The Undergraduates

by Steven Snell

  “Only a pale blue florescent one.”

  “You’re such a good listener.”

  “Gotta be good at something.”

  “Point three – and stop interrupting me – is, and give me a second here … I guess … when you spend so much time thinking and critiquing and analyzing and thinking and thinking and thinking over and over, you’re not communicating – and this is my interpretation of it, of what happened between you and Gabriella – is that … is that … not communicating becomes what a couple does. What you two did.”

  “We talked all the time.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I get the feeling you talked past each other, or never really got at the heart of things so, effectively, you were not communicating. You never got at your fears and insecurities. You communicated only after you critiqued the fuck out of something, after you destroyed it so righty that it could never be rebuilt. Let’s be honest, you aren’t one for conflict, well, emotional conflict. That’s why you’re probably numb – it’s probably some sort of safety thing – and your numbness fucked up what you had with Gabriella. You’re numb because you’re inside your head working through shit instead of working through the shit with someone, with Gabriella. … I only met her a couple of times, which if you think about it, might be a commentary on the whole issue, but if you two weren’t ever getting at the heart of things, your entire relationship was probably this skin-deep thing, a façade.”

  “Harsh.”

  Jacob looks directly at me and continues. “And your skin became tough or thick, like a shield.”

  “A shield?”

  “But it’s permeable, or porous. Little things get in. And these little things form and collect and gather and one little thing becomes more, becomes this bug biting you in your sleep and you wake each day a little redder, a little more tired and then one day you wake and your arm has been chewed off and you resent the person you’re with and the worst part is it’s for a superficial reason.” Jacob turns his body towards me. “And you get angry because she said she’d buy laundry detergent but she didn’t buy laundry detergent and you get pissed at her for it – and you don’t even realize how shitty you’ve become as a person because of the months not communicating. You shit on her because of bloody laundry detergent!” He takes a drink. “… You probably ended things with Gabriella not because of anything about her but because of everything about you – you and your own shit – or really never opened up enough with her to work through your shit together. Gabriella is smart, witty, unbelievably stunning and you dumped her ass because you were too much of a cunt to tell her you’re a fragile snatch, but despite that you love her and go see her and want to be excellent in her eyes and yet tell her nothing.”

  I don’t say anything.

  Jacob looks past me, “I don’t know, I could be wrong.” He shrugs, “Meh, maybe love is just a temporary illusion.”

  He stands and pulls me up and looks at me and I give him this ‘what’ look and he says, “I love you.” I roll my eyes and he hugs me and says, “I love you and you’re an asshole but I love you and that’s all that’s important right here.” I smile and he hugs me tighter and lets go and says, “Your sense of hope may be at the bottom of the ocean embedded in the soil underneath the Titanic but you’re a good swimmer so you’ll figure it out.” I crack a smile. He says he should get back to work and we say bye and I cross the café and pull open the door and look back and Jacob nods at me and I nod back and then I’m outside. I’m walking. I’m walking with my hands in my pockets and head hanging down and I’m walking slowly and it’s raining. It’s raining, an autumn rain. A cold autumn rain and I’m fucking sad and I don’t want to be fucking sad anymore. Sad sad sad. Gabriella, I’m sad and I fucking miss you, Gabriella. I think about what Jacob said and I’m an asshole and these words in my head faded red paint on a barn in the middle of a GMO canola field that is my malnourished spirit.

  38.

  An open bottle of red wine.

  My couch and the music of Damien Rice playing in the background. Muted CBC news on the television. On the ticker, another IED attack in Afghanistan. TSX is down. Man drowns in a freak rain storm. Actress Y splits with Actor X.

  I take a drink of red wine.

  Another drink.

  I hold the wine in my month. It just sits in my mouth as I sit on this couch. Minutes pass. I swallow some. Another minute and I slowly swallow it all.

  I take another drink.

  Sounds in the apartment next to mine. A muffled conversation. Laughter. Silence.

  Another drink.

  I hold my mug on the cushion next to me and settle back. I feel the weight of my face. The weight of each cheek, my lips, the hair on my head. I think about my cheeks and lips and hair getting heavier.

  I look over to the dolphin slaughter. The spatula paint. The blood and torment and hurt and anguish and.

  What Jacob said enters my mind.

  What am I?

  What.am.I?

  What.

  Am.

  I.

  I lack form.

