The Bull Years

by Phil Stern

  Steve was one of the very few who hadn’t sold out for the big contract talking conservative smack or robotically delivering bland McNews. The rest of us willingly surrendered our minds, and souls, for the dubious stability of an establishment job. Which in the end, meant very little.

  But Steve really made it. He got to do what he really wanted, while I was just another nameless, faceless member of the corporate Fourth Estate. In many ways Steve had one of the most successful media careers of anyone I knew of.

  At that moment I would have given anything to sit down and talk with Steve, appear on his show, lay at his feet, whatever. Because somehow, though I hadn’t spoken to him for years, Steve Levine was still the purest soul I’d ever known.

  STEVE LEVINE

  Sometimes I feel afraid no one will ever really know I existed.

  Here I am, on the cusp of 40, and I’ve accomplished nothing more with my life than simply living, getting by from day to day. Oh, there are people who’ve loved me. I suppose there are some out there who remember me as a talk show host in a fleeting, inconsequential way. But nothing permanent. Nothing that really matters.

  This is the internet age, so like everyone else my name litters the information superhighway in odd ways. Nothing significant, mind you. A parking ticket in D.C. A few old photos some high school classmates posted online for no particular reason. Mentions on radio “boards” from several years ago. A listing of sales awards from my current company. Some references in relation to SUNY Buffalo. Like I said, nothing that really means anything.

  No, to be honest I’m notable only for what I haven’t done. I’ve built no buildings, made no great discoveries, published no relevant texts. In the grand scheme of the universe, in the ways that really count, my existence means nothing, whatever little outer relevance I do possess ending instantly with my death. At this point I’m the historical equivalent of some nameless, faceless peasant of a thousand years ago, someone who toiled the soil for a brief time, and then completely vanished from human consciousness.

  These were supposed to be my bull years, the time when I “established” myself in some substantial way. But in actuality this period of my life feel like…nothing. It’s merely a connection between my life before, that is, my 20's and 30's, and the future. But you know what? I can’t even begin to visualize that future. Where will I live? Will I be alone, or with someone? Rich? Poor? I just can’t say.

  Actually, there’s a new philosophy of sorts growing around this concept. Whereas the conventional wisdom of a generation ago was not to live in the past, now we’re told not to live in the future. Yes, strive for success, prepare yourself, set goals, etc. But don’t forget to live in the moment. Because now is here. The past is gone, and the future hasn’t yet arrived. If you spend all your time worrying about the future, you might never live in the now that you have.

  Good advice. But for me, there simply must be some greater promise than the nebulous present. There has to be. So the future is where I focus my hopes and dreams. The alternative is too gruesome to bear.

  Look, don’t get me wrong. I’m comfortable. And actually, I like working a job that’s just about money. That’s what sales is, trading your time and effort for money. Oh, I used to worry so much about being “creative” and “fulfilled” in my radio career. Money should simply come as the byproduct of doing what you love! But the love, yes, the love of your craft…ah, that’s the thing! I was a Renaissance man in a world of philistines. Let those other tools muck about in the trenches chasing money. I was above all that.

  But you know what? It’s better this way. No one appreciated my craft. Sure, I had fans, but when I was inevitably fired no one really cared too much. What do you think, someone’s going to launch a hunger strike because Steve Levine isn’t on during their drive home anymore? They might call the station. A few people might start petitions. But look, life goes on. In the end, having your favorite radio host disappear from a vanishing medium isn’t that big a deal.

  No, I like just making money. It’s clear. I know where I stand. I run my little office efficiently, no one ever has to worry about that. It works well for everybody.

  But still, all in all, it’s just not what I thought life was going to be like. I mean, let’s face it. When you’re young, existence itself holds such great promise, stretching ahead like some infinite road that could never conceivably end.

  But somewhere in the middle…about now, in fact…the hazy terminus of life’s journey is at least possible to visualize. Still, the ultimate meaning of it all escapes me. Surely there must be more than just this, right? I just don’t know how to achieve it.

