by James Hoby
SAMPLE FROM A YEAR WITH THE HOOPERS
I don't want you to think that A Year with the Hoopers is just a string of gags though, so I've included a few sample sections from that book, below.
15.Sample Greathouse Greeting card, attached to internet copy. A drawing on the card’s cover depicts a mother, speaking to a sleepy son. The boy is still wearing his pajamas. The card’s message reads—
Aren’t you even going to bathe
Before we visit Grampa’s grave?
17.A large chunk of wallpaper, torn unevenly, with handwriting on both sides.
Everyone knew she was bad.
It didn’t matter which perfume she wore. What words she said. Books she read. Shoes she wore. The hem of her dress. Sweaters. Skirts. The word followed her like the scent of burning flesh. Something she couldn’t wash away. It was part of her soul. Her life.
Whenever she shopped. When she was at the gym. When she was throwing up. When she had a cold. It didn’t matter. The eyes were always following her. Beady, jealous eyes. Women were afraid, and men were only insects, walking like humans. Their hollow, twittering thoughts sounded like ragged blades. Like brooms dragged over cement sidewalks.
She was so bad.
She was a mystery.
Undecipherable.
Maybe it was because she was inevitable. Robust and fierce. Vital in this temporary world of plastic, paper, and foam dinner plates. Regulations and rules. Orange traffic cones. Orange safety vests. Candy, pies, and soda pop. Situation comedies, reality shows, and car chases. DVDs, CDs, digital downloads.
Of all the women in the world, she was the real one. You couldn’t mistake her for anything else. She was a woman. She made men’s hearts race, just thinking about her. Anticipating. Fearing.
Who was she?
What did she want?
One night, working late, with nobody in the office with her but some dust bunny of a man. An analyst. A man who wore wrinkled blue shirts, tan pants, and the same tie, every day. A man who couldn’t walk past her desk without looking down at his shoes. Ashamed. Knowing he could never be man enough to take her. To hold her in his arms. To make her feel the way he felt every day, just being in the same office with her.
She decided to have fun.
Wasn’t that what being bad was all about?
Frightening analysts?
When she saw him leave his cubicle, walk around the photocopier, and go into the supply room, she followed. Pretending she needed supplies too.
He was at the end of a narrow aisle. He appeared to be engaged in a search for the perfect pen. Not a ball-point. Not a felt-tip. Something in-between. Something that would make a thin line, but not too thin. A pen that wouldn’t soak through the paper and leave blotches.
She saw his hands tremble as they stirred through the green and yellow baskets of pens. As he held the pens up to inspect them. She smelled the sweat on his forehead, and heard his trembling breaths.
She stood near the calendars, blocking his exit.
Three minutes and she moved closer, near the boxes of paperclips, rolls of tapes, push-pins, hanging folders.
He kept his back to her.
He knew she was there. How could he not?
He turned and looked.
And she felt his eyes, like a spray of burning oil on her thin cotton dress. His fear and lust blistered her skin. She inched closer.
He turned. She pressed herself against him. He lurched back, away from her, upsetting a stack of padded envelopes and a roll of preprinted adhesive labels.
She said, softly, “Are you frightened of me?”
He didn’t say anything.
“You don’t have to be frightened.”
She pressed herself against him. Harder. He shook. His knees were rubbery.
She smiled and rubbed her hair against his face. She said, “Are you happy to see me? Or are you stealing a stapler?”
“Excuse me?”
Pressing herself against him harder. Wriggling, but only a little. She said, “I said are you stealing a stapler? Or are you just glad to see me?”
He looked down. He looked back up. Embarrassed, he said, “I’m sorry. That’s probably just my hernia.”
84.Photocopy on bright yellow paper. Text beneath a picture of a mouse:
Have you seen our mouse?
His name’s Squeaky!
$50 reward for safe return!
Please don’t hurt Squeaky. All he wants is cheese.
He’s such a friendly mouse!
If you find him, please call us at 123-456-7890.
88.Birthday card, addressed to John Hooper, from “Your Secret Admirer.”
I saw you with your socks and shoes off yesterday. I adore your feet!
They’re so feety!
They’re the feetiest!
106. Newspaper advice column, “Dear Deena,” issued December 12, 2002, circled in blue crayon.
Dear Deena,
I know I’m not beautiful and sometimes I think I’m a horrible alcoholic, I’m drinking so much all the time but it seems like sometimes if I don’t get a drink it isn’t normal and have you ever had the feeling that a maybe the world’s only normal when you’re completely numb but I know I’m not so smart and maybe my brains have gotten twisted around kind of funny or rotted a little but I don’t think I get half the things people are saying, I used to think it was them but now I don’t know, I suppose it could be me—there are times I don’t even understand my little birdies tweeting in their cages, and these are birdies that depend on me to water and feed them every day—but after my uncle was arrested for something they called criminal trespass but was nothing more than him tipping over in the wrong direction after polishing off a third bottle of Kahlúa we all had a celebration and ate roasted chicken and danced with jubilation and everything because we can always use the extra room, is it wrong to just hate everybody, but I don’t mean everybody of course—I sure had a crush on that Nelson Prooter guy until he shaved his head and started going out with that blonde slutty pop singer whose name I can’t remember—but sometimes the television blaring at me all the time isn’t enough and I think I could bust open with all my love and unhappiness and I look around and my little room is all full of junk I’ll never use but it sure seemed like a good idea at the time and I think I might be pregnant again but if I am, my mother’s going to kill me.
Signed,
Complicated and Unhappy
Dear Complicated and Unhappy,
Whew! That’s sure a lot to take in all at once! The place to start, as always, is with a remedial-level composition class at your local community college. It’s cheap, and once your problems are divided into sentences and paragraphs, they’re so much easier to solve!
Yours rhetorically,
Deena