A Visit from the Goon Squad: A Review

Photo of a hand holding a paperback copy of Jennifer Egan's novel "A Visit from the Goon Squad"

Written for English 364: The Contemporary Novel at the University of Michigan in 2021

A Visit From The Goon Squad shouldn’t work.  A novel with over a dozen major characters and no sense of a linear timeline, made up of interview snippets and a Powerpoint among other perspectives, seems likely to be a jumbled, confusing mess to read.  Against these odds, Jennifer Egan transforms these elements into a cohesive story that chronicles the inevitable passage of time and the universal regrets that plague us all.  Goon Squad has been the most enjoyable novel for me to read so far this year, and its ability to successfully stretch the boundaries of the novel as a category by manipulating time and human connection allows readers to deepen their understanding of the world and of their place within it.

Egan’s novel mainly follows the lives of Bennie Salazar, a retired punk rocker-turned-record executive, and Sasha Blake, his assistant with a mysterious past and a penchant for pickpocketing.  These two characters’ lives are intertwined with many others through numerous complex connections: Bennie is married to and then divorced from Stephanie, who works for La Doll (or Dolly), who goes on to become professionally involved with movie star Kitty Jackson, who is interviewed by Stephanie’s brother Jules.  Sasha goes on a date with a man named Alex who later works with Bennie and Scotty, Bennie’s former bandmate.  Bennie’s mentor Lou goes on a safari in Africa with a local warrior whose grandson will go on to move to America and marry Lulu, La Doll’s daughter.  You get the gist.

I found Good Squad to be one of those “hard to put down” books.  This was mainly due to the “relay race” quality of the chapters.  Each of the chapters contained one or several callbacks and connections to other characters and other stories, whether that was through an ex bandmate’s former assistant’s husband or a dictator’s fake girlfriend’s daughter.  These small snippets of information kept me interested and invested in each of the characters, even when they were introduced at random.  These threads of connection do get confusing the longer you read, so I recommend referencing a character map to help contextualize the characters within the lives of others, as well as making a note of the year or general time period that a chapter takes place in.  Although it does require some referencing back, Egan’s writing style is one of the main reasons that this novel succeeds where any other novel might fail. 

The parent-child relationships in Goon Squad were another major reason for why I think I felt so connected to the novel.  I have spent a lot of time examining my own relationships with my parents and the powerful emotions that arise from these relationships, which are often messy and misunderstood.  My parents went through a tempestuous divorce when I was in middle school that I found myself stuck in the middle of, and this led to me becoming bitter and resentful towards them.  Experiencing the visceral protectiveness and love that Dolly feels towards Lulu despite her daughter’s embarrassment of her past failures parallels certain aspects of my relationship with my parents and reminds me of the guilt I feel when I purposefully hurt them.  Bennie’s divorce from Stephanie also impacts his relationship with his son, Christopher; he feels distant from him and cannot resist “the exquisite connection that came of defying his ex wife in unison.  Betrayal bonding,” in order to forge a connection with his son (Egan 24).  As someone who held the perspective of the child in situations like these with divorced parents, it was poignant for me to experience it from the perspective of a parent struggling to relate to their child after the trauma of divorce.

Goon Squad is, at its core, a novel about time.  The passage of time, the inevitability of time, and every thing, good or bad, that time brings.  Even simply the fact that the chapters aren’t arranged in chronological order calls back to the idea of time.  The random, jumbled order of the stories reminded me as I was reading of how we recall memories–not in a linear fashion but rather through threads that weave all of these memories together.  All of the characters are worried about time–Bennie drinks gold flakes in his coffee to try to rediscover his sex drive, Sasha lies about her age on her dating profiles, Lou stays entrenched in his reckless rockstar ways long into old age.  The characters feel, as most of us do at a certain point, that the best days of their lives are behind them and they are left to pick up the pieces of broken relationships and failed dreams.  As Bennie muses, “nostalgia was the end–everyone knew that.” (Egan 37).  The characters find defeat in the passage of time, but they also find hope.  Lou’s bandmate Scotty performs a wildly successful concert after decades of being a hardworking fisherman, La Doll escapes her failed career in the spotlight and moves to upstate New York to open a gourmet shop, and retired rockstar Bosco successfully completes one last tour before settling down to become a dairy farmer.  The ups and downs of Goon Squad’s characters serve to remind us that life is nebulous, and there is always the chance to start again and to be better.

