I was desperate for a girlfriend. I was twenty-one-years old. I was back from Vietnam and discharged from the army. I moved out of my parents’ suburban home into an efficiency in the city. My parents did not want me to go. I couldn’t explain to them how I needed a place of my own, a life of my own. It would have hurt them. The world they lived in, I did not live in any longer. I would never live in it again. I enrolled in a university in the city and joined a fraternity.
One Friday evening in early December, after hours of study in the library, I went to a party at the fraternity house. A long, improvised bar was set up in the big front room. A fraternity brother played records on the stereo system. The music was Motown, not psychedelic. I didn’t want to take a trip in my mind. I didn’t like being alone. A few couples danced in a roped off area.
Drinking my beer from a plastic cup, I stood with my back to the bar to see who was there. The SDs were present and that always made me happy. The initials stood for Sisters of Delta. They were dedicated to partying with our fraternity.
Several Delts and SDs were putting down some nice moves on the dance floor when I saw Bruce off to the side pointing a finger in this guy’s face. Larry stood behind Bruce. They were fraternity brothers. A few SDs and Delts sat at our reserved tables where I’d left my books, notebooks and fatigue jacket. I’d kept my Delta jacket on.
I didn’t know the new guy. He must have been a guest. He slapped Bruce’s finger away and that would have been it if several Delts hadn’t grabbed Bruce, Larry and this new guy. We didn’t need trouble. We didn’t need the university coming around.
After several beers, I was starting to enjoy the throbbing feel of the party when Bruce said to me, “Let’s school him.”
“Who?”
“This is our party, our house.”
“Let it be.”
We were standing at the bar. Larry was on my left.
“There you go again,” Bruce said, “punking out of a fight.”
Bruce downed his shot and pushed away. He bumped several people. They looked at him. One of the bartenders refilled my cup.
“What’s with you?” Larry said.
“Did this bonehead steal some money?”
“He was hitting on Karen.”
Karen Daniels dated the president of our fraternity.
“Karen’s cool,” I said. “She’s not helpless.”
I’d joined the fraternity to meet girls. Everyone knew Larry. He was a great dancer and could always get dates. Bruce thought he was a tough guy. I would’ve loved to have seen him in-country.
Larry stood a few feet away. Three honeys stood in a semi-circle in front of him. They looked up into his face and laughed delightedly at something he said. One looked at me and smiled, then looked away. A moment later she did it again. She looked up a third time and beckoned me over.
Before I could start over, Bruce pushed in beside me. I wanted to smooth things over with him.
“Let’s do a shot,” I said.
“You can’t buy me nothin’.”
“He’s just a guest.”
“He’s chickenshit!”
“Be serious.”
“Serious?” he said.
“Be real.”
“Real?” he said. “Why don’t you make me real?”
“Bruce, maintain.”
“Go on,” he said. “Make me real.” Then he said, “Baby killer.”
“Cool it!” Larry squeezed between us.
Bruce was shouting at me. Larry got Bruce headed toward the door. I finished my beer, crumbled up the plastic cup and tossed it into the trash bag of a large trash can behind the bar. Karen Daniels came up and asked me to dance.
“I don’t feel like dancing.”
“Pretty please with kisses on it?”
She took my left hand and led me through the crowd. The dance floor was crowded. People were having a good time. The bass line of the song made you swing your hips. We had to dance close together in the crush.
“You know how he is,” she said.
“He called me a baby killer.”
“What does he know?”
“Is that what everyone here thinks? That we’re all freaked out baby killers?”
“What do they know? What do any of them know? It’s no fun dating the president of the Delts, either. It’s no fun partying every night.”
I leaned back and gave her a long, good look. She smelled of lilac. The warmth rose from her body. Most of the girls were wearing minis. Karen was wearing one, too.
“I know,” she said. “It’s too short.”
“So?”
“Rick says all my minis are too short. Who needs it?”
Later, I sat alone at our reserved tables. Larry came over and sat down.
“Where’s Bruce?” I asked him.
“Gary’s,” he said. “All the new SDs are there.”
“I’m sick of him.”
“No harm done.”
“I don’t want to be around him or people like him. Understand what I’m saying? Not anymore. Not any damn more. Life’s too fucking short.”
“What the hell are you so fired up about? Let it slide. One of the new SDs wants to meet you. She thinks you’re hot. I said I’d bring you.”
