There are stories we keep telling ourselves long after they've stopped being true.
A devastating phone call sends Tre Amoruso north, on the road from Los Angeles to San Francisco, hoping distance might dull the pain of a lost love. Instead, this weekend away becomes an unexpected reckoning with memory, longing, the meaning of friendship and faith— a modern descent into his own inferno and, ultimately, a difficult but comical climb toward redemption, self-discovery and the possibility of new love.
For Tre, what begins as an attempt to reclaim what was lost gradually becomes a search for what might still be found.
Poetic, ambitious, at times hilarious, yet always deeply human, But When the Sun Goes Supernova, Who's Gonna Care? is a playful novel about heartbreak, hope, and the difficult courage required to move forward when the world you imagined has come to an end.
There are stories we keep telling ourselves long after they've stopped being true.
A devastating phone call sends Tre Amoruso north, on the road from Los Angeles to San Francisco, hoping distance might dull the pain of a lost love. Instead, this weekend away becomes an unexpected reckoning with memory, longing, the meaning of friendship and faith— a modern descent into his own inferno and, ultimately, a difficult but comical climb toward redemption, self-discovery and the possibility of new love.
For Tre, what begins as an attempt to reclaim what was lost gradually becomes a search for what might still be found.
Poetic, ambitious, at times hilarious, yet always deeply human, But When the Sun Goes Supernova, Who's Gonna Care? is a playful novel about heartbreak, hope, and the difficult courage required to move forward when the world you imagined has come to an end.
AN EPIGRAPH FROM NOVELS FUTURE
Yes, and I remembered suddenly the conversation we’d had at Thanksgiving this past year. I was talking modern lit-fic with my Aunt Tina and my cousin Laura, and Laura’s nine-year-old daughter Barbara was there too, hanging onto her mother, drinking a Coke and pretending not to listen.I forget the exact book we were talking about, probably Benjamin Twille’s The Dead Guy’s Portion, we’d all read it, and I must have been in one of my more manic states, with everything good, maybe even a little bit drunk because I was lecturing and over adamant, and going on and on about how brilliant the novel was, and every reason why, and then all about Twille’s life too. So I was midway through another gushing, when out of nowhere little Barbara turned, looked me right in the eye, all precocious confidence and finger up she said, “Well, yeah Andy, he’s a big writer now, but when the sun goes supernova who’s gonna care?”
From A Series of Days by Tre Amoruso, New York: Laxton-Jones,
1999, pg. 5
PART ONE
CIRCLES
Chapter 1
A flash of light, it breaks, a dream in time
Of pasts once lived, those plays we’ve acted well
Our lines recalled, emotions felt on stage
Still echo after curtains close some scenes
So often read in verse instead of prose
While tides nostalgic smooth that glass opaque
From which we make such panes to see our lives
Through rosy shades that dilute blacks to greys.
But rosy shades like dawns, are bleached by sun
And turned to day in time, once day awakes
New eyes that look through windows cleared of hue,
Transparent glass that won’t distort the acts,
The way once was, not wished, truth overtakes
Until we dream--- a flash of light… and it breaks.
“Sing, Tre.”
I hear the blinds shoot up in thin, metallic swish, then feel that ice pick early-morning-too-bright.
“Not now,” my face digs back in pillow.
“Yes, now.”
“You’re mean,” muffled.
“Hey, I’m just playing the game. You made up the rules.”
“Didn’t I put in a hang-over dispensation or something?”
“No, darling, you didn’t.”
“You sure?”
Again her laugh as I reluctantly turn over, push myself further out of sleep, open my eyes, see her, and then everything else just goes away. Michelle--- love, muse, and so much like a Degas now. Still naked after shower, I watch as she stands in front of the armoire’s mirror, head just slightly bent, one hand brushing out her long, blonde hair while the other one follows and smooths. She’s looking into herself now in that way that women look, her green eyes locked onto their echo, the shadows from the window frame painting her skin in darker perpendicular hues.
“What?” she catches my reflection and turns towards me, a little self-conscious and suddenly shy. “What?” even softer this time, but she knows. “Well, don’t go thinking those goo-goo eyes are getting you out of this. Sing Tre.”
It was a recall game we played. Any time, twice a week, either one of us could demand a spontaneous, original poem from the other, in any form or meter, with just the simple command of Sing. I’d thought it would keep our writing skills sharp.
“Okay,” resigned. “What’ll it be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A rondeau maybe? Or a ballade?” Then she froze in quick, Ah Ha!“No--- I want a sonnet.”
Sonnets are hard. “How about a nice haiku instead?”
“Not for breakfast. No, I want something more substantial. So, go on… sing me a sonnet, sir.”
“But I just woke up.”
“Closer to your dream state then.”
“How about a nice free verse?”
Still shaking her head. “You know, if it’s too much for you, Tre, just concede the point and I’ll win... again,” her mirrored eyebrows punctuate, as she pulls her hair into a ponytail.
“You know, you really are evil. Officially now.”
“But you still love me.”
“I do.”
“Good. Now, no excuses. Sing, Tre.”
Gauntlet thrown. I sit up straighter in the bed and try to think of the right words to start it. But coming in from outside I hear this very loud music, like from a car on the street. It sounds almost like… Onward Christian Soldiers?“Okay... so...” I focus, ignore it.“ ‘Now naked...’ ” pointing.
“True.”
“ ‘...standing near the armoire door...’ There! First line... Bam!”
I see her lips moving, silently repeating my words while counting out the syllables onto her fingers. “Iambic-pentameter, huh?”
I nod. I needed a very complex poem if I was going to have any chance of beating her rondeau from last Tuesday. “ ‘She brushes...’ yeah, ‘she brushes out soft curls then... smoothes by hand’/ ‘her blonde hair... wet,’ no--- ‘her blonde hair not quite dry she pulls it back’/ yes, ‘and... ties it...’ ‘ties it, loosely... into,’ no, ‘in... in a ponytail.’ There, four lines!”
“Okay,” she’s still counting out my last syllables. “And it’s not too bad... yet.”