Interrelated with time, the novel is also interested in human connection.  All of the characters are connected in some way, whether they know it or not.  These unnoticed connections, threading one person to another to another, are the essence of what makes humanity and determines how we live.  Egan’s ability to make her characters flawed and sometimes unlikeable, the way we all are, allows readers to connect with them as well.  Usually when I enjoy a novel, it has a lot to do with the fact that I enjoyed the characters.  In Goon Squad, however, I actually found many of the characters to be rather unlikeable.  Because the chapters are told from their perspectives and the reader gets a look inside their minds, the flaws of the characters are on full display.  Rather than turning me off of the novel, this vulnerability made me more invested in the characters’ lives.  No, they weren’t perfect, but I could understand why they were the way that they were, and I appreciated that.  Egan makes sure that readers finish Goon Squad feeling almost as connected to each of the characters as they are to each other.

The narrative style that Egan chose also subtly reveals aspects of the characters’ personalities and motivations.  “Great Rock and Roll Pauses”, the chapter executed entirely by Powerpoint slides, is told from the point of view of Alison, Sasha’s 12-year-old daughter.  Alison uses these slides to make sense of the world around her, from her mother’s mysterious past to her father Drew’s fractured relationship with her autistic older brother Lincoln.  Oftentimes when author’s attempt to write from the perspectives of children, it ends up feeling fake.  Egan’s use of Powerpoint makes this chapter believable, as well as one of the most powerful chapters in the novel–what twelve year old in this day and age hasn’t messed around making Powerpoints or other types of technological presentations?  I especially appreciated this chapter’s placement within the novel.  Its title references Lincoln’s fascination with early pauses in songs, when you think the song is over but it starts up again.  As Sasha explains to Drew, “‘The pause makes you think the song will end.  And then the song isn’t really over, so you’re relieved.  But then the song does actually end, because every song ends, obviously, and that time the end is for real.’” (Egan 281).  The chapter is the second-to-last chapter in the book, a literal early pause in the novel–you think it will end with this extremely unique writing style, Alison’s innocence and simplistic worldview acting as a tidy ribbon tying up an otherwise sophisticated, mature novel.  But then comes a final chapter back in regular prose discussing a futuristic New York City.  Although Egan asserts that the chapters of the novel can be read in any order, this chapter’s placement feels meaningful.  The fact that the chapter is centered around a father’s distant relationship with his son who he struggles to connect with also points back to that central idea of the power of parental and familial relationships.

Egan’s personal life also seems to have influenced the novel.  There are many references both positive and negative to the impact of technology on our modern society, and it seems likely that this is partly due to the fact that Egan was in a relationship with Steve Jobs during her college years when he had already found fame and success as the founder and CEO of Apple and was in the process of inventing the Mac computer.  Egan describes feeling in awe of the societal change that Jobs was creating, and this is what eventually ended their relationship.  She says of the relationship, “there were moments when I felt overshadowed by him […] I felt really dwarfed by that.  Like, I felt, Oh, my God, I’m nothing.” (Schwartz).  Egan seemed to recognize that Jobs was in the process of changing the world, and she examines the effects of this in the novel.  Egan’s intimate experience with the dawn of a new technology informed her views when writing Goon Squad; she discusses everything from the digitization of music to the dangers of children growing up with and becoming addicted to technology.  Egan seems lightly critical of technology’s impact on society while also acknowledging how important it has been for innovation and communication, and in the final chapter, “Pure Language”, Egan gives technology the center stage, albeit somewhat unsuccessfully.

