Friday, September 26, 2014

"A Matter of Degrees" a novel excerpt. I began this at USC and gave up fiction for the lucrative career of screenwriting which was going to quickly pay off my student loans. Let's just say, with only $120,000 still unpaid, it didn't quite pan out. (Note to readers: this is a rescued unedited text, so beware of typos and strange Greek symbols in the place of punctuation. Much was lost in recovering this file from a format now seldom see outside of the Microsoft Museum.)


A MATTER OF DEGREES 
(a novel in progress)


Dale Butts lay back on his bed. For a moment he stared at the concrete ceiling, thinking. It was the only blank space in sight. 
On the wall opposite his bed a former occupant had painted a huge mural in stupefying colors. Dale had never been able to figure out what the mural represented. He thought it was either suppose to be General George Washington crossing the Delaware or a jury box filled with laughing clowns. It didnÕt really matter to him. Dale had never thought much of art. It had never meant much to him. The old man who was housed across the hall from Dale had a greater interest in the painted. He insisted that by squinting a little the mural was an arousing dipiction of Eve making love to the serpent. Obviously, the artist had left much to the imagination. 

One endless afternoon as Dale he contemplated either George Washington or a box of laughing clowns, he realized the reason for art. Dale suddenly knew why art was so popular. The reason was very simple: walls. Walls were miserable things. They boxed you in. They confined you and their blank, faceless edges made the confinement worse. Walls had created art, not mankind.  People didnÕt need to make art, they just needed to uncreate walls. Even the early cavemen painted themselves silly. Why? They just wanted to be outside of those damned walls.
Walls and confinement were of particular interest to Dale, especially as his third wall consisted of a row of steel bars. Although his housing was certainly colorful it was, after all, a rather small prison cell. 

On the wall behind his bed Dale had taped photographs clipped from various magazines. Their purpose was to cover another mural which Dale did not like. This one was simple to figure out. It was a drawing of a Òhanged manÓ Ñ an enlarged version of the childrenÕs word game. A stick-figure of a hung man dangled from a snaky, black gallows. Written beneath the scene was the filled-in solution to the deadly puzzle.

   I   D  I  D   A   B  A  D   T  H  I  N  G    J  E  S  U  S

Dale stood up and looked into the mirror which hung on hid back wall. He staightened his shoulders perpendicular to his lanky body. If you werenÕt careful you could pick up a slouch from too much bunk time. He brushed back a lock of his sandy, light brown hair which was just starting to get to a good length and it meant the bulls would soon want to cut it. Dale leaned closer and examined the faint yellow specks in his otherwise clear grey pupils. His eyes had always been healthily bright. Dale neither smoke nor drank. He could make this eyes twinkle on command. Dale smiled and the mirror smiled back Ñ as if it were greatly enjoying his visit. Dale laid back down on his bed and decided to do some work before dinner. He looked over at his most prized possessions.
Between the steel toilet bowl and the leg of his bed Dale Butts stacked his books. The books were paperbacks with their covers peeled off Ñ their titles bluntly repenned on curled end-papers. On the last page of each book, stamped hugely in blue ink, was: "PROPERTY: VALLEYRIFF STATE PRISON.Ó 
The bookÕs covers had been removed by the prison librarian, Dieter Lentz. Lentz had formerly maintained and operated a carousel in Salt Lake City. One summer a series of snapshots of nude children had surfaced in Dallas. What these photographs all had uniquely in common was that the children were gaily reaching for brass rings from the backs of wooden animals. They had been traced back to Salt Lake and Lentz had received an twelve year sentence for their distribution. An elephant with green eyes wearing a brightly jeweled turban had incriminated him.
Six years in Valleyriff had made Lentz a grimly devout man. Some prisoners accepted saintly repentance as an escape from their consciences. Others just choose to smoke. Lentz had come to believe little motivation was required to inspire men to acts of blasphemy, and he set about removing the hair-trigger titillations which surrounded him. He began by tearing the portraits of busty heroines from romance novels and soon progressed to any cover with a woman on it. When complaints arose as to why certain books arrived stripped and others didn't; he simply took to removing all the covers. Pressed together on the library shelves the naked pages of the dismembered books appeared to bethe worldÕs longest paperback. 
Dale leaned over his mattress and picked up one of his books. It was one of DaleÕs favorites: Charles DickensÕ Nicholas Nickelby. Dale was filled with disgust as the bookÕs back page tore off in his hand. The denuded books often quickly fell apart. It was virtually impossible to read a mystery novel. Final page solutions were always missing. A large number of endings went like this: 
ÒDr. Morneau pulled back the bloodied shroud which covered the body on the examination table. Owen Flint stepped forward to inspect the body and Mrs. Lamont leaned in to him exclaiming, ÒYou were right, Inspector, itÕs not Harris. ItÕs. . . 
PROPERTY: VALLEYRIFF STATE PRISON. 
` There were many frustrated readers in Valleyriff. 

