Novels
The University Six posted 4/14/16
Chapter 2
The next day, Joe attempted to sum it all up: “the ocean…is invincible.” No one replied, so Joe continued, “The ocean is like—“
“What does that have to do with this old oceanography professor I have?” Brian interrupted.
“That—this; this—that,” Joe repeated as his head moved left to right. “Think about all the knowledge your oceanography professor has about the ocean—he’s been studying it his whole life. He understands its power.” Joe’s eyes widened. “It’s life-giving; it’s life-taking. I mean, think of the drama, the sound, the—“
“Maybe the ocean is like an opera,” Jake chimed in as he thoughtlessly tapped a rhythm on the wooden porch railing. Last Saturday, as part of a requirement for his music history class, he had attended an opera performance—a modern version of Eugene Onegin by Tchaikovsky. Though Jake liked some of the drama, there wasn’t enough music in an opera. He wondered how he could explain that.
“Yes,” Joe said, leaning forward on the edge of his black bar stool, “the ocean is like an opera.”
“An endless opera,” Jake added. That was another problem—operas were too damn long.
“When you sit in that crowded opera house,” Joe said, “as with any transcendent artistic performance, time loses meaning.” Jake found himself nodding as Joe continued. “In the case of a good opera, it just washes over you: the sights—the costumes; the sound—of course, the music; the feeling as the story gets in to you. You can almost taste passion; you can almost smell the humanity as you sit—“
“I don’t want to be smelling the guy next to me,” Brian interrupted. “Besides, man, those things are like, you know, rest home gigs.” He shook his head. “What they smell like is death.”
“Don’t pick on old people,” Debra said. “One day you’ll be one, too.”
“I won’t be at any opera,” Brian scoffed.
“You are an opera,” Jake said.
Joe nodded appreciatively at Jake. “A prescient observation.”
The four of them—Joe, Brian, Jake, and Debra—lounged on the second floor porch of their apartment building. Jake and Debra sat on lawn chairs while Joe perched on his bar stool. Brian leaned against the porch railing. Joe spent a lot of time on the porch—he particularly liked the dogwood trees that flanked the front of the building and provided shade from the afternoon sun. Of the leaves of these semi-mature dogwood trees, the last vestiges of white could be seen before they turned summer green. From the parking lot below, the faded black asphalt snaked out to South Campus Avenue.
Joe turned to Jake. “Oh, hey, I almost forgot—did you go yesterday and get interviewed by Martha? Something about music?”
“Yeah,” Jake replied. “But it was a little weird.”
“Yeah? How so?”
Jake frowned. “Well, I guess it was because I had such a hard time answering the damn questions.”
Joe laughed. “But that’s good. It probably made you think. I mean, look at this conversation we’re having about the ocean—
“Funny that you think a conversation is when only you talk,” Brian interrupted.
“See how active it is—how everyone is chiming in?” Jake asked, indirectly acknowledging Brian’s observation without acknowledging its content. “It’s the type of give-and-take discussion Courtney should be having in her philosophy class.” Palms up, Joe stretched out his arms as if weighing two entities: “The ocean…the opera. These are powerful institutions. I mean, think of the ocean. It’s relentless; it’s immanent and overt…” As he continued talking, Jake silently mouthed the following to Brian: “Moses moment.”
You know Joe—Courtney once described the scene when Joe went off on one of his tangents—his eyes get wild, his voice gets loud…I wouldn’t be surprised if sometime his beard caught fire. They had started calling Joe’s tangents a “Moses moment.”
Brian leaned against the porch railing and smiled as Joe seemed to be reaching a climax concerning the ocean and its power. For dramatic effect, Joe even paused ever so slightly between each phrase: “Sing or shout—you won’t sound louder; spit and sputter—you will not drink; squint and strain—the salt will blind you; flail and fight—you will not win.” Here Joe inhaled slowly: “but breathe and listen”—he held up a slightly crooked index finger “—you may learn.”
Joe looked at Debra; she felt that he wanted a response from her. Debra shifted in the blue plastic lawn chair. She could have replied to Joe…but she didn’t. So decisive in the workplace, so tentative at home.
Finally Jake ventured a reply to Joe’s ocean soliloquy. “Sounds like a riddle from The Hobbit.”
“Smells about as fresh, too,” Brian added quickly.
At that moment, a yellow moving van entered the parking lot and stopped. A rumpled coupled caught Brian’s and Debra’s attention as the couple emerged from the van and stretched their arms to the sky.