“Shhh,” and I keep staring at a spot on the blanket, forcing up another line, fingers tallying the poem’s feet, trying to ignore that loud music from outside. “ ‘Dark window pigments shade...’ no, ‘shadow... shadow sunlit flesh’/ ‘her head just bent... a mirror... a mirror meets her gaze...’ ” I finally look at her, “Good?”
“Yes. Very nice. But you realize I can’t let you win.”
And now I know I’m in trouble as Michelle starts walking towards the bed--- very slowly, very seductively, very naked, untying her hair like she’s getting ready for battle. It’s her usual tactic, so in defense I close my eyes. “ ‘Eyes follow eyes,’ ” don’t look, “ ‘...that way that women look,’ ” and she looks so good naked… “ ‘...so intimate...’ ” No! Think! Focus! “ ‘preparing… preparing for... for...’ ” count, “ ‘preparing for...’ ” Nonna… just think of Nonna naked, “ ‘...preparing for her day.’ Yes, that’s it! ‘Preparing for her day.’ ”
“Mmmm,” her sultry voice, “I like that word intimate…” and she throws back the sheets and then laughs when she finds me hard already. “Oh Tre, you’re just too easy,” and she crawls onto our bed, slowly straddles me, and seductively lowers herself down. “Oh,” and she starts a slow grind up-and-down.
“Michelle--- c’mon, you’ve got to let me finish one poem before you---”
“---So finish,” but now she’s kissing, little kisses on my head, my cheeks, my chin.
I close my eyes again. “Okay. So, what line am I on?”
“You’ve just finished your octave, love,” her tongue is making little circles on my neck.
“Okay, so...” Nonna… Nonna? No…
“Go on,” she bites my ear, her hands caress.
“Michelle, I can’t…”
“Oh, do you want me to stop then?”
“No-no,” I grab her quickly by the waist. “I didn’t say that.”
“Well, good,” she smiles, readjusts, and slowly begins to grind again.
“You are evil…”
“Maybe.”
And now she’s very wet as well. “Okay... six more lines,” he says, still hopeful.
“Yes, only the sex-tet left,” she purrs into my ear, Mmming as she grinds.
“So how about... how about... ‘But I stay quiet... stay quiet, still--- content to watch...’ ”
“I like it when you watch me.”
“Shhhh! Yes, okay, so... so--- ‘such beauty in her movements... like a muse.’ ”
“Am I your muse, baby?”
“You know you are,” and God, I love her so much as I catch and hold her green eyes, “per sempre,” I say, and that pretty much does it, as her lips find mine willing. Now our bodies push into a rhythm, our tongues a slow dance, until she breaks our long kiss, lifts herself slightly, gently grips me, guides, then both our moans exhaled as she finally sinks down--- that sonnet forgotten.
But then, “Jack, salvalo!” I hear a woman screaming outside--- it’s Italian: Jack, save him! Then Onward Christian Soldiers is loudly there again, but with some other kind of noise behind it, animal, a sort of deep howling with even more people shouting. It doesn’t make sense.
“What is that?”
“Almost,” Michelle whispers, ignoring everything else. She’s looking up.
“No, listen. Can’t you hear her?”
“Almost,” and her hands come to my cheeks to turn my face again towards hers. And when I finally look, she’s changed, it’s like her eyes have both ignited. I’ve never seen such intensity in her before, as the sun completely engulfs the windows behind us, making flames of serpent-light flow from her tangled hair. In this instant Michelle looks ethereal, demonic--- holy. Her entire body seems to glow, to radiate such brightness until I’m sure the sun is gone, that everything is gone, and that she alone has become the source of all light and fire. “Almost.”
“Please, Jack!” that other woman screams again and breaks the spell. Now the music’s even louder, and I try to turn away to see what’s happening. But Michelle pushes her hands harder until I can’t move at all, and then she strangely starts to sing…
“Almost,” she sings, “Almost,” and that one word
Becomes the lyric focus of my eyes.
I cannot turn away, life in a trance,
A need to feel her soul in simple song.
Yet something’s changing quickly, her intent
No longer pure, deception’s sensed like snakes.
“Jack, salvalo!” that other woman screams
As skin is shed, Michelle’s form molts away.
Then cold intense, hag’s face with serpent’s fangs
Wide mouth agape, her song turns into shrieks.
Our bed now ocean, sharp rocks cutting flesh
While desperate panic roots, I hear her laugh
And feel my end, a drowning, no more breath
To breathe this life, alive, I sink towards death.
A flash of light and it breaks.
“Shit!”
Awake--- fear stabs, and I hear my own suck of breath as I push back into bench seat, seeing everything at once. Car now off the freeway going fast towards steel rail and drop. Brakes… I push hard then even harder with a sudden thought they’ll snap. Radio blaring ...soldiers, marching as to war! A bridge, I see the drop down into water... Please, God… No! …abandon hope, I wonder will death hurt, as instinct jerks the wheel left, car still going straight. Then catch, a sudden change, I feel the tires bite with different sounds… over dirt, over gravel, bounce, and finally back on road. Brakes, a tiny fishtail, until again--- control. Somehow on the freeway, safe, and crossing that same bridge with its black on white sign that says, Norecha Canal.
“Shit!” my heart still running quickly from the metered shards of that dark dream. I quickly checked all the mirrors and couldn’t believe my dumb luck--- somehow, the freeway empty of any traffic at all. Behind me I could see a large cloud of dust near the edge of that small bridge. “Fuck,” adrenaline still pumping into a clammy sweat on my forehead, back, and neck. I put my blinker on for no one and pulled onto the shoulder.
Hell’s foundations quiver
At the shout of praise:
Brothers, lift your voices,
Loud your anthems raise!
I guess KLOS must have converted to Christianity somewhere past the Grapevine. I smiled, “Of all the songs you could have died to, huh?” but my voice sounded strange and out of place. I took in a few deep breaths then shut off the engine. In the silence, I noticed that my hands were both shaking just as I felt that sudden stab and shift inside my stomach. I barely got the door open before the first retch came up. Another gag, a splashing sound, my nose was one long drip. I wiped, spit, another retch with an animal noise, and I stayed still until it stopped. I found some napkins inside the bag from the doughnut shop, then rinsed my mouth with the gallon of water Steve had made me take for my hangover this morning, his treat. He’d even tried to talk me out of this long drive, saying I should just go back home and sleep this one off. But I’d been determined. Go, go, go.I should have listened.
