FOUR SHORT STORIES by David Brian Troester A project submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF ARTS IN ENGLISH WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY Ogden, Utah April 23.2015 Approved frj CftnirruA /ff- (Dr. Hal Crimmel) (Dr. Russ Burrows) Contents Monograph "Creative Writing Project: The Process" 3 Creative Short Fiction "Disciples" 15 "The Right Thing" 29 "Butter" 38 "The Devil Wars Blue Jeans" 43 Troester 3 DB Troester Professor Sian Griffiths MENG 6940 10 April 2015 Creative Writing Project: The Process Inspiration propels individuals to action, triggering and harnessing their passions and deepest desires and emotions and talents. All that is good within human beings, within mankind, is marshaled through inspiration to bring about creativity that may result in sculptures, paintings and other artworks, music that shakes and stirs our souls, or words on a page that bring characters to life and move our hearts and minds to new thoughts and directions. Inspiration cannot be documented or proven by scholarly means, but it is part of my writing process and I sought inspiration as I wrote the four short stories in this creative writing project. The parts of my stories that entertain, enrapture and enliven readers' hearts and minds, came through inspiration from God. That said, I will focus this monograph on the work and craft that went into writing the stories and into revising them and what I learned in the process. I will address my intentions regarding my stories, struggles along the way, how I overcame those struggles, and I will touch on inspiration. My preparation for this Master of Arts in English capstone project included seven courses in literature, rhetoric, and literary theory, as well as two fiction-writing courses and a directed reading in short fiction. The project spanned Fall 2014 and Spring 2015 semesters. Writing took place in the fall and revision in the spring. Troester 4 Drafting in the fall was a nerve-racking process foil of self-doubt: What if the words don't come? (Sometimes they didn't.) What if the stories are really bad? (Sometimes they were.) What if I fail? (A real possibility.) Such insecurities plagued me, but I had to put away my "fear of incompetence" (Johnston 29) and address the task at hand. Deadlines set in the initial project scope motivated me to stop worrying and produce the stories in a timely fashion. After drafts were complete, and feedback given from the project's three-person faculty committee, I realized that revision was more stressful than drafting. Ernest Hemingway said he wrote thirty-nine endings to A Farewell to Arms before settling on one. A discovery by Hemingway's grandson, Sean Hemingway, places that number at forty-seven endings. All were published in a 2012 edition of A Farewell to Arms (Bosman). This oft cited example showcases the discipline, focus, flexibility and perseverance it takes to write and rewrite fiction, and the lesson was not lost on me. Taking pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, to write fiction, requires a certain amount of confidence in one's skills, but also requires honest criticism and a willingness to bend to that criticism, to absorb it and apply it. The project committee filled this crucial role by providing constructive feedback to improve my stories. Criticism is the quickest and best route to improvement, and willing writers put aside egos, but not confidence, to improve their craft. This helps them to persevere and stretch their skills. Writing in general is an organization of thought. The more organized a writer's thoughts, the clearer the writing and truer the structure. It is no secret that I was a journalist for the better part of twenty years, which makes me familiar with structure and clarity. Troester 5 Journalistic practices, such as quoting sources, served me well. Journalists balance summary and quotations within articles, and in my short stories, I balanced summary and scene, and the scenes are mostly dialogue, or in journalism parlance, quotations. In a sense, journalism had prepared me to write dialogue. However, rigid parameters of objective news writing were a disadvantage to writing fiction. That includes adherence to fact and linear chronology and a tendency to explain and "tell" everything to readers. I had to discard these practices to achieve clarity and depth in my short stories. Readers bring stories to life by identifying and empathizing with characters and themes and plots. Stories must be clear for this to happen. In the draft of "The Craft," retitled "The Right Thing" in revision, my intent was to focus on the double entendre of "the craft." I had wanted to lead the audience to thinlc the main character, Severus, practiced "witchcraft," although he actually practiced "the craft" of writing. The first draft directed readers down a path toward witchcraft. Severus was named after the Harry Potter dark arts character Severus Snape, and there were other references from the J.K. Rowling series, as well as a reference to Stephen King's Under the Dome, and many general allusions to witchcraft. This draft also contained allusions to the craft of writing, including characters named for John Steinbeck, Stephenie Meyer and Robert Frost. It incorporated plagiarized lines from poems by John Keats, William Shakespeare and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. This two-pronged approach was a mistake. I had developed "competing story lines" (Schappell 224), and even worse, I had imposed my theme on the characters to make the story "about" something. "Aboutness is all but terminal in fiction" (Johnston 23). "When a fiction writer has a message to deliver, a Troester 6 residue of smugness is often in the prose, a distressing sense of the story's being rushed, of the author's going through the motions, hurrying the characters toward whatever wisdom awaits on the last page" (Johnston 27). That is what I had attempted to do, as pointed out by project committee member Dr. Hal Crimmel: "You as writer were trying to steer the readers' interpretation a little too directly" (Project: Story 2). I struggled to revise "The Craft" because I had tailored the story to fit my double- entendre theme. I had always thought that a story started with an idea and then it was my job as a writer to shape the characters and plot to fit that idea or theme. The suggestion of independent character development perplexed me, but through committee feedback, I realized I needed to learn to develop characters. At the recommendation of Committee Chair Dr. Sian Griffiths, I read Ron Carlson Writes a Story, by Ron Carlson. The book details his process of writing "The Governor's Ball," a short story set in Salt Lake City. Carlson points out that items in a story are inventory. "This notion of inventory is an important consideration in creating character. Everything you give a character is another element in his or her definition and will help determine the weight s/he gives or receives in a story" (Carlson 33). Inventory begins with a character's body. "The attributes you give the body should play a part in the story and not feel like furniture we need to lug along" (Carlson 34). In revising "The Craft," I described the physical attributes of Angie and Ted (formerly Severus), which led to attraction between them and sexualization of the characters, which led to intercourse, which led to pregnancy and the central conflict of the story. Thus, applying character development through inventory, led to overall story development. Troester 7 Throughout the project, I studied the elements of conflict because my stories either lacked it or the conflicts lacked intensity. My draft of "The Craft" had established different social groups for Angie and Severus and I enhanced that in the revision, which helped intensify the conflict. "Give characters vastly different backgrounds or outlooks based on upbringing so that what is important to one may mean nothing to the other" (Hill). The central conflict in the story is that Angie wants an abortion and Ted, the blue-collar headbanger from the poor side of town, wants to marry and keep the baby. "We're looking for small acts that reveal character. Action is narrative evidence. It proves as it goes" (Carlson 36). Angie had wanted to use Ted to write her English paper, but she also was attracted to him, and she seduced him, which resulted in the looming conflict. And despite Ted's wrong-side-of-the-tracks upbringing, he sought to do the traditional right thing and give the child a father. My revision of "The Craft," retitled "The Right Thing," bore no similarities to the first draft. The characters, plot and story had changed. The revision contained developed characters and substantive conflict that the first draft lacked, and although it requires further development and revision, some of which will occur beyond the scope of this project, I'm confident great strides have been made. I am on the right track to creating a quality short story. The writing style of "Butter" is patterned after George Saunders' Tenth of December, a story collection written in stream of consciousness, also known as interior monologue. I had read the collection in my directed reading course. The style appealed to me because it eliminates the filter of a narrator. Most of the action in "Butter" occurs through characters' thoughts. Committee feedback taught me about "the thing" and the Troester 8 "other thing" in storytelling (Griffiths, "Creative Writing Project Story 3"). The "thing" in "Butter" is the surface story about Stella. As an elderly woman in a care facility, she is paranoid and her mind is muddled. This is apparent to the audience. The "other thing" is below the surface: Stella feels helpless in her circumstances and abandoned by her husband whom she has outlived. I relied on Hemingway's iceberg theory, which in effect says the real depth of a story is that which a writer leaves out. It is below the surface, yet discernible to readers. "If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water" (Hemingway 192). To me, that's the "other