Wavedancer Project: commentary, part four
May. 5th, 2009 06:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valis2Intro/Index of all parts | Read without the commentary
Upon entering the house with a bag of groceries I heard the phone ringing. I picked it up in my den.
"May I please speak to Michael Joseph St. James?" asked the caller. I put him on hold and went to find Mike, which wasn't difficult, as he was slamming cupboards in his kitchen.
"There's someone on the phone for you," I said.
He turned to me, puzzled. "Who?"
I AM NOT YOUR ANSWERING SERVICE RAR! Oh, I guess she doesn't say that. I'm surprised.
And Mike's name is very near Stuish, don't you think? Though it could be standard for romance novels. Not certain, I haven't read one in so long.
"I don't know." I watched as he picked up the extension in his kitchen. Not wanting to intrude, I went back to the truck and finished unloading. I, too, was puzzled, as neither of us got personal calls anymore. His college buddies had faded away, and I'd never really had anyone who would call me anyways, except for business purposes. And it was pretty late for a telephone solicitor.
WOES. Nobody loves us, nobody calls us...this is just crazy, seriously. It's clear to me that I really wanted to isolate the hell out of the characters. But I can't see Mike being that happy about not getting calls--after all, I recall that his best friend was on the police force in town. So this makes no sense. I can see Miss I Vant To Be Alone not getting any calls, but not him. In fact, one of the scenes that I never got around to writing involved him meeting up with friends at Moray Tavern.
I had just finished filling the pantry with canned goods when he walked into my kitchen. One look at his odd expression was all I needed to put down what I was doing and sit down opposite him. "What happened?"
"That was..." He ran a hand through his hair raggedly.
Raggedly? Huh. Strange modifier.
I got up and poured each of us a cup of coffee--mine black, his three sugars and milk. He took the cup from my hand absently, and I sat down and sipped slowly.
Do you see how hardcore she is? Yep. She drinks her coffee straight. He wussifies his. Amusingly enough, this is exactly how Husband drinks his coffee.
Finally he looked up at me, his blue eyes troubled. He wound his hands tightly around the coffee mug. "That was the executor of my great-aunt's will. She passed away yesterday."
A thousand questions popped into my head, and it took a moment to choose one. "You had a great-aunt?"
He nodded in an abstract way and rubbed his jaw. "Apparently so," he said, his gaze unfocused.
*snorts* Great comeback.
I felt bad for him. My entire family was long-gone; only Corny and I remained of the Bryant line. Even my mother's family was entirely gone. I imagined suddenly having a relative I never knew pass away, and my sympathy deepened. Such a lost chance. "I'm sorry," I said quietly. "Is there a viewing? Or funeral?"
Oh, awesome! She can feel even worse for herself now that he's received bad news!
"The funeral is tomorrow," he said, staring at the coffee cup as if he couldn't figure out where it had come from. "The viewing was tonight. There's only a memorial service, no graveside service at all."
I like the whole "oh wow, where'd this coffee come from" thing, actually. He's so gobsmacked that he has no idea.
"Are you going?"
He nodded absently, and I wished there was some way I could comfort him. Even I had Corny, as little a comfort as that was. Mike had no one. He looked lost. He took a sip of coffee distractedly and set the cup on the table, sloshing coffee over the rim. There was a long uncomfortable silence until he said, "The funeral home is across state, almost in Detroit."
"Long drive," I commented, not really knowing what else to say.
Yeah, we already know that you are not the best conversationalist, Sarah. No need to point that out.
He was staring at the coffee cup again, and I wanted to say something more, but everything seemed trite. My eyes traced the masculine line of his jaw and wandered down to his rough, darkly-tanned hands, marked by thin pale scars. My own hands were just the same, mapped by a thousand old cuts. "I never even knew she existed," he said morosely, breaking the silence suddenly. "Apparently she cut the rest of the family off years ago when she decided they were too coarse and devoted herself to the church."
Everyone who read this was mystified by the scars. Well, this was way over-exaggerated, but still, your hands take a beating when you're a charter captain. Fish have teeth. They also have gill stones under their gills which can slice you pretty badly. (For the bigger fish, you need to club them over the head as soon as you get them in the boat.) Anyway, charter captains deal with hooks and extremely sharp knives for gutting and everything. So their hands take a lot of abuse.
"A lonely life." Again I wanted to say something more, to do something to comfort him, but I was paralyzed by the enormity of what had gone on before between us. He gazed at me as if he was cognizant of what I was thinking. "Well, I've got to get to bed," I said awkwardly. "I've got a morning charter."