  For the first time I can see the appeal of a religious afterlife. It would be nice to think of Heaven waiting me, a just reward for a good life. But I tend to take a more humanistic view of the whole matter. When we die, we simply are no more. There’s no epilogue, no sequel, and no matter how hard the audience applauds, the band isn’t coming back for another song.

  You, me, everybody, are here for a brief time only. We live on merely in our achievements and the memories people retain of us, and even these faint echoes of our existence fade quickly, until the winds of time have smoothed us away forever.

  I know, that’s why people have families and children. But I’ve always retained such hope in my own writing. I try to pretend the rejection letters don’t bother me, but of course they do. To have my stuff published would grant me, at least in some slight fashion, the immortality I crave. But I’m not sure that will ever happen.

  Oh, how everything comes swirling together in my own mind. I can think of a day running with my dog Misty as a young boy, juxtaposed with a business meeting thirty years later. Throwing a football in college, taking a radio job in some strange city. So many things.

  Being with Sophia…yes, I remember that most of all.

  Soph, you’ll never read this. Actually, no one likely will, so I guess I can say it.

  I really think we missed our moment, maybe even our life together. Oh, I know, no regrets and all. But I believe in that other world, the alternate universe where you and I really made it. Actually, we’re there now. I can feel us, sometimes, walking hand in hand, looking out from our huge home, living happily ever after. It’s a good life.

  Oh, how Sophia would cringe at this. She’s a media darling, making good money, skipping around the world on a moment’s notice! She’s been with guys ten times more with it than me.

  But Soph, I know you feel it too. In the dead of night, when your dreams reach out into other worlds. You’ve seen it. We’re there together, you and me. You know it’s true.

  And if that’s all I have to hold onto, then it has to be enough. Women, jobs, money, fame…all of it comes and goes. But in that other world we’re together, safe and secure. It may be incredibly little to point to after forty years on this earth, an echo of another reality, but it’s something tangible to me.

  And Soph, it’s real to you too, even if you can never admit it.

  HAYLEY SYKES

  All right, I’ve made a decision. This is going to be my last article/blog/chapter for Steve’s book, or project, or old guy jerk off thing, or whatever the fuck it is he’s doing. I’m getting tired of it and I have lots of other things to do.

  But first let me tell you this. Nick and I are engaged! Isn’t that amazing? He gave me the ring last night. It was so exciting! I can’t wait to get married and have children. Can you imagine that, little Hayley’s and Nick’s running all over the place!

  And I really needed some good news. Beth completely freaked out a week ago. It turns out she and Garth got into some heavy shit, all kinds of drugs and pills and stuff, and she just flipped out at the gym. Started convulsing and banging her head around. I think she nearly died. Drugs are definitely not cool.

  But she’s in a program now and I think she’ll be okay. And Garth’s already gone. He took off about an hour before the cops raided his house. I understand there’s a nationwide warrant for h
is arrest. I hope they get him for what he did to my Beth.

  But this whole Life Project got me thinking. Maybe I should become a real blogger, like on the internet and stuff? Then I could help people like Beth, who need to listen to me. Wouldn’t that be cool? I think I have a lot to say. And people would be interested.

  Or maybe a reality show! Yeah! It could be about me and Nick getting married. Maybe we’d call it Going Hetero. That’s kind of neat, right?

  So anyway, check me out online! Or on television! Bye for now.

  And Steve, don’t worry so much. Everything’s going to be all right. I mean, the world’s your oyster, right? Or whatever old people say to make themselves feel better. Just go out there and do it. You’ll be okay. Trust me, I know.

  Because if I can find Nick, you can find someone too.

  DAVE MILLER

  You know, there’s so much more to write about. When I joined the band out of the advertising agency I was 26 years old. Now I’m nearly 40 and approaching the mythical realm of middle age.

