The Bull Years

by Phil Stern

  Contents

  Title page

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

  THE BULL

  YEARS

  Phil Stern

  A Novel Of America’s

  Most Disillusioned Generation

  The Bull Years

  Copyright © 2011 by Phil Stern

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are entirely the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, entities, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For more information on The Bull Years or

  the author’s other works,

  feel free to visit the following:

  www.philstern.com

  Twitter

  @philstern100

  Author’s Note:

  The Bull Years is a work of what might best be described as “edgy” Contemporary Fiction, and is intended for a mature audience.

  For everyone who has struggled through their own bull years, and all those who helped me navigate my own.

  Part One

  STEVE LEVINE

  At what point in life have you officially not made it?

  Oh, I know. There are always dreams, and hopes, and fantasies we play in our heads. In one I’m a famous novelist living in the Hamptons, busy with talk shows and book signings, adored by coeds far and wide. In another I’m a staple of the Hollywood community, the only issue whether I get paid one-point-nine or two-point-one million for my next screenplay.

  But maybe it’s time to be honest. I’m 39 years old, doing something I just fell into along the way.

  Look, don’t get me wrong. I have a job, and some money in the bank, but that doesn’t really mean too much. No kids, at least that I know about. I date once in a while, but in reality I’m fairly isolated. In the grand scheme of life I might well be a loser.

  It wasn’t always like this. I grew up in an “upper” middle class family in the New York City suburbs. Went to college, got a promising start right out of school. Things seemed to be going all right. But somewhere along the line it all just ground down, my career finally exploding in a huge, spectacular fireball one memorable afternoon.

  Now I work in…hey, whatever, laugh all you want…now I’m in home water treatment sales.

  Yes, I’m one of those guys who show up on your doorstep after a mysterious phone call a few days before promising a free “water test.” I then demonstrate the benefits of our home water purification system and, if I catch people on the right night, make a sale. The next day, if their credit doesn’t suck, or they don’t wake up screaming at one another and cancel the order in a fit of rage, the system gets installed and I get paid.

  Actually I’m now a sales manager, which means I “recruit” and train other people to do this bullshit. What can I say? It’s a job.

  But in my mind I’m a writer, with dozens of rejection letters to prove it. (Hence, the aforementioned fantasies.) I can’t give it up. It’s the only thing I have left to hold onto.

  Which brings us to this latest effort. A week ago I saw an ad for a writer to organize a “Life Project.” Some egghead scholar with too much grant money is looking for people to reach out to three friends from college, whom they’ve been out of contact with, and find out if they’ve really been successful. In their own minds, that is.

  So for two thousand bucks I compile my own recollections and gather those of three old friends. On anything about themselves they want to write about. Where they thought they would be, where they are, personal lives, professional goals, what they found satisfying, disappointing…you know the drill.

  Sounds like pretty easy money, right? Which means, of course, it’s exactly the kind of freelance project that turns into a horrible pain in the ass you never get paid for.

  But I’ll do it. Actually, I’ve often wondered what happened to the old gang. Luckily Dave and Sophia are on Facebook, so finding them was pretty easy. I’m still trying to track down Brooke.

  You know, if I had any balls I would have looked up Sophia a long time ago, but that’s another story.

  So here it is, our Life Project, replete with our hopes and dreams, wild successes, and dismal failures. I even provided some questions to guide them along (let’s see how Sophia handles the sexual ones), but I really just want the raw, unvarnished truth.

  Actually, they’re all probably far more successful and happy than I am. It definitely wasn’t supposed to be that way, but there it is.

  SOPHIA DANTON

  For my twelfth birthday, my father took me into a clothing store and grandly announced I could have anything I wanted.

  I was delighted. Though my family was very well off, my father was pathologically cheap. Every potential expenditure, no matter how trivial, was carefully weighed and then rejected on the grounds of not being “necessary.” This dazzling gesture was a wild departure from his usual policy, a reflection, no doubt, of my father’s love and growing respect for his oldest daughter.

  But still, I was mindful of his wishes. After much consideration I bypassed the glamorous blouses and trendy jeans, all carrying price tags of $50 or more, cautiously settling on a pair of white sweat pants. Nervously, I handed the sweats to my jovial father, smiling my thanks.

  Daddy smiled back, then inspected the price tag, which read $24. The corners of his mouth noticeably dropped. For a moment I thought he would even hand the sweat pants back and demand I select something less expensive, though I’d already chosen the cheapest item in the store.

  But instead Daddy dropped the sweat pants on the counter, carefully eyeing the teenage girl at the cash register.

  “I’ll give you $20 for them,” he announced, nodding firmly, as if he wouldn’t be budged.

  Confused, the girl double-checked the price tag. “But sir, these sweat pants cost $24.”

  “$20 is my final offer.”

  “Daddy, it’s okay.” Mortified, I tugged on his arm. “We don’t have to buy them.”