A semi passed and shook the car. My head still felt thick, but the water was cold and tasted good. I’d only gotten about two hours of sleep after that last phone call. How many times had I actually called her? Jesus.
I wanted to check The Boat for any damage, so I moved some of the things and got out on the passenger side. My head began pounding as soon as I stood and then even worse as I bent down to check the tires and take a look underneath. My hands kept shaking too. So I grabbed the water and stayed there outside, leaning on the fender, taking long sips and deep breaths, trying to get myself back to normal.
Around me, I could see a haze now settling in over the long stretches of farmland on both sides of I-5. Not even six-thirty and already it was hot. I’ve noticed there’s a certain brightness on the mornings of those really hot days. A blue light that seems to stick to your body, mix into your pores, and make you a part of it, one more alive in its glow. I figured sweat was going to be a part of my future. Deep breaths.
There was still hardly any traffic when I started out again, and the fast air through open windows was already making me feel better. I’d decided that I was going to either stop at a rest-area for a long nap or go to a restaurant for more coffee and maybe some breakfast. Whatever showed up first as I drove north. I’d let the Fates pick.
Dry hills in the distance to my left. The shadow play on them made them look striped, like giant tigers sleeping with their backs to the road. I thought again of that dream. Michelle would probably get a big kick out of knowing that her nightmare-Siren-self had tried to kill me... Almost.I could just hear her over-explaining the psychology and really enjoying it. She’d called me last night, first time I’d heard from her since our break-up.It was short, a little vindictive, and painful. I don’t think I said more than three words during that first call, but I started drinking right after. I can’t really blame her though. There are always two sides to any ending. I just hated the fact that she could still get to me, even after eight months. Sometimes I wondered if I’d ever be done with her. I rubbed my face and ran my hands through my hair. I needed a haircut.
It did feel good to be going away from L.A. though. Too much of my history had been carved on her walls and I really needed a break from all her thin masks and vampire teeth. I looked down, checked my speed. Still no sign of rest-stop or restaurant, just more of the same flat, fallow-brown fields. I put in the Stone Temple Pilots tape I’d bought last week. Much better music to die to… ha-ha.
About six months ago, my best friends Joey and Sarah had moved up to San Francisco. They’d decided to make a fresh start all over again with each other. So they’d sold most everything they owned, quit their jobs, rented out their condo, and left, only to have their car die in the middle of nowhere, about halfway there. It was like Los Angeles didn’t want them to leave or San Francisco didn’t want them to come. But they’d gotten there, eventually, San Francisco accepting them only after a three-day period of penance between cities, waiting for a new head-gasket to come in for their Audi.
Since I was just visiting, I hoped the whole purification process wouldn’t be necessary. I looked at the gas gauge. I was trying to remember the exact time when I’d called them. I knew it was right after my last call to Michelle, and that I’d woken them both up. I remembered Joey had answered angry. But when I told him everything, right away he’d said, “Get up here.”
A car passing. My eyes towards the movement, the slight woosh of air. It was a convertible BMW, top down, white, shiny. The driver was a pretty blonde, and her boyfriend was leaning so far into her, sucking her neck, that they almost looked tied together, his head completely wrapped in her long, wind-blowing hair. But her body was stiff, no response to him. Maybe a fight and he was trying to make up. I saw that their license plate was from New York. It said, STARLING. Actors? Bird watchers? Maybe.I looked back.
So Michelle was going to marry Harris. That’s why she’d called. I wanted you to hear it from me and not get it second hand. Fine. I got that. But Harris? I’d never get that. Doctor F. Wayne Harris--- sixteen years her senior and her favorite professor slash thesis advisor back in grad-school. God only knows what that F stood for, but I had a few ideas.Everyone always used to call him Wayne though, and I’d known right from the start that he was hot for Michelle. With all those Friday night parties at his house--- Are you going to Wayne’s? All the arrogance. There was always wine, never beer. I’d bring beer. And his bookshelves were all so perfectly cluttered with this affected chaos, like he’d arranged them to look well used. And he’d always make sure to fill them with the best-reviewed novels of that year, all those NYT and NPR books. There were even a few in Spanish, for worldliness, but I knew he only spoke English. Plus, everything was modern. There wasn’t a Virgil or an Ovid anywhere. Forget about Homer and Catullus. Not even Dante, or Chaucer. It was like he’d purposely ignored almost everything before the nineteenth century, and even with the modern stuff he always seemed to go just with the trends. Oh, Huck Finn had been there once-upon-a-time, but it had gotten pulled for a word. And then no Hemingway because, He was a misogynist. And no Ezra Pound because of course, Sieg Heil! But his own two novels? Well, they were right there dead center, between his Barth and Pynchon, second shelf, eye level. I’d read them, Michelle had made me--- both trite and didactic, with the writing insistent and too self-aware.
Then, to top it off, he’d always end those Friday evenings by reading us a few mystical pages from his Unfinished Third, like he was bestowing a great boon upon us all or giving us some special dessert. And as he read, I remembered all his favorite students listening, their heads bowed down in MFA-prayer, their serious, literary faces. It wasn’t good writing, and it wasn’t good art. It was just a bunch of tendentious clichés that were supposed to be revealing and deep. One time, Harris had actually started crying after he’d read us this way too overwritten section from one of the later chapters. It was the scene where his main character Jai, the hard-working-Laotian-immigrant-USC-medical-student, was mistakenly killed in the Asian-gang-drive-by right as he was coming out of the Stereo-Type-Store. Harris’ voice had choked up. He’d turned away. I remembered that most of the girls had gone right over to him, a few of the guys too--- even Michelle. “He’s so vulnerable,” she’d said on the way home, “…so real.” I had to spit out the window to get that bitter taste out of my mouth. Yes, I know.
A few more miles and I finally passed a sign showing the hieroglyphs for what was available at the next exit, Lost Hills. So the Fates had picked breakfast. Pulling off the freeway, I turned left over a bridge and drove into the town, quickly finding that Lost Hills didn’t seem to be made of much more than what had been on that sign. I saw the restaurants, a few gas stations, and a couple of motels. But I did see some houses further west so maybe this was only a part of the place.