  Which makes you wonder. What is happiness? Is it a feeling? A state of being? Is it merely having all your essential needs met, with maybe a little free time left over to watch a movie now and then? Money, fame, fortune? I don’t know. It’s a question I think about more and more as I grow older.

  But still, there was a promise to our youth we haven’t kept. In the 80's everyone was raised to think they’d be rich and famous, wildly successful beyond anything they could imagine. And all our kids would be kings and presidents, right? Those were our bogus expectations. That’s how life was supposed to work.

  Which means many of us hitting 40 now have inferiority complexes we can’t quite shake. That may be the ultimate birthright of our generation.

  But things are what they are. And let’s face it. At the end of the day, no one can make you even half as depressed as your own inner demons.

  But things are good now. Mandy’s off at school. She wants to be a doctor. I think it’s kind of neat she’s actually preparing for a career. Most everyone from our generation just went off to college for the sake of going to college itself. There was plenty of time to figure things out later on, right? Many of us didn’t.

  Joline and I have been together for five years, and we’ll be getting married soon. She’s a nurse. We’re very happy together. She’s talking kids, and I imagine that’s what we’ll do pretty soon. The guitar shop’s doing well, and I still have some publishing money drifting in from the band. It could be worse.

  So, like I said, life is good. But still, my one major regret is what happened between us all back in school, when I came back to Buffalo after getting married. Last night I broke down and told Joline all about it. She was pretty shocked, but said it was high time to contact Dave, Brooke, and Sophia and tell them how I feel.

  I don’t know. Perhaps some things are better left as they are. After all, it was a long time ago.

  But I’ll write about that night as my final contributions to this Life Project. I’m not sure they’ll understand, but I need to at least try. I think, even though so much time has gone by, I owe them at least that much.

  SOPHIA DANTON

  All right, so you want to know who took my virginity, the man at the center of Virgin-Gate, who watched me feed the squirrels for two weeks after we first did the deed before I sent him packing? You want to know who it was? All right, I’ll tell you.

  My first love was Dr. Stanley Xander Ludwick, one of my freshman professors. That’s right, the Dr. Stan Ludwick, now a wildly successful author and commentator on space, time, and particle physics.

  And yes, he was fired early on in his career following an “inappropriate” relationship with a student. Namely, me.

  Look, here’s what you need to know. I was 18, Stan was 29, and he just about fell over when I walked into his lecture center for the first time. For two weeks he just stared at me in the front row, often drifting off in the middle of a sentence while people gawked and whispered. When I finally dropped by during office hours to ask about a paper due the following week, he immediately asked me out to dinner.

  And here’s something I’ve never told anyone. Stan was exactly the kind of man my mother would have wanted me to marry. Catholic, professional. A published academic. An intellectual, no less, with a bright future ahead of him. I really thought I was doing the right thing.

  Being at SUNY Buffalo at that time…I mean, everything was so sexual. And dating a professor was like the forbidden fruit, but safe, somehow. I don’t know. But still, it took a few months of wining and dining to get me back to his place. And then one night the following January we were on his couch, I had a glass or two of wine…and it happened.

  I must say waking up the next morning was an experience. First of all, the amazing sensations of the night before began coursing through my body again, like aftershocks from a major earthquake. Giggling, I sat up.

  And immediately saw the bloody sheets. And remembered everything. And realized what I’d done. Groaning, I fell back down again, sure my mother was going to march out of the bathroom any moment and begin screaming, accusatory finger pointed right at me.

  But there was no going back. And it was so good! And right. Somehow it felt like the most proper…I’d even say the most holy…thing in the world. We had sex about five times that first day, until I was so sore I just couldn’t do it again.

  Stan went completely nuts, coming over to my dorm room at all hours of the day and night. Here he was a professor, and he didn’t even care who saw! Stan said I was the best girl he’d ever known. It was all a big rush.

  But then, after that day with the squirrels, I decided Stan and I were wrong. And it was nothing to do with him, obviously, but I needed time to think.