As a whole, I felt that this novel flowed well despite being made up of disjointed stories.  The characters, settings, and events all seemed plausible and realistic, and there were callbacks to other characters and times in new chapters that reminded me of what I’d read previously.  The final chapter, however, was my least favorite to read and felt the most disconnected from the rest of the novel.  “Pure Language” follows Alex, the seemingly random man that Sasha goes on an unsuccessful first date with in the first chapter of the novel, as he works with Bennie to promote the comeback concert of Scotty, one of Bennie’s former punk bandmates.  The chapter is set in New York City sometime during the 2020s.  It is Egan’s futuristic prediction of the world, one in which the gravitational pull of the Earth to the sun is off balance, water is threatening to engulf the city, and people communicate over iPhone-reminiscent “handsets” and “T” each other using abbreviated texting slang that seems dreadfully out of date today.  To be fair, it is unreasonable to expect Egan to perfectly explain futuristic culture in a believable way.  As Roth reminds us in his essay “Writing American Fiction”, “And what is the moral of the story?  Simply this: that the American writer in the middle of the twentieth century has his hands full in trying to understand, describe, and then make credible much of American reality.” (167).  It is even harder to try to make the future credible in fiction.  However the chapter’s plot of creating “parrots” to hype up the comeback concert of Scotty, a former punk bandmate of Bennie’s-turned fisherman, seemed unnecessary and contrived.  The concert, an all-ages event that many of the novel’s characters attend, seems like the end of an era, although it doesn’t carry the same weight because there is no prior hinting towards its occurrence.  I give credit to Egan for attempting to imagine this future culture, but because of the fatalistic tendencies of the chapter to predict technology’s hold on society and the rather rushed comeback story of Scotty, Bennie’s former bandmate, I felt as though the chapter was disconnected from the rest of the narrative.  

Although Egan stumbles in the final chapter when trying to explain society through the technological lens of “handsets” and “T’s”,  it is clear throughout Goon Squad that culture is interwoven in every story that each character experiences.  The modern novel is often thought to be an explanation or criticism of the culture that we live in.  Egan seems to criticize certain aspects of journalism and celebrity culture in “Forty-Minute Lunch”, a chapter revolving around an interview that Stephanie’s (Bennie’s ex wife) brother Jules Jones has with up-and-coming but doomed movie star Kitty Jackson.  Jules realizes the banality of his career and tries to write a piece that would catch readers’ attention again, but ends up in prison after the interview goes awry and he attempts to rape Kitty.  Like many other writer’s Jules is preoccupied with the need to create something new in an oversaturated literary and journalistic world.  Bennie, meanwhile, struggles in his role as a record executive as he realizes his disdain for the new age of music which was “too clear, too clean.”  In Bennie’s words, “the problem was precision, perfection; the problem was digitization, which sucked the life out of everything that got smeared through its microscopic mesh.”  (Egan 23).  This critique of technology’s impact on art is even more powerful today, as traditional art forms are quickly being replaced by newer, faster, more efficient methods.  Both Egan and the Goon Squad characters hold opinions about their societies, and these opinions are important to the novel’s overall message.  

Although the novel examines and criticizes culture and society in equal measure, it isn’t pretentious about it.  The characters experience life through their own points of view, and any cultural dialogue is authentic to who they are as regular people just trying to get through life.  The best thing, in my opinion, about Goon Squad is its self-confident assertion that it doesn’t necessarily need to have a point or a “why does it matter?” moment.  It doesn’t take itself too seriously, and because of this we as readers are able to simply become immersed in these characters’ lives and take what we can from their experiences.  In literary society there is such an emphasis on novels that provide social commentary for the time, but I think novels that are of a more personal nature are just as important.  Jonathan Franzen addresses this conundrum in his essay “Why Bother”, stating, “at the heart of my despair about the novel had been a conflict between a feeling that I should Address the Culture and Bring News to the Mainstream, and my desire to write about the things closest to me, to lose myself in the characters and locales that I loved.” (95).  Egan, who won the Pulitzer Prize over Franzen in 2011, doesn’t succumb to this pressure.

I am partial to character-centered narratives, so I may be a bit biased in my appreciation of Egan’s style and the world of Goon Squad.  But it is undeniable that her skillful ability to weave together different narratives and create impactful stories is impressive, and her willingness to bend and break the rules of traditional novels has allowed Egan to create something totally unique.  Goon Squad showcases humanity in all its glory and destruction, and reminds us that no matter how different we are, some feelings, emotions, and experiences truly are universal.

Citations

Egan, Jennifer. A Visit From the Goon Squad. Alfred Knopf, 2010.

Franzen, Jonathan. “Why Bother?” How to Be Alone: Essays, HarperCollins, New York, 2002, pp. 55–97. 

Roth, Philip. “Writing American Fiction.” Reading Myself and Others, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 1975. 

Schwartz, Alexandra, and Jennifer Egan. “Jennifer Egan’s Travels through Time.” The New Yorker, 9 Oct. 2017, https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/10/16/jennifer-egans-travels-through-time.

Everyday Magic

They say there’s no such thing as magic.