thing," the revelations and questions raised from below the surface, the thought-provoking impact a writer hopes to bring about from the undercurrent of a story. In "Butter," the undercurrent, or iceberg below the surface, is that Stella acts out because she misses her dead husband. This "other thing" is found in below-the-surface glimpses throughout the story, but never stated outright. In revising "Butter," I worked to make this "other thing" more apparent, but not obvious. Scenes in the first draft that had relied on straight-forward exposition were transformed in the revision to reveal action through stream of consciousness. I altered the ending to reflect this through the secondary character, Charlie, while employing Hemingway's Iceberg Theory to let readers intuit the "other thing." In the story's last paragraph, Charlie alludes to the "other thing," but never clearly states that Stella misses her husband. Troester 9 "The Devil Wears Blue Jeans" started as a story about the devil appearing casually in Salt Lake City and entering Paul Adams' life to plant seeds of doubt. Paul goes to work for the devil, and God later enters as the devil's partner, and makes Paul's life a living hell by overworking him and imposing strict adherence to his standards. In my first draft, Paul had a loving girlfriend. In the revision, he has a pregnant wife and young daughter. This raised the stakes and added tension to the story (Griffiths, "Writing Project Fourth Story"). I added scenes between Paul and his wife Marcy to make the characters more rounded. This built tension and conflict, ultimately showing that the temptation of a high-paying job put their marriage at risk. By placing the devil and God in partnership, the story raises questions of the nature of their existence as well as the nature of faith and belief. After completing the revision, I recognized the story was wordy and needed to be shortened for flow and clarity, to keep readers interested. I set it aside and a couple days later returned to it and identified paragraphs and sentences that could be cut, that did not serve purpose or add to the story. The longer I refrain from working on a story without reading it, the fresher my perspective when I return to it, which allows me to see areas ripe for improvement. I hacked away "at the overgrowth of nonessential scenes, dialogue, and action" (Schappel 224). This final process in revision made the story better. "Ten Virgins" is the first story I submitted of the four in the project, and the one that appeals to me the most. It was retitled "Disciples" in revision. I started with an idea, that Jesus appears to a modern-day Mormon boy, Jake Simonsen, and other Mormons disbelieve and persecute him. The irony is apparent when one reflects on the founding of Troester 10 the Mormon church, which resulted from a similar story related in 1820 by fourteen-year- old Joseph Smith (49). I had tried to build plot and develop my characters to fit this central theme, which resulted in shallow characters and weak plot. I had to learn to develop realistic characters, and to develop believable and strong conflict within the story. I patterned "Ten Virgins" after Miguel de Unamuno's "Saint Manuel the Good, Martyr." Unamuno's story works well in exploring the nature of faith in a coherent and well-structured format with clear voice and direction. It is told in first person point of view as a memoir in which the narrator, Angela Carballino, confesses that her deceased parish priest did not believe in afterlife. She writes her memoir to set the record straight, as beatification for the priest is initiated. In my first draft of "Ten Virgins," I employed a similar first person narrator, Dani, who in revision became Rosa Garcia. I changed the first person point of view to third person, but after consulting with Dr. Griffiths, and because of my affinity for the original narrative mode, I later reinstated the first person point of view. I also turned Rosa's story into a confession. As I wrote in first person point of view, characters took on attributes of their own and the story developed into a moving tale of teen relationships and pressures, spread on a canvas of faith, broken trust, tragedy and confession. Details came to my mind and fell into place to forge meaningful plot developments. A good example of this is Jake's suicide. The idea struck like lightning and surprised me when I wrote it. I also sought opportunities throughout the text to add conflict, and to relay details that enhanced Jake's descent into despair (Griffiths, "Revised Story"). I added a scene in which Jake argues with his mother and receives an ultimatum that if he mentions the vision, he will be expelled from her house. In another added scene, Troester 11 Jake's schoolmates intensify his torment, and his abandonment becomes complete. I piled on conflict so my protagonist felt isolated and under attack from friends and enemies (Hill). All of this added tension to the story to reach the climax of Jake's suicide. This was topped by the sad resolution of Rosa's confession that she was the underlying cause of bullying that led to Jake's death. I have explained in this monograph my process to write and revise four short stories in my capstone creative writing project. I have outlined the knowledge and skills I've gained. Two of the most significant and useful lessons include: 1. To let characters take on lives of their own, and 2. To ensure every story has substantive conflict. As a writer, I create the characters, but I should not dictate who they become. I have to allow my characters to lead their own lives, to let them develop independently of my plan and intended path for them, just as God allows human beings to exercise agency without imposing his will on them. I applied Dr. Griffiths' counsel to push away the big ideas and focus on the details and minutiae in character development ("Creative Writing Project Story 3), which resulted in deeper and more lifelike characters and scenes. Adhering to these principles, and applying myself in writing and revision, proved a sound path to meaningful character development. I've never been a fan of conflict for conflict sake, but this project taught me that conflict makes a story interesting and worthwhile. "You need motivation to steer the plot, to give it direction, but conflict is the propulsion" (Hill). I learned to build conflict in increments by creating tension between Troester 12 characters from scene to scene. "Your characters can't always work and play well together, for the simple reason that you'll bore your readers" (Hill). In brief conclusion, I've learned and applied the following elements to craft a good short story: • Contemplation — All stories start in the mind, and perhaps in the heart, and then you commit those thoughts and ideas and feelings to the page. • Writing — It takes diligent and focused labor to write short stories. As mentioned previously, that includes careful character development, and instilling conflict so that it touches every aspect of a story. • Flexibility — To be humble is to be tcachable. I had to be willing to accept and apply advice from the committee to improve my stories. • Revision — First drafts lead to second drafts, to third drafts and dozens of drafts. The real work of crafting stories is in revision, and in being unafraid to rewrite. I discarded nearly the entire first drafts of "Ten Virgins" and "The Craft," and started from scratch in my revisions. • Shorten — When a story is done, don't read it for a week or more. When you return to it, look to cut scenes, sections, paragraphs, sentences and words that do not serve purpose. • Inspiration — There are heart-quickening moments (Carlson 90) when a story takes on life of its own, when the writing surpasses the expectations of the writer, when an idea arises from seemingly nowhere and turns the story in a fabulous direction and it grows and builds and takes on greater life than the Troester 13 writer could have imagined. This is inspiration and I felt it while writing this project. Now I come to the completion of this monograph, which outlines my two- semester, creative writing project, which, in turn, caps four and one-half years of study in Weber State University's Master of Arts in English program. I have reached the end, and endings — in life and in fiction — can be hard to realize. They sometimes are joyous and sometimes sad and sometimes both. I haven't decided how I feel about reaching the end of my master's program, but one thing must be said: Thank you for the opportunity! Troester 14 Works Cited Bosman, Julie. "To Use and Use Not." The New York Times. 4 July 2012. n. pag. Web. 4 April 2015. Carlson, Ron. Ron Carlson Writes a Story. Saint Paul: Gray wolf Press, 2007. Print. Crimmel, Henry. "Project: Story 2." Message to the author. 28 Oct. 2014. E-mail. Griffiths, Sian. "Creative Writing Project Story 3." Message to the author. 21 Nov. 2014. E-mail. Griffiths, Sian. "Revised Story." Message to the autor. 28 Jan. 2015. E-mail. Griffiths, Sian. "Writing Project Fourth Story." Message to the author. 16 Dec. 2014. E- mail. Hemingway, Ernest. Death In the Afternoon. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1960. Print. Hill, Beth. "Conflict—Beyond Arguments and Fist Fights." TheEditorsBlog.net, 15 June 2011. Web. 6 April 2015. Johnston, Bret Anthony. "Don't Write What You Know." The Writer's Notebook II. Ed. Francine Prose. Portland: Tin House Books, 2012. 19-30. Print. Schappell, Elissa. "Endings." The Writer's Notebook II. Ed. Francine Prose. Portland: Tin House Books, 2012. 217-236. Print. Smith, Joseph. The Pearl of Great Price. Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1989. Print. Troester 15 Disciples By DB Troester Now that sufficient time has passed, I thought it right to put into words by way of confession the circumstances surrounding Jacob Simonsen's vision. Only God knows if he really saw what he said he saw, and only He knows if there's purpose in writing this. I remember my friend as if it were yesterday and I, Rosa Garcia, was a blossoming girl of fourteen. We were next-door neighbors in Salt Lake City's River Bottoms Ward of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Jordan River flowed through our poor neighborhood as a meandering swim-or-sink emblem of our faith and lives. We didn't have much, and we didn't want much. We believed Mormonism would save us from decay around us. As children, Jake and I were friends. We spent summer days skipping rocks across the river, or in Jake's case, throwing them at ducks, muskrats and anything that moved. His aim was awkward and he never hit anything, and I never tired of watching him try. He was lanky and pigeon-toed and wore glasses. No matter how he combed his hair, it never stayed put and he had a perpetual cowlick. His voice was timid and at times squeaky. He mostly wore baggy jeans and loose-fitting Ts that highlighted his bony physique. I was thin and tomboyish. I wore my long, black hair under a cap, and had wanted to cut it short, but Mama forbade it, saying it was my heritage. Jake and I were an unlikely pair but proximity and longing for friendship had brought us together. We swam in pools that formed in sharp bends of the river, though our parents told us not to, and we rode our bikes in the early morning along Goshen Avenue in search of Troester 16 elusive peacocks and peahens that bred in empty fields behind the old elementary school. We saw a peacock only once, with full plumage displayed in majestic glory, and told our tale to our parents, friends and teachers, but few believed us. We skateboarded along the Nine Line trail, and when we scraped together thirty- three cents, delighted in sweetbreads and cookies, three for a dollar, from the panaderia at the end of the Line. We camped in our backyards and roasted hotdogs and marshmallows on sticks over fires made from old pallets. Jake liked to play with open flame, and burned off his eyebrows once in a gasoline mishap. I laughed every time I saw his stubbled brow the next week. Mostly we did what we wanted in those carefree days of childhood, when endless possibility fed our dreams and made us believe in miracles. We had been schooled — Jake by his mom and me by my parents — to believe in God and to attend church and to defend the restored gospel. We recited the church's Articles of Faith in Primary every week and were assigned to speak once a year from the pulpit. We swore before the entire congregation that we belonged to the one true church. We were taught to believe in latter-day prophets and apostles and to be disciples of Christ, but I'm not sure either of us knew what any of that meant. Jake's life changed when he was fifteen and he claimed to have a vision and he was called to his annual interview with Bishop Porter. He came to my house that night and in the kitchen where so many times before we had laughed and talked and shared stories of the day, he sat without expression. I offered him a glass of water, but he just Troester 17 shook his head. I filled a glass for myself and waited a few minutes before asking, "What happened? Did you get in trouble with the bishop?" "My mom told him," he said. "Told him what?" "You know. She told him about the vision." "What did he say?" Jake took a deep breath and let out every detail, like a fountain that broke through a rock and flowed down a mountain and couldn't be stopped. "I sat in the hot seat, in the center of the bishop's office," Jake said, "and the bishop sat at his desk, all stern-faced." "He never smiles much," I said. "The interview was supposed to be about moving up in the priesthood, about me becoming a priest, but I could tell he had something else on his mind. He started with regular chit chat," Jake said, "and he asked me about school and my coming sixteenth birthday." Jake said the bishop glanced at a folder in front of him and leaned forward in his chair and touched his fingertips together, "like a scientist or philosopher or someone who wanted to appear thoughtful." In a deep voice imitating the bishop, Jake continued: '"Worthy young men in the church are advanced from the office of deacon to priest. But it's not automatic.'" Jake snorted and went on, '"You have to be faithful and worthy. Do you consider yourself worthy, Jake?'" He looked at me for a reaction. Troester 18 "Oh my gosh, what did you say?" I said. "I told him, 'I think so.' Then the bishop cleared his throat and said, 'Your mother mentioned something to me about a dream you had."' "Did you tell him?" "He stared at me and I could hear his heavy breathing. Then I stood, I don't know why, I just stood and began talking like it wasn't even me, like it was someone else, and I told him that I saw Jesus — and he interrupted right away and tried to convince me it was a dream — but I told him it wasn't a dream. I really did see Jesus in my room. I told him I had gone to bed and forgot to say my prayers and then I remembered and got out of bed onto my knees and started to pray. My bedroom filled with light, as bright as blinding white snow, like all the particles around me were charged and radiating, getting brighter and brighter, and then Jesus appeared, bigger than life, and his face glows like gold and the whitest white and his hair flows down his back and he was dressed in white. I told the bishop the truth, exactly how I saw it, and it wasn't a dream. It was as real as you and me standing face to face. And he just looked at me, and I could tell he was thinking of ways to disprove what I had said." "You're so friggin' brave, Jake." "The bishop's face tightened and his eyes narrowed, and he looked really angry, like I'd smashed his windshield or killed his dog or done something horrible, like I was his enemy. And all I did was tell him the truth," Jake said. "Wow," I said, and again offered him some water. He shook his head. Troester 19 "Then his voice grew sharp," Jake said. '"Jesus doesn't go around popping into young boys' bedrooms,' he said. 'Jesus only appears to chosen prophets like Joseph Smith,' he said, and then he told me I was 'deceived by the devil and needed to repent.'" "He said that?" "Totally! And he said the adversary deceives 'young and weak-minded boys.' He said I needed to pray about it, and the truth would come to me, and that he was sure I had been asleep when it happened. Then he scribbled something in his folder and closed it. He warned me to not tell anyone about seeing Jesus, to keep quiet about it for my own good, and that if I told people, it might be apostasy and I wouldn't like the consequences." "I can't believe he said that." "Me neither. I felt kinda threatened, and when I was leaving, he said, 'Jesus would never appear to a young boy like you.' I didn't answer him. I just left." "That's harsh, Jake. What are you going to do? Are you going to pray about it like he said?" "I'm afraid to pray, Rosa. I haven't prayed since I saw him." While sitting by my window two nights later, I overheard Jake and his mom through their open windows. "I told you it upsets me," she said. "I'm sorry, Mom." "It gives me a bad feeling. I don't want you to talk about it anymore." Troester 20 "I didn't ask for this, or want it, but I can't pretend it didn't happen. Is that what you expect me to do?" "You bet I do. I expect you to listen to your mother, the woman who carried you for nine months and spent eighteen hours in labor to bring you into this world. I pay for your food and clothes and put a roof over your head, and I expect you to forget all about it and finish high school and get a job and maybe go to college and make something of yourself. I expect you to be normal and stop telling wild tales." "It's not a wild tale. It happened. Why won't you believe me?" "Something like this can ruin your life, Jake. People will think your crazy or lying. It could really hurt you. And I have a bad feeling about it. Please don't mention it again, not to me, not to anyone. I want you to forget the whole thing happened." "So I'm supposed to just bottle it up and keep it inside? Is that what you want? That'll kill me. You've always taught me to be honest and now you want me to lie about the most honest thing that's ever happened to me?" "Maybe the bishop is right. Maybe you dreamed it. It could have been your subconscious. You've always been so good, and I could see how you might want to see Jesus. It's not your fault, it was probably in your mind after you said your prayers — you know how tired you get — and you dreamed it. I'm sure that's it." There was a moment of silence and then, "Don't walk away from me. I'm not done." I heard muffled voices that probably came from inside Jake's room, and after a few moments, one clear voice: "I don't want to hear any more about it, not as long as you're under my roof. If I hear you even mention it, you can pack a bag and get out. End Troester 21 of story." I heard a door slam and a few minutes later, saw a glow from the living room and heard the dull roar of television. Other than his mom, the bishop and me, Jake said he told only one other person, Jonah Kimball, who started hanging with Jake on Fridays because Jake's mom let him drive her car. The two frequented Valley Fair Mall and cruised down State Street and went where the cool kids hung out. Jonah was six feet tall and played on the West High basketball team. He got laughs by cutting others down, a bit of a bully, if you ask me. His good looks and muscular physique made him popular with the girls in our school. I think Jake told Jonah about the vision to impress him, and to feel important. He must of trusted him as a friend. A couple weeks later, Jake began to notice whispers and glances as he walked school hallways, first from girls, then others. Kyle Pratt, a fifth-generation Mormon, tripped Jake from behind, knocking him to the floor. "Watch your step, bro," Kyle smirked. "What's your problem?" Jake said, adjusting his glasses. "Not a thing," Kyle said. Danny Richards and Brad Thatcher kicked Jake's folders down the hall. He scrambled to gather his papers. Jenna Christiansen spit her gum at his head. Tonya Atwood said, "Where's Jesus when you need him?" She high-fived Jenna. I helped Jake to his feet and to gather