Another Perspective
Down And Out
in Eugene and Fayetteville
Taking us from the anarchist-capital-of-the-world to the dead-prostitute-capital-of-the-world, Bryan Roberts closes out his run with the Oregon Commentator.
First of all, what you need to know:
I have recently relocated from Eugene, Oregon, which is, as you know, a countercultural something-or-other as well as the kind of town that frequents those "Top Ten Best Places to Live in the United States" lists; to Fayetteville, North Carolina, which is a military something-or-other as well as the kind of town that frequents those "Top Ten Highest Crime Rates Per Capita in the United States" lists. The reasons for, and the effects of, this move may or may not become apparent during the course of this column.
Second of all, the reason I first told you what you first of all need to know, and continue to express myself in an insipid format punctuated by colons: I was instructed upon arrival in this new place that among men who mean business, one always first tells the person to whom one is speaking exactly what one means to say in terms of factual data. "Men who mean business" and "people who are mentally tough enough for the military" are taken to be synonymous around here, and men who don't fit into this category are taken to be degenerates.
Such is not to say that the regional flavor of this area requires every paragraph to hinge upon a colon, however - to say that would be to go too far, to be altogether incorrect. But there is a writer of a certain renown, who is local to neither Fayetteville nor Eugene, by the name of David Foster Wallace, and he once wrote an essay about David Lynch in which he said next to nothing about Lynch's movies or directorial style, but in which he did use a precocious abundance of colons and outrageously lengthy sentences, and managed to fixate on the fact that he had seen Lynch pissing, publicly, on the set - effectively communicating a certain lack of faith in the relevance of that school of film without really saying anything like that at all. It is my intention to out-precocious that punk Wallace.
Reasons why I have just written that I want to out-precocious that punk Wallace:
1) I have taken on the affectation of telling you what you need to know right at the outset of things.
2) Wallace uses many big words, some would say unnecessarily - a precocious habit that has its heart set on becoming a theme of this piece.
Random Fayetteville conversation #1 (poolside in my brother's apartment village, midday sun, 89 degrees, Monday, August 14):
ME: [arriving at poolside, approaching brother's reclining lawn chair and sitting down] Hey, thatÍs an incredible book you have on your coffee table.
OLDER BROTHER: [eyes unwavering from two girls on the other side of the pool] Which one?
ME: Grey Area.
OB: [turning head my direction, squinting into sunlight, strained voice] What?
ME: The book of short stories by Will Self?
OB: [incredulous] You like that?
ME: It's hysterical! Isn't "Will Self" the wittiest pen name in the history of English literature? All his stories revolve around free will and identity and the relationship between consciousness and reality.
OB (with distaste, forcefully): It's pedantic. He uses big words just to show off, and it doesn't mean anything. I don't like that fancy, meaningless crap.
ME: I look at it as a joke on the English language. First of all, he's satirizing Englishness; you can find that even in the distinctly British spelling of "gray" in the title. All his titles have double meanings; everything is a pun on something else.
OB: Well, I read one of those stories, and he started going on about homosexuals. I don't like that, when they try to bring that in.
ME: What culture is more homosexual than the British?! Anyway, he's only acknowledging the subject's presence in literature as a humorous touchstone - are you sure you weren't reading one of the stories he wrote from the perspective of a female?
OB (in true disgust): What? How - That's terrible. Look, I know you're young and idealistic, but I learned in school that when a writer uses big words unnecessarily, and tries to talk around you, pulling stuff like writing as if he's a woman, he's being pedantic.
ME: I thought "pedantic" had a connotation of being dogmatic.
OB: Connotation?! Look, the meaning of a word is the meaning of a word. Don't start talking like a liberal, making broad generalizations all over the place - don't pull that crap on me. You're reading too much of that stuff. It's pedantic.
A dictionary definition of the word "pedant":
n. a person who parades his learning or who insists unimaginatively on strict observance of formal rules in the presence of knowledge. ped-ant-ry n. pe-dan-tic adj. pe-dan-ti-cal-ly adv.