That everything can be explained

By college textbooks

And nature documentaries

But

What do you call the swell

Of my heart when the

Sun peeks over the hills

Blanketed in dew?

Is there a scientific explanation

For how wide my eyes are

After three hours in the Met?

Can you explain

What runs through my mind

When I dive headfirst

Into water so clear and cold

That it erases my mind?

Tell me that you don’t believe in magic then.

Even (Space) Cowgirls Get The Blues

Title inspired by Tom Robbins’ novel “Even Cowgirls Get The Blues”

Even space cowgirls get the blues

It’s lonely uniting the cosmos,

Lassoing aliens,

Being wild.

 

 But don’t fall in love with a space cowgirl

She’ll only break your heart

With a tip of her hat

And the twinkle of stars between her teeth

She’s gone.

 

 She’s not made for your life,

Needs space to 

Fling herself off the edge

Of the world and see where

She goes.

Abecedarian for Central America

Against the setting sun, cacti framed by flames

Beside hibiscus blooms open wide, giving their pollen away to the hummingbirds

Chickens squawking in yards filled with patchy grass and remnants of children’s toys

Down the hill, orange and brown specks that could be houses but

Easily look like brushstrokes, a painting

For sale at the art gallery in Alajuela

Grandparents, but not ours, tell us stories in Spanish

Help us understand by talking slowly and motioning with wrinkled hands

In the morning, a trip to the store on the corner where the road forks

Just us kids, sharing candy and holding up funny hats, giggling through aisles

Kicking the soccer ball that sprays up dew against our shins, avoiding the ants that sting ankles

Local mothers in work boots, faster than the varsity boys

Mango juice dripping down our chins, sickly sweet against our tongues

Napkins packed by host parents spread the stickiness

Over fingers and sunburnt faces, only to be washed off at the spigot in between water fights

Paint dries in the sun on the walls of the community center, sparkling green

Quiet is relative; here it means the constant sound of water rushing and someone singing

Rice and beans, fried plantains and and palm hearts fill our bellies as

Sunshine dries the mud into tiny canyons in the dirt road

That borders the rainforest, fends off vines that creep and monkeys that wake the town

Under the dense canopy, the air is heavy and the breeze sounds like a whisper

Vanilla and cacao, tasting bitter pulp and holding the seed between teeth

Wild dogs splash in waterfalls, perking up at the names they’ve been given 

Xenia, a parting gift, a blood red flower woven into cloth, a physical reminder

Years later, will I remember this?  Memories too magical to fade away

Zig-zagging, the bus pulls away and I look back, just for a second, before I turn back around

Ode To Wilson Bentley

close up photography of snowflake

In third grade we looked at pictures of snowflakes,

Their silvery outlines stark against black

Every year we see the pictures

Until we don’t

We’re too old to experience magic, I suppose

And much too old to believe in it

 There is nothing more delicate than snowflakes

And nothing stronger than our skin

Worn now like leather,

Faded and spotted by the same sun that melts

Snowflakes

The only magic that we still believe in

 But snowflakes don’t fall anymore

Another instance of magic fading away

Like memories that we don’t revisit

The same sun that melted the snowflakes then 

Withers the grass now

And the snow doesn’t fall, but we’re still here

Vegetable Soup Family

Inspired by George Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From”

 

I am from my red tricycle

From buttered peas and Norah Jones on the radio.

I am from the blood red sumac in my backyard

(Unlearned lessons of sticky hands)

I am from the railing of the stage that my dad made me;

Strong and sturdy, just like him.

 

I am from ravioli and eye drops,

From Pam and Norma.

I’m from bright yellow daffodils

And joyful shrieking

From emerald gardening gloves dripping with dirt.

I’m from sweet potato pies

With a side of Amen

And wrinkled hands held tight.

 

I’m from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and rocking horses,

Gauze butterflies and breakfast for dinner.

From stickers stuck to the roof of our Eurovan

To Webster the frog in his steamy glass case.

The plastic-wrapped scrapbooks

Under my grandpa’s loft:

Memories of Old Maid games and birthday cakes

With rainbow sprinkles.

 

I am from a vegetable soup family;

Thrown together and stirred and warm-

Just like we should be.

 

  • J.S.

Vignettes from The City That Never Sleeps

A girl and her father walk through the Met looking at ancient art while watching kids sledding through the window.