The ravaged books especially annoyed Dale Butts; he respected stories. Dale had always been a good reader and writing seemed to him a form of redemption. Dale had written his first story when he was only seven years old. It was called, "Rudolph flys to Salt Lake." 
In the story: a tired Rudolph mistakenly leads the sleigh team to Utah. As Santa Claus searches for his workshop in a blinding snowstorm, two little boys stumble upon the sleigh. They take it for a flight around the world, dropping toys to all the children who have been bad during the year. When the boys return from their trip, they toss the reins back to a puzzled Saint Nick shouting, "Merry Christmas, Pops!" and run off, laughing, into the snow.
It was not quite dancing sugarplums.
 
Dale's fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Oswald, a silver-haired matron of sixty, perhaps a bit overwhelmed with holiday spirit, had sent the story to the Salt Lake City Examiner. The newspaper, hungry for seasonal material, had printed it. For two grades thereafter, Dale's teachers called him "The Little Writer", eagerly foisting their favorite books upon him. Only the physical education teacher, Mr. Horst, seemed to notice the illicit undercurrent which ran through the tale of heisted sled, and he eyed ÒThe Little WriterÓ  suspiciously until Dale finally graduated to Chapman Junior High School. 
The story was the sole recognition Dale had received as a child. He read and wrote passionately for several years, until the less-asthetic pleasures of adolescence began to command his atttention.

In prison, Dale had become an avid reader again. He sat intently on the edge of his bed with the paperback of Nicholas Nickleby, and copied a sentence onto a prescription pad stolen from the infirmary. Dale had been compiling quotes for the past two years. He was certain the best so far had come from Philosophies of Twentieth Century Thought. The words in the book had the distinguished tone he was looking for. He had also borrowed freely from Madame Bovary, The Best American Essays, Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra, and Do's and Don't, an etiquette book penned by Mrs. Margaret Bunscross. A great many ideas had also been lifted from a book of poetry entitled: The Killer Kisses with One Hand Slowly, by Edward Warkoski. This book apparently had slipped by Deiter Lentz's stringent eye. On its cover there was a photograph of the author, bleary eyed with a three day's growth of beard beard, groping a half-naked Tai prostitute. Due to the semi-pornographic nature of the poetry, Dale had to tape the book behind his toilet. The cover alone would have made it popular among the inmates. 
The material Dale was collecting was for an essay.  Dale had begun the essay a year and a half ago. So far he  had written one page. The page, however cannibalized, was a beauty. Its four paragraphs positively soared. They alternated between exalted speculation, and truths, so simply and profoundly stated, that even the most erudite professor would have to polish the moisture from his glasses.  Dale had written the essay for admission to Welton University. The Welton University, of Welton, Massachusetts, founded: 1735. The most prestigious academic institution in the world.
In six months Dale would be out on parole. He had decided Welton was the place he wanted to re-enter society.