his papers, but the taunting had flustered him, and his face was beet red. Kids around us instinctively smelled fear. Someone snapped photos of Jake scrambling in the hall and they made the rounds on Facebook. Over the next few weeks, tales of Jake's "crazy" vision had spread and morphed into stories of Troester 22 angels and the Virgin Mary and stigmata and seer stones and gold plates and signs in heaven. Someone said that Jesus' face had appeared on Jake's breakfast toast and that he tried to sell it on eBay. Darker rumors told of Ouija boards and seances and satanic rituals in the woods. On the school bus one morning, right before we got to school, Truman Benson distracted Jake while Niko Latu crept under his seat, untied his shoe lace and retied it around the seat post. When Jake stood to get off the bus, his foot caught and he fell face first into the narrow aisle, braising his forehead and scraping his cheek. Niko stepped on Jake's hand as he hurried past laughing, and Truman planted his foot squarely into Jake's back, pushing down with all his weight. "You gotta stop lying around. You're gonna get hurt," he said. I knelt and tried to untie his shoelace, but the knot was too tight. Kids scurried and continued to step on Jake. When everyone had gotten off the bus, the driver came back. "What are you doing?" he said. "He fell," I said. "His shoe lace got tangled." He sized up the situation and saw the brush burn on Jake's cheek and bruise on his forehead. One of his fingers was twisted and purple and his glasses had come off and a lens popped from the frame. I found it on the floor two seats up. "Are you all right?" the driver said, cutting Jake's lace with a pocketknife and helping him from the floor. He sat, head down, dazed and dirtied in a bus seat. "Can you take him to the nurse's office?" the driver asked me. Troester 23 I hesitated and said, "I have to go to class." Jake didn't even raise his eyes to look at me. Within two months time, the once obscure Jake had fallen to the bottom of the teen pecking order. He learned to hold his books tightly and dart between classes while in the hall, and even kids who had once been his friends didn't want to be seen with him anymore. Church was no different. The boys in his quorum avoided him like a leper. Even his quorum president, John Ballantine, wouldn't sit next to him on the sacrament pew, much less talk to him. When the group went to Lagoon amusement park with the young women in the ward, Brother Alfred Rich, the Young Men President, told Jake that it would be too much of a distraction if he came. "I have to think of what's best for the group," he said. "It's not a good idea for you to go at this time, Jake, until you work out a few things. Maybe next time. Okay sport?" It got so bad that a few adults in the ward — Isabel and Jorge Martinez, Franklin and Susan Smith, that gossipy Sherry Jorgensen, and others — refused to take sacrament bread passed by Jake, so he stopped volunteering to pass it. After that, Jake sat each Sunday with his mother in the back comer of the chapel and left before the closing prayer was done, to avoid stares and whispers. I had started to attract the attention of boys and to gain friends outside my neighborhood, so it was hard for me to be seen with Jake. The stink of weirdness attached itself to anyone who associated with him, and they became objects of scorn and abuse. He knocked on my door one evening and asked my father if I were home. I invited Troester 24 him in and we sat at the kitchen table while Dad, Mom and my little brother watched TV in the living room. Dark circles showed under his eyes and his hair was disheveled more than usual. Even his cowlick had gone limp. Cuticles on his index fingers were red and bloody from having been picked. He reminded me of a cornered rabbit, uncertain of which way to run. "Do you want some water, Jake? "No thanks. I just want to talk." He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "What's that?" I said. "A letter from the bishop." "What about?" "A disciplinary council. He told me not to talk about it and now everyone knows and he thinks I disobeyed his counsel and now he's gonna kick me out of the church." "Oh, it's not that bad. I'm sure he just wants to talk." "I'll be excommunicated and I haven't told Mom. She'll throw me out of the house for sure. I don't know what to do. I just needed someone to talk to." I didn't respond for a moment and then I said, "I've got a lot of homework." He stared straight ahead and continued as if he hadn't heard me. "Do you remember that peacock behind the old elementary school, the one we saw early in the morning before anyone was awake? Remember that summer?" "Maybe." "And it was so big, like a turkey, except it opened its tail feathers and it was huge and colorful and bright and we couldn't take our eyes off it and we had tried for so long Troester 25 to find just one peacock because people our whole lives had told us they were real, and there it was after months of looking? Do you remember?" "That was a long time ago, Jake." "And we wished we'd had a camera but we didn't and we told people that we saw it and no one believed us. They didn't believe peacocks were behind the old school, but we knew it because we saw one. And we didn't care what other people said. Their opinions didn't matter." "We were just kids, Jake. I'm not sure I remember." His breathing was audible and he slouched in his chair with his legs splayed and both elbows on the table to support his upper body. "We've always been friends, Rosa. It's just that, lately I can't— I don't— I'm having a hard time and it's just—" He lowered his head and his words trailed off. He began to sniffle. There are decision points in every person's life, small defining moments of consequence that we usually don't recognize as important, or we pretend they're not important at the time. This was one of my moments: I had to decide whether to reach out in empathy or to stay still. It would have been easy to place a hand on his back or hug him, but I had begun to resent Jake for being my friend and thrusting his unpopularity on me. "I wish you hadn't told me," I said. "I thought it was a joke. I thought you were pulling a prank. I really wish you hadn't said anything. I mean, Jesus Christ, in your room? You think you can just say something like that and expect nothing to happen? Why did you ever tell me? Why?" Troester 26 He lifted his head and looked at me. He had stopped crying and moist streaks showed on his cheeks. "No one believes you saw Jesus," I said. "Why would they? Why would he appear to you? There's nothing you can do. You should have kept your mouth shut. You can't even take it back. It's too late. You're branded, an outcast. And there's nothing I can do about it. I can't be dragged down too. You're toxic." I walked to the sink, grabbed a glass, filled it at the faucet and began to drink. I watched him carefully. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said. "I don't know why this happened. I've even prayed about it, again and again, and nothing happens. No warm feelings and no answers. Just silence. I don't know what to do. Do you think I'm crazy?" "We probably shouldn't hang out at school," I said. He stood and slowly pushed in his chair. His face was pale. I thought he might fall. He meandered toward the door and looked as though he were floating in a river, sinking lower with each step. I called his name as he reached the door: "Jake?" He turned, and I almost took pity on him. "Nevermind," I said, "I better do my homework." I walked to the door and cheerfully waved him away, more as a show for my parents than for his benefit. "Have a good night," I called into the darkness. The funeral was held in the ward chapel and Bishop Porter presided. Despite Jake's unpopular status, more than fifty students from West High attended, even Kyle Troester 27 Pratt, Danny Richards and Brad Thatcher. Jenna Christiansen and Tonya Atwood actually cried when they saw him in the casket. Maybe they felt guilty. His mother had found him in the basement lying next to the furnace gas pipe. Bishop Porter assured her it was a peaceful end. She asked me to speak at the funeral and I put on a bright face and said he was a wonderful person who loved the church and God and Jesus and I retold the story of the peacock that he and I had seen, and how it was a beautiful moment that we shared and would never forget and that he was in the bosom of Christ and maybe there were beautiful peacocks in heaven, and most everybody cried and I said he was my best friend. And his mother couldn't afford a proper burial but the bishop said the church would pay for it. And the graveside ceremony was short and we took turns dropping dirt into the grave and it was done. Now after all these years, I, Rosa Garcia Kimball, record this fateful truth, that in a moment of weakness when I was fourteen, in the presence of vain and mean girls, when as a group in the locker room after gym class they began to gossip and joke and cut down boys they knew, I had said that my geelcy neighbor saw Jesus in his room, and I pretended he was the weirdest and strangest neighbor anyone could have, and I did it because they all were listening to me and I had their attention and I wanted to be accepted and feel important, and though Jake was my friend, I betrayed him that day and threw the one pearl in his life at the feet of slobbering dogs, and they spread the story to their peers and I alone have borne this guilt after the passing of my friend. And I wish I could take it back, but I can't, so I've prayed every day for forgiveness, to God and Jesus, and I hope for their mercy. And who can say whether Jesus appeared to Jake? And maybe he did, Troester 28 because we know that truly good people, true saints, are not long for this world, and they end up in the bosom of Christ, and Jake's sojourn was short. And on cool summer mornings, I walk along Goshen Avenue, past where the old school used to stand, and I look for peacocks and remember my friend. Troester 29 The Right Thing By DB Troester The bell rang and students