An older couple looks at two statues kissing passionately and the man says, “that’s us tonight.”  His wife laughs and holds him tighter.

A woman in a colorful sweater sits with a group of kids in front of a George Seurat painting and teaches them how to sketch.  She speaks to them in fluent Polish.

A little girl cries while riding her scooter through the One World Trade Center at midnight.

Two strangers bond over their shared love of Jay Z and dancing in the subway.

Costa Rica Service Trip 2018: Alajuela, Cafe Florida, & Nauyaca Waterfall

Alajuela

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The view from Casa Cielo Grande (“Big Sky House”): the city of Alajuela in the valley.

On Saturday, November 17th, I along with around 30 other schoolmates boarded a charter bus and took two planes to San José, Costa Rica for a service project & vacation.  What occurred in the next eight days became the best travel experience of my life.

On Sunday, right after we arrived in Costa Rica, I ate a traditional Costa Rican lunch of rice, beans, chicken, and tortilla chips before arriving at our hotel in Alajuela, a large province slightly north of San José.  The hotel, called Casa Cielo Grande, was situated further up on the mountainside with a gorgeous view of the city below.  At night, the city lights flickered as we splashed in the outdoor pool.  I shared a large one-room, two-bathroom house with many of the other girls in my class, along with my sister.  After a few long days of traveling and sleeping in the uncomfortable bus and plane seats, I gratefully sunk into the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

 

Cafe Florida & “The Jungalow”

The next day my group, which was comprised of mostly seniors and juniors along with a few sophomores, took a five-hour bus ride to a sustainable coffee & cacao farm called Cafe Florida.  On our way, we stopped at a bridge to see crocodiles lying in the sun and at a Costa Rican supermarket to pick up local snacks and fresh-squeezed juice.

 

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We stopped on the side of the road to get our first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean.

 

 

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Fun fact: crocodiles cool down by leaving their mouths open–they look like they’re smiling!

 

We stopped in the mountains at a roadside restaurant with a view of the jungle; it was beautiful.  Next to the restaurant was a fruit stand, and the man who worked there was very happy to show us different kinds of local fruit and even let us taste most of them.  My favorite was called mamon chino.  It’s pinkish and spiky on the outside, and to eat it you break it open and a round, peeled-grape-looking fruit is inside.  It’s very sweet and juicy.

 

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The gorgeous view from the roadside restaurant.

 

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My lunch at the roadside restaurant, a typical Costa Rican meal.  I ate beans, rice, palm heart (that’s the yellow chopped food mixed with the rice and beans), a small salad, and breaded chicken.

 

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A half-opened mamon chino: the red part is the outside shell, and the white part is the edible fruit.

 

After a long day of driving, we arrived at Cafe Florida and met Roy Cisneros, the farm owner, along with his wife, young son, and their adorable dog, Pecan.  The Cisneros family showed us around their farm and let us try cacao straight from the plant, as well as their other plants and herbs.  Cafe Florida is incredible because it is almost completely sustainable and eco-friendly.  The Cisneros family uses fecal matter from their pigs to power their stoves, and they eat only what they grow or buy from their neighbors.  According to Mr. Cisneros, the family grows bananas, coffee, cacao, coconuts, mangos, lettuce, and many various herbs.  They also raise tilapia and shrimp in their pond, keep cows for milk, chickens for eggs, and guinea pigs to be pets for their son.

 

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At Cafe Florida, the family cuts open bamboo stalks and plants herbs in them.

 

 

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The family uses the pigs’ poop to create biogas to fuel their stoves.

 

After touring the farm, Roy and his family led us to their porch, where we were taught how to make empanadas and were able to try steaming hot cups of Cafe Florida coffee with fresh cow’s milk.  The family’s story and their farm were so inspiring and a great reminder to support local small businesses over large corporations.

After I devoured my empanada, we headed to what we called “the jungalows,” little huts in the jungle where we spent that night.  The girls discovered a nasty surprise when we realized that we had left our back door wide open all afternoon, inviting all of the bugs and jungle creatures inside.  What followed was a night of screaming and panicked scrambling around the jungalow when we found numerous beetles, cockroaches, and spiders.  This was the first time I learned that in Costa Rica I had to learn how to be okay with bugs.

 

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The “jungalow” where I stayed with the rest of the girls.

