What I Learned: Stories, Essays, and More

Copyright 2017 by Joshua M. Patton.

Smashwords Edition

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A section of this book is fiction. Any similarity to actual persons living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.

For Madison

Table of Contents:

Copyright notice

Fiction

Intro to Fiction

The Perfect Gentleman

Instant Message Conversation in an Intro to Poetry Class

Don’t Read The Comments

A Nice Place With A View

Shooting the Sheriff

Two Comedians

Shannon

Escalation

It Won’t Kill You That Quickly

She Steadied Me

Papa’s Girl

Poetry

Intro to Poetry

Everybody’s a Poet

The Smoking Section Outside of the Emergency Room

The It Factor

Drug Education

Schadenfreude

Hot Water Music

Faking It: (a Zuihitsu)

One of The Nights The DFAC Was Hit

Nonfiction

Intro to Nonfiction

Hooking Up on the Side of the Super-Highway

A Thoroughly Modern Love Story

Busing It

Lounging In The Shadows

Peggy Hull: The Foremother of Female War Correspondents

Truth to (Freak) Power: The Impact of the National Affairs Desk at Rolling Stone

Two Vignettes

Chasing the Dragon in Rivers Casino

Hedgehogs Eating the Foxes: The Nadir of Cable of News

Gunzo: The Thrill of Fear and the Fear of the Thrill

After Class

Fiction

Intro to Fiction:

Fiction has always been my first love. When I was young, I would play with Star Wars toys, GI Joes, Transformers, and all sorts of action figures, setting up and choreographing stories. Live-action fan-fiction. In fact, I played with toys far longer than my peers, feeling more than a little shame at how much I enjoyed something I was supposed to have outgrown. It wasn’t until I was given access to my family’s old, green Remington typewriter, that I realized it was the compulsion to tell stories that I didn’t want to relinquish.

Like my imagined stories with my action figures, most of my first stories were Star Wars fanfiction, but instead of using the characters I could represent in toy-form I made up my own original characters. (This time the villain was the hero’s brother not his father!) Eventually, as I switched from the Remington to a Brother word processor that saved files on disk, I started writing wish-fulfillment stories in which a chubby, nerdy character beat up the bad guys and always got the girl.

It wasn’t until junior high that I wrote my first real story. We were given a picture prompt in Mrs. Bercini’s 7th grade class that featured a park scene. An Asian man sat on a bench feeding a squirrel and a kid on roller skates listening to a boom box. Fascinated by the horror writing of Stephen King—and getting a signed postcard from him answering a fan letter I sent him encouraging me to keep writing—I told the tale of a demonic figure who could control the squirrels. When he argued with the boy about the volume of the music, the squirrels devoured him, bones and all. This story was set in my fictional parallel version of my hometown of Bellevue, PA, which I called Gravenwood. In my mind, it was my Castle Rock, the catch-all Maine town invented by King and attracting all sorts of devilish villains.

Gravenwood lives on, in the connected series of short stories that close out this section of the book. (The demonic old man even makes a cameo appearance, but no one gets eaten by squirrels but John would absolutely love it he had been.) Written during my last few years of college, I was intrigued by the idea of a series of stories that both stood on their own and told a larger narrative. There were many more stories planned, but the voices of those characters weren’t as loud as some of the others who now live in my mind.

Another story is loosely based on a popular comedian who plays a character, with an affected accent and everything. The concept fascinates me. Here you have a comic with national name and face recognition, but his real voice, his face, his real name make him as anonymous as any of us. Would that persona be a shield to hide behind, or would it be like a chain on his ankle holding him back?

One story, written as the final project in my first-ever college fiction course, was a test to see if I could write stories with female characters at the center. What I discovered is that these characters were no different than others I’ve written, male or female. They feel like real people who live in my head, and I had just as little control over what they say or do as I do with anyone else. Interestingly, I find writing a female central character far more fun and interesting than I do male characters. We writers have a hard time not making every single character ourselves, and my male characters—no matter what sort of outlandish or odd situations I put them in—all come out sounding too much like me.