    
Dale leaned against the wall of his cell and his back pressed on a photograph of a small, dark-skinned manÑwith a wild headÑriding a bicycle. The man had an imbecilic grin on his face. Dale had clipped the picture from People magazine. It was the famous photograph of Apurva Majmundar, the renown astro-physicist. It was Majmundar who had originated the Theory of Incongruity. His ideas had revolutionized the concept of order in the universe. Instead of a delicately balanced harmony between time and space; Majmundar had hypothesized the two were compatible as piranhas and guppies in a bowl. He theorized that time eventually would grind rudely to a halt. At that moment, the universe would resemble a block of ice with ashes embedded in it. 
Apurva Majmundar was DaleÕs only real hero. Dale idolized the scientistÕs brillance, as did much of the country. Majmundar, had become the darling of the popular press following the ferment of the publication of the Theory of Incongruity. Fortunately the public was willing to over-look his catastrophic prediction which was slated as being a half-billion years away. It did not, after all, affect any weekend plans. The public was more delighted to learn that it was MajumundarÕs advancement of particle theory which had resulted in the creation of calorie-free pork and chicken. 
MajmundarÕs genius had subsequently captured the heart of the country. He was celebrated as a national treasure, the countryÕs new Charles Lindberg, itÕs new Apollo astronaut; an intellectual explorer in a country too bankrupted to tackle any new frontiers other than the theoretical. 
Almost large-scale scientific pursuits had been halted after the disaster involving the Space Station Callisto. A massive asteroid storm had swept Callisto off-course. Two weeks later the intricate, trillion-dollar, construction, having been reduced to an beeping, amorphous blob of titanium, fell into the sun. The scientific community was now largely funded for projects involving animal husbandry. 
MajmundarÕs mind-spun advances were the last hope of keeping the United States as a player in the international scientific community. Apurva Majmundar was currently the director of The Institute for Progressive Concepts at Welton University.
Dale sat up and read aloud what he had just copied from Nicholas Nickelby. He read very slowly. "A child raised without reassurance he grew to be a suspicious manÑwary of all random acts of kindness." Dale reread the line several times, admiring it. Its beauty attracted him in the way all beautiful things didÑwith admiration and covetousness. In the fragile way it sat on the page, the statement had beckoned him to remove it. During his lifetime Dale had removed many things he admired: most notably a red Porshe from the parking lot of a dentist. That beautiful statement had cost him four years in Valleyriff. It was not his first visit to prison. By the age of thirty, half of Dale's life had been spent as a ward of the state.    
Valleyriff State Prison was a ÒLevel OneÓ, correctional institute. It's population consisted of non-violent offenders whose intelligence tested at better than average. It was designed to be a true rehabilitational facility. As in most prisons the inmates had the chance to study practical trades: plumbing, heating, auto mechanics, and appliance repair. Some critics of the program argued the prisons offered better resources than many public schools; others quarrelled that they tutored in professions already too laden with criminal intent. 
Unlike other prisons, a "level one" prison offered more  exotic fields of study. Prisoner could study everything from computer programming to earning a dubious certificate in ÒPractical Anesthesiolgy.Ó A large number of prisoners naturally choose to undertake the study of law. In general they either sought to discover a way to early release, or methods of circumventing future prosecution. The law program was considered being removed as an option of study. It seemed to generate the largest number of repeat offenders. 
Until his latest incarceration, Dale had always studied a trade. He could fix most gas-fueled engines, replace a leaky pipe, even repair a VCR. But Dale found little satisfaction in any of these trades, and his subsequent boredom always led him back to prison. 
Dale had been a chronically uninspired student when he was young. The prospect studying toward honest employment not only bored him, but seemed ludicrous. Early in life Dale had tasted the instant gratification of theft. Dale had dropped out of high school during his sophomore year; partly due to lack of interest, partly due to a growing suspicion by the vice-principal at the number of bicycles he was selling to students. Dale had never gone back.
Dale had half-heartedly begun a course in hotel management when he was assigned to Valleyriff. Instead he spent most of his time reading novels. Valleyriff's English instructor noticed that Dale frequently carried one the library's stripped books with him. He suggest that Dale take his "Introduction to Contemporary Literature" course. Something had clicked with Dale. The course rekindled his love of reading and writing and, after years of living by his wits, Dale realized the wealth of information waiting for him in books. They were stuffed with ideas. Ideas he could use. That was when he decided he wanted better than Valleyriff had to offer.  
Dale read the Dickens' quote one last time, but decided there was no way he could use it in his application. He carefully tore the sentence from the bottom of the pad, rolling the strip of paper into a tiny ball. He tossed it against the far side of his cell. A red light bulb encased in a steel mask began to flash. There was the short blast of an air horn, and the clank of bolts unlatching echoed in the hallway. Dale placed the pad and pencil between the pages of Nicholas Nickleby, and stuffed the book under his mattress. He rose, falling in with the unhurried march of blue shirted prisoners, and headed toward the dining hall.