 

Nauyaca Waterfall

The next morning I woke up early and headed down to breakfast with the rest of my friends.  We ate rice, beans, eggs, and fresh pineapple.  During breakfast, we talked to a little boy named Matias, who was the son of another local farmer.  He loved seeing himself and the rest of us in our Snapchat filters, but what he loved, even more, was making fun of the way we looked with the Snapchat filters.  We all had a lot of fun with Matias, even though our Spanish was pretty rusty.

After breakfast, Roy (of Cafe Florida) took my group and a bunch of dogs to the edge of their village to begin our hike down to the Nauyaca waterfall.  We began our descent into the jungle, and the hike turned out to be a lot harder than I had expected it to be.  The path was narrow, and most of it was muddy and slippery due to the early morning rain.  I would be lying if I said that many of us didn’t slip at least once.  Hiking through the jungle was a beautiful experience, and I was able to see crabs, birds, termites, and various other jungle creatures.  Thankfully I didn’t encounter any snakes.

As I got closer to our destination, I could hear the roar of the waterfall.  We all hurried down the rest of the hill, excited about the prospect of swimming and playing in the waterfall.  The trees opened and suddenly I could see it: a large, thundering waterfall ending in a huge pool full of people swimming and splashing around on the rocks.  I stripped off my shorts and shirt and ran into the water with my friends and half a dozen excited dogs.  The water was warm and felt amazing after our sweaty hike, and the rain that eventually hit was an added bonus.  I sat on the rocks with my feet in the water and talked to my friends, splashed water at the dogs, and jumped numerous times from a rock ledge into the water.  A more thrilling part of the day was seeing some daredevil tourists climb the actual waterfall with a rope and jump off of it, doing flips and turns on the way down.  After we all got our fill of swimming in the pool, we took another shorter hike to the upper level of the waterfall, where we spent time doing individual reflections and just enjoying the roar of the waterfall and the spray against our faces.

 

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The lower level of Nauyaca falls.  This is where we swam and ate lunch.

 

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The upper level of Nauyaca.

 

Eventually, we began our grueling hike back up to the bus.  Going up was, in a way, easier than going down, because the risk of slipping was minimal.  However, it was very steep and it had gotten hotter since our morning hike.  As we got to the top of the hill, our leaders JP and Travis told us that the bus had gotten stuck five miles away and we had to walk to it.  I was about to just give up and take a nap, but thankfully it was a (cruel) joke, and we boarded the bus and headed to San Salvador, where we would meet our host families.

 

A Night in June (Vignettes)

By the time we meet the sun is reaching towards the lake, making the air hazy and golden.  We walk the break wall, our toes bending against the sharp edges of the grey rocks, slapping mosquitoes from our legs and pulling them through the strands of our hair.  Left on the flat rocks near the beach are two pairs of Birkenstocks and a carton of fresh, warm strawberries, blood red like the sky.  Eventually the bugs overtake us and we retreat to the rough sandpaper of the roadside, shoes in one hand and strawberries in the other.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

The stars rush by as I swing.  Facing the opposite way I always did, on my childhood playground.  I feel like I’m falling into the Milky Way.  Then I’m sitting on the damp seat of the jungle gym, trying to relearn childhood climbing tricks.  Feeling out of place, realizing that I am no longer the person who climbed these things.  Thinking about how different it will be.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

We take a long walk through the golf course, feet slick with water from the sprinkler, sliding along the shorn grass of the green.  The roar of the dam is deafening as we walk across the bridge and through the Falling Waters Lodge.  We run as we try to scare each other, pretending we see the Merc’s resident raccoon.  Now we’re lying on the cool sand of Van’s Beach.  And there is only this moment, no other.