I signaled and pulled into the parking lot of a diner called My Nose Knows. It was the only non-fast-food place I could see, and it had this cartoon logo of a fat guy in a chef’s hat, huge nose, emphatic nostrils, smelling the curvy aroma lines coming off a big plate of fried chicken. It looked crowded through the windows, good sign, but when I finally parked, walked up, and opened the front door of the place, right away I felt the heat. It was actually hotter here inside than it was out, and humid too for some reason. I saw fans everywhere, but they didn’t seem to be helping. A sign near the register said: SORRY! AC OUT BUT YOU KNOW OUR FOOD IS GOOD! I thought about leaving, my head still thick and underwater, but honestly--- too lazy. I just hoped that sign was true.
I waited for a bit but when no one came to seat me, I just grabbed myself a menu and headed towards the counter. Right away, I noticed a more musty smell underneath all the good ones in hear. It was like a mix of cigarettes and stale vegetable oil, and this heat wasn’t helping. I was already starting to sweat and at the same time feel a little claustrophobic. The ceilings were low and everything; carpets, walls, and booths were all off-shades of one very ugly brown. But again--- lazy.
I found an empty seat next to this young guy, early twenties, about my size and build, who had a weathered green duffle bag and a smaller, very full backpack on the floor at his feet. He was wearing combat boots, jeans, a flannel shirt, and what, in the Air Force, we used to call BC Glasses. BC’s are those dorky, thick, black, plastic frames they made you wear, regulation, in service. The BC stood for Birth Control because we’d always say that when you wore them, no woman would ever come near you. I could tell right away, even with his Beat-look, and his mop of wavy, black hair, that he was ex-military. He was bent over the counter now, writing seriously in a little tan, spiral notebook, his plate of pancakes and a paperback copy of On the Road, (of course), pushed slightly to the side. Then he suddenly stopped, capped his pen, and got up, I assumed to go to the head.
“Well, finally, a man of action,” her voice swept in from my left and as I turned, I lost my breath--- Michelle. This waitress looked almost exactly like her, and for a quick second I wondered if I’d fallen back asleep, dreaming on the freeway. Her curly blond hair, the same height, the shape of her nose and her body. Just her chin was different, and her face more prominently cut, but her eyes--- God, her eyes were the same.
“I...”
“Now don’t look at me like that. I only meant that you sat yourself and got your own menu.” Her accent was southern, but I couldn’t quite get the longitude yet. Then her face got serious. “But look at you, you poor thing. You are definitely one hungover sinner, am I right?”
I must have smiled, like she’d caught me.
“Well, you just wait here, and I’ll fix you right up.” And with that she went away, moving almost as quickly as she spoke.
I could see now that she was a little younger than Michelle, maybe twenty, twenty-one, and there was a tougher, more rugged quality about her whole person as well, like those pictures you see of the pioneer women, the ones who’d keep their families alive no matter what came.
In a few moments she was back carrying a small tray. She set down a large glass of what looked like dark tomato juice, then a cup of milky coffee and a big glass of water, no ice. “Now,” pointing at the juice, “drink this one down quick in one gulp and don’t stop. Then all the water, with these,” she reached into her apron pocket for a white, plastic bottle, and shook three aspirins into my hand. “Then you want to sip down as much of the coffee as you can, but slowly. I put in plenty of milk and sugar, but I nuked it too, so it’s extra hot.” She smiled at the look on my face. “Now don’t worry, it’ll work. Guaranteed. I used to fix my daddy up like this all the time.”
I looked from the glass to her face, “Arkansas?”
She rolled her eyes, “Obviously. Now quit flirting and start drinking. Go on.”
So I brought the first glass to my mouth, took a breath, and gulped it down. The spice hit first, Tabasco, lots of it, then Worcestershire, maybe some added vinegar, black-pepper, and lime. Something else came in with the tomato at the end and I wasn’t quite sure what, but it tasted awful, almost like paint thinner. I set the empty glass on the counter, making a face.
“Good. Now the aspirins and all the water. The whole glass. Don’t stop.” I did exactly what she told me, and finally she pointed at the coffee. “Sip it slowly, but you have to keep at it.” Very hot and sickly sweet, but it did feel good on my throat. She picked up my menu from the counter. I guess she’d already decided what I was going to eat. “Remember, it’s real important you keep sipping that coffee until I bring you your food, okay?”I nodded as she smiled and then walked away shouting something in Spanish to the cooks that ended with a drawn out, “…por favor.” Then she picked up a fresh pot of coffee and again began making her rounds.
“She’s something, isn’t she?” It was the Beat-kid behind me, back from the rest room. He was smiling as he sat, his head bobbing up and down in a very slow nod.
“She is,” I said.
He moved his plate back front and center, cut off a large hunk of syrupy pancake and shoveled it into his mouth. He kept bobbing and chewing and sweating and smiling, and then suddenly he looked thoughtful, uncapped his pen, and started writing again. So I turned, watching her walk from table-to-table, filling up mugs, and chatting easily with the customers. You could tell who the regulars were because she’d always make some kind of physical contact, a touch to an arm or her hand on a shoulder. She was joking with this fat guy wedged into a booth near the front doors. She called him, “Chee-ayco,” all long vowels, and was making him laugh pretty hard. She had a wonderful smile, much more frequent than Michelle’s, and a cackling laugh that made me happy when I heard it.
I turned back to my coffee. The sweat was starting to bead up on my forehead and neck. Like she’d said, the coffee was very hot, and I held the mug in both hands and followed her instructions, sipping often, as my eyes began to close for longer and longer.
God, I’d been so sure about them both last summer--- about Harris and Michelle. But she’d always deny that anything was going on. We’d both finished our MFA program that spring, and we were supposed to get married in July, but then Harris had offered to help Michelle get her novel ready to submit over that summer. Apparently, unknown to her, he’d already pulled some strings with his own publisher and had gotten some bigshot to read one of her earlier drafts and accept it. He didn’t say a word about it until the actual day of our graduation. I can still see him, holding court in front of her whole family, reaching under his robes for her acceptance letter. Such drama--- with him the big hero. So we put off the wedding again, a second time, and I think even then, deep down I’d known what that meant. The last time I saw her was early Christmas morning when she’d come to pick me up at the police station. She’d gotten Harris to change his story and drop all the charges and we ended with no words, just the subtle tack of the passenger door closing and the sound of her Fiat driving away.