He got up and disappeared into his side of the house, and I felt a lingering guilt whose origin I could not identify.
I can identify it. It's called BEING A BITCH FOR NO REAL REASON.
I slept on the couch--I usually did, as it was remarkably comfortable and close to the fireplace--and when sleep finally arrived it brought with it disturbing dreams of being adrift on a vast still ocean. The oars slipped from my hands and soundlessly dropped into the clear water. I watched them sink, feeling a wave of sorrow rise within me.
Grah! What the hell? She sleeps on the couch? Oh, this is so stupid. And Sueish.
The dream is pretty Sueish, too.
It was a struggle to awaken the next morning, and the charter was a bust. We were on the water only two hours when a fierce wind howled out of nowhere and whipped the waves to unnavigable heights, at least for Wavedancer.
After my clients left--I refunded three quarters of their money for the bad weather--I came back into the house to find Mike staring out his kitchen window onto the Bay.
Wait a minute here. Why is she refunding money for bad weather? She's going to be the most broke charter captain ever. No wonder she was freaked out at the grocery store. I mean, I'm sure they give money back for some things, or maybe reschedule, but if she's only charging for exactly the time she's on the water...well, maybe I'm crazy here, but that sounds like a bad idea.
"What time is the service?" I asked him quietly, reluctant to disturb his state of mind.
He didn't answer right away, so I assumed that he wasn't listening and I turned towards my kitchen.
"This evening," he said, his voice rough.
"We should be leaving soon, then," I said, turning back to look at him.
He returned my gaze, his blue eyes troubled. "You don't have to go," he stated bluntly.
I shrugged. "You need someone else to drive, at the very least. Besides, I don't have an evening charter."
Um...why? Why does he need someone to drive? Makes no sense. He's a big boy, I'm sure he can drive three hours by himself.
"You don't need to go," he repeated.
I wasn't about to be dismissed so easily. "I'm going to take a shower," I said. He resumed looking out the window, and I felt a bitter pang of loss. Here we were, ten years later, still unable to relate to each other except superficially.
DO NOT DISMISS HER YOU BASTARD!
And I have a feeling that Sarah's the one who relates to Mike superficially. Mike is capable of a lot more feeling, and he's not so screwed up and in denial about everything.
My closet was pretty empty, as most of what I wore was easy, foldable stuff--jeans, t-shirts, flannel shirts, once in a while sweats. I did find the black skirt I'd worn to my father's funeral and Mike's father's funeral, but the matching shirt had disappeared in the interim. I found the black flats I'd worn with it as well, and an old pair of pantyhose worn all of once before. The shirt eluded me until I discovered the black sweater I'd worn to my high school graduation.
I took a longer shower than usual, and took extra time after to comb my long hair thoroughly and secure it in a barrette. I wore the only necklace I own--a silver locket that once belonged to my mother--and surveyed myself in the mirror for a brief moment.
So she's going to the funeral dressed as Wednesday Addams. Well, this is the one place that look will really fit in. Though to be honest, most people don't wear black to funerals anymore. At least, the few funerals that I've gone to. Even in the nineties.
And who the hell wears a black sweater to your high school graduation? I mean, maybe a black shirt, but a sweater? It's not going to be that cold at that time of year, and you also are wearing a gown over it...
I emerged from the bathroom feeling exceptionally self-conscious. The unfamiliar skirt bothered me, and the shoes were too tight.
Mike was sitting at his kitchen table, and I caught the almost imperceptible shock he registered upon sight of me. For some reason I thought of movies I'd seen where the heroine came out and twirled around coquettishly, expecting compliments, but that wasn't me. "What do you want for lunch?" I asked him.
He shook his head and looked down at the table, and for a moment I hoped irrationally that he wasn't embarrassed by my presence.
This part of the fic makes me wince. So very much. You see, I dressed in jeans and t-shirts, etc., and the few times I had to dress up I'm sure I did it quite awfully. And I always wanted those compliments. I think about it now and I just roll my eyes. Not like I'm dressing like a fashion plate now, but I am dressing with more of an eye for what flatters. (Oh dear, I just looked down, and I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt, ha!)
Anyway, the point is, I really thought that people should love the beauty inside. I had no idea how rare a thing that was.
I never even thought about how Mike might be remembering his father's funeral when he sees her in that outfit. Y'know, sometimes writing has a way of accidentally putting things together that were never thought of by the writer but turn out to be rather intriguing...
