Two Parties, One Tux, and a Very Short Film about The Grapes of Wrath

by Steven Goldman

  “Has something happened?” I am totally disturbed by this idea. I can’t even get around the idea that she would think of Curtis in that way. I’m stunned.

  “Relax, Cotton Mather, nothing has happened.” Carrie sounds dismissive, but she looks worried. She isn’t liking this either.

  We don’t discuss it, but it is now on my mind. I go to my room and purposefully don’t fantasize about naked art teachers, and particularly not about Curtis’s butt. M.C. comes over after dinner and I can’t look at her. She and Carrie head off to the mall, and for once I want to go with them so I can listen to the conversation. This would count as the first time I have ever been interested in their conversation.

  On Wednesday, I make the mistake of asking David.

  I try to just work it into the conversation. Casually, as we walk back from lunch and no one’s around, I ask about his German test, what he thought of the speaker at morning assembly, and whether he thought Mr. Curtis was handsome, you know, in that sort of rugged, intellectual kind of way.

  David looks at me for a long time, like he’s waiting for the punch line. His face remains blank, but I can see what’s working behind that look. He knows that I’ve asked him this because he’s gay, and therefore now an expert on male attractiveness. He knows that my asking is my attempt to acknowledge this fact that we haven’t mentioned since his lunch announcement last week. This is my way of reassuring him that it’s all cool, that we can have conversations like this. Only we can’t. It’s a little too personal, a little too forced, not something he wants to discuss with me. He licks his lips and tugs at his glasses and says, “No.”

  “I don’t think so either,” I say, way too quickly. It feels like someone has moved our lockers since yesterday. They aren’t usually this far away.

  “You know, I was thinking,” I say, trying very hard to change the topic. “I might stay late and work on our film. I had some ideas. Would that be okay?”

  “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

  “You have baseball today, right?”

  “You need a ride home?”

  “Just this once.”

  Scenario 3: What if two mild-mannered honors students …

  David meets me in the editing room after baseball practice. I have spent the last three and a half hours putting our film together. There are a few parts David hasn’t seen yet. I am particularly proud of my Grapes of Wrath–inspired dust bowl scene. I talked one of the maintenance staff into letting me empty the contents of the vacuum cleaner bag onto the floor. He gave me a look like maybe I was off my meds, but he stayed and watched as I dropped all of the major characters one by one into the pile, which produced wonderful plumes of debris. When I was done he just shook his head sadly while I helped him clean it back up. After I added the screams to the soundtrack, it became one of my favorite sequences.

  “You know,” David says, watching it through the second time, “Wallman is going to love this. It has everything he loves about movies: senseless violence, lots of blood, and you even got sex in there—well, not real sex but a good nude scene. They were naked in the opening, right?”

  I fast-backward to the opening.

  “It was a little hard to get them to look naked.”

  “Eve’s nipples look like buttons …”

  “That’s because they are buttons.”

  “Oh. That would explain it. What are we using for a title?” David sits in the chair next to me and plays with the dials on the mixer.

  “We still need to make a title sequence, but how does ‘Steinbeck Sucks’ sound to you?”

  “Great—a tribute to your English essay.”

  “Which I still haven’t written.”

  “You know,” David says thoughtfully, “if we called it ‘Biblical Themes in The Grapes of Wrath,’ we could turn it in to Curtis. We have, like, eight Steinbeck references—nine if you notice that the devil sort of looks like the picture of him on the back of the book.”

  “Hey, why not? What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

  “We fail English. We are forced to endure ridicule and humiliation in front of our peers. Stress-induced hypertension and eventually death.”

  “I mean besides that.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Way Too Much Whining and Some Thoughts on Pissing

  5:32 a.m.

  It is 5:32. In less than two minutes, my alarm will go off. I hate waking up before the alarm.

  I feel defeated. Absolutely, unquestionably, utterly, and hopelessly defeated. I do not want to go to school. I do not want to get out of bed. I can’t imagine how I will get through the next sixty or so years of my life. I cannot write this paper.

