Seventh Section of ''Hypocorism'' (ROUND 1)
scent of the day: The Smell of Weather Turning
The Smell of Weather Turning (2010, Simon Constantine)—a fresh-woody fragrance that, perfect to wear while reading a book and drinking tea during a storm, feels like a blood sibling of Reflection 45, both focusing on herbal-clean textiles like linen (Reflection 45 zooming more on the textiles themselves, laundered but out for use long enough to have been drooled upon, whereas The Smell of Weather Turning homes in more on the mothballs there to preserve stored textiles)—
places me in a root cellar (stone-dirt walls, musty hay straw strewn about for moisture control, rotten oak containers for coal, warped oak shelving for beets and carrots as well as rusted cans and honey jars) on a day charged with static aroma and darkened by impending rain (the cellar’s rotten-framed quarter window letting in not only the gray light of a dreary Pacific Northwest right out of The Goonies but also the mineralic stormfront winds that, whipping line-hung bedsheets outside, swirl the cellar’s musty air of medicinal menthol),
this ozonic-yet-enclosed atmosphere largely a function of a throat-cooling aftershave aroma reminiscent of a cross between 70 percent Burning Barbershop and 30 percent Memoir Man (eucalyptus-like bay leaf, icy-blue peppermint, wild-green mint, and an eerie smokiness perhaps from the burnt-tobacco hay) plus a fresh-linen airiness reminiscent of Reflection Man (medicinal-appley chamomile, vegetal-grassy nettle, jasmine-neroli beeswax)—
the overall effect being an herbal-ozonic fragrance that, mainly through the beeswax and mint (one of the better mints in my collection), captures such a beautiful tension between waxen warmth and chilled airness that I cannot help but picture a boy on an overcast day down in a basement sneaking tastes of stored buckwheat honey, the pervasive aroma of cedar-reinforced mothballs down there mixing with the malty-musky sweetness in his mouth.
*Let's workshop the seventh section of my story, novel-length now, that examines the intricate power dynamics and linguistic structures at play in a man's passionate relationship with a girl he deems too young.
Seventh Section of “Hypocorism”
Among the excited bodies exiting the school, she stood out with the solitary clarity of a crimson coat set against an ominous wash of overcast grisaille. He thought of her awed by the stars on the hood, as if it had been years ago instead of a span measurable in hours. Her little body trudged up the sidewalk to the car. He shook his head with giggles of air exhaled from his nostrils, unable to take his eyes off his cutie pie.
An evident funk weighed down her posture. He put on a frown himself, with a little audible hmmph, at the realization. Wiping his top gums dry with his shirt collar and tucking his top lip high above his teeth in a doofy face tilted to the left, he tried to get her to giggle. She gave one of those brittle smiles of chagrined courtesy, her lips locked in a humoring curve deadset on showing no teeth. He widened his eyes into a goggle stare, thinking of Heaven’s Gate broadcasts well before her time, and leaned forward until his forehead smooshed against the windshield. That rubbery gurn did provoke some give in the girl, dimples deepening enough that her composure seemed on the verge of cracking. But she held fast to her sunk-shoulder defeat and flared-nostril snarl, the deep furrow of her brows perfectly telegraphing what came.
She threw her stuff in the back and slammed the door. He decided to wait before wiping the grease spot on the glass with a leftover napkin. She plopped down in the front, as if she were herself just a knapsack, and shut out the world with a yank that yielded an even meatier clunk. His nostrils trilled in the ferric plume of tang—mistakable for rose oxide were it not as warm as thumbed pennies or as musky as lippy groin.
“I’m quitting school. You with a GED bitch now so.”
“Whoa now.”
“You see how heated I am?”
“Yes.”
“This Mrs. Heeley bitch—. Tch. I swear.”
“What?”
“She say I can’t do my project.”
“What project baby?”
“The stupid Persona project.”
“John Adams too white?”
“She say I have to do the diary when he was older cuz that’s when it connect to slavery.”
“So it has to connect to slavery? Those are the rules? That’s—.”
“The theme of this whole shit is triumph—like triumph over obstacles and oppression. But racism ain’t the only obstacle and oppression.”
“So what did she say?”
“Stupid shit.”
“Be fair please.”
“She say this nigga privileged, living in high society, and all that. But when he went against slavery, that was like going against that privilege. She go: ‘Slavery a real obstacle, a systemic obstacle.’ She act like all the other shit when he was young aint big.”
“Well, he is white so.”