There are some short-short fiction pieces in here as well. One is an exercise from that same first fiction class, in which I wrote a story about a shadowy figure in a dystopian future called the Sheriff who could control people’s minds. It was just this scene, and when I wrote it I had no idea what any of it was about. I tried to expand it, and even published a few installments of what was intended to be a serial novel. It went quickly off the rails. Still, this little piece of fiction still sticks with me and remains the only part of that world I still really, really enjoy.

Two other short fiction pieces were born of my desire to play with form and what a short story can be. One of them, an instant message conversation between two men in a poetry class, counts as a real story I think. The characters go through change, there is conflict, and (an ambiguous) resolution. The second of them, a fictional news article about a killer who tried to brand himself and the comments under that article, is something I am very proud of. This was written well before mass shooters included social media in the planning of their brutal and cowardly acts. The commenter archetypes below the fake article are alive and well. My four years writing news stories for the internet only confirm this fact for me. The only change I’d make if I were writing it today would, sadly, be to add more Nazis.

The first story in this section is not one I ever submitted to a teacher. I finished it while in school, but was too embarrassed by its sexual (and baldly religious) imagery to ever turn it in to any of my professors. Still, I like it and it was almost published in an anthology collection of short stories based on the Seven Deadly Sins. This story, of course, was part of Lust. Unfortunately, the press folded before the book ever made it to publication.

I have put aside all of these characters for now, but it was a delight to pay them a visit and check-up on them. (One of them is dead, but I will let you guess which one.) However, none of this would exist were it not for my time at Pitt, studying with Dov Ber Naidich, Jeff Martin, and Allison Amend. My peers in fiction—though not really my peers because so many of them are better at all of this than me—Nina Sabak, Charles LeGros, Scott Miller, Nick Slapikas, and many others I am neglecting to name were not competitive, sniping egomaniacs but the most supportive friends you could ask for. No story I ever write will be as good as the real-life one I lived with them, just a bunch of word-nerds playing make-believe.

2017

The Perfect Gentleman

Blacking out from drinking is both a good and a bad thing. Your mind is tired, to the point of exhaustion, but your body is far from being done with the party. So nature designed a state in which your mind can rest, but your body will keep going. There are many terrible ways to wake up from a blackout drunk, so in comparison, I have nothing to complain about. Still, I was pulled from the blissful darkness of blackout into the real world one Sunday morning to experience myself receiving a blowjob from a stranger, or more accurately, finishing one.

My mind tried to race, but not being prepared for orgasm, it was difficult to collect my thoughts. My eyes reported to my brain that the pale, larger form in front of me was a woman that I met only hours before, but was no stranger to giving strangers blowjobs. Her pale skin was a stark contrast to her blue and black-dyed hair, her skin flapped unflatteringly as she swallowed everything I had to offer. My legs were fast asleep. The tingling that preceded the crippling pins-and-needles effect creeped from my thighs to my ankles, a warning of a future I was powerless to avoid. My back and neck told me that I had been sitting upright on the couch for more than a few hours. I felt strangely rested and energized, instead of exhausted and riddled with a hangover.

She raised her head, and I looked upon her face for what might as well have been the first time. Everything about her was large. She was adequately proportioned, but just larger in stature and build than most of the men I knew. My cock seemed to be lost in her cavernous mouth, for a brief moment I was afraid she had swallowed the entire thing leaving me as smooth as a Ken doll. Even after having finished vigorously, she persisted in servicing me despite the obvious unwillingness of the flesh or present weakness in spirit. Still, she had a sweet face and her gaze only seemed to ask if I was pleased, for which I felt terribly guilty for not being pleased at all.

Having been blacked out, I was unsure of how encouraging or discouraging I had been. Smiling, I said the first thing that I was thinking of, I’m parched, so I imagine you have to need a glass of water!

Sure, she said sleepily.