What I took away from it:
"Pedantic" is one of those big words a pedant might use if he were to use an undefined term as a trump card in ordinary conversation.
Random Eugene conversation #1 (at my house on Mill St., midwinter '98, weekday evening):
MOON UNIT: [shouting nasally into the room at large rather than addressing anyone in particular] Yo, let's get some food, muhfuckaaz! You guys wanna order pizza?
SEAMUS: Oh, yeah. Papa Murphy's. Chicken.
ME: I'm not going in on any chicken pizza. You guys wanna make burritos instead?
MOON UNIT: Well I don't wanna have to do anything. I just want to eat right away. So let's just get a pizza and not deal with it... [the three of us walk into the kitchen] OK, as long as it's ready by... [walks down hallway and into his room]
ME: I'll heat the beans and tortillas. [as SEAMUS pulls tomatoes, lettuce, etc. from refrigerator]
ME: [a few minutes later, as SEAMUS finishes cutting vegetables] Where the hell is the can-opener? I can't heat the beans if I can't open them.
SEAMUS: Let me know when they're ready. [goes to his room] [Half an hour later, I've washed the dishes that were piled in the sink and located the can-opener under an inch of silverware and three inches of water at the sink bottom.]
ME: [walking to SEAMUS' doorway] You know, a thing like a can-opener could rust if it were left under dirty water for a day or two.
SEAMUS: [looking up from stringing his guitar, and into space ahead of him for couple seconds] Yeah. I suppose it could. [continues stringing his guitar]
ME: [annoyed] You think you could put the can-opener back into the drawer, where it belongs, after using it, instead of in the sink?
SEAMUS: [equally annoyed] Tell MOON UNIT.
ME: [walking to MOON UNIT'S doorway] MOON UNIT, you think you could make a practice of putting the can-opener back into the drawer after using it, and most especially never leave it in the sink like a piece of silverware, where it can get lost or rust out?
MOON UNIT: [looking up from his hemp string, upset] Why are you telling me?!
ME: I'm telling everyone. If everyone understands the reasonableness of it, I won't spend half an hour looking for the can-opener when we're trying to be ready to eat.
MOON UNIT: [standing up] You're always blaming me for everything. You think you can single me out, and funnel your anger toward me? Well, come on, motherfucker! [runs toward me in a dive-like posture, chases me into living room]
ME: [turning around, raising can opener to eye level] Stop! Or feel the wrath of the opener. Now answer me: why are you saying that I'm being mean to you?
MOON UNIT: Because! There are flames leaping off of your aura!
What I took away from it:
1) Every man for his own can-opener, every acid casualty for his own aura.
2) It's true that all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players - and we're typecast from the get-go.
Random Fayetteville conversation #2 (in a whitish, aging Honda overfilled with drunken near-strangers, en route from an after-work gathering at a chain-restaurant bar on a main street, to my brother's apartment, Friday, August 25, 1:30 am):
DRUNKEN FEMALE CO-WORKER, in driver's seat: Where do you live again?
ME, in back seat: Off Ramsey Road, north of Methodist College.
DRUNKEN FC-W: Where is that again?
RELATIVELY SOBER MALE CO-WORKER OF ROBUST ETHNICITY, in front passenger seat: Yo, I know where that is - here, take this right up to 210.
BLEARY-EYED, PICKET-FENCE-WHITE, MALE FRIEND OF FEMALE DRIVER, in back seat: Hey, this is some dangerous shit, ya know? Why don't we just head into this bar before it closes, hnnh, hnnh.
HYPER-DRUNK, PICKET-FENCE-WHITE, MALE FRIEND OF FEMALE DRIVER, also in back seat: Yeah, this is, like, ghetto, foo's, thi'is like, curb stompin' territory and shit, you know what I'm say'n?
DRUNKEN FC-W: Could you stop freaking me out until I get this kid home and get back into known territory where I can begin to think about how drunk I am? [10 seconds of silence] Where do you live again?
ME: Off Ramsey Road, north of Methodist College.
DRUNKEN FC-W: Where is that again?