  But Stan couldn’t let go. He kept calling and dropping by. We finally had a big fight outside the dorm. So Stan, obviously wacked out of his head, decided to call my father and ask for my hand in marriage.

  Look, Stan was so sweet. I really liked him. And if I’d been even a few years older…I don’t know. But it was all too much. For me, at least.

  So, to make a long story short, my father hit the roof. A professor asking to marry me? Several pointed questions later, Stan basically told Daddy we’d already slept together.

  And that’s what ignited Virgin-Gate. Eight hours later my parents appeared in my dorm room, screaming in rage. Daddy began viciously ramming all my stuff into boxes, declaring I was coming home. Mommy walked around with a huge cross held before her, mumbling biblical passages and tossing rosary beads in all directions, yelling that all my dorm mates were going to Hell. A bunch of other kids gawked and pointed. I began crying and yelling. Daddy grabbed my arm, almost flinging me down a flight of stairs. Campus security was called. It was just awful.

  And then Stan shows up. Daddy punched him just as the campus cops arrived. Both Stan and Daddy spent the night in jail. Claiming chest pain, Mommy was taken to the hospital. I spent the night in my wrecked room, my door half busted down by Daddy, crying my eyes out.

  The next stay, after posting bail, Daddy was ordered by a judge not to “trespass” on campus grounds again. So Daddy calls my room, demanding I leave. I refused, calling him all kinds of unprintable names. So Daddy goes back into the police department and wants to file all kinds of outrageous charges against Stan for “defiling” his daughter. After ten more minutes of yelling Daddy was arrested again for Disturbing the Peace.

  “Honey, I thought I’d seen it all, but I ain’t never seen nothing like this,” a campus crisis counselor said later that morning.

  “I’m not a whore,” I mumbled, my eyes puffy and red. “Daddy doesn’t understand.”

  “No, honey, he doesn’t,” the woman replied, gently brushing hair from my face. “And I don’t think he ever will.”

  Daddy tried to cut off my tuition, but it was already paid for the full year. But with all the drama, the school had no choice but to fire Stan. After another two weeks, during which I r
efused to see my parents, they left for home. Daddy declared I was “dead” to him and that he’d never see me again. After several months of angry exchanges with Mom, during which Daddy refused to get on the phone, I met Jurgen and took off for Europe.

  I mean, there are so many more details, but that’s the gist of it. Maybe I’ll write a whole book about Virgin-Gate one day. I don’t know. We’ll see.

  But let me just say one more thing before I write about that final night with Steve, Dave, and Brooke.

  One major mistake people often make throughout their lives is searching for the perfect situation. Not just a good one, but an absolutely ideal one. Many of these Perfection Seekers decide they’ll be selling themselves short if they “settle” for less, and are thus fated to remain restless and unfulfilled for the remainder of their days.

  You know who I’m talking about. I keep telling my girlfriends they’ll never, ever, find a man who matches every single point on their mental checklist. I’ve advised men that importing a girl from another country to be your wife never works out. These are fantasies that ruin what’s otherwise a good life. Jobs, kids, houses, neighborhoods, cars, friends…there’s no such thing as perfect. But they rarely listen. The Perfection Seeker always casts aside the present, which could be pretty good, if they gave it a chance, for that future of complete glory. Which, of course, never arrives.

  So what ultimately develops in the Perfection Seeker is a boiling, raging anger at their inner child. Why can’t I achieve my dreams? What’s wrong with me, or the world, or me in the world? Soon the frustration hollows them out, leaving nothing but rage and discontent.

  Life is to be lived, and it’s never perfect. The man of your dreams may want to watch the ball game one night instead of hanging out with your parents. And that’s all right. Your wife may not be 25 anymore, but she has so much more to offer you now anyway. People may not “understand” you at every given moment, and that’s okay. No one has the perfect marriage, job, or house, and everybody worries about money. That’s called life. And you know what? No one else is leading the wonderful existence of your dreams, free of worry and want, so there’s nothing to be jealous of.