“Stop.”
“So what you say?”
“I said he wasn’t just privileged. This nigga’s father was like ‘you a sin against America if you just be some regular nigga.’”
“Dropped all them n-bombs?”
“I’m just heated.”
“I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
“That’s it really. Like obstacles depend one where you coming from. If you an NBA nigga, an NBA man, than touching the rim aint an obstacle. But what if you ordinary? Feel me?”
“I do.”
“So even if we be like yeah he was privileged he still had to overcome his own fear and work hard to meet his dad’s expectations. That fits with the theme: triumph.”
“I mean, I guess it does.”
“You guess? You sound like this bitch.”
“I mean—.”
“Cuz if a bitch tryna think bigger, that was like practice for the shit she want to talk about.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“What?
“That you would connect it—you know, more toward his later abolitionist stuff.”
“No.
“And maybe you can do the best of both worlds. Maybe you can make that point more explicit somehow—like write from the child’s perspective but allude in a child’s way to the slavery issue. It is easy to make a parallel, like as he reflects on his own challenges, with the challenges of slaves. I don’t know.”
“. . . .”
“But you’re saying she won’t even let you do the kid-era Adam, right?”
“No. It’s just a ‘suggestion.’ Tch. But you know how that go.”
“Well, don’t you think she’ll respect it if you connect what you want to do with what she wants you to do? Maybe you can enlighten her.”
“Nigga, you say so yourself. Not everything gotta connect to the slavery shit. So I’ll just be validating that shit. And what if I don’t want to do that. And second, and this is what gets me crazy heated, Maya in there doing Frederick Douglass and she doing him when that nigga was young like when he learning to read in secret and all that.”
“You bring that up?”
“Tch. What you think?”
“Okay.”
“But she aint tryin to hear the shit. Douglass learning to read was ‘resistance.’ Adams a learning all these languages, exploring the world, studying all this shit as a damn kid—that was privilege, like when Trump got all these buildings from his dad or whatever.”
“She said that.”
“Yes.”
“Can I be honest for a second, though?”
“Fine.”
“What you’re not seeing, baby, is that Young Douglass’s story—that’s essential for humanizing a figure often seen only as some greater than life hero. Young Adams’s story, on the other hand—by focusing on that, you are participating in the centering of whiteness.”
“Nigga I hate you. You sound just like the bitch.”
“Damn, man. I really am sorry. And I’m sorry for cracking jokes too. I just like to see my pumpkin smile. I’m not trying to make light of this.”
“Don’t be sorry. Tch. Cuz I aint even gonna do the shit. Imma protest the shit.”
“Girl. Come on.”
“I’m sorry. I’m being a damn whole kid right now.”
“. . . .”
“I’m just venting. I’m not going around complaining. You just my person.”
“Girl. I know you. I know you don’t mean you’re going to drop out.”
“It’s just frustrating.”
“Knowing what I know at least (and, I mean, there could be more), it does seem unfair.”
“It is unfair.”
“Yes. But—. A couple things I should say. (1) I support you, whatever you decide. (2) Understand there are consequences for breaking the rules, even stupid ones. So you gotta be prepared for that. (3) Ask yourself whether this is a hill you want to die on. You gotta pick your battles.”
“I know. You say that.”
“It’s not just about conserving energy. Your default is to push back. That’s what you do. You rock the boat. And that’s wonderful. But that’s extra reason to consider maybe just jumping through the hoop. It’s good character development. I mean you get skill in doing something you don’t want to do—not just the topic but following something that isn’t fair. I mean, obviously if the consequences were crazy, then you oppose. But that goes back to pick your battles. Maybe save the fire and just do the shit how she wants. That’s just a suggestion. I mean, also it’s your grade on the line. You could put your protest somewhere better. Sometimes, jumping through the hoop isn’t ‘giving up’—it’s stealth.”
“Says the nigga who offend everybody.”
“Remember girl, I do got your back. Shit, if possible I’d go to your teacher. But there are other solutions that maximize the benefits. Like if you do the project more in the vein she wants you develop some practice balancing yourself out. Because believe me. If my baby girl was the opposite, always just playing by the rules and never questioning shit—yeah, I might even recommend you being more aggressive. You see the point? But nah, you can get a good grade and—. Fuck. After the semester, if it really means that much, write a letter to the school or superintendent or whatever. I don’t know. But you see what I’m saying?”
“Tch. I do. You always makin sense nigga. Sometimes a bitch just wanna be angry. Dead.”