  I open my mouth and click my jaw. Three clicks. I.lack.form.

  Too much fruit.

  Not enough fiber.

  A large dark coffee and a larger bran muffin.

  Emotional diarrhea.

  A cognitive enema.

  What am I?

  I look at the TV. I lean back and look at the ceiling.

  What.am.I?

  Fallen buildings and flooded basements.

  Begging in the streets.

  Soup kitchens.

  Safe injection sites.

  Protesters in pink.

  Clear cuts in the Boreal Forest.

  Scrape off the overburden.

  A mountain top removed for mining.

  I have another drink of wine.

  A body riddled with bullets leaking blood out onto the steaming hot street. In the middle of a war torn country. Tanks and troops and Blackhawk helicopters. Burning flags. Burning monks. Effigies on fire. Thrown shoes. Toppled and headless statues of narcissistic leaders stoned, stomped, slapped.

  Dead yet? No? Dead now.

  Another drink of wine.

  I’ve slept with many women, but have had two relationships.

  Why?

  “Why,” I say out loud.

  Another drink of wine. My mug back down beside me.

  I picture Cynthia, wonder where she is, what she’s doing. In the utopia we’re creating, enlarged pictures in her apartment, a static place for whatever we need it to be at that moment until the next photo is printed and tacked up.

  Jacob, where are you my friend? My rectal itch that could be an STD or some burgeoning karma-sutra orgasm. You made me stumble. You fucking asshole, I love you. You critique existence through your proclivity towards it.

  Another drink of wine.

  I lean forward and pick up my phone, no messages, not that I heard my phone beep. I lay it back down and settle back and stare vacantly at the news. I picture Laura, a now gone comfort. Holding someone, kiss him as though a gun to his head, falling off a bridge, being pulled out to sea by a tsunami. I chuckle shaking my head. I look over to my kitchen and see the empty bottle of wine that Alex finished, beside the one I just opened.

  Alex, my ego, an alter-ego, some sort of binary, dichotomous division of a chromosome at birth, or death. My lure and affliction. An army. An opera. Wagner on crack.

  Another drink of wine.

  I take a deep breath in and slowly let it out through my nose. I want. I want nudity, I want naked, I want Karen moaning above me. I want I want. I want … Gabriella. Gabriella. Gabriella. I’m pushing stones up against a wall to climb over it to see what’s on the other side. The stone dislodges and I slip and fall and break my ankle.

  I’m an actor.

  Another drink of wine.

  I modify my behaviour to be a part of a situation I’ve not constructed. I just conform to the script.

  A long drink of wine
draining it.

  I slowly stand and walk slowly to the kitchen and pour another mug slowly and slowly return to the couch.

  An actor.

  I can fuck someone because that’s what the director wants. Pick a scene and I’ll perform it. Block my movements and I’ll follow them. The director speaks: Shawn, I need you to be slower, like molasses. This time … this time I need you to feel like she’s dying in your arms and the words you speak are the last utterings she will ever hear. I need them spoken slowly. Draw it out. Feel the end. Feel the end, Shawn. Feel her short breaths – her gasps for air – the slowing of her heart. Read the lines, Shawn, they’ll tell you how to act. Die with her, Shawn. Find every picture you’ve ever seen that feeds your torment. Think of starving children on TV. Think AIDS and global plagues. Think war crimes and secret jails. Think white supremacy. Think drowning polar bears and disappearing honey bees. Be this, Shawn. She’s dying in your arms. Be this.

  Action.

  I’m a typecast. My agent thinks it’s best for my career. My public persona, be what the fans want. It’ll get me into the right parties, meet the right people, fuck the right girls, get head from the right guys. Snort the right blow, drive the right car. This isn’t about being happy. Keep the studios in business. Have a following. Care enough to impregnate one. Have a baby named Eternity or Calm or Baby. Pose for front covers and eight-page spreads together.

  But, Cut.

  Scene over.

  Wardrobe change.

  Fix makeup.

  Fix hair.

  Cinch pants.

  Pin shirt.

  My mouth peppermint fresh.

  New actress. New lighting. New scene.

  New lines to memorize.