I felt the light touch of a hand on my shoulder and opened my eyes.
“You’ve got to keep sipping that coffee, not sleeping over it.”
Automatically, I took in a deep breath and wiped my forehead, “I wasn’t sleeping.”
“No, just resting your eyes. I know,” and she set down a large bowl. “Last part of the cure.” In it were three soft-boiled eggs, already shelled, cut-up, yolky, mixed with several chunks of ham, all resting on a large bed of steamed rice. Then she set down another plate with two pieces of dry, white toast. “So you’ll want to eat the toast first. That’ll soak-up the bad acid in your stomach and then this,” pointing at the bowl, “will coat it and give you some starch and some protein and salt.” She put down a fresh mug of hot coffee. “Go ahead and keep sipping as much of this down as you can. The caffeine and sugar will help wake you up. And drink your water.”
I nodded.
“You’re gonna feel better in no time--- promise.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she waved off my sincerity. “Just leave a good tip.” Then she turned to the Beat. “And how’re you doing, handsome?”
“Fine,” he nodded slowly as she got the pot and refilled his mug.
“And what’ve you been writing about this whole time?” she motioned towards his journal.
“Well, it’s a poem,” all gravitas, “about you.”
“About me, huh? Can I see it?”
“It’s not done yet.”
“Well, you know you gotta finish it, if you’re lookin’ to get laid.”
I had to fight hard to swallow before my laugh came out. It hurt my head, and she looked over at me, winked, and quickly walked away. Beat’s face was very red, and his teeth white with smile as he went back to work on his poem about her.
While I ate, the waitress would come by often to check on things. Her name tag said Shelly, and whenever she’d set down more of the coffee and water, we’d chat for a bit. She was flirty and open and warm and her whole face seemed to join in when she smiled. Eventually, my head started feeling much less thick. But I still couldn’t shake that claustrophobic feeling, and every now and then I’d get a whiff of that same musty smell from before. I couldn’t quite place it, but it seemed to be getting stronger as I sat here sweating and digesting. Maybe mold or dead rats or even sewage in the walls, and I thought of their logo, those squiggled lines of aroma. My Nose Knows. Mine didn’t. But this smell definitely wasn’t fried chicken.
A long drink of water and I finished up another glass. On my way back from the restroom, I noticed how intently the Beat kid was still writing, bent low over his journal and so focused on the words.He seemed almost like a memory of mine.
“Hey fellas,” Shelly came up fast to the counter, standing between the Beat and me. “I’m going off duty in a minute, so Tanya over there,” she pointed, “is going to take over if you need anything else.” She smiled and laid down both our checks. “So you two have a great---”
“---Wait!” The Beat stood up too quickly and fumbled awkwardly with his journal, tearing out a page and almost shoving the paper at her. “Here. It’s the poem I wrote for you,” and he looked very proud.
“Awwww, that’s so sweet,” and she took it and she looked at it briefly:
FOR MY LOST HILLS WAITRESS, ETERNAL
Brown apron
food-stained,
her tan shirt
sweatly striped with sweet, as she moves like water
smooth, booth to beige booth then table to counter.
Is it steam or condensation that makes her eyes so
green in this heat? God’s perspiration? And liquid she flows over subtle,
blue time, with blonde hair, soft ringlets, half covering face, she refills
my coffee with her big, Texas joy. How many waitresses have I
fallen in love with over this great span of America?
From sea to shining counter seat, where I rest
from this long road. Yes. And
here she is, a Woman Eternal,
tied by ancient spider web
links all the way back
to Eve. Forever
caring, and
she will
always
call me
Hon.
By Ray Cook
***(Note, in the novel this poem is actually in the shape of Texas. For some reason it did not format in that unique shape here in this preview. I did try, over and over, really, but it just wouldn't stay in that shape when it loaded in here...technology... what can we do? But it looks great in the actual book... I promise)
“See, it’s Texas,” Beat said.
“I see that,” indulgent.
“But honestly, I think you should read it with some jazz playing,” he spoke very quickly, nervous, his voice a bit higher than it had been before, “…maybe Dave Brubeck. Because I kind of wrote it with Blue Rondo A La Turk in my head. I think it’ll really add to it.”
“I’ll do that,” she was nodding. “Awwww, just look at you,” and she hugged him quickly, warmly. “Thank you.”
Beat seemed pleased, “Well, you were my muse.You inspired me.” And right after their short, awkward second hug, he formally announced, “Excuse me. I will be right back,” and he headed off again, quickly towards the restrooms.
Shelly watched him go and then turned towards me. She held up the poem, so I could see too. “Wasn’t that sweet?” and then she just crumpled it up and tossed it under the counter. “You didn’t see that.”
“No,” I made a zipping motion over my mouth.
“Well, maybe I shoulda finished reading it before I...” and then she got this playful, guilty look all over. “What?”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Well, your eyes sure did.”
“Then I’ll make sure I talk to them.”
“You do that.”
“And when your boyfriend gets back, I’ll give him a geography lesson about you, if you want.”
“Don’t you dare,” her hand to my arm. She had on the cutest face right now. “So, how’d you know then?”
“What, about your accent?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, because I dated a girl from Arkansas when I was in the Air Force. She was from Helena.”
“Lucky girl,” coy smile.
“Really? She always told me she didn’t like it there---” Slap!And finally, I got it, but instead of flirting back, I just sat there, nodding, same stupid smile.
“Well, I guess I’d better go then,” Shelly motioned with her head, “before he comes back and writes me another one that looks like Florida or something.”
“Yeah,” and I just kept sitting there, like a complete loser, still stupidly nodding and smiling, until finally, after another awkward pause, she said, Okay, and then she waved and left.