scurried out the classroom door and chatter and the clink of metal lockers and the sound of scuffling feet and laughter filled the hallway. He leaned into his locker, watching from the corner of his eye, pretending not to notice her. They shared an English class and he often sat in the back to gaze at her. "How about that assignment?" he said. "What about it?" she said. "Exciting, huh?" "Ugh! Culpepper's trying to kill me. I wish she'd get a life. She needs to get laid, and get off our backs." Ted laughed. His voice had a baritone quality that made him seem older. "Six pages shouldn't be that hard," he said. "I'm excited to read Go Set a Watchman." "Whatever," she said. "English is the only subject I'm good at," he said. "I got a 92 so far. Not bad, huh?" "Special," she said. She thought about his words while rummaging in her locker. She turned just as he was about to leave. "Ted?" she said. "Yeah." She pushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with her fingers, and turned sideways against her locker to face him. It was the first time she had really looked at him. His hair was long and dark and in a ponytail. His eyebrows were Troester 30 auburn and set off his facial expressions nicely. He had round cheeks that rose when he smiled and his teeth were straight and white. She took note of his slender waistline and flat abdomen, broad shoulders and prominent chest, albeit cloaked in a shabby black T- shirt. "I could really use help with this paper," she said, sliding her hands into her back pockets and leaning toward him. "Have you been to the writing center?" he said. She gently touched his upper arm and let her hand linger. "The writing center only helps when you bring them a draft. I thought since you're so good at English and our lockers are next to each other and I'm such a dope, that maybe you'd help me write the paper," she said. "Oh," he said, tilting his head. "I have band practice Saturday and the paper's due Monday. My parents are gone Sunday, and I thought, well, maybe you can come to my house and help me write it." She grabbed the bottom hem of her shirt and pulled it downward. Her breasts perked through the cotton. Ted leaned backward against his locker, and she saw a bulge in his jeans. "Sure," he said. He took a deep breath and smiled. Dimples appeared at the sides of his mouth. Not bad looking, she thought, if he'd clean up and get some decent clothes. Angie lived in Eastover in a white colonial with powder-blue decorative shutters. Her father had the house built when her mother was pregnant with her. Angie's friends were cheerleaders and AP students who delighted in the three Fs: fashion, Facebook and the other. When she was four and was given a My Little Pony for Christmas but had Troester 31 wanted a Barbie Princess Power, she said loudly after opening the gift: "I'm so disappointed." And her mother and father praised her for being so articulate and in touch with her feelings, for expressing her desires and emotions so clearly at such a young age. And when her sixteenth birthday came, she was given a red convertible Mustang and drove it around town with the top down, her blonde hair blowing behind her. She didn't hesitate to park in handicap spots when in a hurry at the mall or school or her dad's office. Thrice she had been ticketed and her father paid for all three. Ted lived in Sedgefield in the Southend, where neighbors collected scrap metal in their backyards and families spent evenings on front-porch sofas. Every fourth house had a pit bull. His friends wore black T-shirts and baggy pants and smoked in the school parking lot. He grew up a latchkey child. His mother did the best she could to make sure his primary needs were met, which meant free lunches at school, and second-hand clothes from cousins and thrift stores. Not until he was sixteen and worked after school did he own a pair of Levis. Dinner at Burger King was a treat in his family and having a father a luxury. Angie wriggled her legs into her jeans, lay back on her bed and pulled them up. She slipped a loose, teal T-shirt over her head and gathered her hair into a ponytail. She stepped to the mirror and applied a bit of eyeliner and rubbed foundation on her forehead to mask some nascent acne. She dabbed Chanel between her breasts and covered her lips in strawberry gloss. She puckered them together. Troester 32 The doorbell rang. Ted wore skinny black jeans, the right knee torn, and a T-shirt with a howling-wolf emblem on the front. He wore a hoody over the T-shirt. His Timberlines were untied so he could easily slip them off. He made sure to wear socks without holes. He threw his hoody on the bed, and she sat at her computer desk. "I'm not totally done reading the book. Did you finish it?" she said. "Sure," Ted said. 'To Kill a Mockingbird was way better. Where'd your parents go?" "Some business trip, Greensboro, I think'. Daddy's always off somewhere. Momma goes with him sometimes. They'll be back tomorrow. Where should we start?" He stood beside her, leaning over her shoulder. "Let's start at the beginning." They focused the essay on Scout's wisdom as a grown woman in Watchman, versus her childhood wisdom in Mockingbird. He told her what to write, finding examples from the books, and she did the typing. He never left her side. About ninety minutes and four pages later, he stood erect, stretched his arms upward and closed his eyes. His T-shirt rose, revealing a few curly hairs protruding from his pants waistline. Angie stared at his taught belly. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and tasted the strawberry gloss. She swallowed, and gently reached to touch his navel. Instead of startling, he held the pose, arms above his head. She began to rub her fingertips in a small circular motion, and watched his facial expressions. He clenched his teeth and sucked his breath through them. He dropped his arms to his sides and she Troester 33 amplified her finger motions to rub back and forth along his entire waistline. "Mmm," he said. She placed her hands inside his T-shirt, and ran her fingertips up his sides, and down again. He moaned. She stood and guided him to the bed. He lay back. She shimmied beside him and undid her ponytail to let her hair fall around her shoulders. She rubbed his belly and chest more intently, feeling his abs and pecs, then pulled his shirt over his head. She planted a soft kiss on his lips and continued to caress his waistline. "What about your paper?" he said. "We're close enough," she said, nibbling down his neck. She didn't tell him right away. Her first confidence was Kristie. "Oh my God, Ted Groote, are you kidding me?" "I didn't plan it, not so much," Angie said. "He's built in ways you'd never guess. We were in my room and he was standing next to me and I could smell him, and it had been a while, and you know, it just happened." "Angie, I can't believe it. What were you thinking? What are you going to do?" "I'll do the right thing, for everyone." "Dude, I am so sorry. Do you want me to go with you? When are you going?" Kristie said. "Soon," Angie said, "soon." Troester 34 She had expected Ted to agree. After all, it was only once, and it wasn't as if they knew each other. He was grunge and she, well, she had a future at college, where she would meet her husband, a someday lawyer or doctor, and he'd go on to make seven figures and she'd have a career in fashion or business and they'd have a couple of kids and live in a big house and everyone would be happy. Nothing was going to alter that. Ted would be relieved, she thought, and they would move on. She contemplated not telling him, but decided she should ask for some cash. "Sometimes women are late. Are you sure you're not just late?" Ted said. "You think I would fool around with this? I've been to a doctor," she said. "You don't have to worry. I'll take care of it. But I thought maybe you might help pay for it, at least half, or something?" "What?" Ted said. "Never mind. I thought you'd be broke. I'll pay for it. You can pay me later if you scrape together some cash." "What?" "I just thought, you know, you work part time, and maybe you have some money and you might want to be noble and help me out." "I don't give a rat's ass about money. What are you talking about? What are you thinking?" "I'm seventeen, Ted. I'm just a girl myself. It's the right thing to do." "You can't," he said. "I mean, it's wrong." Troester 35 "Wrong? You didn't think it was wrong when you were sweating on top of me and rocking my bed and riding me with your manhood. Wrong? You should have thought of that before. Don't be so self-righteous. This is your fault, anyway." "My fault? You practically seduced me. And who cares about blame? It's too late for that. We need to do the right thing." "That's what I intend to do, with or without you! You got us into this hot mess. The least you can do is help me out of it." She stormed away, and he heard her say, "shit for brains." He stood with his hands in his pockets. I pulled out. What are we gonna do? Where would I be if Mom had made the same choice? Not here. Not anywhere. We've gotta do the right thing. She laughed when he said he wanted to marry her, and then she got mad. "Are you out of your frigging mind. This is just a blip and it'll be gone soon — bye bye, adios, hasta la vista baby." She opened and closed her hand in a goodbye motion. "Angie, this isn't just a fly or spider or some bug in your bathroom. It's important. It's life. We have to do the right thing. I work at Jiffy Lube. I can quit school and go Ml time. I'll take care of us. Someday, I'll be a mechanic and make good money. If we just do the right thing, everything will work out. You'll see." She laughed loudly. "You're not listening! It's not a matter of doing the right thing. It was a mistake, an accident. It shouldn't have happened at all. Now I'm going to Troester 36 fix it. It's not a matter of right or wrong. It's just a simple problem with a simple solution." She slammed her locker door and walked away. About four in the afternoon the following Monday, she came carrying her clarinet case. A balding janitor was propping open the boys bathroom door at the end of the hall. He wheeled his cart into the restroom. The squeak of its wheels echoed down the hall. Ted had stayed late and waited by his locker. She had successfully avoided him all day and thought of turning away when she saw him. She needed her trig book. "Hi," he said. She got the book and pivoted to leave. "Wait," he said, and dropped to one knee. His long black hair flowed down his back and a gold earring in his left ear caught the light and sparkled. His brown eyes were moist and appeared to twinkle. "Ted, don't!" she said. He pursed his lips and began: "I know we haven't known each other long but—" "Stop," she said. "Let me finish. I think you're the most beautiful woman in the world. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Your'e warm and kind and tender and caring. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you and protect you and care for you and be everything you want me to be. I don't have to be a mechanic. I can go to college or work in an office or whatever you want. I want to be with you. I want to be a real father. You asked me to be noble. I want to do the right thing. I don't have a ring, but Angie, I'm Troester 37 asking again, will you marry me?" He pulled his left hand from behind his back and held out a delicate violet. She snatched it and crumpled it and threw it to the floor. "I said, 'don't'!" She hurried away, then stopped and turned toward him. "It's done, Ted. It's done, end of story. Problem fixed." A single tear welled at the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek. She wiped it and walked away. The janitor pushed his cart from the bathroom and whistled a peppy tune that echoed down the desolate hall. Troester 38 Butter By DB Troester Someone's been coming in here and eating my butter, taking it for grilled cheese or toast or a hard roll. Love it on toast or waffles, rye bread, pancakes, melted on Cream of Wheat. Mmm. Every Sunday, gobs of creamy butter. Those were days. I can just see that lackey spreading my butter on toast or English muffins, dropping crumbs on my floor, licking his fingers and wiping them on my drapes, touching my things. Sprawling on my bed and getting crumbs on my duvet. Going through my closet. That explains the dress on the floor. Using my toilet. No wonder my roll's half gone. Have to count the squares. Taking note of every object in the room so he can leave everything just as he found it, fluffing my pillows, pulling the duvet tight and brushing away the crumbs, leaving everything just so. For heaven's sake, knock on someone else's door and let a lady linger in bed on Sunday. A man with matted black hair pokes in his head, smiles and walks to the window. Keep your grubby fingers off my drapes. Maybe I like it dark, maybe I like lying in bed on Sunday. Thinks I don't remember, but I remember. Steals my butter, probably sticks a couple pats in his mouth and sucks them. I'd buy him butter for Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanza or whatever holiday he celebrates. I'd get it for his birthday. But no, comes in here and steals mine. I see right through your shifty smile, Charlie. She's looking kinda mean today. I better get her meds before she starts slapping. Can't take another shift like that. It ain't right to restrain old ladies, not right at all. I'll Troester 39 keep my eyes on the tray this time. Heather said screw her if she dumps it, screw her if she don't take her pills, just don't feed the bitch. I couldn't starve an old lady who don't know no better. Heather's the only bitch around here. Supervisor my ass! Doesn't know left from right. No one suffers more than the residents and me. Hard work, feeding and toileting old folks, changing wet sheets, getting slapped, restraining old ladies. Sad business. All of them just setting around waiting to die. Can't even die in peace, not with some ignorant supervisor making it worse for everyone. Don't know why they linger. Never does no good for no one. One day I'll get me a real job and won't have to see old folks waste away. Poor Stella needs to get out of this room, get some human contact. Haven't seen that bleach-blonde bimbo in weeks; forgets her own momma. He takes a paper cup from the dispenser, fills it at the bathroom sink and sets it on her nightstand. He grabs another cup from his cart. There he goes putting his grubby fingers on everything. God knows where those paws have been. Steals my cups, smudges my faucet, wipes his hands on my drapes. Can't a woman stay in bed on Sunday? Totters in here with that gap-toothed smirk, putting his grubby fingers on everything. Don't think I don't know, Charlie. Come in here all nice and friendly. Don't think I don't know you're messing with my things. Butter thief. I'm watching you real close. He reaches gently to pull back her duvet and she clenches it with her hands. "It's all right. I just wanna help, Stella. Come on and let me help. We got a fine breakfast today, Cream of Wheat, your favorite." She squints and releases the duvet: Don't think Troester 40 for a moment I'm taking my eyes off you. He helps her sit up and swing her feet to the floor. He holds out the first paper cup and rattles two pills. She frowns, takes the cup and raises it to her lips. He hands her the water and she takes a sip. He watches the pills move down her spindly neck and prompts her to drink more water. Those meds are gonna kill her if she don't die of crazy first. I should ask Heather if they make them liquid. Shit, she don't know nothing. Don't never leave the nurses' station and always on the phone with her old man. A resident could be dying and she'd be like: Let me put you on hold, Reggie, one of my clients just keeled over. How she got to be supervisor, I'll never know. He gets down on one knee, grabs Stella's open-toed slippers and places them on her feet. He holds out his arm and helps her to stand and she shuffles toward the bathroom. He places her pillows on the chair next to her bed and begins to strip the sheets. Must of been something, a real beauty once, judging from that photo: Good looking couple. Time done took its toll on poor Stella. Sad business. Old gal like that just needs more contact. Maybe her daughter will show up today — and maybe I'll win the lottery. I could wheel her down to the craft room, make some jewelry, play bingo, have herself a fine time. Staying in this room is gonna kill her. She reaches the bathroom and looks at Charlie over her shoulder. Keep your hands off my pillows and don't touch my sheets. Come in here and yank me out of bed on a Sunday. Can't a poor woman stay in bed on Sunday? The bathroom door closes behind her and she sits on the toilet and examines the roll. Touches my things, manhandles my Troester 41 duvet, promises breakfast, Sunday breakfast. I remember. Don't think I don't, all that creamy butter, no-good thief, leaves me alone. She hears him through the bathroom door: "Be back in a minute, Stella." She finishes her business and totters to her closet. Someone's messed up my order, mixed my colored blouses with my whites. Can't keep his hands off my things. She takes a light blue housecoat and puts it on over her nightgown and lowers herself into a vinyl recliner. "Here we are, Stella," he says, rolling a cart into her room. Oh no, not again. Some kitchen flunky don't read the meal chart and next think you know, her cholesterol is through the roof. I can hear Heather already: Why you feeding butter to that old lady? No-good supervisor, don't never do her job and monitor meals, then goes and blames me. Wouldn't lift a finger if her life depended on it, much less Stella's. He snatches four restaurant-style pats and closes his hand around them. I'll just set that spoon in her hand and let her do the rest. "Charlie, I need you in 205," a voice blurts from the talkie on his belt. He looks at Stella, who dips her spoon into the bowl and slowly slurps the Cream of Wheat. He unfolds a napkin on her lap, and she smiles a wide grin. "On my way," he replies into the talkie. Steals my butter right in front of me on a Sunday, then leaves me here all alone, just me in this empty old house. What's Cream of Wheat without butter? Cream of nothing, cream of no one. Steals my breakfast in bed and leaves me all alone without any Troester 42 butter for my Cream of Wheat. Where've you gone? I need butter, gobs of creamy, melted butter, maybe a soft-boiled egg, all warm and runny. By God, he loved those eggs every Sunday with Cream of Wheat and butter, toast, breakfast in bed. Those were fine days, one hell of a man, leaves me here. Frank, where'd you go? "Oh Stella, I can't turn my back for a minute." Now I gotta clean this mess and get you more breakfast. I shoulda known better. I'll have to feed you by hand, thirty minutes at least. Late on my rounds. Sad business. Oh Stella, what the living hell is going on in your head? Troester 43 The Devil Wears Blue Jeans By DB Troester We stood looking straight ahead in mind-your-business, elevator silence, until he spoke: "Have we met?" His brown hair was shoulder length and wavy and he pushed it behind his ears with his thumbs. I expected to see an earring, but he had no visible piercings. He wore blue jeans, a light-blue, button-up, collared shirt, brown leather, slip- on shoes and a brown leather jacket that appeared well-worn but dignified. He exuded experience and maturity, yet his appearance was youthful. "I'm not sure," I said. "I work in Public Relations on the ninth floor." He smiled as the elevator descended, and something clicked in my memory: We had met at Walmart two years before, during a stretch of unemployment. I was trying to get the most value from my limited dollars — diapers are so expensive — and he had been hunting for bargains, something he said was a passion. His impish and confident personality had been a momentary distraction from my deepening troubles. I remembered he was an entrepreneur or trader of some sort, and that he had impressed me as someone with money, which is to say, he was carefree, forthright and a bit cavalier. In the forty-five