RELATIVELY SMC-WORE: Hey, I told you I know where it is - here, take 210 South to 401.
HYPER-DRUNK P-F-WMFOFD: Holy shits, yo's, I know that gas station, I know it! I was walkin' there one time when these two niggers tried to jack me, dude, I swear! [RELATIVELY SMC-WORE looks back slowly, bemused.]
ME: So what did you do?
BLEARY-EYED P-F-WMFOFD: Throw th' money one way, run the goddamn... [looks out window at nothing whatsoever] ...other, hnnh, hnnh, hnnh.
HYPER-DRUNK P-F-WMFOFD: Fuck no, bitch! I ain't givin' none o' them trailer park livin', welfare subsistin' homeboys any malt licka money. This here's my own cash flow, Negro, f' my own malt licka, till some motherfucker shows his gun - which neither uh them was gonna do. So it was me who showed them what was up.
ME: Trailer park?! Where are there trailer parks? Is that military housing for enlisted men?
BLEARY-EYED P-F-WMFOFD: 'ere's a trailer park hidden 'hind every patcha trees 'long side this road, yes'n, hnnh, hnnh.
RELATIVELY SMC-WORE: No, the G1's and G2's, you know, the General Enlisted men, they live in the barracks, that's over in Fort Bragg, on the base. These trailer parks lining the roads are just people who don't do nothin', except for the drug dealers. There's a lot of drug dealers, dude, trust me. And prostitutes.
[I fix an incredulous glare upon him, half visible in the dark car.]
RELATIVELY SMC-WORE: You're right; Fayetteville's military - so it's straight and proper, law and order. But there's all these Privates here, and they don't know what the hell they're doin', they don't even give a damn if they get kicked out of the Army or not. They just don't have anything better to do, so they're here. Look at me: I failed a piss test and got an honorable discharge. Now I'm making more money selling vacations over the telephone. Sucks, though - I wanted that GI Bill money for college. So that's what the trailer parks are for: drug dealers to hook up the General Enlisteds; the people who get kicked out of the Army and don't have enough sense to leave; and prostitutes for the lot of 'em. So Fayetteville becomes, like, a link in the drug trade between Miami and New York.
ME: How 'bout that.
DRUNKEN FC-W: Where do you live again?
ME: Off Ramsey Road, north of Methodist College.
DRUNKEN FC-W: Where is that again?
RELATIVELY SMC-WORE: Yo, take this, take this, 401 right here - left - and this becomes Ramsey Road.
DRUNKEN FC-W: Oh, Ramsey Road!
HYPER-DRUNK F-P-WMFOFD: I can't believe we're here - do you know what happened at that gas station?! These -
RELATIVELY SMC-WORE: The prostitute in the bushes, right? [2 seconds of silence] The police - this was a couple years ago - found a prostitute just lyin' over there in those bushes, dude, with her arms and her legs and her head cut off, just lyin' around within ten feet of her body. [5 seconds of silence] They tested her, man, and found out she was HIV positive. The police figured it was just some soldier gettin' what he needed, and when he found out what else he'd gotten however long later, he just went berserk and went after her - she probably never knew she had it. But the police, they didn't even check to see which soldiers had recently tested positive, they just let it lay.
BLEARY-EYED P-F-WMFOFD: [face now taking on some cloudier color] Why you wanna go on and tell us somethin' like that, man, it's... [looks out the window, this time as if searching the bushes] ...sick, is what it is, hnnh, hnnh.
DRUNKEN FC-W: [now decidedly less drunk, as if converted to sobriety by proximity to our destination] I am so going to knock the shit out of you when I've unlocked my fingers from this steering wheel.
RELATIVELY SMC-WORE: That's not even what's sick, yo. They figured out based on how much blood was around her arms that she was still alive when he was sawin' 'em off. Imagine that: just lyin' there, with this dude on top of her that she probably don't even remember, sawin' away at her arms. They could tell because your blood flows faster when you're alive, and there was so much of it.