At Midnight

There are things that can only be said in the darkness.  There’s something about the suffocating pitch of deep navy blue that makes words unsaid spill from your lips, unstoppable and irrepressible.  And in this precise moment, I hated the fact that I was quite predisposed to this trait.  I pressed my face against the window, willing myself to somehow melt into the flickering pane of glass and disappear forever.  But instead, my eyes followed the never ending line of white that cut sharply like a knife through the glistening black highway.  I closed my eyes as nausea rose up from deep in my stomach, cursing my uncanny ability to remember the exact details of every moment.
“I love you.”
“You…what?”
“Um, nothing.  I didn’t say anything.  Yep, definitely didn’t.”
“Hey.”
“What?”
“Say it again.”
I sighed heavily, squeezing my eyelids tightly against my burning eyes.  How badly I wished that I could go back in time, so that I could trap my deep, dark secret in my lips and force it back down my throat.  His eyes flicked to my face.  My eyes were still closed, but I could feel his gaze, a shard of glass digging into my cheekbone.
“Iris,” my name slipped off of his tongue like a sigh, so quiet it almost blended in with the dull humming of the car’s wheels running along the pavement.  I shook my head quickly, my nose grazing the frosty glass of the window, turning pink under the ochre streetlights.  “Let’s talk about this.”  My eyes snapped open at that, my chest tightening, twisting against my spine.  His eyes were bright against my face.  Too bright for this night, too bright for the stars, too bright for the moon.  Eyes that made me pray to any god that was out there that no one would ever hurt eyes like those.  But here I was, dangling at the precipice, so close to delivering those fatal cuts.
“What’s there to talk about?  I said something that I regret, I wish I hadn’t, so let’s just leave it.”
“I don’t want to leave it, you said it for a reason, so tell me the truth.”
“Just leave it alone!”  My voice, cracking against the foggy windows and the expanse of highway ahead.  Uncomfortably loud in the silent, heavy night.  But the silence that comes afterwards is almost louder.  He glances down at his hands, long, spindly fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel of the car, knuckles whitening and two angry roses of red blooming across his cheeks.
“If you didn’t mean it, why did you say it?  I get that you can’t say it anymore.  So why now?”  The words aren’t judgmental, not angry anymore.  Simply curious.  And slightly melancholy.  A tone that made me panicky, sticky palms and short breaths.  Like something was ending.  This couldn’t happen, I wouldn’t let it.  I was slipping off of the precipice, fingertips grazing the edge and legs swinging, ready to fall–.  Climb back up.  Hurry.
“I didn’t…uh, I didn’t say I didn’t mean it.” Off the precipice, on shaky, unfamiliar ground.  The panicky feeling was gone, but replacing the herd of buffalos was a swarm of angry, anxious butterflies, wings grazing my stomach, my heart, my throat.  A semi roared its way past our car, kicking up the dusty desert and causing the car to shiver in the cold of the night.  The dawn seemed hesitant to come, waiting patiently for my midnight confession to be fully realized.  I stared straight ahead, my eyes flicking alongside the pattern of the yellow highway lines.  I watched the road disappear beneath us until I couldn’t bear it anymore.  A gust of wind burst angrily from my throat.  Anger not directed towards him, but towards myself.  I was such a hypocrite.  Here I was, making the kind of convoluted grand romantic gesture you see on movie screens and scoff at, all the while living my life as undramatically as possible.  No wonder Will didn’t understand.  There was nothing to understand.  I had gotten myself into the type of mess I promised I never would.
We had a good relationship.  Comfortable.  I insisted on it as soon as we met, quashing the butterflies in my stomach with promises of “just casual” and “no drama” and “easy”.  He had loved me then. Fire clashed with the chocolate in his eyes, flowers in his hands and kisses on his lips.  Met time and time again with my pushing hands, my “thank you, but it’s not like that”.  A man can only take so much rejection before he falls, easily almost, into the mold he was meant for.  I thought we had an understanding.  But how ironic that, in the end, much too late, I was the one to confess.  I had worked so hard to force his love for me into a tiny box that fit into my life that I had neglected to realize that the other boxes and I had created for myself were decomposing, ripping apart at the seams.
It had been too long, I realized suddenly, the thought breaking through the haze of the other confused and disjointed thoughts practically sprinting through my mind.  He had been silent for almost five minutes while my mind went into overdrive against my wishes.
“…Will?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to say anything?”
“Yes.”
That shut me up.  I rested my hand on my thigh, fingers drumming against its clenched muscles.  I didn’t want to rush him, but I was getting impatient.  What was I waiting for?  He didn’t love me back, that much was obvious.  But maybe I was waiting for a confession less dramatic.  Maybe I was waiting for him to tell me that he cared deeply about me.  No.  I would’t be satisfied with something so clinical and offhand.
“Iris?”  My stomach seemed to drop through my body, slicing through the car motor and sinking deep into the desert.
“Yes?”
“I love you too.”
And suddenly every stolen moment and gentle kiss and longing glance that had been kept curled tightly around my heart came undone, and unfurled, spreading warmth from my fingertips to my toes.
– J.S.