“Looks like we have some new neighbors,” Brian said as he turned toward the parking lot and leaned over the rail.
To regain his audience, Joe pivoted his palms outward and slowly pushed his hands apart then together. “The sea pushes and pulls, pulls and pushes—does it want you or not?” He shrugged his own question. “It’s hard to learn from such ambivalence.”
“I like it,” Debra finally ventured, her attention back to Joe. “The idea…” She ran a hand through her dark hair before continuing, “maybe it’s more like a pulse, you know, something that you feel…but take for granted.”
“Yes…yes,” Joe nodded, turning to face Debra, “now we’re talking. Now we’re thinking.”
As they continued their conversation, the late spring sun continued its descent. A shadow grew in the porch corner. This illusion enhanced Courtney’s entrance as she seemed to materialize from her apartment doorway into a spotlight of sunlight. “What are you all looking at?” Courtney asked. She joined Brian at the railing.
Brian responded for all of them as he nodded toward the parking lot. “Sizing up the newbies,” he said.
From moving van to first floor apartment, the couple below bobbled and balanced four barstools, a small wooden bar, a neon “New York Giants” beer sign, and a huge black television across the lawn.
Joe chuckled as Jake and Debra bellied up to the railing, too. “People reposition themselves and their loved ones through time and space, through cities and states, for all sorts of reasons.”
Courtney looked at Joe then turned and smirked at Brian.
“There are, however, undeniable desires that inspire people to live near the ocean: the climate, the seafood, the sunbathing, the surfing,” Joe continued, oblivious to Courtney’s smirk. “Some find the seashells they’ve been searching for. Others bring their restlessness with them…and never surrender it."
Brian playfully poked Courtney’s shoulder and without turning around, he said to Joe, “Man, you are on a roll today!” Courtney giggled, so Brian continued. “Where do you come up with your…you know, insights?”
“He’s a creative writing guy,” Jake said, “that’s his job.” Jake only tended to talk when in comfortable environments. And though standing next to Debra added an extra layer of nervousness, he made the attempt in order to impress her.
“Yeah, well, he can write my PSY 101 paper,” Brian said, “that’s a lode of fiction, too.” Though the roommates were the same size—about 5’10—Brian’s quicker wit and stocky build made him appear “bigger” than Jake.
“Of course, there are other, less aesthetic reasons why people from northern states flock to the south eastern seaboard,” Joe continued, “to snatch up affordable coastline, to retire to gated communities, to thaw out.”
“My roommate—before Amy, before we moved here,” Courtney said, “this goth-girl I had to room with in the dorms last semester, like, her parents moved all the way from New Jersey just to live here while she goes to Coastal.”
“So what?” Jake asked.
“Well, one of my co-workers gew up here,” Debra chimed in, “and she always says that people, you know, these transplants, come here and bring money and funny accents…but they’re happy to be here, you know? But she also complains—this is her list, I hear her say it almost every day during the summer—that they also swarm the beaches, jam up traffic along route 17, plant peonies—which always die— demand chain restaurants, and—maybe the worst thing—” and here her dramatic pause made her feel like Joe—“they don’t like grits.”
“Yeah, well I don’t like grits, either,” said Courtney.
“What do you know?” Brian demanded. “You’re like the people she’s talking about—you’re from New York.”
“Hey, I’m, from New York, too.” Amy interrupted. Granola bar in hand, Amy had walked out of her and Courtney’s apartment just as Debra mentioned the grits.
“And I happen to love grits,” Amy said to Brian. “So there.”
And now all six of them were present on the porch.
“OK, forget the food,” Joe directed. “Impress me. Describe that couple in one word.”
“Yankees,” Brian said.
“Idealists,” was Debra’s judgment.
“No fashion sense,” Courtney decided.
“Lyrics” said Jake.
“Who?” Amy asked. Joe pointed to the move-in couple in the parking lot.
“Lyrics?” Debra teased Jake with a smile.
Jake turned red and shrugged. “It’s the first word that sounded right.”
“At least you could describe them in only one word,” Joe said, looking at Courtney.
Courtney shook her blond head. “One word doesn’t describe the horror.” She dismissed the couple with a wave of her hand: “I mean, c’mon, look at him—black jeans? In this heat? And that turquoise top she has on has got be retired to Goodwill.”
“So poor people can wear out-of-fashion clothes?” Brian asked.
Courtney ignored Brian’s question, crossed her arms just below her chest, puffed up a bit, and turned to Joe: “Why do you ask such stupid questions anyway?”