HYPER-DRUNK P-F-WMFOFD: Yeah! Sweet! I tell you one thing, you spread that shit to the boys 'round here, you deserve what's comin'
RELATIVELY SMC-WORE: [turning around to face HYPER-DRUNK P-F-WMFOFD, mock puzzlement on his face] But you know what? [much emphasis] She was white.
ME: Take a right here, then pull in on the left. [We pull in to a parking space at the apartment village.] How 'bout that. Right next to a sheriff's cruiser. Nice choice. [I emerge from vehicle and do not look back.]
What I took away from it:
1) Everyone in that car would be considered a degenerate, according to the standards presented to me upon arrival in Fayetteville.
2) The world is composed, in no small part, of people who are considered by almost everyone else to be in some way inferior.
3) Regardless of how well certain conflicts are settled in your own mind, they will find ways to live on and plague the world in interesting new ways despite you.
Random Eugene conversation #2 (at my apartment on High St., Wednesday, July 26, 1:00 pm):
[The phone rings.]
ME: Hello?
OLDER BROTHER: Hey.
ME: Shit! How are you?!
OB: Fine, how are you?
ME: Fantastic, couldn't be better. Feeling great.
OB: Do you need anything?
ME: Not at all. I'm dandy.
OB: Did you finish your school?
ME: No, not exactly.
OB: What do you have left?
ME: I uh, um... it depends... depends on when I get my incompletes done. I got some, uh, term papers I haven't finished, it's um...
OB: Why not?
ME: Well there's, just stuff that I haven't been able to...
OB: Is it drugs?
ME: No, no... I drink a lot... but that's because...
OB: Do you have money?
ME: Well, I - I haven't gotten my financial aid because of my undone term papers... but I have a job interview tomorrow.
OB: So you don't have a job?
ME: Well, I've been looking... I want to get a position as a waiter. I've got a pretty good resume.
OB: How's your living situation?
ME: My lease is up next month.
OB: So? Are you going to continue living with your roommate?
ME: Well, he's moving into a bigger house.
OB: And what are you doing?
ME: I want to get a place by myself.
OB: Why? Is there something wrong with him?
ME: No, no. I just... don't want to put up with anyone's shit.
OB: So he's giving you shit?
ME: No, not at all, I just... well I've applied for a great job with the local newspaper, and I think I might get it... and I'll be able to do my own thing, and not deal with other people's, you know, I just...
OB: But you said you're interviewing tomorrow as a waiter.
ME: Well, the newspaper thing is a long-shot.
OB: So then where are you going to live?
[5 seconds of silence]
ME: Well, when I finish my Incompletes I'll have financial aid.
OB: So why is it you haven't done them?
ME: Well there's... it's communication... it was once the key to my success and now it's a key buried under a lost tombstone... every conversation I have I can't deal with... I oscillate between thinking I'm totally in the right and totally in the wrong, and then I think that there isn't any right or any wrong... I get overwhelmed with the uncertainty of everything... I can't finish the most important projects because I'm afraid of the difference between asserting my perspective and not asserting it... I can't approach my professors, so I can't get extensions or help... and I think that the next day I'll just sit down and complete everything... and I know that if I tell anyone what's going on, they'll only listen to half of what I'm saying and conclude that I've smoked too much pot, or some such cop-out, and I'll be that much further from getting over this hump, so I don't say anything about all that at all, which is why this particular part of this dialogue doesn't exist outside of some demented piece of writing, which is why I obsess over erudite information in every conversation I ever have instead of focusing on the reality of my surroundings, which is why I always feel at once profoundly right and morbidly wrong.
OB: So you spent all your money on drugs. [10 seconds of silence] Why don't you let me fly you out here for a visit? You'll stay for as long as you like, have free rent, drive my new truck around, get a job, make some money. It'll be good to see you.
ME: Yeah. It would be great to see you. But I don't think I'll have to do that, you know, put you out for the plane ticket, when I'm so close to getting my degree. Tell you what: I'll call you after my job interview tomorrow.
What I took away from it:
A plane ticket down, down, down, to the home of the Airborne.