minutes we had spoken, I had revealed most of my woes and insecurities, and I remembered it had felt good to talk to someone who didn't pass judgment. "I'm glad you've found a job," he said. "You've got a great memory," I said. "Remind me of your name?" "L. Scratch," he said, shaking my hand so lightly I couldn't tell whether I'd felt a grip. Troester 44 "Paul Adams," I said. "What's the L. for?" "Lucky," he said, and winked. I chuckled and said, "What brings you to Utah, and to Wells Fargo?" "I've been here a lot on business this year. There's something about the culture that lends itself to opportunities. I just reconnected with an old acquaintance, Bob Johnson, on the twenty-fourth floor. Do you know him?" "Not well enough to call him Bob. He's a vice president." He laughed and said, "Do you like your job?" "Sure. I'm grateful to have a job." "Bankers can work such long hours," he said. "Frankly, Bob and the others—." The elevator chimed and the doors opened. We stepped onto the ground floor. "What were you saying?" "Nothing important. Is there a coffee shop nearby?" "Beans and Brews is around the corner. I'm headed that way." We pushed through the rotating door and I walked at his side and he smelled of sweet vanilla. "What were you saying about bankers?" "Bankers in general only care about profits." "Well, they are in the business to make money," I said. "Of course, but it's more than that. Take Wells Fargo and Bob Johnson." He cleared his throat and stopped and turned toward me on the sidewalk and his face grew animated and seemed larger when he stepped closer. "Has Bob ever come to your desk or talked to you or asked how you're doing? Does he even know your name?" Troester 45 "He said 'hi' in passing once or twice, but, no, I don't think he knows my name." "Exactly. You're just a number on a balance sheet, an asset to be used or disposed of with rising or falling profits. It's practically Godless." "I never thought— "You're a person with hopes, goals, ambitions, right? Are you married, any kids? "Four years in January. Our daughter will be two in a month, and Marcy's in her first trimester. We haven't picked a name. I like Daniel, she likes Raphael. I keep telling her we don't want to name the kid after a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle." "Ha, that's good! See, I've learned more about you in a few minutes than Bob Johnson has in a year. Why? Because business is about cultivating relationships." He had an easy-going confidence about him, as if he believed nothing could hurt or hinder him and it put me at ease too. "Remind me what you do for a living?" I said. "I'm a broker." "A stockbroker?" "Commodities, high-value entities, mostly. My company is called WorldCo." "How's business?" "Superb. People are always looking to get ahead, and my organization promises high yields." He licked his tongue back and forth across the front of his upper teeth without opening his mouth. "Some deals take time. You plant seeds and eventually they mature. Long-term deals are the best. They produce the most rewarding results." Troester 46 We walked casually along 3rd South, past DP Cheesesteaks and Charles Schwab, and turned left onto State Street. Granite and sandstone peaks to the east glowed hues of amber, violet and orange as the sun's last rays illuminated the rock face. Snow had not yet settled on the Wasatch range but temperatures were starting to dip. "Don't you want to do something with your life?" he said. "How long do you think you'll work for Bob, for Wells Fargo?" "I'm not sure," I said, and reflected on his words. Was I frittering away my life? Would I ever make more money? Did I even like my job? Surely, God had a better plan for me. "You're young," he continued, "you've got the world at your feet. Does Wells Fargo even pay you enough? It takes money to raise a family." He smiled a slanted grin. "Here's the coffee shop," I said, opening the door. Fragrant vanilla filled my nostrils as I stepped behind him into the entryway. He chose a domestic blend and drank it black. I had a Ghirardelli Hot Cocoa. He pulled out his phone to pay, and when I demurred, he said, "You can pay the next time. Don't worry, I always keep track of what I'm owed." And he winked. "You know," he said, "I'm opening an office in Salt Lake City. It's the crossroads of the West, a good place to do business and make deals." "That's what they say. Forbes ranked it in the top ten places to do business three years in a row." "You should come work for me," he said. Troester 47 I sipped my hot cocoa and sucked in some air to cool my mouth. "You don't even know me." "I know that you've walked and talked with me and spent valuable time and you've got people skills. If there's something I've learned in all my years, it's that deals are made one person at a time. Come work for me." He smiled and added, "I'll make you a deal you can't refuse." "What would I do for your company?" "Represent and promote our interests, coordinate with clients, manage the local office, hire staff as operations grow, use your natural skills and creativity to help expand operations. It's a ground-floor opportunity for a bright young man like yourself." "I don't know." "I offer a one-year contract, stellar compensation, and after you've paid your dues, well, the skies the limit." We traded business cards and I told him I would think about it. He said WorldCo was moving quickly and the offer would be on the table for a month. He patted me on the back and recommended I talk it over with Marcy. It had been hard since I lost my job in Public Affairs with the Mormon Church and we had been underwater on our house in the Avenues and now lived in an apartment. The church had paid well, but my severance didn't go far, and we were still drowning in credit card debt. Our lifestyle had been downgraded and Marcy and I bickered all the time and I felt like I could never do anything right. I was always walking on eggshells. Troester 48 I waited till after dinner and we had put Samantha to bed and while rinsing a dinner bowl and placing it into the dishwasher, I offhandedly said, "I was offered a job today." She was wiping crumbs from our vinyl tablecloth and gathering them into her hand. "A promotion at Wells Fargo? Did someone die?" she said. "Not Wells Fargo, and no one has died that I know of. It's a company called WorldCo that deals in high-value commodities." "What's the job?" "They're opening a new office here and the owner wants me to be the manager. It's a ground-floor opportunity." She placed her hand under her belly and rubbed slowly back and forth and I told her about Mr. Scratch and how we had run into each other in the elevator and that he was a friend of the vice president. "Good pay?" she asked. "Low six figures to start." Her eyes widened and a smile crossed her lips for the first time in a while. "You're kidding." "That's what he said. I'd have to sign a contract." "How long?" "A year." "Hmm," she said. "What?" Troester 49 "It sounds too good to be true." "I thought so too." If I pushed too strongly in favor of the job, she might offhandedly reject it. "Still," she said, "if the money's guaranteed, and you're not committed for more than a year, how could you go wrong? I mean, if you don't like it— Do you think you'd like it?" She looked at me with childlike anticipation. I scrubbed some dried mac and cheese from a plate and placed it into the dishwasher. "I think I would," I said, "I really think I would." I smiled at her and she smiled back. "That kind of money could make a big difference," I said. "Just think what we could do." "Maybe it's that blessing we've been praying for," she said. "The same thought came to me." "We might even get another house," she said, and she kissed me. My new boss leased an office suite in the World Trade Center at City Creek, across the street from the Mormon Salt Lake Temple and bought furnishings, equipment and supplies before leaving town on business. My title was director and I hired a receptionist and we set up office. Mr. Scratch and I communicated via email, and a month later, a man stopped in unannounced. His hair was white and his salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed. He had high cheekbones and blue eyes with long dark lashes. He wore a dark-gray, Brooks Brothers suit that highlighted his broad shoulders and trim waistline. His flat-front pants, without pleats, made his legs look longer and added to his fit Troester 50 appearance. He spoke with an Oxford British accent, and rarely smiled. He was striking like a model, but not overly good looking. He exuded grace. "How may I help you?" "I've come to check out the new office," he said. "Oh, sure." I thought he was a businessman in the building or that he was looking for a job. "It's a nice suite with room to grow," I said. "WorldCo spares no expense." "I can see that. It's probably $40 to $45 per square foot. That's an ungodly price for office space in Salt Lake City. You can lease for $16 to $20 a few blocks south." "Well, yes," I said, a bit stunned and confused by his criticism. Who did he think he was? "What did you say your name was?" I said. "People call me G." "What brings you here, Mr. G.? Is there something I can do for you?" "He didn't tell you, did he?" "Who?" "I'm his partner." He waited for recognition in my eyes, as if he knew how fast the wheels turned in my head. "He's always doing this. Opening new branches, moving forward without keeping everyone informed. He's so ambitious. He just presses on and forgets to cross the T's." "You mean—" "I'm your other boss." He pursed his lips, sucked air between his teeth and said, "So tell me, what have you done so far?" Troester 51 "It's only been a month and I've been busy setting up." "Oh," he said. "Let me tell you a little about our endeavor. We're a global enterprise with a presence in every nation, from the largest to the smallest." "I knew the organization was large, but I had no idea—" "Of course you didn't. You're newly hired. Are you contracted?" "Yes. That let's us decide whether this will be a good fit for the long-term." "Did you say 'Let's us?'" "Yeah, I