  Shawn, this girl, I need you to break her heart. She loves you but you don’t love her. She thought she could change you, but – Shawn – tell her … wait, tell her nothing. Let her pull herself apart trying to get inside you. But your black heart, your dead soul … she’s only ever been on the periphery of your life. But you aren’t anything to be a part of. And eventually she’ll loathe you for this. She’ll hate how you have treated her. She’ll tell herself that she won’t fall in love, won’t fall in love. ‘I won’t fall in love.’ But it’s lies, Shawn, and she’ll know it. She lies to herself. It’s only to get closer to you. She wants to fix you. But she hates you. FUCKING LOATHES YOU. But it’s what you wanted it, wasn’t it? Her at arm’s length. You warned her that you were no good for her. You warned her not to get too close. You told her you didn’t want anything that could or would hold you back to be something bigger. And she agreed with you. She said yes. She said she didn’t want that either. She said okay. She just wanted whatever it was you wanted. She knew what she was getting herself into. But she thought she could change you. That’s what she thought. Change you?! HA-HA-HA! Laugh Shawn! Fix you?! And now, now she loves you?! HAHAHA!

  And now you have to realize what you’ve done. You’re an asshole. A bastard. Shawn, you are shit. Fuck you, Shawn! She curses at you beneath the tears. Fuck.You.Shawn. You allowed her to think she was inside. Got a hold of you. Just enough. I’m going to change him, she thought! Now she screams at the top of her lungs when she cries herself to sleep. She bathes for days to leech the skin off that has been close to yours. FUCK YOU, SHAWN.

  And now you have to close the scene. This is the trailer shot. You Shawn, you have to nail it. Let her go. It’s all or nothing. You can’t be pre-determined parts for her. Express that. React to her emotions, Shawn. Shawn, if you can start to cry, the studio will love it. If you can’t, we’ll have the make-up girl put some drops in your eyes. Tears equal box office success, Shawn! So find sadness! Harbor up those emotions from the past. Dead puppies. A mother drowning her children. A horse race and there’s a crash, a fucking pile up and two horses, their hind legs twisted and broken and both are shot. Find sadness, Shawn. This scene needs to be true, real. It needs to be real, Shawn. Everything that’s hot is real. This is the climax, Shawn. This is where the audience is on the edge of their seats. Not eating fuckin popcorn. Not drinking. Not texting. They’re only waiting for you to speak your lines. Believing this! Believing you’ll come to! A change of fucking heart!

  Feel the script, Shawn. The camera is going to slowly close in on you as you start to your break down. We’ll have the girl crying off screen. We’ll have her speaking her lines but we’ll fade them into your voice over. Find a place within you and swallow her, Shawn. Find something in there and bring it to life for your audience! YOUR audience, Shawn! You’re going to be projected onto a 60-foot screen, Shawn! Don’t lose sight of that! Your tears will be bigger than the people watching your performance. This can make your career. Be the ‘it’ guy. Talk-show appearances. Dolls and chocolates of you. Action figures. Free cars. Free clothes. Album contracts. Record it. Upload it. Download it. Marry the cover girl. Sleep with your co-star. Divorce the cover girl. Tragedy makes the best stories, Shawn. Tragedy and kids, even better! Shawn! This is the scene, Shawn! This is the climax! Nail it! Fall in love Shawn! FALL IN FUCKING LOVE!

  A C T I O N !

  And maybe I do.

  Maybe.

  People come in and out of my life. Each person a sheet of music, a compositional score, a one instrument symphony, a Classical movement of highs and lows and quadratic pacing ovations standing or sitting and loud. So fucking loud and this is enough as long as I’m laid out a bleeding body still spilling enough blood a rotting carcass a nutrient for something for someone drifting out into the ocean to let the sea feast on me devouring me before I smash against the rocks in Peggy’s Cove.

  I close my eyes.

  39.

  I sit down on the curb. Before me is a tree lined street with cars and trucks and SUVs parallel-parked. Behind me one of the trees, behind it a park, a barking dog, dogs. A group of teenage boys and girls each trying to balance on a rope strung taut between two thick trees. It’s windy. It might rain. I’m sitting on this curb because I didn’t feel like walking any more. I didn’t want to go anywhere else. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to be with anyone. I didn’t feel like moving. I don’t feel like anything. I have no mood. My ass is numb and I can feel the hunch from slouching in my lower back. I push my chest out to straighten it. I slouch back. I don’t want to be anywhere. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to think. I don’t want what’s behind me. I don’t want any of the vehicles on the street. I don’t want the wind to blow any harder. I don’t want my slouched spine. I want it to rain. I want sleet. I want a torrent. I want darkness. Fucking darkness. I want a kid to fall off the rope and break his arm. I want a car to race down the street and slam into a cyclist and his body launched thirty feet up flailing down hitting the asphalt and sliding to a bloody and broken stop in front of me. I want to hear that moan, that gasp, that on the cusp of dying gasp. I want that shock, shock something in me. The horror. Horror. I want it. Before me this dying man and I kneel down before him and with an erect spine raise my arms holding tight to a hypodermic needle and slam a shot of adrenaline directly into his heart.