Perhaps you wouldn’t mind dressing? I whispered, worried my friends might come downstairs. I stepped into the kitchen off of the living room I would have spattered with my DNA had this particular lady not been so thorough. I filled two glasses with ice cubes and water. When I returned to the sitting room, she was asleep. I left the glass on the end table, grabbed my coat from the armchair and snuck out through the basement. Once in my car, I took a deep breath and started the engine. I threw the car in gear and drove away quickly. I aimlessly drove around the neighborhood, pondering how much of how I awoke was a result of my actions.

I wouldn’t be surprised to discover I had instigated the whole thing, given my history of one-night stands and general disinterest in the women I sleep with. The morning seemed unnaturally bright, and I began to wonder if anyone had ever studied the effect of waking up while having an orgasm. Even the view of an intersection in my run-down suburb was breathtaking. If I had been standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, I might not have been able to resist throwing myself into it if only to be closer to its magnificence.

The sunlight shone down through the trees, it was the end of autumn but the start of Indian Summer. Some leaves were iridescent reds and oranges, the others were decomposing on the ground. The intricate design of the angular branches of a pair of bare trees bore a striking resemblance to three men on crosses. The traffic light changed and the car behind me offered a beep to call my attention from the trees and back to the road. I pressed on the gas pedal and roared ahead fleeing down the road partly from the kind young stranger I awoke with, but also from this imagery that sprang forth from the subconscious of my Catholic youth. I had just made the Lord very angry and I had to repent or my eternal soul was at risk.

As if a beacon on a hill, a church loomed before me and the bells were ringing as a handful of stragglers hurried into the building, I am assuming to find the best seat from which to worship. There were many ways I could have chosen to drive home, but for some reason I found myself passing this place. Sweat began to form at the nape of my neck despite the autumn chill creeping in through my cracked window.

There was no stop sign or traffic light, but I paused in front of the church anyway. I could not help looking at the building and through the doors, as if I would see Christ himself on the altar waving me in for forgiveness and redemption. This time the report of the car horn was sharper and less friendly. I panicked and immediately sped forward thirty feet and took a hard left into the parking lot of a hotel on the same street. The bells continued to toll, but I exited the car and walked towards the doors. The lobby was like every other chain hotel lobby I had ever been in, and I had been to this one before, in fact. It was a relatively cheap alternative when I found myself in the company of someone who desired a little more privacy than a friend’s living room but with whom I wasn’t comfortable sharing my address. I spotted the bar and the bartender engaged in ritualistic cleaning and refilling of the liquor bottles.

I eased onto a stool and grabbed a paper from the counter to hide behind. My nerves are shot. Fix me up, would ya? I asked the college-age girl behind the bar, her glasses slightly askew as she refilled a bottle of whiskey.

Her head snapped up and she dropped the nearly full bottle, startled. I was less than three feet from where she was standing, but her back had been turned to the door and she didn’t see me enter. Strangely, my other-worldly sense of vision had not completely vanished. The stark and sterile homogeny of the lobby had taken the edge off, but it was as if the bottle hung there for a moment before it started to fall. Unthinking, I snapped out my right hand and snagged it with my last three fingers.

Holy shit! That was awesome! She exclaimed, no longer startled by my presence.

Can I have a bloody mary, please? I asked her, figuring the less I said the less of a chance she would realize that I was more unnerved by what I had done than she was.

Uh, I guess. I’m actually working the desk, but they wanted me to refill the bottles, I guess there was a big party here last night. Let me see if ‘bloody mary’ is on the recipe card, ok?

Wait, wait, you don’t need a recipe card! I can talk you through it, but you must do exactly as I say.

She went about grabbing the bottles and mixing the contents as I shouted orders to her. Put in more goddamn Vodka! I yelled.

Uncalled for! she said, snapping her head around. I don’t like you taking the Lord’s name in vain, especially on a Sunday and so close to a church. It just gives me bad vibes, okay? She plopped the drink, sans celery for which I was grateful, in front of me and crossed her arms defiantly. I sipped the tangy drink, cringing not because of the copious amount of liquor, but because there was little doubt in my mind that she was flirting with me.