“But just to be clear—.”
“Here we go.”
“No. I mean—. I just want to be sure you realize this isn’t just me saying ‘be strategic.’ I mean, strategy is part of it no doubt. Because if you learn how to be a team player and comply when need be, that builds trust points. And then when you later want to rock the boat, people feel the shit. They know you’re not just being difficult again.”
“I feel that.”
“You build up rebellion capital.”
“. . . .”
“But its more than tactics. That’s my point. It’s like lifting weights. It’s easy to do the work you love, like it’s easy to sit on the couch. It takes a different kind of strength to do what you don’t want to do. You building skills. It prepare you for all the boring shit: the meeting the certifications all the boring shit.”
“Yes.”
“So it’s bigger than just the project.”
“I know. I heard you. Cuz I’m a defiant-ass bitch as it is so this good practice.”
“I couldn’t have put it better.”
“Dead.”
“But really there’s so much. Like you don’t know everything. So even if something doesn’t make sense or seems unjust, that doesn’t mean it is. Keep that perspective too. A lot of these hoops in place—. Yeah, some are dumb. But some come from a lot of trial and error. I mean—. And we’re in this time when students are always trying to get out of shit. In some way, doing the damn assignment is a bigger revolt. I don’t know. It’s good for the soul in a way. It’s about mastering temperament.”
“Yes. I get it. I get it.”
“I’m not trying to dilute you. Like I said, you can write a letter. That would have more activism-oomph than failing the assignment.”
“Luckily I can’t fail cuz I still get a 50 even if I don’t do the shit.”
“But girl, do the shit.”
“I will. You know that.”
“I know you’re a disruptor. That’s your superpower. But if you can’t turn it off, it can become a danger. You don’t want resistance to just be a reflex. You want to control it. Feel me? Like your boy Naruto, right?”
“Dead.”
“Even Naruto gotta know when not to crash out.”
“Oh my God. Stop.”
“Speaking of crash out, shit man—I wish you could be driving me around sometimes. My hip all fucked up sitting like this.”
“You want to be passenger princess? I’m the passenger princess.”
“I just want to be able to get drunk over here while you drive me around.”
“You don’t even drink.”
“Imagine you drivin. Fuckin you!”
“Tch. I can drive good.”
“You aint drivin no good mahfucker. We have to get you a phone book and a brick.”
“Nigga you aint even that much taller than me.”
“So you can drive?”
“Tch.”
“That a yes?”
“I been answered you.”
“Okay. We’re about to see.”
“What you mean?”
“Mahfuckin stomach sinkin huh? Nope you drivin.”
The gravel crunched as the sedan climbed the road winding to the top of the cemetery hill. “Why you going so fast?” He did not answer. He threw the car into park and stepped out as soon as they got up to their spot. She sat there looking forward, into the city of headstones, as he tapped her window with his knuckle. “Miss. Oh Miss. Come on now.” She folded her arms. “Call me old fashioned but I gotta see the shit to believe it.”
The cooling fan kicked on in a woosh, the idling sound dropping into a grumble pitch. “Talk is cheap.” She refused to look at him. He opened the door. “Get your ass out.” She giggled as he fought to get the hand tucked under a forearm. He pulled her out by the wrist. He could tell she was nervous—the first time he had seen her like that.
She took her sweet time walking around the car. He let the silence play out after she shut the door to him waiting there, looking forward like she had been. “So you gonna tell me what to do?” He turned in his seat. “I thought you already knew.” His look blended skepticism and amusement, the skepticism part only an act. Portions of her face seemed to be twitching. “Stop,” she said, but she was already scooting her seat forward and adjusting the rearview. He buckled his seat belt with a loud click and pulled everything tight like one does right before the roller coaster starts.
“Can you stop? I’m nervous.” Her words came out with clicking sounds, her tongue sticky and uncooperative. He could not keep up the act with cuteness so parched and trembled. “You actually are doing good. You adjusted the mirror all by yourself.” He could see her struggling to swallow. “Shouldn’t I just sit on your lap at first?” He opened up his water jug and raised it to her. “No, you’re big enough.” She tilted her mouth and he poured some in. She swallowed and opened again for him. “You got this all by yourself.”
Her face was flushed but her countenance accepting. “So this one’s the brake?” He leaned over into the muggy warmth hovering over her thighs, a clean line of demarcation like a warm patch in the seas. Her nerves had emphasized the oniony metallics of her sourdough musk, twisting her native gameyness—fatty like a lamb—in a direction one would call “rancid” if that word were not so weighed down by a value judgment at odds with slurpable. “Yes. But you use the other foot.”