  It’s just a paper. A stupid standard five-paragraph essay. The same stupid five-paragraph essay I have written approximately every two weeks since fifth grade. My self-esteem does not depend on whether this particular paper is good or bad. I have other sources of self-esteem. Not that I can come up with any right this moment, but I’m sure there is something about me that I can …

  Maybe not. Maybe I am really as worthless as I feel right now. Mr. Rogers might have liked me just the way I am, but I certainly don’t. Everybody is special in their own way—how many times did we get that lecture? Followed by the same inane list: some are good at sports, some are artistic, some sing, some can do complicated math equations in their heads and will go on to win Nobel Prizes.

  Let’s review: I can’t play sports, I’m not artistic, I can’t sing, and I can barely add single digits in my head. The Nobel committee isn’t likely to call. I’m good at this litany of self-pity. Do they give Nobel Prizes for whining? I cannot write this paper.

  I can deal with the fact that I’m a hopeless dweeboid and that my grandmother, who is eighty-two and pushes an aluminum walker, has a more active social life than I do, but the one thing dweeboids are supposed to be good at is homework. I’m even a failure at being a dweeboid.

  I cannot write this paper.

  It is 5:34. The radio clicks, the static starts. I sit up, both feet on the ground. I stare at the offensive plastic cube for a full thirty seconds before turning it off.

  I should have read the book over the weekend. And I really tried. At least I sort of tried. I opened it twice. It’s not like it was the only assignment I had to finish. And Monday, there was a chem test to study for. What was I going to do, blow that off?

  Last night I sat in front of the computer and held my hands over the keys. I typed my name, the date, and the title of the paper, erased it, typed it again. I changed the font from Times New Roman to Courier to Arial. I considered adding my middle name, added it, changed my mind, deleted it. After several hours of not writing the paper, I set my alarm and went to bed, telling myself I would deal with it in the morning. Now it is morning. To be more specific, it is 5:36.

  I pull myself out of bed. Still in my boxer shorts, I sit bare-chested at the computer.

  I cannot write this paper.

  6:14 a.m.

  “Mitchell—what time is it?”

  “6:15.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  There is silence on the other end of the line. It is an unhappy silence. I don’t think David is eager to talk to me right now.

  “Did I wake you up?” I ask, trying to sound surprised.

  “Not directly. My mother just did that. To tell me you were on the phone.”

  “Sorry. What time do you usually get up?”

  “My alarm goes off in about ten minutes.”

  So why are you so grumpy? A lousy ten minutes of sleep. I’m having a crisis here.

  “If you had a cell phone, I could have called you without waking up your parents.” David doesn’t own a cell phone because he doesn’t want anyone to be able to reach him wherever he is. I’ve suggested, any number of times, that he could screen his calls, leave it on vibrate or even silent. He has yet to see the utility.

  “My parents were already awake. Mitchell, why are you calling me at
6:15 in the morning?”

  “It’s already 6:25. You’d have been awake now anyway.”

  “Mitchell.”

  “Have you written your paper?”

  “The one that’s due today?” As if he didn’t know.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t turn it in. We’ll turn in our film instead.”

  David pauses. “You didn’t write your paper.”

  “Not exactly,” I admit. “Well, not at all. But your idea about turning in the film …”

  “Was a joke,” David says slowly. Nothing about the way he says “joke” sounds funny.

  “But I’ve been thinking. It really could work. It’s creative, it’s different, it’s expressive, it’s already mostly finished.” I can hear the skepticism in David’s silence. “I’m going to talk to Curtis before class. If he says no, I’ll admit I didn’t write the paper. If he goes for it, we’re golden. This has to be better than whatever you wrote about.”

  I hear a shuffling noise that sounds like David is getting out of bed. Has he been lying in his bed this whole time? Maybe sitting. He is on the move now. I just hope he’s not going to the bathroom. I will not talk to someone in the bathroom, even if I woke them up. No, it sounds more like the kitchen. He’s pouring himself something. Coffee? Juice?