II.

The bell in the university tower tolled eight o'clock. It was an eye-achingly bright morning and few students considered rising. The previous evening had been "The Snow and Berries Soiree," an unofficial tradition at Welton University. The event featured a nude romp across the frozen campus, followed by a long evening of drinking and drunken debate. Week-long flurries had beautified Welton's campus to a heart-rending picturesqueness. Welton was the oldest university in North America. Its hewn stone buildings radiated wealth, solemnity, and a well-entrenched history. The snow covered campus was a sublime vision, the sort forever cherished in the hearts of alumni, and forever reprinted in alumni magazines. 
A  heavy snow had fallen during the night but bare-footprints were still visible on the ground. They crisscrossed the lawn with the randomness of scattered atoms, merging into a single trail that led to the rotunda of the student center. This was where the evening's revelry had culminated. Several long woolen scarfs hung stiffly from nearby trees. 
One set of footprints bit more solidly into the snow than the others. They traveled toward the library. The fresh footprints were marked by short strides. They were separated as though the walker had measured each step to be evenly placed. At the library a series of small, barred windows were nestled close the ground. The owner of the footprints sat behind these windows. In a study cubical, reading under the harsh, white morning light, was Sondra Hollis.
Sondra Hollis was a tall girl, quite nearly six feet. Her strong boned features marked her eastern European roots. She was attractive in a very formal, very distinguished way. Her profile suggested carefully selective breeding. She sat taking notes from a leather bound, gold embossed copy of Philosophies of Twentieth Century Thought. She was studying a passage of Wittgenstein, when she heard footsteps shuffling in the stacks. She did not turn around even as they sidled up to her.
"Out getting your morning's worth of truth?" An inhaled, congested laugh followed the greeting.
"Oh, hello, Harold," Sondra said, turning her head only slightly.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle, I was quite certain I'd be the solitary soul here."
"You mean you didn't participate in last night's frolic?" Sondra asked in mock surprise. 
Harold Ballard pulled a linen handkerchief from his blazer and blew his nose. He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and leaned over Sondra's chair. Sondra bent closer to her book. Harold Ballard was a naturally heavy breather. He was a first year graduate student in Welton's Romance Languages department, and he was especially handy with sanskrit. As an undergraduate he had single-handedly interpreted six hundred papyrus scrolls. His coup-de-grace had been shedding new light on previously misunderstood flax-harvesting ritual. His  efforts had worsen his already bad vision and, behind his thick glasses, his eyes moved like two jumping beans. 
"I'm afraid I didn't participate. I have an unusal proclivity to frost-bite." Harold guffawed so violently he had to remove his handkerchief again. "Did Mademoiselle partake of the Soiree?"
"No," Sondra replied. She sharply flipped a page of her book. Harold realized his Faux pas and tossed back a lock of unwashed hair with a twitching motion.  Harold glanced at Sondra's back. Just below her shoulder blades were several unnatural lumps . 
"Sorry, Sondra. I didn't mean . . ."
"That's alright," Sondra said reassuringly. "My back allows me a certain flexibility in my activities, but a naked run through the campus is not among them." 
Steel bars sewn into a nylon corset ran in perpendicular lines along her back. Her spine was supported by the bars like a weak vine tied to a stick. Over the back-brace Sondra wore a shapeless dress. The black cotton pullover was a model of simplicity. It could have understated the feminity of slithering sex-bomb. It was not an uncommon style for women to wear at Welton;  there was a tendency among the women to dress unflatteringly. The women at Welton would have no confusion as to why they were there. They were not there for decoration.
"I'm sorry, Sondra," Harold repeated. He had approached Sondra to ask her to an evening showing of La Dolce Vita. He now felt awkward, and he dropped the idea. It was the closest he had come to asking out a woman. In frustration he pinched his nostrils and cleared his throat. The sound was much like the mating bark of a otter. "Does your the back bother you often?" Harold asked. He immediately regretted the question.
"No, not really," Sondra answered, belaying no resentment. A natural pride modulated her voice. It seldom quavered from perfectly atenuated control. "I've grown somewhat accustomed to the brace. It's really more of an inconvenience than anything. I suppose one quickly gets used to most inconveniences," Sondra turned and smiled mildly at Harold. Harold's jumping beans flipped behind his glasses. "The doctor tells me that the brace can come off in another year. With any luck, that will be the last of it."
As a child, when all the probing and measurement was through, the diagnosis had been eighteen degrees. Eighteen degrees from a normal childhood. Eighteen degrees from running, swimming, jumping. It was a relatively mild case of Scoliosis, but it had been sufficient to separate Sondra Hollis from other children; as though eighteen degrees clicked off on a micrometer had translated to eighteen miles of rough water between islands.  Isolated on that island, separated from the childish acts of recklessness which a healthy body allows, Sondra had turned within for entertainment. Her mind had done her leaping and bounding for her. She was a genius, and only a freshman at Welton.
    