think so." He cleared his throat. '"Let's us' is incorrect. It's redundant and makes you sound ignorant. You should try to use correct grammar." "Pardon me?" "When you said, 'Let's us,' you technically said, Let us us." He was a details person, a stickler for doing things the right way, or perhaps his way. "Forgive me," I said. He nodded. "As I was saying, we're a global enterprise, and we move at a fast pace. We expect a lot from our employees. That's because it takes a lot to keep this organization moving." "I took this job to help the company grow," I said. "How nice. By the way, that one-year contract is to protect the company, so we can easily rid ourselves of underperforming employees. You understand what I mean, don't you? Troester 52 "I think so." "You're a bright one. If you follow my directions and do as I say — not that I want you to worship me or anything, I hate sycophants — then we'll get along swimmingly. You know, I'm the managing partner in this little operation." "The Managing partner?" "Old Scratch is in charge of expansion. He's good at stirring things up and finding opportunities. You've probably noticed he's a people person. But me, well, I'm the nuts- and-bolts, hands-on partner that greases the gears to keep things moving in the right direction. I have final say on everything." "I see." "He does his job and I do mine. In the end, we complement each other swimmingly. Frankly, neither of us could run this thing without the other." "Teamwork is important," I said. "Yes," he said, and frowned. "Someone has to ensure things are done right, and that's what I do." He stepped behind my desk and gazed out the window at the manicured lawns and Gothic spires of Temple Square. "Nice office," he said, and entered the smaller office next to mine. He hung his suit coat on the back of the chair and pulled a phone from his pocket. I stood watching from the hall and he placed his hand on the door and swung it closed in my face. During the first week with G., he lurked over my shoulder, scrutinized my work habits, corrected me, and was generally rigid in his methods, with little room for Troester 53 compromise. I reviewed my employment contract. The final clause stated that if I left the company before my one-year term was up, I'd be taken to court to repay all earnings, with penalties. It would cost me tens of thousands of dollars to break my contract. My lot was cast. The following Monday, G. had a client in his office when I arrived at 9 a.m. and after the client left, G. came to my office. "Did you have a business appointment this morning?" "No, why?" "Because at WorldCo, we want our employees to get a fresh start to the day. I expect you here by 8 a.m. The early bird catches the worm, you know." As he was leaving I mumbled, "I don't like worms." He turned, squinted at me and said, "Hm." A few moments later, he plopped a tall stack of manila folders on my desk. He was old school, for sure. "These are client leads," he said. "That's a phone." He pointed. "Make these calls by one o'clock." I stood up. "Where are you going?" he said. "I need some coffee." "I'll get it for you." He brought the coffee and sat in my office. "No charge," he said as he set the cup on my desk, "but coffee isn't good for you." His voice was soft: "Paul, I think you have great potential." He leaned back and crossed his legs. It was the most relaxed I'd seen him. "I know you feel like the proverbial rug has been pulled from Troester 54 under you, but if you follow my directions, you'll be successful and happy. I've been doing this a long time and know the right way to do things." He picked up my desk phone, opened the top folder and dialed. By the end of the conversation, he had scheduled an appointment for the next morning with Utah industrialist Jack Hunsaker. "It's that easy," he said. I picked up the phone and made a call while he listened. When I put down the receiver, he said, "Attaboy." I opened the next folder as he left my office. By 1 p.m., I had finished half of the stack, and he had plopped another stack on my desk. "I'll never get through all those." "Nose to the grindstone. Just stay till you're done," he said. "You're paid salary, not hourly." After two weeks of arriving early and phoning leads all day and leaving late, I was feeling burned out. He let go the receptionist and had me answer incoming calls too, and when I set appointments, he was the one to keep them. After a month with my new boss, I was exhausted. Marcy noted dark sacks under my eyes. "You're working too hard," she said. "You leave before Samantha gets up and come home after she's asleep. " "It's this job. It's killing me. It's been heck since G. showed up. He's so demanding and rigid." "Maybe Wells Fargo would take you back." "He'll take me to court if I leave before a year. We'd have to pay back tens of thousands of dollars. We'd be farther behind than before." Troester 55 "I never see you anymore and I'm tired, and I can't do this alone," she said, rubbing the bottom of her belly. "You're the one who said I should take the job." "Don't go and blame me. You said it was a great opportunity and it would make a big difference. You said you'd like it!" "I said the money would make a difference, and I thought I would. You haven't complained about the extra cash. You bought some new clothes, I noticed." "We've been living like paupers on your measly paychecks and I buy a few things and you throw it in my face? Don't you want me to look good for you?" "I don't care if you look good. We're still in the hole. You couldn't wait a few months?" "Fine! I'll take them back. I'll never have a chance to wear them anyway. We never go out anymore." "What do you want me to do? I'm working for both of us, you know. You think you're the only one who's suffering?" "Paul, it's harder every day. I need your help. I can't keep up." "Yeah, that's for sure. You can't put a few dishes in the dishwasher or pull the covers straight on the bed? Maybe if you turned off the TV." "You think I like being tired all the time. You try carrying an extra thirty pounds around." I grabbed my coat and stormed toward the door. "Where are you going?" Troester 56 "Out!" I slammed the door behind me and she opened it and yelled, "What's more important, us or money?" The next day, G. popped his head into my office and said, "I have some affairs to attend to and won't be here the next few days. There are some folders in my office for you to tackle while I'm gone. You're doing a fine job helping our organization to grow." I nodded. At least I wouldn't have to bear his condescension for a few days. Scratch arrived just before lunch the next day. His clean-shaven face had given way to a neatly trimmed beard and I was surprised there was no gray at his chin. He wore navy blue slacks and a light-blue collared shirt. No necktie. He looked different every time I saw him. I stood and reached over my desk to shake his hand. "You look like hell," he said. "My partner doesn't fool around, does he?" "He's not one for levity or leisure. I really need to talk to you about it." "All right, Paul. Let's us get some lunch and talk." "That's incorrect, you know." "Oh hell, he's got you doing it too. Don't go getting all holier-than-thou on me." We crossed Main Street, entered the Joseph Smith Memorial Building and took the elevator to The Garden restaurant on the top floor. A youthful receptionist seated us at a table in the corner. We couldn't agree on an appetizer, so we ordered two: spinach-and- artichoke dip and fried dill pickles. "These things are so sour. I just love them," he said. Troester 57 He ordered a turkey BLT sandwich with avocado and I went all out and had Atlantic Salmon. "The salmon's flown in the same day," he said. "Why didn't you tell me you had a partner?" I said. "I didn't think it was important." "Not important? I signed a contract in good faith." "Faith had nothing to do with it." "You never mentioned I'd be working for Mr. Perfect! His standards are more than any human can live up to." "That's for sure," he said. "He infuriates me sometimes, but we both play our roles." "He never lets up. I work twelve-hour days and when I get home, I can't sleep. I'm starting to have phantom-limb syndrome when the phone isn't on my ear. I asked for a headset and he denied the purchase. He won't buy an $80 headset! My wife's unhappy and our marriage is suffering. Sometimes I get teary and I can't control it. There's no amount of money that's worth this hell." He ate the last bite of his sandwich and patted his lips with a napkin. "I love turkey-bacon-avocado," he said. "If you leave, we'll take you to court, and we'll win. It'll cost you, Paul." "I've worked hard these first few months, but it's killing me. You can hire someone else. I'll stay till you find a replacement. What good would it do to take me to court? I don't have any money." Troester 58 "You have the money we've paid you," he said. "You signed a contract. It sets a bad precedent if we let you out of it. It's the principle of the thing." He signaled to the waitress to bring the check. "You need to hold up your end of the deal and work for a year. Haven't we paid you generously? Haven't we provided an office in the best location in town? It's only nine months more. We may even renew." "Renew? You're out of your friggin' mind!" A woman three tables over looked when she heard my raised voice. He leaned over the table: "Believe me, you really should finish out the contract. I've been doing this a long time and if you break our agreement, you will suffer." "Have a little compassion," I said. "We struck a deal, Paul. You thought it was a bargain at the time." "You're an unholy bastard," I said. "I am who I am." The waitress brought our check and Scratch slid it in front of me. "It's your turn." "What are you talking about? This was an expensive meal." "You should have thought of that before you ordered salmon." He smiled his slanted grin. "I paid the last time, Remember? Ghirardelli Hot Cocoa." He tapped the table with his index finger. "It's your turn to pay. I always keep track of what I'm owed." And he winked.