I also wasn't hungry, so I spent the time I had left cleaning up the leftover dishes. I grinned to myself, thinking of the picture I presented, almost a paragon of domesticity. But TV housewives never looked as I did, so tall, such a "large bone structure", browned by the constant sun. My hands were so calloused I had to put gloves on to put on the pantyhose.
I finished stacking the now-clean dishes on the towel spread on the counter and dried my hands. I wondered if my mother would have been displeased with the person I had become. Had she wanted a pretty popular girl?
WE GET IT! YOU ARE TEH PRETTEH IN YOUR GOTH WANNABE GEAR. Enough already.
I had no purse, so I folded up my jeans with my wallet and keys and money and tucked them under one arm. "Are you ready to go?" I asked Mike, who was wearing an old black suit that probably had been his father's. On another it would have been less than inspiring, but Mike's good looks and natural proud stance transformed it into casual style. I had my keys out.
Mike can make anything look good.
Then again, I really have seen people like that, lol. Cody Allen, that's your cue...
"You don't need to go," he said.
"You've made that abundantly clear," I answered dryly. Amazingly enough he flushed.
*snorts* I do like that.
"We'll take my truck," he said gruffly.
"Fine." I followed him out the front door and locked it behind us. His black pickup was parked next to my Blazer, and I winced at trying to get into it in a skirt.
We got in and he started up the truck. He swung his case of cassettes into the extended cab and I did the same with my jeans. As we pulled out of the drive I noticed that the boat shed needed a new coat of paint and that the front door needed a new screen door, as the old one was beaten beyond repair and now starting to hang askew on its hinges. Mike reached out and turned off the radio, and I noticed that he had put his class ring on, which he rarely wore. It was really odd seeing him in a suit; he looked like some sort of businessman. I wondered how I looked.
GRAH!
For someone who doesn't care how she looks, she really is caring a LOT how she looks.
This was not my favorite part of the fic, that's for certain.
Also (and this took years for me to understand), most people stop wearing their high school class rings after a year or two.
On to part five
Read this section without the commentary
Upon entering the house with a bag of groceries I heard the phone ringing. I picked it up in my den.
"May I please speak to Michael Joseph St. James?" asked the caller. I put him on hold and went to find Mike, which wasn't difficult, as he was slamming cupboards in his kitchen.
"There's someone on the phone for you," I said.
He turned to me, puzzled. "Who?"
I AM NOT YOUR ANSWERING SERVICE RAR! Oh, I guess she doesn't say that. I'm surprised.
And Mike's name is very near Stuish, don't you think? Though it could be standard for romance novels. Not certain, I haven't read one in so long.
"I don't know." I watched as he picked up the extension in his kitchen. Not wanting to intrude, I went back to the truck and finished unloading. I, too, was puzzled, as neither of us got personal calls anymore. His college buddies had faded away, and I'd never really had anyone who would call me anyways, except for business purposes. And it was pretty late for a telephone solicitor.
WOES. Nobody loves us, nobody calls us...this is just crazy, seriously. It's clear to me that I really wanted to isolate the hell out of the characters. But I can't see Mike being that happy about not getting calls--after all, I recall that his best friend was on the police force in town. So this makes no sense. I can see Miss I Vant To Be Alone not getting any calls, but not him. In fact, one of the scenes that I never got around to writing involved him meeting up with friends at Moray Tavern.
I had just finished filling the pantry with canned goods when he walked into my kitchen. One look at his odd expression was all I needed to put down what I was doing and sit down opposite him. "What happened?"
"That was..." He ran a hand through his hair raggedly.
Raggedly? Huh. Strange modifier.
I got up and poured each of us a cup of coffee--mine black, his three sugars and milk. He took the cup from my hand absently, and I sat down and sipped slowly.
Do you see how hardcore she is? Yep. She drinks her coffee straight. He wussifies his. Amusingly enough, this is exactly how Husband drinks his coffee.
Finally he looked up at me, his blue eyes troubled. He wound his hands tightly around the coffee mug. "That was the executor of my great-aunt's will. She passed away yesterday."
A thousand questions popped into my head, and it took a moment to choose one. "You had a great-aunt?"
He nodded in an abstract way and rubbed his jaw. "Apparently so," he said, his gaze unfocused.
*snorts* Great comeback.
I felt bad for him. My entire family was long-gone; only Corny and I remained of the Bryant line. Even my mother's family was entirely gone. I imagined suddenly having a relative I never knew pass away, and my sympathy deepened. Such a lost chance. "I'm sorry," I said quietly. "Is there a viewing? Or funeral?"