Idiot! And here my big-metal-bat-of-self-loathing started swinging real hard inside, like I wasn’t worthy of anything good. Then another flash of last night--- ‘Please, Michelle, don’t marry him! I still love you… I love you!’ I closed my eyes, but in less than five minutes, a second chance, and I saw her reappear from somewhere in the back. Her hair was down now past her shoulders, beautiful, even more like Michelle, and I watched her walk quickly by some tables and finally out the front doors.I tripped and almost fell getting up. No one was covering the register, so I just left my check there with a twenty and then literally ran out after her.
I looked all around the parking lot but saw no one, so I ran to the other side of the building, came quickly round the corner, and there she was, leaning up against the wall, leisurely smoking a cigarette, with one foot propped up behind her. She smiled knowingly as I tried to recover, slow, and look smooth. “Hey,” but she had me.
“Hey yourself,” she exhaled out the side of her mouth as I took out my wallet.
“You left before I could give you your tip.” I held out the bills.
“Come on, now.”
“No, you earned it, really.” I pointed, “Headache’s gone.”
“You sure? That’s a lot.”
I made a face like it wasn’t.
“Okay then. Thanks!” She unzipped her purse. “You know, for a second, when you were getting out your wallet, I thought you were going to give me a poem too.”
“Not me.” Sing, Tre.
“No? And why not?”
“Well, I’ve seen what you do to your poems.”
“Not to all of them!”
“Oh, so you do keep some?”
“A few,” pause, long look then, “I’d have kept yours.”
“Yeah?” I wonder if Michelle…
“Yeah.” She took another long drag and exhaled. “So what’s your name, anyways?”
“Tre.”
“Tre?”
“Well, it’s a family nickname. Italian for three. I’m the---”
“Third-born, yeah, I got it,” and she brought her foot off the wall, hand out, “Shelly.”
“I know... I read your name tag inside.”
“Oh, so that’s what you were staring at, huh?”
“Wait... no...”
“You’re blushing, Tre.”
I was.
“You’re cute,” she took another drag, smiling. “So where’re you from anyway?”
“L.A.”
“Tre from L.A.” she lengthened both vowels. “And what brings you out here?”
“I’m going to San Francisco to see some friends.”
“No.I mean out here?” she motioned. “Running around corners so fast.”
I got that excited stab in my stomach again but then it stopped when the sad just-like-Michelle truth sang out even louder. “I told you, to give you your tip.”
“And you’ve done that.”
“I have.”
“So is there something else you want?” She was obviously enjoying this.
“Well, yeah, sort of.”
“Sort of? Now that doesn’t sound decisive at all. Because you have to be clear in what you want, Tre. That’s rule number one.”
“Okay. So, yes, there is something else that I want.” Pathetic!
“And what might that be?”
“Well, I would very much like for you, one Shelly, last name unknown, to go out with me, one Tre Amoruso, right now, this very minute, today, Friday, August 4, 1995.” So I can pretend you’re one Michelle Wendell my very ex-fiancée.
“Much better. And it’s Varka by the way, my last name.”
“Good to know.”
Shelly dropped her cigarette, stepped on it, moved closer, and took my arm. “You know I sortta figured you were going to ask me out… eventually. That’s why I went and cancelled my ride home and came out here to wait for you to make up your mind,” once again she smiled. “And if you hadn’t, I was pretty sure the poet guy would’ve. But I don’t think he’s got a car.”
“Well, that I do have,” and I flourished both hands over towards The Boat.
“Ooooo, is that a Fairlane?”
“A Galaxie. Sixty-eight.”
“Very cool,” she nodded.
“So what would you like to do, Miss Shelly Varka? Wanna come up to San Francisco with me?” I could just see Joey and Sarah’s faces.
“I wish. But listen, before we do anything I’ve got to go home, get out of this smelly uniform, and take a shower. Then, we can make plans and have some fun.”
“I like fun.”
“Good,” she laughed again and offered me some mints as we started walking to my car. I opened the passenger door and quickly threw my stuff off the bench seat before she got in.As I walked round, I noticed her stretching across to unlock my side of the car. Michelle never did that.
“So where to?” I said, closing my door.
“Well, if it’s okay, I need to stop by a friend’s house first and pick something up. It’s right on the way though.”
“Just tell me where to turn.”
“Kay,” and Shelly gave me quick directions as I started the car, immediately ejecting my STP tape with an “Eww,” and then tuning through a bunch of stations until she found a song… something Top 40 that kept saying freak. Right away, she turned it loud and started singing, glamming it up, imaginary mike in hand, seat dancing and bouncy. She had a good voice, and occasionally, she’d look over at me smiling, her long, curly blonde hair blown beautiful by open window. Then, middle of the next song, she turned the radio off.
“You think I’m pretty, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Well, you better,” and she kept looking. “Do you know who you remind me of?”
Your ex-fiancée? “Tell me.”
“Remember that movie, Angel Heart?”
I nodded.
“Well, you look sort of like that devil guy.”
“I look like the devil?”
“The character, you know, with your goatee and all. Except your hair isn’t as long,” and here she touched it, her fingers lightly on my neck. “And I thought he was sexy as--- Shit! Turn left! Left! Here! Right here!” desperate pointing, as I stepped on the brakes, putting the car into a fast left turn across the highway that made her grab hold of my arm and start to giggle. We bumped hard onto a small, badly paved street, coming into a run-down residential area that seemed almost a complete cliché of low-income-crime-ridden. “Go straight, then turn left at that stop sign,” she pointed keeping hold of my arm.
It felt like a Pacoima here, with most of the houses in really bad shape, hardly any trees, and no shade at all. I kept checking my mirrors, suddenly alert, remembering the baseball bat I always kept in my trunk.
We turned down a new street, and right away she motioned. “You can pull in anywhere here,” now pointing towards a yellow house to our left. “It’s that one, there,” security bars and metal door. “I won’t be long… promise,” and she was out, almost running across the street towards the house. I could hear a dog barking somewhere as I watched her move quickly towards its front door. Some toys were left out in the yard, and there was an old Datsun in the driveway. I saw Shelly knock hard and look around and behind her. Then she turned back quickly towards the door, talking to someone before they let her in.