Sondra Hollis had had offers of free tuition from every major university. She had chosen Welton. Welton was the most difficult school in the country to gain admittance to. Its policy on admission was strictly elitist. In general, one had to be exceeding well positioned to enter Welton. Unless one's parent held a post of importance or could lay claim to aristocracy, old world or new, it was all but futile to apply to Welton University. A common etiquette problem for the university was separating by dorm the offspring of rival heads of state. 
The exception to this rule was if a student possessed a truly superior intellect. If an SAT score caused the psycho-metricians in Princeton to rework their test, even a needy student could find their way into Welton. Welton was very generous when it came to intelligence. Welton loved large amounts of grey matter as much as it did blue blood. "CEREBRUM OR PEDIGREE" might have been inscribed over its stone arches. 
Sondra Hollis had had two things in her favor. She was unusually bright, and her background was impeccable. Her Great-Great-Great-Grandfather was the respected Judge James Wendall Hollis.
Judge Hollis was an Oxford-educated barrister who had traveled to the Americas late in life. He had been the first official to preside over the witch trials in Salem, Massachusetts. During a preliminary hearing Judge Hollis  delivered a poignant speech on the dangers of human fear and misunderstanding. He publicly announced his belief that the accused women were suffering from mental disorder, rather than acting as servants of Satan.  At the end of his speech he had risen from his bench, and comfortingly stroked the head of one of the disturbed women. That evening Judge Hollis' cook mistakenly served him the left-overs of a oyster pie. Judge Hollis went into a deep fever, spoke distractedly about polished apples, his Grand-Nephews knees,  and Beelzebub. He died the early the next morning. There was little doubt among the community what had caused his demise. The woman whose head he had stroked was the first to the burning stake. 
Sondra's Great-Great-Grandfather had been proprietor of Newbury Nautical Ltd.  His company designed and built Clipper ships for European trade. His son, Thomas Meritt Hollis, had kept the family's interests active by reinvesting in steam engine production. Sondra's family was still doing very well. The family had a knack for keeping in step with technology. Her father, Sandford Hollis, currently  manufactured jet airplane engines in Providence, Rhode Island. Her brother Charles, was researching cold-fusion at MIT.

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