Oh, awesome! She can feel even worse for herself now that he's received bad news!
"The funeral is tomorrow," he said, staring at the coffee cup as if he couldn't figure out where it had come from. "The viewing was tonight. There's only a memorial service, no graveside service at all."
I like the whole "oh wow, where'd this coffee come from" thing, actually. He's so gobsmacked that he has no idea.
"Are you going?"
He nodded absently, and I wished there was some way I could comfort him. Even I had Corny, as little a comfort as that was. Mike had no one. He looked lost. He took a sip of coffee distractedly and set the cup on the table, sloshing coffee over the rim. There was a long uncomfortable silence until he said, "The funeral home is across state, almost in Detroit."
"Long drive," I commented, not really knowing what else to say.
Yeah, we already know that you are not the best conversationalist, Sarah. No need to point that out.
He was staring at the coffee cup again, and I wanted to say something more, but everything seemed trite. My eyes traced the masculine line of his jaw and wandered down to his rough, darkly-tanned hands, marked by thin pale scars. My own hands were just the same, mapped by a thousand old cuts. "I never even knew she existed," he said morosely, breaking the silence suddenly. "Apparently she cut the rest of the family off years ago when she decided they were too coarse and devoted herself to the church."
Everyone who read this was mystified by the scars. Well, this was way over-exaggerated, but still, your hands take a beating when you're a charter captain. Fish have teeth. They also have gill stones under their gills which can slice you pretty badly. (For the bigger fish, you need to club them over the head as soon as you get them in the boat.) Anyway, charter captains deal with hooks and extremely sharp knives for gutting and everything. So their hands take a lot of abuse.
"A lonely life." Again I wanted to say something more, to do something to comfort him, but I was paralyzed by the enormity of what had gone on before between us. He gazed at me as if he was cognizant of what I was thinking. "Well, I've got to get to bed," I said awkwardly. "I've got a morning charter."
He got up and disappeared into his side of the house, and I felt a lingering guilt whose origin I could not identify.
I can identify it. It's called BEING A BITCH FOR NO REAL REASON.
I slept on the couch--I usually did, as it was remarkably comfortable and close to the fireplace--and when sleep finally arrived it brought with it disturbing dreams of being adrift on a vast still ocean. The oars slipped from my hands and soundlessly dropped into the clear water. I watched them sink, feeling a wave of sorrow rise within me.
Grah! What the hell? She sleeps on the couch? Oh, this is so stupid. And Sueish.
The dream is pretty Sueish, too.
It was a struggle to awaken the next morning, and the charter was a bust. We were on the water only two hours when a fierce wind howled out of nowhere and whipped the waves to unnavigable heights, at least for Wavedancer.
After my clients left--I refunded three quarters of their money for the bad weather--I came back into the house to find Mike staring out his kitchen window onto the Bay.
Wait a minute here. Why is she refunding money for bad weather? She's going to be the most broke charter captain ever. No wonder she was freaked out at the grocery store. I mean, I'm sure they give money back for some things, or maybe reschedule, but if she's only charging for exactly the time she's on the water...well, maybe I'm crazy here, but that sounds like a bad idea.
"What time is the service?" I asked him quietly, reluctant to disturb his state of mind.
He didn't answer right away, so I assumed that he wasn't listening and I turned towards my kitchen.
"This evening," he said, his voice rough.
"We should be leaving soon, then," I said, turning back to look at him.
He returned my gaze, his blue eyes troubled. "You don't have to go," he stated bluntly.
I shrugged. "You need someone else to drive, at the very least. Besides, I don't have an evening charter."
Um...why? Why does he need someone to drive? Makes no sense. He's a big boy, I'm sure he can drive three hours by himself.
"You don't need to go," he repeated.
I wasn't about to be dismissed so easily. "I'm going to take a shower," I said. He resumed looking out the window, and I felt a bitter pang of loss. Here we were, ten years later, still unable to relate to each other except superficially.
DO NOT DISMISS HER YOU BASTARD!
And I have a feeling that Sarah's the one who relates to Mike superficially. Mike is capable of a lot more feeling, and he's not so screwed up and in denial about everything.
My closet was pretty empty, as most of what I wore was easy, foldable stuff--jeans, t-shirts, flannel shirts, once in a while sweats. I did find the black skirt I'd worn to my father's funeral and Mike's father's funeral, but the matching shirt had disappeared in the interim. I found the black flats I'd worn with it as well, and an old pair of pantyhose worn all of once before. The shirt eluded me until I discovered the black sweater I'd worn to my high school graduation.