She cracked her window. “But wait. So I only use one foot?” He wanted to kiss the pulse at her neck. “If this were a manual car you would use your left for the clutch, to shift gears. This is easy.” She breathed through pursed lips. “Put your hands up here—ten and two.” She put her hands at the top of the wheel and sat up tall.
“You ready?” She nodded, looking ahead. “Now press down on the brake.” The car revved. “The other brake, girl.” She looked at him. “I’m sorry.” She was so beautiful in the oblique light through the tree horizon. “No biggie. That was just the engine revving. So yeah, press it—the brake. Hold it down.” She looked forward again and followed his order. He needed to marry her, he knew it then. “You feel good?” She nodded.
“Okay. So you are going to keep that right foot frozen on the brake. And just to let you know, that is what you press if you ever get worried. That is how you stop.” He took her right hand in his and placed it on the shifter. “Press the thumb button. And then pull it all the way down into
‘Drive.’” He took his hand away. “D,” she whispered. “Just follow the grooves. You won’t mess anything up.”
The car bucked a bit but she pressed harder on the brake. She exhaled a shaky breath. “All you are going to do now is lift your right foot off the brake, very slowly, and let the car roll. You’ll feel the car want to go.” She hesitated, her foot refusing to let go. “It’s okay. Just keep the wheel pointed that way.”
With a subtle shift in the engine’s low hum, the car gave a gentle shudder and began to creep forward. “I don’t want to hit our bird.” The gravel beneath the tires changed from a crunching stop to a slow rolling scritch-scritch. “That motherfucker had the sense to get as far away from you as possible.” She did not laugh. “See how slow it is? Now keep your foot over that brake. We’ll just practice steering. Bring us right into the open over there.”
He felt the vicarious joy as he watched the smile on her face. The slight rise had the car barely moving. He pretended to fall asleep with loud snores. “Stop,” she yelled. “Baby, just give it some gas.” The car lurched forward and then stopped. “Light on the pedal. That one’s sensitive. But good instinct on that brake.” She looked at him, searching his eyes. He knew he had to give her babies. “Same thing, just lighter on the gas.”
The car started moving again. “Just press the gas a bit and release to slow down. Only press the brake when you need to. But remember, you are only using that right foot.” The car picked up speed. “Oh shit! There you go!” She started turning the wheel. He did not have to remind her. “Yeah, bring it wide out over here. Turn it more. And then we’ll circle around the other way.”
In the field of future plots, she made several laps. “Am I doing good?” He gave her a smooch on her cheek. “You’re doing great. And you can go faster. Just keep looping.” She drove around in that loop, a left-turned ellipse until he had her cut across her little track so she could feel what it was like to loop around the other way. Once her shoulders dropped away from her ears and she realized she actually had control, he encouraged her to go faster. “Press the bitch a little bit.” And she did. The growth of wholeness here did not mean the destruction of wholeness.
“Am I wasting all your gas?” she asked as she sped up even more—little vrooming bursts of boundary testing. “Nah, baby. Keep going all you want. Do some doughnuts in the bitch. Fuck it.” Her smile was bright as she looked ahead, leaning her head towards him a bit every time she looped around the sharpest portion of the right-hand curve. He pushed her hair back so he could see her little baby ear, so cute that nibbling it could too easily go too far into blood.
Just watching her happy profile brought on feelings of warmth and rejuvenation—that painkilling oxytocin, that pick-up-time-from-daycare exhale, heroin junkies go on about. “Before I met you,” he said, “I used to think a person could find only what they believed they could find.” She did not look over at him. She just said, “I know right?” He gave her earlobe a little tug and turned forward, closing his eyes in silence so sleepy that he thought for a second her “I love you” came from his own mouth.
A dwindling part of him—a panicked part always vying to heighten pleasure (the same part that would leave the Eden of the event by making sure to photograph it; the same part that needed to light the cigarette as soon as the band started playing his favorite song)—wanted to ask her why she loved him. But he already knew. And even if he did not know, he would not have asked. One reason she loved him was precisely that. He had reached, or at least made great progress toward reaching, the level (because of her, so it felt to him) where he did not place himself, or at least some myopic conception of himself, so central that he would interrupt this moment—this divine-child engrossment where even the deepest anxiety about the deepest why dropped away—with such a question.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)