Couldn’t she smell the shame, the degradation emanating from me? I raised the glass in her direction and said, My dear, this is a most fantastic bloody mary, you are a natural. She stood there, arms still crossed, and I sipped and waited for her to inevitably speak. Even if you weren’t looking for conversation, when a woman wanted your attention she would command it when she was ready. It was only when I began to unfold the newspaper that she cleared her throat. I looked up and said, Do I need to settle up immediately?

She frowned and said, No, I am just trying to figure out your story. You look like you had a rough night and I get the whole ‘hair-of-the-dog’ bit, but I sense you’re troubled. And since I am a bartender now, I guess it is my responsibility to earn the tip you are going to give me and let spill your woes to me. I will then offer you sage advice.

I huffed and closed the paper, leaning forward on the bar so that our faces were only about four inches apart, our eyes locked, my expression stony and hers bemused, The sot does not ‘cry on the shoulder’ of the bartender, he drowns his sorrows. As liquid relief fills not just the stomach, but also the heart, those sorrows spring forth from his lips, and it is the duty of the bartender to ensure that, when voiced, those bastards are fully killed off. I leaned back and drained the glass, savoring the conflicting burn of the alcohol and the hot sauce. Let’s try to reinforce what you learned a moment ago, make me another one.

Her expression had not changed, but something flickered in her eyes for a moment, and I realized that we were now flirting with each other. When I sat at the bar, I was so absorbed in my own self-loathing that I hadn’t even noticed how attractive she was. She was shorter than I and her hotel uniform was a very form-fitting suit, accentuating her slender curves. A drunken, shady hook-up was my sin and there was some absolution in pursuing this woman willingly and sober. Or my dick was a monster and it was already hungry again.

The second drink was better than the first, and the involuntary smile that sprang to my face told her all she needed to know. She clapped slightly and began to put away the liquor that would probably not be needed until her shift was long over. Her eyes flicked back just when I was admiring her ass in her suit pants. I imagined that she was the woman I had awakened to this morning. As my gaze crept towards her head, I noticed that she had turned around and watching me leer at her. She smirked when I realized I had been busted, so I shrugged my shoulders, winked, and stood after a glass-emptying gulp. Not a bad Bloody Mary for an amateur, hope to see you again.

Well, if you get thirsty, I’m on the overnight shift starting at midnight. Maybe, I’ll see ya. She turned away and I watched her again for a moment, but turned around in case she looked to see if I was looking. Fool me once… and all that.

I climbed back into my car and noticed the flashing light from my cell phone pulsating from beneath the passenger seat. I tensed. Perhaps the girl has awakened and was less than pleased to find the taste of a man who was no longer there still in her mouth. I cursed my cowardice as I stretched to retrieve the phone and whatever sort of unpleasantness was behind that light. I illuminated my phone to learn that I had a missed call from an unknown number. With a sigh I tossed the phone back on the floor and pulled out of the hotel parking lot to go home and shower.

I entered my apartment. Most of my windows were at the west side of the house, so at this hour, the house was pleasantly dark. My computer lived in my breakfast nook, and I thought I would browse around my e-mail and the internet while I waited for some coffee to brew. I turned on the laptop and went to prepare my coffee. The ingredients I needed were all in the cupboard above the coffee maker, and I pulled them down, taking a swig from the bottle of Irish cream that went into my coffee on most mornings. A few moments later, I sat down in front of my computer which had finished its slow boot-up process. I typed my e-mail password into the field and glanced outside where I saw the woman’s feet jutting out from my sun porch.

Panic set in. My first instinct was to flee. I stood up and went to the door, slowly peeking out the window. The mystery woman rested on a chaise lounge that was definitely not there when I left my house the previous evening. I could see that she was in a bikini and had an awesome body, but her hair and face were both obscured by the large-brimmed hat she wore as she seemingly read a book, nonplussed at the fact that she was trespassing. I pawed at my pockets looking for my cell phone. Sexy or not, this chick had just enough crazy to break into my place and sun herself in her own chair. I needed to call for back-up.

My pockets were empty and, cursing under my breath, I back-stepped