Project 1 : Anatomy of a Culture Probe
As you venture into "thick analysis", in studio we enlist your imagination to interpret and extrapolate from the explicit evidence you observe.
Based on observations culled at your coffee house:
Write a story from the perspective of a player in the experience, i.e. a particular customer, barista, dishwasher, busboy, manager, delivery person, etc.She gave us this assignment before we made our observations, which made that exercise something of a "double-dip." While I was observing for my thick description, I was also very careful to capture moments and details that could be material for a piece of fiction.
I have never tried to write a short story, and decided that it would be interesting to make an attempt for this assignment. I tend to overcomplicate both my writing and my design, so for this project, I worked diligently to consider every sentence, phrase, word and comma, and omit anything that seemed superfluous.
I also decided to mix my process up a bit. I found a random number generator online, and generated two different numbers—one that corresponded to a page in my paperback dictionary, and one that corresponded to a word on that page. I used this word as an entry point into my story, and then ended up building upon that stylistically with other words from the same page.
I submit to you, my first short story.
Resplendent.
He peered around the wall of merchandise carefully, hoping to see a corner of her face again. She was wearing pink today, with all that black and green, and it suited her. John was arguing with her about whether C-A-N was an abbreviation for "can" or "Canada." Frustration began to creep into her voice. He was sure her mouth was beginning to tense at the edges, thinning to sharp points as she bit off the ends of her words.
The chai tea was turning cold. He knew his presence in the tattered chair in the corner was growing conspicuous. How long had it been? He had forgotten his watch on the lamp-stand again. Forty-five minutes? Fifty?
He sighed a shade too loudly, and glanced down at his lap. Soft, supple fingers curled into a limp fist...skin tone foreign against his bright eggplant t-shirt. Why couldn't Carla have finished the laundry on time? The purple fabric was stretched tight against his paunch, and he noticed a small hole beginning to take shape near his navel. He must look ridiculous…an aging cartoon character of a man…the color of Barney the dinosaur. A groan of discomfort escaped him as he ran his hand over his bald spot…a nervous gesture he had established years ago.
The guy sitting at the next table—all dark hair and Run DMC t-shirt—glanced up and barely brushed his gaze across the space, immediately returning to his laptop universe.
"Hey, are you done with that paper?" Her eyes were dark slits against the sun streaming in behind him, flecks of gold flashing off the buttons on her hat. He choked on his spit, spilling chai tea onto the hem of her black pants. Four eyes turned down to the stain as it spread out over the top of her shoe, then slid back up to meet in the chilly space between them. Her lips were slightly parted, and she rolled her tongue to the side, tucking it into her cheek. Once, twice.
"Nice," she muttered under her breath as she floundered past him to the kitchen. Run DMC guy was staring at him now, a dark smirk teasing the corners of his mouth.
Resonant.
He manouvered himself up and out of the chair, and blindly threw his vestigial tea at the garbage can, missing it by nearly two feet. Tea and milk and cup and lid exploded against the wall, splattering the door, his cheek, the floor and the Run DMC t-shirt. He plowed forward, arms raised, windmills flying, and flung the door out and open—escape. He tucked his hands into his pockets, once, twice. Head ducked, quick steps toward the corner as he tried to slow his heart, measure out his breath, and somehow make it up the block.
He crossed the street and shook his head violently, making space for distraction.
Carla would have finished the laundry by now. He could rescue his Harvard t-shirt from the warmth of the dryer and walk up to the library. Ellen would be working today, her pale skin incandescent behind her oversized glasses, widely framing moist brown eyes. If he hurried he could catch her on her way to lunch, subtly brushing past her on the stone staircase. There would be books and chairs—crevices to peer out of, objects to hide behind.
Resuscitate.
Overall, I am pleased with this. It was an extremely valuable exercise for me, and I think the end result is a decent character study. One of my goals for the semester is to practice more restraint within my work. To ruthlessly edit and re-frame my ideas, allowing more space for simplicity and resonance. Hopefully, this is a step in the right direction.
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