the drum’s health. He couldn’t care less. He didn’t even like the thing. He was offended by people having fun intruding in on his life. He was jealous that people were more interested in the drum than him. When he’d walk the halls with it, he was a scouring, erratic pulse.

Sofia wasn’t interested in the drum. Simon was glad because he didn’t want to hear it’s oafy bass tone. He was sick of being the oaf on bass drum. He pounded every ounce of high school aggression into that thing. Just looking at it’s thin, dented skin, the scarred, peeling shell, conjured the angst within. Hearing that drum a thousand times a night made him look forward to leaving it behind. He was pretty sure he was sick of Duluth, too, and that Madison would be good for him. A fresh start. New places new faces, right? But he didn’t look forward to leaving Sofia’s face behind. Or Jerome’s. Definitely not Sofia’s. Sofia was everything right and wrong with Duluth. She made leaving difficult and necessary.

“You should come sit with me during the second intermission,” Sofia said.

“Really?” Simon asked.

“Yeah. I don’t like you sitting here all alone. It doesn’t help your shyness. You need to talk to people more instead of just looking, waiting for them to come to you. How are you going to meet anyone next year?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I plan on meeting tons of people. I’ll be out-going and fun to be around. It’ll be a whole new me. You won’t even recognize me when I come back.” He didn’t believe himself but it sounded good.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Sofia said.

She saw on the scoreboard that only a minute remained of the first intermission. She rose, stirring up her smells of popcorn and sweet pine. “Welp…” Simon liked how she said ‘welp’ instead of ‘well.’ “I’d better get back. You promise to sit with me later?”

“Sure,” Simon said. He smiled, already missing her and he wouldn’t be leaving until summer. She said bye and walked up a couple steps before looking back. "And, Simon," she said and he turned. "You've always been fun to be around." He thought she might be lying. Her eyes weren't lying; they were just mismatched. He looked in her green eye and then her blue, as if either might reveal the truth.

--

Next Section: Jerome

Hip Replacement Triumphance

My last Hip Replacement update thanked people for showing up at The Fine Line and gave a heads-up for an up-coming gig on February 3rd at Bunker's. I'm pretty sure we're well into April now which means I've missed my opportunity for several updates. Let's handle this one rapid-fire styley again so I can get to the really good news.

February 3rd - Opened for Wrinkle T again at Bunker's:

Great success!

[Editor's Note: We just found out that Wrinkle T will play their last show together sometime soon. I'd tell you more about why they're breaking up and where/when their last show is, but we're not opening for them... So I guess I don't care.]

March 1st - Opened for The New Congress at Bunker's:

Not so great success.

There were a few storms this winter that would have qualified for "blizzard" status except they weren't windy enough. One of those storms hit on March 1st, thusly limiting the audience to girlfriends and other diehards, without whom we'd never get a crowd.

We were really pumped for this show since The New Congress pretty much blows doors off hinges. We wanted to make a big impression on them, but we found out their rockstar sound and ability was accompanied by a rockstar indifference. They weren't even in the room while we played. That, coupled with the storm, sapped our energy and enthusiasm. Oh well: another notch on the belt and a little more exposure. We'll take it.

March 21st - American Band Competition at O'Gara's Garage in St. Paul:

Great success!

I have no idea how we got into this Battle of the Bands, but we did. The skinny: Each Wednesday in March, O'Gara's hosted a BotB with different bands each show. The winners from each Wednesday would throw down in a final BotB on April 6th, again at O'Gara's, for a chance to win a prize package and a third paying gig, again at O'Gara's.

On this day, "battle" was strictly metaphoric. There was no battle whatsoever. The semi-finals of this grand BotB was all fan-balloting, meaning each Wednesday show was a popularity contest. We managed to gather a good crowd, but we probably only needed a third of them to win the balloting. Next to nobody came to see the other two bands. I'll be nice and apply this the fact that neither of the bands are neither originally from nor gig in Mpls/St. Paul. Yes, that's a very nice way of saying it.

April 6th - American Band Competition at O'Gara's Garage:

Great success!

Score one for original music! Take that, cover band bitches! Sorry, I've had that animosity for cover bands building for quite some time. This was my one chance and success at proving there's hope for original music in the local gigging scene.

Last night we won the American Band Competition against three cover bands. This one actually was a competition. Well, not wholly. The first band, Judging Ronald, would have lost a high school BotB. But the other two bands, The Blind Pigs and Hero's End, were pros at what they do. What they do, however, is play KQRS and 93X cover music. Both bands brought sizeable fan bases, or at lest more than we faced at our semi-final show, and both were tight with their craft.

We won because we brought the most people, yes, but this BotB was also judged by successful, working musicians from the area. One of the judges is in Dazy Head Mazy who are pretty big in Mpls/St. Paul and the extended metro area--but I forget the bands the other two judges were representing.

These judges were given criteria to rate the bands: Sound Quality, Audience Interaction, and Some Other Third Thing. These criteria were not geared toward original bands but seemed to us to be more concerned with judging a good cover band. First of all, "Sound Quality" has very little to do with the band in a live show and very much to do with the sound production at the venue. Let me be nice again and remind everyone how nice it was to play at The Fine Line and Bunker's. Very nice. The sound at O'Gara's Garage sounds like sound you might find at venue with the word "garage" in its name. OK, not so nice.

Secondly, Hip Replacement is very aware that Audience Interaction is our bane. We know it and we're getting better, but I'm convinced that nothing will raise Koelsch's eyes from his fret board, nor sway his hips and feet outside a one foot diameter. But if the solution to a band's poor audience interaction is the gimicky crap I hate about cover bands, than I'd rather be a band of jazz faces every gig.

Lastly, yeah, I don't remember the third criteria, but it wasn't favorable. But how 'bout--oh, I don't know--Musicianship? Would that be good criteria for a BotB? Maybe? It's cool though, the judges and our loyal fan base pulled through to secure our triumphance. Judges and fans are the best.

The rewards for winning were a (supposed) $500 gift package from Guitar Boutique of St. Paul, and a third, paying gig again at O'Gara's. The "gift package" turned to be an acoustic guitar, a guitar case, and a guitar stand--all which do our band a metric shit-ton of good. A very generous donation... Well, a very donation at least. There's been no word yet as to details of the paying gig, but it sure will be at O'Gara's! "Sound Quality" again comes to mind.

--

In other HR news, we're moving into a (slightly) bigger practice space. I'm sure that reads as hardly news-worthy, but you wouldn't understand our vibrous excitement for a new room unless you've seen our current room (closet).

--

In other Ants news regarding recent vows and proclimations, I've begun re-editing a certain piece (basically re-reading and comma-play), and a section is ready for Ants; it's just that it will take a little time to figure out how to reformat from Word to bloggy styley. Not a whole lot of time, just time I don't have now since the last regular season Wild game starts in roughly seventeen minutes. "Things Must Change".... soon.


Mason... Sometimes wizards are so awesome, it hurts.