The party was going on all around us. I sat a moment with the party going on all around us. I stood up, took off my Delta jacket and put it on the back of a chair. I put on my fatigue jacket. I slowly gathered my books and notebooks.
Larry said, “He’s your Delta brother.”
Outside, it was night. A heavy snow was falling. At least an inch had fallen already. The small commercial district was lit up for the holiday season. As I walked through the falling snow, people hurried past me. Most of them carried packages.
The End
********************
Take a moment to show your support for the PFF Gazette with a small donation. The donation tab is at the top of the page. Thank you.
Filed under: Archives | Tagged: fiction, fraternity, girlfriend, Guy Hogan, home, Motown, parents, school, USA, Vietnam | Leave a Comment »
Don’t Write Like This
If you have been reading this blog you may have come across the phrases “show don’t tell” and “cinema on the page.” These two phrases capture the essence of the unique method of writing fiction that I call Compressionism which means using words to paint a picture that tells a story. Through trial and error over a period of more than 40 years I have found the “show don’t tell” method of writing to be the more effective means of allowing the reader to live within a piece of fiction.
The ebook for sell on this blog is a perfect example of this sort of writing. But sometimes a writer needs to know not only how to write a piece of flash fiction but also how not to write a piece of flash fiction. Because flash fiction is so short many writers create short stories that are more like essays than short stories. They have a tendency to over use exposition.
Exposition is fine and many very good flash fiction stories have been written just from exposition. Yet when a writer over uses exposition that writer is summarizing the story, telling the story. That writer is getting between the reader and the characters in the story.
I wrote the following story years ago and although it may be well written it is all exposition. I would not write this story the same way today. Today, it would contain a lot less telling and a lot more showing. I would have the characters “act out” the story. It would be a better story.
I encourage you to download the ebook. It cost only $6.00. Not only will it entertain you but it will also help your writing reach a new level of excellence. The ebook tab is at the top of the page.
********************
Jocks And Ballerinas
When Scott Delaney turned eighteen he joined the army to get away from killing his father who would get drunk and beat his mother. He attended Point Park College in Pittsburgh just before he joined the army and went to Vietnam when the college was still a two-year institution, a junior college. After he was discharged from the army and after he enrolled and finally dropped out of Duquesne University in Pittsburgh he hung around at Point Park College for several years. He wasn’t an official student but many of the professors knew of his serious interest in writing short stories. His youngest brother was president of the student body. Scott was admired by his youngest brother who introduced him all around. Scott became well-known on campus. He was issued a special library card and could take out books just like a student. He carried his notebook and collections of the writings of Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John O’Hara and Gertrude Stein everywhere he went. He usually sat at the same table in the snack bar, writing in his notebook and watching the students.
By chance he had picked an empty table where the female ballet dance majors always sat. He was surprised when several student ballerinas in black leotards and white tights, their dance bags slung from a shoulder, came over and sat down. It was their table and that’s where they always sat. So, he always sat there, too. You could tell a student’s major by where the student sat. There was mixing but the groups stayed relatively stable.
The school had a fine baseball team. Many of the jocks on the team belonged to this one fraternity which had the worst reputation of any group on campus. Sometimes in the snack bar they really carried on occasionally bringing their bats and taking full swings at imaginary baseballs. Scott was always afraid they’d smack someone walking by. It never did happen while he was there. He became friendly with the president of the fraternity. He joined the fraternity as a “social” member.
The president of the fraternity was no saint but he was constantly worried about the wilder behavior of some of the other members. It was funny. It was like riding a souped up truck with one foot on the gas and the other foot on the brake.
Still, to be a dancer or a jock you had to work through a lot of pain to become any good. Not until years later, long after he had stopped hanging around Point Park College and was putting together his first book of short stories, did Scott Delaney realize he liked jocks and ballet dancers for the same reason.
The End
********************
Short Story Ideas That Work
Rate this:
Filed under: Commentaries | Tagged: army, ballerinas, baseball team, blog, cinema, compressionism, dance majors, drunk, Duquesne University, eBook, exposition, F. Scott Fitzgerald, father, flash fiction, fraternity, Gertrude Stein, Hemingway, jocks, John O'Hara, killing, library, mother, notebook, Pittsburgh, Point Park College, professors, school, short story ideas, short story writers, show don't tell, snack bar, student, unique method, Vietnam, writing fiction | Leave a Comment »