A curtain moved quickly in the house to my right. I saw a momentary face that didn’t really register or make any sense.It was just so bright here, and all this light seemed unnatural and wrong. I checked my mirrors as that metal bat came back out inside. Do you see what you’re doing? I looked down. Indulging. Playing pretend. I nodded.It’s a sick nostalgia--- almost necrophilia. But Shelly’s not dead. The Michelle you want is. Yes, but her eyes are the--- suddenly movement in front and I saw Shelly out the door, walking quickly, very happy towards the car. All of three minutes, and she smiled at the window, and yes, her eyes were the same.
“Thanks for that,” she closed the door and took something out of her purse. “So, I know exactly what I want us to do now--- on our date,” and she quickly put another mint in her mouth. “Kiss me.”
“Really?”
“Quick,” and then she was there, almost on top of me, her mouth slightly open, my hands going round her and then lower towards her ass. I felt the first touch of her tongue, its slight taste of tobacco. She was making a soft, mmm-ing sound and then I felt something solid--- her mint, as her tongue sort of flipped it so far back that I just automatically swallowed it. And when I did, she broke our kiss and started sucking down my neck. “We’re gonna have so much fun now. I already took mine inside.”
“Yeah? Took what?” and I kissed her again until she broke it off laughing, moved over on the bench seat, and buckled herself up.
“The Ecstasy, silly. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Wait,” a sudden shot of fear. “That wasn’t a mint?”
“Course not,” like I was stupid. Then she laughed and I didn’t. “Oh no.You’re not mad, are you? Oh, don’t be mad,” she unbuckled and sat close again, touching me, kissing my neck, I could feel her tongue, soft. “Haven’t you ever done X before?”
I shook my head.
“Awwww, you’re a virgin,” and again she started kissing, little pecks. “Well, I promise, you’re going to love it,” deeper kisses. “And I’m going to take extra good care of you for your very first time,” even longer kisses. “It’s going to be beautiful,” kissing……. kissing……until she stopped all-of-a-sudden and finally said, “Let’s go.”
Her house wasn’t far, and on the way, she started telling me a little more about her life. She had a kid, Kelly, and she and her mom had moved here four years ago from Little Rock, right before Kelly was born. I think she said her aunt lived here. But Shelly hated Lost Hills, she kept calling it Lost Souls instead. She used the word stuck a lot and it sounded like she was the main breadwinner for them all. Her mom had some kind of vague medical condition and was only able to work a couple of days a week at one of those motels I’d passed near the freeway.Shelly never mentioned her father.
“It’s that pink one there,” she was pointing at a small stucco house that still had some green in its lawn. “It’s probably a mess inside. Mom doesn’t usually pick up before she goes to work.” She took her keys from her purse as we walked to the door.
The air was thick inside and warm. Even with the shades drawn I could see all the clutter and could tell right away they had a cat. Shelly was moving quickly, lifting the blinds, and picking up toys and old Styrofoam containers as she went. She turned on the air conditioner full blast. “Sorry for the mess. But you know how it is with a four-year-old and a lazy grandma.”
I shut the front door.
“Go on and make yourself at home. You want something to drink?” she put her purse down on the table.
“Sure,” I walked over to the sofa. On the far end of the coffee table was a coloring-book open to a picture of a princess. I picked it up, smiled. K-E-L-L-Y in blue crayon, written very carefully.
“Vodka and orange-juice okay?” I heard Shelly in the kitchen.
“Sure.”
In a few minutes, she came back, holding a glass and taking a long drink of it herself before handing it to me. “This’ll make the X more intense.”
I drank quickly, feeling the ice on my lip as I finished it off. Then she kissed me hard, pushing her whole body into mine, her leg coming up and rubbing my front. I was hard when we broke. “Now, I’m going to go take a very quick shower. So, why don’t you have another drink,” she glanced down, “and stay just like that.”
“Want me to wash your back?”
“Not this shower. But promise the next.”
“Okay.”
“TV remote’s there,” pointing. “You good?”
I nodded.
“Be right back,” and with a quick peck and little wiggle, she turned, walking into the hall. I heard a door close, and a radio come on.
I looked down at my condition. I was already starting to sweat, and I had to pee again too, all that coffee and water.So I went into the kitchen, made another drink, and then went over to stand in front of her AC. I sipped this one slowly, but even the excitement of sure-thing-new-sex wasn’t enough to stop those now much clearer pictures of last night from coming. My eroded memory began forming again inside of these sad, quick granular gusts, and I kept hearing Michelle’s voice yelling that, ‘There is no us!’ and how, ‘Wayne and I are getting married!’ and how, finally, big reveal, ‘I’m with child, Tre!’ Yes, she’d actually said that, ‘with child.’ Even drunk, I remember thinking, Who says that anymore? I mean the Michelle I knew would never have said that. The Michelle I knew...
Another strong pang, and my bladder brought me right back to the present. I couldn’t hold this one much longer. So I immediately walked to the bathroom. But she’d locked it, and I thought about knocking, but fuck, I couldn’t wait. So, run-walking into the kitchen, I went out the back door I’d seen, and then straight over to a rosebush growing up against the backyard wall. I barely made it. But standing there, listening to the flow forming white bubbles on the dirt, I noticed too another very strong and unexpected smell, like a dead animal rotting. It was so suddenly close and overwhelming that it actually made me gag. And right with it came a new feeling of all-encompassing heat. Intense, like the sun had just become enormous, or the Earth had moved too close in its orbit. It was so instantly hot, I couldn’t stand it, and I knew this couldn’t be right. At first, I just thought it was the X coming on.But I’d always heard that X made everything feel really good, not hot.
Then what if it wasn’t X that she gave me? Shit. I closed my eyes, trying now to calm myself down and control this quick growing thought, but instead it made more sense and just kept screaming louder. Was this all a set up? Did Shelly do this to lone travelers she met at the restaurant? Seduce, drug, and rob them, then leave them out in one of those flat fallow-brown fields around here? Or maybe worse? I mean, who had she been talking to back at that house? Was she the sexy bait for some Satanic cult? Was I going to be a human sacrifice? She did say she liked that one movie, thought the devil guy was hot.