Debra turned her head and saw Joe grin. One of Debra’s friends, upon meeting Joe, had asked Debra about him. Debra had simply shrugged. He can needle like the devil and soothe like a lover. She remembered being surprised to hear such a statement come from her mouth. Maybe these college kids are rubbing off on me after all, she had thought to herself at the time.
“First of all,” Joe said, replying to Courtney, “it wasn’t a question; it was a challenge.” He disregarded her pose and looked her squarely in the face. “And, there’s nothing stupid about it. If you mean stupid as in seemingly pointless, then I’d suggest that it’s for our mutual benefit—to stimulate your mind after a night of debauchery; and for me, a rehearsal for leading class discussions.”
“Yeah, well,” Courtney replied as she loosened her arms and patted her hair, “if you’re going to be a professor, you’ve got the boring part down—English classes are the worst.”
“If you’re bored, it just shows a lack of imagination,” Joe replied.
“Whatev,” Courtney said, sticking out her tongue.
“I can imagine all kinds of things,” Brian interrupted. “So be careful sticking out that tongue. You never know what might need licking.”
“Oh, get a life,” Amy said as she finished her granola bar and stuffed the wrapper in her pocket.
Ranging from freshman to grad student, the six of them attended Coastal Carolina University, which was two blocks from the University Place Apartments, two miles from the downtown Pineville bars, and five miles from the beach. Some students chose Coastal Carolina as much for the beach as for the university. Many students claimed a fascination for marine biology; but, they spent just as much time studying surf boards and swimsuits as reefs and mollusks.
Brian pulled a joint out of the pocket of his khaki cut-off cargo pants and said to Amy, “You’re just like Courtney. Those lips—”
“I am not just like Courtney,” Amy interrupted with a flash of anger.
“Hey,” Courtney said with a pout, “What’s wrong with being just like Courtney?”
“Isn’t that the title of a bad TV show?” Jake wanted to know.
“Those lips of yours, Amy,” Brian continued as he smoothly brandished a lighter, lit the joint, and inhaled, “those lips that you’re always flapping—you should wrap them around something sweet.” He offered the joint to Amy.
Amy frowned. “What the hell? Are you trying to get me kicked off the team?”
“Isn’t it a little early for pot?” As soon as she asked, Debra knew she sounded like a mother—or at least an older sister—but she couldn’t help it.
Brian hunched his shoulders closer to his chest and swayed as he rapped: “Never too early / never too late / joint smelling sweet / joint tasting great.” His shuffling, swiveling postures got a laugh out of everyone, Debra included.
“Not bad until the last line,” Jake said with nod. “Then it started to sound like a beer commercial.”
Brian ignored the comment and continued his swaying and mouth percussion.
“Why ‘idealists’?” Joe asked Debra. He was determined to continue the discussion about the move-in couple.
Brian finally stopped his rapping. Courtney glared at Joe, trying to recapture his gaze. Debra looked out at the other apartment building and considered Joe’s question. At first glance, few would guess that Debra was seven years older than Courtney or Amy. But her detached demeanor set her apart. Experience? Coldness? Jake thought about it—and if Joe had asked him to free associate—to compare a composer with Debra—Jake would’ve said Duke Ellington: sophisticated, elegant, and cool.
“Because they’re probably from the northeast,” Debra said, “looking for jobs, tired of the cold winters, and, you know, like you said, attracted to the warm weather...” She paused then continued, “and a chance at a better life.”
“And cheap real estate,” Jake chimed in.
Amy nodded, “Well if they’re looking for good jobs in this city, more power to ‘em. Unless they want to wait tables.”
“Yeah, April-fucking-fools on them,” Brian said.
“C’mon, man,” Joe admonished him. “You’ve almost got a year of college under your belt,” he motioned for Brian to hand him the joint, “Can’t you do better than that?”
“OK,” Brian replied, handing the joint to Joe then pointing to the couple, “I hope they BYOJ.”
“I know I’ll regret asking, I mean I can almost taste the stupidity here,” Amy said. “But what does BYOJ mean?”
As if in rhythm, Brian nodded four times and punched each word: “Bring.Your.Own. Jesus.”
The University Six a novel by Michael Hannaford copyright 2015
Chapter 1 posted 2/25/16
Investigation #1
Male Subject #1 (Jake)
Saturday, 5/12/01, 4:45pm
(Process for recording the investigation: Investigator utilizes the Sony MZ-R55 Portable MiniDisc and Recorder. Upon completion of each investigation, Investigator immediately types notes with compulsory interspersed observations.)