I took a longer shower than usual, and took extra time after to comb my long hair thoroughly and secure it in a barrette. I wore the only necklace I own--a silver locket that once belonged to my mother--and surveyed myself in the mirror for a brief moment.
So she's going to the funeral dressed as Wednesday Addams. Well, this is the one place that look will really fit in. Though to be honest, most people don't wear black to funerals anymore. At least, the few funerals that I've gone to. Even in the nineties.
And who the hell wears a black sweater to your high school graduation? I mean, maybe a black shirt, but a sweater? It's not going to be that cold at that time of year, and you also are wearing a gown over it...
I emerged from the bathroom feeling exceptionally self-conscious. The unfamiliar skirt bothered me, and the shoes were too tight.
Mike was sitting at his kitchen table, and I caught the almost imperceptible shock he registered upon sight of me. For some reason I thought of movies I'd seen where the heroine came out and twirled around coquettishly, expecting compliments, but that wasn't me. "What do you want for lunch?" I asked him.
He shook his head and looked down at the table, and for a moment I hoped irrationally that he wasn't embarrassed by my presence.
This part of the fic makes me wince. So very much. You see, I dressed in jeans and t-shirts, etc., and the few times I had to dress up I'm sure I did it quite awfully. And I always wanted those compliments. I think about it now and I just roll my eyes. Not like I'm dressing like a fashion plate now, but I am dressing with more of an eye for what flatters. (Oh dear, I just looked down, and I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt, ha!)
Anyway, the point is, I really thought that people should love the beauty inside. I had no idea how rare a thing that was.
I never even thought about how Mike might be remembering his father's funeral when he sees her in that outfit. Y'know, sometimes writing has a way of accidentally putting things together that were never thought of by the writer but turn out to be rather intriguing...
I also wasn't hungry, so I spent the time I had left cleaning up the leftover dishes. I grinned to myself, thinking of the picture I presented, almost a paragon of domesticity. But TV housewives never looked as I did, so tall, such a "large bone structure", browned by the constant sun. My hands were so calloused I had to put gloves on to put on the pantyhose.
I finished stacking the now-clean dishes on the towel spread on the counter and dried my hands. I wondered if my mother would have been displeased with the person I had become. Had she wanted a pretty popular girl?
WE GET IT! YOU ARE TEH PRETTEH IN YOUR GOTH WANNABE GEAR. Enough already.
I had no purse, so I folded up my jeans with my wallet and keys and money and tucked them under one arm. "Are you ready to go?" I asked Mike, who was wearing an old black suit that probably had been his father's. On another it would have been less than inspiring, but Mike's good looks and natural proud stance transformed it into casual style. I had my keys out.
Mike can make anything look good.
Then again, I really have seen people like that, lol. Cody Allen, that's your cue...
"You don't need to go," he said.
"You've made that abundantly clear," I answered dryly. Amazingly enough he flushed.
*snorts* I do like that.
"We'll take my truck," he said gruffly.
"Fine." I followed him out the front door and locked it behind us. His black pickup was parked next to my Blazer, and I winced at trying to get into it in a skirt.
We got in and he started up the truck. He swung his case of cassettes into the extended cab and I did the same with my jeans. As we pulled out of the drive I noticed that the boat shed needed a new coat of paint and that the front door needed a new screen door, as the old one was beaten beyond repair and now starting to hang askew on its hinges. Mike reached out and turned off the radio, and I noticed that he had put his class ring on, which he rarely wore. It was really odd seeing him in a suit; he looked like some sort of businessman. I wondered how I looked.
GRAH!
For someone who doesn't care how she looks, she really is caring a LOT how she looks.
This was not my favorite part of the fic, that's for certain.
Also (and this took years for me to understand), most people stop wearing their high school class rings after a year or two.
On to part five
Read this section without the commentary
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-06 01:08 am (UTC)bwahahahhaa! I never even noticed that, but you're absolutely right. Another thing that went right over my head.
As you say, people don't wear black to funerals now (unless it's the sort of person who would wear black anyway). And only immediate family ever attend fictional funerals (plus the murderer, if it's a mystery story). I often get the impression that the author of a story/script hasn't been to a funeral recently.
I was just so firmly of the opinion that everyone wore black to funerals. At the time I never even thought it could be different!
I liked the scar thing. Definitely suggestive that these people are manual workers.
Charter captains are frankly amazing. They work so hard for their money. So so so so hard. It's such a rough job!