Random Fayetteville conversation #3 (in my brother's blue/gray Dodge Ram, en route from our apartment to Manhattan Bagel, Monday, September 4, 11:00 am):
ME: Do you wanna listen to my Facelift CD?
OB: No.
ME: Just the radio, then?
OB: You don't have to have music just to be somewhere.
ME: OK.
OB: So why do you think that you have to turn on the radio every time you're in the truck?
ME: I don't.
OB: Then why did you try to turn it on?
ME: I didn't try to turn it on. I asked; you said no; I didn't turn it on.
OB: Well, you don't have to have music all the time.
ME: I know that. But I like music. I know you like it too, which is why I asked if you wanted to listen to it. I felt like listening to Facelift, so I asked if you did, but you don't, so we aren't.
OB: So if it feels good, do it, huh? That's what you believe?
ME: I would't say I believe it. But some have theorized that the pleasure principle is the basis of all movement. I would say that it's positive to do something you have an impulse to do unless there's an overriding reason not to do it.
OB: So there has to be a reason not to do something, or else you do it?
ME: Assuming there's a reason to do it in the first place - and pleasure, according to the pleasure principle theory, is the best reason of all.
OB: So you believe that if it feels good, do it.
ME: I didn't say that.
OB: Don't get defensive. You'll kill yourself, doing whatever feels good.
[5 minutes of silence.]
OB: [loudly with theatric enthusiasm, like a sportscaster] Hey!! Say something! We're in a car; we're supposed to have a conversation. Talk about something.
ME: What.
OB: What are you thinking about?
ME: Have you seen the TV trailers for "The Art of War"?
OB: What?
ME: The new Wesley Snipes movie, "The Art of War," about a political assassination, or something?
OB: I might have. Sounds stupid. They don't know anything about that stuff.
ME: Maybe so. Do you think it might have anything to do with that book on your bookshelf?
OB: What?
ME: Sun Tzu, "The Art of War," on your bookshelf? Can the plot of the movie be traced to the book?
OB: No, no, no. That book is a classic text on warfare. It doesn't have any plot. It's just a series of situations.
ME: OK. Kind of like "The Prince"?
OB: [irked] What?! How can you compare the two? They're not the same! Do you even know what you're talking about?
ME: I didn't say they were the same, I -
OB: Don't get defensive! Look: "The Art of War" is an ancient Chinese text on warfare; "The Prince" is an Italian treatise on politics.
ME: I know that.
OB: How can you say you know that?! You're trying to say that two different texts from two different centuries and two different civilizations, on completely different subjects, are the same thing. What the hell is the connection?
ME: Exactly that: They're both texts. They've both survived many centuries to become translated into our language and revered by scholars as distilled wisdom, keys to power. Specifically, I was wondering whether they shared the distinction of being, rather than mere plot-driven stories like most of the movies in the theaters, invaluable classics whose writers exposit their strategic theories through the relation of historical events, strategic theories which have proven to have a lot of applicability to their fields of inquiry even to this day - and I think you've told me as much.
[5 seconds of silence]
OB: [audibly angry] I can't believe you. You're making all these broad generalizations, trying to compare apples to oranges, talking like a liberal. Have you even read "The Prince"?
ME: [audibly exasperated] Hell fucking yes, about three times.
OB: [punches me in the arm] Hey!! Don't be a smart-ass. I only asked you a question. Have you ever read "The Art of War"?
ME: No, I haven't.
OB: Now, there you go. So how can you go around talking about it?
ME: Well, you see, that's why I asked the question.
What I took away from it:
1) Some people become downright unpleasant when called upon to engage in an in-depth conversation about anything other than football.
2) That new Wesley Snipes flick may or may not take inspiration from an ancient Chinese treatise on warfare - if it does, it probably isn't any fun.
3) I do indeed have a communication problem, and I am indeed a smart-ass. Nonetheless I maintain that the world would be a better place if it learned to communicate like I do.
What you take away from this:
Whatever you know or believe yourself to have learned, fine. Just be wary of any cop-out you can't sell to anyone other than yourself.
Bryan Roberts, a senior, occasionally majoring in English, was a featured columnist for the Oregon Commentator