And, of course, right into all this new cultic paranoia came that same tired old flood of my standard self-loathing. How could you let yourself get into a situation like this? Because she looks… But she’s dead! Your Michelle is dead! So, what should I do? Just leave? Yes, you should leave! Have some fucking dignity, some pride, some balls! Be a man! Don’t you remember what Michelle did to you? I remember. Then keep remembering! Well, I guess I could probably sleep the drug off somewhere--- like a rest stop or something. Yes! Do that! Go! You’re right. And suddenly determined, budding spine, I shook, tucked, and zipped walking quickly again to the back door. I figured I could be out of the house and on the road before Shelly even finished her shower. Go!
But right as I stepped back into the kitchen, I found it filled with something new--- a smell. It was Calvin Klein’s Escape. And there was Shelly, standing near the counter and looking so fucking good. I could almost feel God laughing, doing to me now what I’d just done to that rosebush outside. Escape had been Michelle’s favorite perfume. The one she’d always wear.
“There you are.”
Shelly came towards me slowly, wearing only a short, blue, silk robe, completely open. Her body looked so beautifully smooth, soft, perfect, with the sunlight from the windows now playing through her hair. She seemed to almost glide across the kitchen as she met me near the counter. So close now, her hands on my chest beginning to explore. It felt so good as she started kissing my neck and softly biting too. Her hair smelled just like lilacs, and I felt all my budding backbone happily start melting away.
“When I came out, I couldn’t find you anywhere and that made me sad.” Her voice was much deeper, her accent hardly noticeable, and her whole demeanor seemed to have slowed. And just like that, I knew without a doubt that all my fears were unfounded, my paranoia a joke, and that I could totally and completely trust her.
“I was---”
“Shhh,” and Shelly slowly pushed her body into mine. My hands automatically went inside her robe, around her sides, onto her back, and down her ass. She sang a new Mmm as I squeezed and caressed.I felt her tongue on my neck again, her leg moving slowly over my front. God, and the soft and the cool and the smooth of her skin. I closed my eyes and breathed her in. She smelled like salvation.
“Are you starting to feel the X?” She was kissing my cheek now, slowly working little pecks towards my lips. Her hands were moving lower, over my stomach, and then lower.
“I think so.” She was undoing my belt. She was kissing me deeply and I kissed her back the same. My hands were moving too, feeling her whole body. Then she unbuttoned my pants, unzipped, and finally that first touch. I wasn’t going to leave. I wasn’t ever going to leave.
“Oh,” she whispered soothing, “that’s nice,” and there was so much more black inside the deep green of her eyes. They seemed to almost glow. “But I need a little favor…” and her hand was gently moving first up and then down, squeezing, and moving up and then down.
“Anything.”
“Well, with that money you gave me for my tip, we’re only about a hundred dollars short for our whole rent this month...” she started taking off my shirt.
“That’s great...” I wanted her so badly, so very badly, and I wanted to forget it all inside of her as she kissed her way down, as she knelt on the floor, as she slipped off her robe.
“And I wouldn’t ask,” I felt her breath there, “but we’re just a few days overdue,” she kissed it.
“It’s fine,” and my hands were in her hair.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?” another kiss.
“I promise, yes,” and then that slow sinking down, like into warm water, the warmest of water, and I could hear a low moan coming up in my throat. I felt her rhythm beginning, slowly, very slowly--- her hand and her mouth. I closed my eyes. It was wonderful, it was so fucking wonderful, the sensations like music, the music like colors, and I kept sinking lower into that water, so warm and slowly deeper, but then suddenly it stopped. It stopped and got cold. I opened my eyes, and saw Shelly looking up at me now, staring hard into me now, so much like Michelle, so beautiful like Michelle, with those same deep green eyes, and the same smell of her skin.
“I’m not a whore,” and she said it slowly, deliberately. But it seemed more like a question.
“No,” and I gently stroked her cheek and softy her hair, “I know that.” And I watched for some time until finally she nodded and slowly started again. Then my eyes closed, and I sank right back into that deeply wet warmth that would drown it all out and just let me pretend.
It’s not often that books make me laugh out loud or tear up. But When the Sun Goes Supernova Who’s Gonna Care? achieved this through its protagonist’s tumultuous journey through heartbreak, writerly and emotional self-discovery, and change, welcomed and not.
The writing style is unusual but in a good way. It merges often lyrical prose with poetry, making it an intricate read with a lot to unpick. I did feel that it sometimes went overboard, with some poetry and details seeming redundant to the overall plot, slowing down its pace. Despite this, I found the narration as a whole sharp and full of personality, which is so not easy to do.
The plot itself centres around a writer called Tre Amoruso and his entertaining but largely disastrous road trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco. He wants to put distance between himself and his ex-fiancé/muse Michelle, as well as the humiliating circumstances of their breakup. Tre encounters new and familiar faces and one drunken, joyful, or painful event after another. The vibes, zigzagging between hilarity and agony, were reminiscent of Don Quixote, Dante’s Inferno, and other literary influences.
This book is in fact very character-driven, the cast well-developed and compelling, including a loveable army medic-turned-poet, a "perfect" couple with secrets, and Tre’s intriguing love interests. His various dynamics are fleshed out wonderfully, creating a true mix of emotions without them being exaggerated or overwhelming. But When the Sun Goes Supernova Who’s Gonna Care? is a very human story, relatable, bittersweet, visceral, intelligent.
Through these relationships and sequence of events, a range of themes emerge. At it’s core, the story is about heartbreak, seduction, obsession, and transformation, but it also touches on topics like the meaning of writing and words, the start and end of love, fate versus coincidence, muses, and death, literal and metaphorical. As already mentioned, But When the Sun Goes Supernova Who’s Gonna Care? is rich in detail worthy of dissection.
On the other hand, this also means that, for me at least, there was too much trying to be said in a single story. Alongside the poetry breaks, this hyperintellectuality broke my immersion a few too many times. I still enjoyed the ride as a whole and came away feeling super satisfied, but there seemed to be a lot vying for readers’ attention.
In summary, this is high-quality storytelling, bringing together stimulating themes, strong characterisation, and a plot that's both entertaining and emotional. I’d absolutely recommend it!