  “Please, Sophia, let me handle this!” he snapped, turning back to the clerk. “I saw a pair just like these at another store for $20. Are you telling me you won’t match that price?”

  “Sir…” Blankly, the shop girl shrugged. “The price is the price. I don’t have any authority to haggle.”

  “Well!” Now indignant, my father brusquely shoved the sweat pants across the small counter. They fell off the far edge, disappearing forever. “Come on, Sophia. This young lady obviously doesn’t want to make a sale today!” And with that he stormed out of the store.

  Fifteen years later a guy bought me a pair of white sweats on vacation. We were staying in a beach cabin on Cape Cod. A storm was approaching, and he returned from a last-minute run to the store with food and clothes.

  “Here,” he said, tossing the sweat pants in my direction. “In case it gets cold.”

  So far the trip had been a dud, and in fact I broke up with the guy two weeks later. But that night, amid howling winds, slashing rain, and thunderous cracks of lightning, we made glorious love over and over again. At one point a window burst open, but we didn’t care. It was one of the most wonderful, satisfying sexual experiences of my life, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

  The next morning, laying next to my guy in our now flooded cabin, it struck me why I’d suddenly felt so close to him. I began sobbing, the tears flowing unchecked until my exhausted lover awoke and took me again. We then quickly packed our few things, leaving the wrecked cabin for the rental agent to sort out. I left the sweat pants underneath the bed.

  I’ve come to realize we’re all two di
fferent people. Our younger, innocent self that’s inevitably mangled along the highway of life, and our tougher adult persona that evolves from the wreckage. Happiness comes from juxtaposing the two, nurturing the maimed spirit within you, welcoming it into your adult life and giving it the time and understanding you never received as a child, no matter how sane and loving your parents tried to be.

  In other words we all mature, but we never really grow up. Only through that recognition can we gain control of our lives. Without that control, we can never be happy.

  Sounds pretty heavy, huh? Well, it’s true. Steve, this guy I once knew in college, tried to clue me in to all this but I blew him off. Now he’s contacted me to help with some “Life Project.” We spoke for about five minutes on the phone, and to be honest, Steve sounds kind of bitter. Maybe he has a right to be. Steve’s inner self is wounded more grievously than most.

  And he’s not alone. There’s a horrible disconnect in our society, a self-alienation that’s reached epidemic proportions. I’d like to see that change.

  So I’ll help Steve with his project. But understand one thing. I don’t believe in regrets, though some stuff will be hard to talk about. Many of my…adventures, let’s say…are things I’ve never spoken of. My parents are very Catholic, and will no doubt be shocked out of their minds. I don’t know how my two brothers and sister might react, though they have their own issues.

  But at 37 I’m not a kid anymore. It’s time to stop pretending everything’s all right, even when it’s not.

  Come to think of it, my family may need to hear this most of all. We’re all responsible for our own happiness, a simple fact most people seem to miss. Especially those closest to me.

  DAVE MILLER

  Checking my e-mail a few days ago, I found a message from Steve Levine. That was a blast from the past. Apparently he just discovered Facebook. We talked on the phone for a bit. It was awkward, you know? He asked about Jen, and I didn’t know what to say. When I told him Mandy was now a college junior, he didn’t know what to say. My daughter is now the same age we all were when we first met. That’s kind of weird.

  You know, when you’re younger and old farts tell you how quickly life can flash by, you just think they’re being old farts. But it’s true. Starting at around 28, I’d say, life begins to pick up speed. It doesn’t take long to hit 33. In another year or so, relative time, you’re in your late-thirties. A month later you’re staring down 40.

  Which means I’m now just as close to being 60 as I am to 20. And 20 doesn’t seem that long ago.

  Anyway, Steve wants me to contribute to some writing project, telling about my life since college. I’m good to go, I suppose. We were pretty tight once. And since there’s plenty of down time at the shop, I’ll have something to do between customers.

  Still, a lot of it will be tough to go over. The divorce, for one. Like I haven’t already beaten that to death in counseling. And my time in the mental hospital. He’d get a kick out of that. Actually, Steve would be the one person who might appreciate some of the shit I went through.

  It’s funny. Now that I think about it, Steve once told me all aspiring rock musicians wind up owning guitar shops. I guess he was right.

  And since Steve was coy about what he’s doing right now, I’ll infer he’s very successful at something. Actually, if I had to guess, he’s probably invented some new vibrating condom, or maybe puts out calendars of hot models. Steve always had a thing for lingerie catalogs.

  So look. Let’s stipulate right off the bat that Steve has achieved far more than I ever will. And that’s fine. But I can still remember late night pizza runs, and watching Star Trek on the dorm television, and talking about all the drama with Sophia. I wonder what she’s doing these days?

  STEVE LEVINE

  Do you ever drive around and think about all the different jobs people have that no one in their right mind would want to do?