  “Mitchell,” he says in his best why-is-your-brain-up your-butt voice. “There are a couple of problems with this plan.” A pause, and I hear him take a slurp of whatever he’s poured. “First of all, I wrote a damn good paper on the evolution of Joad’s ethical sensibility …”

  “Nice title.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But no colons.”

  “You noticed. I’m branching out. Second, our film has almost nothing whatsoever to do with The Grapes of Wrath, which you might not have noticed since you haven’t read the book …”

  “I read some.”

  “How much?”

  “Three chapters. But I skipped ahead to the end so I know how it turns out. Or at least I read the last two pages where she, um … does that thing.”

  “Third,” David continues, unimpressed, “it isn’t a three-to-five-page paper about The Grapes of Wrath.”

  “So does that mean you don’t think it’s a good idea?”

  “Feel free to turn it in, just don’t put my name on it. I have to go take a piss now.”

  We hang up. I look at the blank page with a heading and no title. I never use the word “piss.” I never “take a piss.” I’m not sure where I would take it to. I pee. I need to learn to piss. I am not writing this paper.

  6:45 a.m.

  I spend the next twenty minutes making an impressive but tasteful label for the DVD and a matching insert for its cheap plastic case. I place it carefully in my backpack and go downstairs for some cereal. Our dog joins me for breakfast, staring at me as I search the kitchen. All we have left is an off-brand granola, but I’m not going to let that spoil my day. I’m feeling brave, nearly reckless. Rebel without an English paper. David, I decide while munching the stale granola, is being unreasonably sensible. But then again, he always is. Never mind, I’ll go it alone. I’m ready to talk to Curtis. After all, what’s the worst thing that can happen?

  CHAPTER 9

  Jerks, Myoclonic and Otherwise

  Curtis

  English class. 8:17. Curtis, Mr. Curtis, Mr. Albert P. Curtis, M.A., sits on his stool at the front of the room regarding us with a suspicious glare.

  Curtis is dressed in his geeky teacher uniform of khakis (slightly worn at the cuffs) and a button-down (with both old and current coffee stains). We slouch in our slug wear: jeans, T-shirts, sweats. Our faces are pierced, our hair is purposefully unruly, and all our clothes are too large—except Danielle’s, which are a little too tight.

  Curtis begins to lecture. Instantly he becomes background noise. He waves his arms about, gestures with sincerity. As we drift into our own little worlds, his voice becomes more and more strident. There is something he is trying to say.

  “The subjective experience of the character is portrayed through the conscious manipulation of point of view.”

  Danielle stares at her notebook. She doesn’t doodle. She doesn’t take notes. Her notebook is blank. She examines her nails. They are a subtle shade of green with an elegant white swirl across each nail. Glamour does not come cheap. She smooths her skirt, touches her hair, and, suddenly aware of her posture, sits up straighter. She sneaks a look at the cell phone placed strategically on top of her purse to see how many messages she has accumulated during class. She glances around to see if anyone is watching her. She returns to staring at her notebook.

  “Characterization.” Curtis writes the word on the board. A few of us write it in our notebooks. “The delineation of the particular qualities, features, and traits of a fictional person, conveyed primarily, in decent novels, through the character’s actions and dialogue …”

  Louis is giving himself a nosebleed. It’s a trick he doesn’t overuse, so he must really want out of this class. The first time I remember him doing it was in fifth grade, as a way of postponing a geography test when we were supposed to have memorized all of the state capitals. He first tugs out some of the deeper nose hairs, then taps the side of his nose, up near the bridge. It takes about ten minutes, and then there’s a gush of very red blood. I’ve never wanted a nosebleed badly enough to try it.

  The gush comes. Louis catches it on his shirt. I hope he has to do his own laundry. He raises his hand.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Curtis, sir?” Louis calls all the teachers sir or ma’am.