  40.

  Her feet are on my chest; her head at the end of her bed; my back up against her headboard.

  Thoughts tumbling through my mind. I haven’t said any of them.

  We’ve been like this for an hour. Haven’t said much. Just touched, held each other, let go and became silent, letting the evening pass.

  She speaks. “The person I’m with makes me feel ugly. … Not because of how I look but for who I’m not.” She strokes her hair as she stares at the ceiling, a curtain bellows out and settles back against the window. “I don’t want to be ugly.”

  I place my hand on her shin and look up to where she’s looking, connecting with her there. I look to her, past her bare chest, back up at the connection. I say to the ceiling, “It’s rare my mind meets my heart. I mean, if I remain passive, I’m a better observer; I have a better understanding of what surrounds me. I can’t get caught up in somet
hing that doesn’t make sense to me. I guess … maybe it’s a coping mechanism. Maybe it’s a protective barrier.”

  I crack an egg on her knee and my fingers the yoke dripping down her leg. Goose bumps appear on her thighs; she shifts her feet on my chest.

  “Why do you need to protect yourself?”

  I pause for a moment, taking my time to respond. “Caring was the most painful thing that has ever happened to me.” My hand hovers above her knee. “Caring makes you hurt, makes you feel. Putting your heart out there is the most unsafe one can be.”

  We’re silent again.

  Minutes pass.

  I look at her stippled ceiling, just staring at it.

  She breaks the silence again. “Shawn …” She stops. She slowly shakes her head and stops.

  I wait for her to continue. She doesn’t. I return to focusing on the space above me, staring at it. I look at the stipple and slowly figures appear. I see, I see, I see a face with an open mouth and it’s yelling. There is no pain. Maybe it’s saying something to me, calling out to me. What? What are you saying? I can’t hear you. Please speak up. … I need … I need to hear what you’re saying, what can you tell me? Please.

  I see a cave, an entry point, an entrance, an opening I must go into.

  I see a bat.

  I see a bird.

  I see I see I see.

  I see a river, the North Saskatchewan River and I’m paddling on a canoe trip and that wet clothing campfire smell on me. I take a slow, long inhale through my nose. In my hands my pressed cedar paddle dipping in and out and of the water. With each stroke organisms dripping from the blade a million billion of them. Every stipple an organism. I’m paddling to Hudson Bay, The Pacific Ocean.

  I see I see.

  At times, at times I’m so alone, so alone, out in an ocean away from shore, from anybody.

  … Above me, there’s a story there, without words a story telling me something and my mind, my mind and maybe, maybe I’m overthinking and maybe I need to let go, let go and watch the story, become the story at this moment this space this distance this Thursday evening beside her I could be anywhere but I’m here and I’m comfortable and warm and her hand sliding down my leg and these feelings or secrets or wounds harboured stored buried trapped for so long I’m just so, I’m just, let go, I’m just so comfortable with her and what we’ve built and how we’ve been and it’s been so long since, since. … I promise, I need to promise to myself. I need to promise that I’ll bring down my head from the sky, my head that has been everywhere unattached absorbing and sucking in and making nothing of its own and my head, my head, I’ll bring it back, pull it back and stitch it back on to my neck, my body and I’ll see the premise, the moments and taste and smell and be exactly here, complete, whole and … and … and the stippled ceiling I see her face, her hair, her bare chest. I see her hands and I see the expression in her eyes when I enter her. I see her labia engorged as I run my tongue over it. I can taste her like I tasted her an hour ago; I like the taste of her. Let me … let me be your inner heat. I feel myself say to her. Let me tiptoe through your veins and frolic in your arteries, let tomorrow be now and let you be the first woman and me the first man and I want you and I like how you want me I like it here in your bed on this Thursday evening just you and me and what we create.