  For example, there’s a lady who works in a dry cleaners I stop by once a week or so. She’s gaunt and tired looking, about 32, though she looks closer to 45. It’s really hot in there, even by Florida standards. But this woman stands around all day, having ugly stains shoved in her face and listening to unhappy customers bitch about their clothes, along with a myriad of other boring, unappealing tasks.

  And she has the top position in the place. Behind her, like some horrific manifestation of an Upton Sinclair novel, are a half-dozen other people loading or emptying huge machines, hauling around racks of dry cleaning, or just mopping the floor. All of them look like they’re about to pass out or just kill somebody.

  I mean, think about that for a second. Nobody grows up dreaming about spending 50 hours a week in some wretched dry cleaners. Or loading trucks in the middle of the night, as my downstairs neighbor does. Or picking up garbage, or guarding prisoners, or sitting in an office cubicle, or even being the hapless assistant manager at some chain restaurant. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of this. It’s just obviously not what these people, and millions more like them, thought their lives were going to be like.

  The amazing thing is, I think some people actually take these jobs with high hopes. Yesterday, while filling up my tank, there was a sign over the pump emblazoned with “JOIN THE TEAM!” Underneath was an absurdly multi-cultured/handicapped/sexually-oriented group picture of a dozen people in crisp gas station uniforms laughing and high-fiving one another. “GET YOUR CAREER STARTED TODAY!” was the baseline.

  Now maybe, just maybe, if some Martian flew in for the weekend he might, for a split second, actually believe working at that gas station was a fun, satisfying experience. But all of us born on planet Earth know this idealized version of an INS Most Wanted poster is pure fiction. Oriental lesbians would never deign to befriend a Mexican transsexual, while Pakistani dwarfs would hate Eskimo back-slapping “dudes” on sight, no matter how slick the hair cut. Of course, the black guy wearing the Indian headdress and fake tomahawk wasn’t really blind, while the wheelchair-bound Hasidic Jew was taking things a little too far, even for this kind of shot.

  And the sweet blonde girl in the front would have fled, shrieking, upon spying the hardened, older white woman in back, certain she was in imminent danger of either being pimped all over the nearest trailer park or hauled before the local KKK chapter as an exemplar of pure Aryan stock. Ironically, this would then prompt a much heated debate on the need to protect young Christian girls from characters like those in the gas station photo.

  But it makes you wonder. Are there people simply wandering about, looking to join somebody’s team? How could this possibly appeal to anyone other than a mental patient?

  Look, I’m not putting anybody down. Well, maybe just a little. Actually a lot of people seem to look down on what I’m doing now, the water treatment sales. Which makes it all the more amazing that I actually got to do something I wanted to do, even for a short while.

  Right out of college I took a job doing news at a local Buffalo talk radio station. I didn’t have much else going on, and after that cataclysmic night with Sophia, Dave, and Brooke I needed something to sink my teeth into. So for six months I just did the news, five minutes at the top of the hour, three minutes at the bottom.

  But one weekend they needed somebody to run the main board for the Sunday garden guy. I wasn’t on-air, just pushing buttons. But for two terrified hours I sat across from this weathered old man, certain I was going to be fired for not hitting the dump button as he prattled on about how to get the best “pussies,” though he was merely referencing the flower on the unfortunately named pussy willow. (Later on I realized you could crack the mic on an AM station on Sunday morning and shout out all the obscenities you wanted. Nobody was listening.)

  I guess my work impressed somebody, because soon they had me doing on-air fill-in work. Within a month I had a permanent talk gig myself every Saturday and Sunday afternoon.

  What a rush, right? I mean, think about it. Here I was, 23 years old, making money with my mind an
d personality. That seemed incredible at the time.

  Growing up my father was a lawyer, and always let everyone know he was the smartest guy in the room, that what he said was the most important utterance ever made in the history of humanity. By default, Dad won every argument. I was always second-best, not quite as good. The game was rigged, and I lost money every night.

  But as a host? My God, it was like being released from prison. Of course, you had to have the goods. You had to be smarter, and quicker, and have more facts at your disposal. But I did. If this sounds egomaniacal, well, it is. But only an egomaniac can do it.

  One day the Program Director left for a better job, and I was named his replacement. I was on my way. Or so I thought.

  By the way, I’m writing in a coffee shop and I’ve got to get this down while it’s fresh in my mind. There’s a creepy guy with long white hair (he kind of looks like those gay wizards in the Lord Of The Rings movies) sitting in the corner, staring at everybody. I take it he’s a regular, because the manager greets him by name.

  And, well, the guy is obviously some kind of lunatic. When the manager passes by he babbles about selling elephants online, or talks to the power outlet, or some such nonsense. The manager smiles and walks on, letting him mumble away. This obviously makes some of the other patrons uncomfortable.

  Now I’m a nice guy, and at this point I realize how life can just go horribly wrong. But honestly, if you were the manager, wouldn’t you just tell this maniac to get the fuck out?

  Is that a terrible thing to say, or an eminently practical way of looking at the situation? I just don’t know anymore.