INVESTIGATOR: What is your favorite song?
MALE SUBJECT # 1: “Wait…you mean just one song?
INVESTIGATOR: Yes.
MALE SUBJECT # 1: Well, that’s hard to narrow down, you know?”
INVESTIGATOR: Subject seemed perplexed. He slowly inhaled and exhaled as he tilted his chin and gazed at the ceiling.
MALE SUBJECT #1: I mean, there are so many I could name…”
INVESTIGATOR: Perhaps you could give me four or five examples and that would…help you
choose.” Subject looked doubtful. (Background on subject is context significant and may explain the doubt: nineteen-year-old male; seemed introspective & strangely distrustful of audio microphone recording this interview. He glanced at it several times. Research indicates he is a music major; this may account for his difficulty in providing
what he assumed was an appropriate answer to the initial question.)
MALE SUBJECT # 1: Well, jazz is my thing, and Victor Wooten is one of my favorites. Of course, well so is Jaco Pastorius…I mean, it’s tough to decide. I guess I’d have to say one of my favorite songs is “A Portrait of Tracy” because it’s just…I mean, man, it was influential.
INVESTIGATOR: Subject’s repeated utilization of “I mean” could indicate a frustration with verbal expression.
MALE SUBJECT # 1: All those harmonics—I mean, classical guitarists have used them forever…of course, some rock guys—well, like Steve Howe—he used them a lot in “Roundabout.”
INVESTIGATOR: Subject seemed to be waiting for a response from the Investigator, but, as instructed, this Investigator strove to simply inquire, record, and let the subject speak.
MALE SUBJECT # 1: Don’t you know Yes?
INVESTIGATOR: What?
MALE SUBJECT # 1: Do you know Yes?
INVESTIGATOR: Yes?
MALE SUBJECT # 1: Subject nodded vigorously. Yes!
INVESTIGATOR: Wait—are you asking me a question or answering a question?
MALE SUBJECT # 1: The band—have you heard of the band named “Yes”?
INVESTIGATOR: Oh—hah, I see the confusion—it’s a band’s name. Isn’t that amusing? It was like a Laurel and Hardy moment, wasn’t it?
MALE SUBJECT # 1: What?
INVESTIGATOR: Never mind. I apologize for my extraneous comment. Let’s get back on track…let’s see…from my notes you were expounding upon “harmonics” which I believe refer to the overtones produced by a fretted instrument.
MALE SUBJECT # 1: Well…yeah, that’s right. I mean, hey, that’s pretty good—not many people know that. Anyway, rock guys don’t usually use harmonics, especially bassists. I play bass, by the way...you know, that’s my primary instrument.
INVESTIGATOR: Very good.
MALE SUBJECT # 1: And yes, I like Geddy Lee. And yes, Rush is a great band though I’m not what you would call a Rush fanatic. And yes, “Red Barchetta” is a good song.
INVESTIGATOR: Subject obviously has technical musical expertise and became more effusive as he detailed his musical proficiency. “So, your favorite is this “Red Barchetta” song? Interesting—I’m unfamiliar with the term. Do you—
MALE SUBJECT # 1: But you would think that Kind of Blue would be…you know, you’d have to mention it…if you’re talking jazz—which, like I said, is my thing. But maybe it’s too, you know, too much of a cliché?
INVESTIGATOR: Can you explain? Are you talking about this…“Red Barchetta” song?
MALE SUBJECT # 1: No, no. Kind of Blue is the album by Miles Davis that most people know—you know, when they think of jazz—they think of Kind of Blue. Do you know Miles Davis?
INVESTIGATOR: Yes, I am familiar with the influential trumpeter, arranger, band leader, and composer.
MALE SUBJECT # 1: Well, yeah, cool. You got it again. Anyway, if people own a jazz album, this is one of the ones they own. Just for that reason, I mean, you’d think that I’ve known that album all my life. And sure, I’ve heard all the songs...I’ve heard them a lot, but I never tried to play them or really study them until I wrote a paper for my Music 112 class last fall. Now I’m learning all those songs.
INVESTIGATOR: All right. So…what is your favorite song?
MALE SUBJECT # 1: M1 laughed as if he had been told a very funny joke. You just said it.
INVESTIGATOR: What?
MALE SUBJECT # 1: Right. Let’s say my favorite song is “So What."