  “Are you bleeding?” Curtis asks. He sounds a little shaken. He’s not one to question the obvious.

  “Yes sir, I’m sorry. I get nosebleeds. It’s a puberty thing, sir. May I go to the bathroom?”

  “Please,” says Curtis.

  Still holding his shirt to his nose, Louis uses his free hand to grab his backpack, slings it over his shoulder, and leaves the room. He’s not coming back. On the way out he pats Thad on the back, leaving a bloody handprint.

  “ ‘Character’ is a noun. ‘Characterize’ is a verb. Both are derived from the Greek word …” And here Curtis stops to write something even more unintelligible than his usual handwriting. It looks as if it starts with an x. I assume he is now writing in Greek. “The word meant to mark, to distinguish …”

  I drop my pencil. Well, “drop” would be an understatement. I don’t just drop my pencil. I fling my pencil. I hurl it across the room. For several minutes I’ve been doing that nodding thing, where you start to fall asleep, then catch yourself just as your head moves forward and then you jerk back up suddenly. Fourth, maybe fifth nod, I jerk back up and my pencil flies across the room. It lands in front of Curtis, perfectly into the little space between him and the class, the demilitarized zone, the no-man’s-land. Everyone looks up, then back.

  If I had been quick, I could have looked around as if I also didn’t know where the pencil came from. If I had been Louis, I would have tapped some schlep next to me (it probably would have been me), and said, “Good shot, dickhead.” If I had been cool, I could shrug it off. Big deal.

  As I am me, my face immediately drains of all color. My eyes feel moist, my hands clammy. I sit on my hands. I stare straight ahead, into the oncoming headlights of Curtis’s impending anger. I can’t breathe. Everyone is watching me. I can feel myself expand, grow larger, fill up all of the empty spaces in the room.

  Curtis picks up the pencil and walks the three rows back to my desk.

  “This yours?” he asks.

  I nod.

  He places it on top of my open notebook, next to my doodle of a vaguely Curtis-like person impaled on a giant pencil.

  “Try holding on tighter,” he suggests without any inflection, and then he launches into a soliloquy on stream of consciousness.

  Beware anything that is too easy

  David is sort of waiting for me at my locker. He always looks as if he just
happens to be there when I get there, not like he’s waiting for me.

  “Myoclonic jerk,” he says cheerfully.

  “What did I do to you?”

  “No, dumbshit, in class, the pencil thing. It’s called a myoclonic jerk. It’s a medical term. Aren’t you a doctor’s son?”

  “It doesn’t mean I know anything.”

  “We talked about it in biology last year.”

  I sort of remember biology last year, but nothing this specific.

  “It’s the sudden convulsion people sometimes have right before they fall asleep.” David then does his imitation of a myoclonic jerk. I look around to see if anyone is watching.

  “Don’t do that again. You look like you’re having a fit.”

  David shrugs. “Three inches farther and you would have nailed him in the gonads.” He then smiles. “So, I thought you were going to ask him.”

  “I didn’t want to do it in front of everyone. I’ll go back at break.”

  At break, I find Curtis in his room, sitting at his desk reading a copy of The New Yorker. Doesn’t he have papers to grade or something? Is it legal for him to read a magazine during school hours? He looks a little startled when I knock on the open door. Maybe he isn’t used to talking to students outside of class. Maybe I’m nervous.

  “Can I talk to you about the paper … the paper that was due today, the Grapes of Wrath paper?”

  “I know which paper was due today. No, you can’t have an extension. It has been on the syllabus since the beginning of the semester.” He returns his attention to his magazine.

  “I … um, don’t need an extension.” At least not if you buy this idea. “I don’t know if you know this about me”—you don’t, almost no one does—“but I’m interested in Claymation and I have been making films. Claymation films.” Films, not cartoons. “I had this idea while reading The Grapes of Wrath”—or at least looking at the cover—“that I could, well … what I tried to do was capture something about the novel … I made a film and I have been working on it for a while and …”