Marc Fitten's Blog - Posts Tagged "adderall"
1st Page of New Book in Progress -12/10/13
Paul Anders seems an uncontroversial man, but it鈥檚 bullshit. An act. His mild mannered way of speaking. His apologetic nature. He isn鈥檛 a nice guy like everybody says. If anything, he鈥檚 a sociopath. An engineer who lives by checklists and processes. It鈥檚 his favorite word, and he tends to lisp it.
Sitting in his house again -- his wife and mine have become close friends -- he鈥檚 had a few beers and he tells us again his process for burning bermuda grass.
鈥淗ere鈥檚 a turf tip鈥 he slurs in his mild mannered way. 鈥淚鈥檓 sure I鈥檝e told you before. Burn your grass in swathes, not all at once. It could get out of control, and then you鈥檇 be in trouble.鈥
My wife, Donna, laughs for him. His wife laughs also and tells him he鈥檚 repeating himself. He becomes clownish at this point. Raises his hands in a mea culpa gesture. He polishes off his beer bottle. It鈥檚 the same story every year and he knows it. I don鈥檛 remember when this end of summer ritual began, but I don鈥檛 even pretend to listen anymore鈥.
His wife, Meredith, places a single roasted corn cob on her styrofoam plate and mentions her weight. Donna tells her she looks great, but she鈥檚 not fooling anyone. Meredith has been growing stouter and more medicated as the years pile on. She鈥檚 not terribly attractive. Lumpy of body and mind. Slack as a flat tire. There鈥檚 no definition to her legs, yet she insists on weekending in khaki shorts. Blue spider veins transverse from the side of her thighs down to her cankles and her orthopedic footwear. She鈥檚 only 45. A college administrator. Department of Literary Arts and Literistic Awareness鈥.or something equally ridiculous sounding. She thinks we鈥檙e kindred spirits.
鈥淲e鈥檙e both writers,鈥 she likes to say. 鈥淵ou understand how it is dealing with academic egos.鈥
I don鈥檛, though. Not really. I only worked at a university tangentially -- in one of their public facing offices, and that was years ago. I sensed the danger and tried to avoid the academic ego entirely. I freelance occasionally. I鈥檒l write articles or essays. Nothing big published yet. I have a novel I鈥檓 finishing up. I cobble a living together. Donna is the one with the real profession, and I love her for it.
The only bright spot, the only personality in the Anders home is their daughter, Gabrielle. And for the first time in a couple of years, she鈥檚 back at the table, looking listless and nursing a long neck herself. Spiked cider. The kind of thing I imagine Smurfs drink. It鈥檚 probably because she鈥檚 had the baby. Babies will do that to you -- suckle the life force right out. Hers is asleep in the house, but there鈥檚 a baby monitor nearby and every once in a while a garbled coo comes through. Poor Gabi looks terrified when she hears it, and that makes me think of Phillip Roth. Something about people fucking themselves into a life. Anyway, Gabrielle has managed that perfectly. She was always a little too quick. At fourteen, she looked seventeen. At seventeen, she looked twenty-six. She got pregnant the summer after she graduated high school. Ended up staying with her grandparents a little bit, but is back now, working at the mall and attending a local community college. The same one her mother works at.
She looks great, though. There鈥檚 no denying that. Listless, sure, but somehow better because of it. The baby is going on two years old now and Gabrielle has filled out even more, if that鈥檚 possible. A young Sophia Loren. No cankles on her鈥.
There鈥檚 no dad. Well, there is a dad, but he鈥檚 never mentioned. Meredith has never spoken of it to Donna anyway. The gossip is that the baby鈥檚 father was Gerhardt Meuller over in Sherwood Forest, but who鈥檚 to say? The baby is sort of Aryan looking. Snow white hair. Blue irisis. Rosy cheeks. Gabrielle spent a lot of time at the Meuller鈥檚 babysitting. She even went with them on summer vacations to the beach. I鈥檇 buy it, that Gerry was the dad鈥. The fact they moved away so suddenly without anyone knowing where is what makes people suspicious. I imagine they鈥檙e back in the fatherland now. Cologne, I think.
At any rate, as I was saying, Gabrielle is the only bright spot in the murk that is the Anders household. Meredith has her cankles and her absurd 鈥淟iteristic鈥 department. Paul is a sociopath about to lose his mind. And Donna and I are their next door neighbors. Some might think I鈥檓 a little too fixated on Gabrielle, and they would be correct. But It鈥檚 not for reasons they鈥檇 assume. I鈥檓 nearing forty and I like my life exactly how it is. I wake up and make Donna breakfast. I see her off, and then I go out to my shed where I work on whatever I feel like working on. In the afternoon I might go to a museum or to see a movie. Or I might meet up with other writer friends to talk bullshit about our nonexistent careers, how to get an agent, or how the internet is destroying us all. Then I come home. Open a bottle of wine. Enjoy a glass on my deck. If Gabrielle is around she鈥檒l come over and have one with me. I know she鈥檚 not quite twenty-one, but she鈥檚 been knocked up, so I figure all her horses have left the barn and some wine might do her good. She鈥檒l guzzle it down as young adults do, flirt a little for practice, and then run home, panic-stricken, when it dawns on her that she left the baby alone in the kitchen...and the oven鈥檚 on. I鈥檒l prepare dinner then. Write a few notes, and when Donna comes home, have a nice meal.
It鈥檚 a good life. Clean. Straightforward. Sustainable.
The only reason the kid comes over is because she鈥檚 been selling me her Adderall since she was fifteen.
Sitting in his house again -- his wife and mine have become close friends -- he鈥檚 had a few beers and he tells us again his process for burning bermuda grass.
鈥淗ere鈥檚 a turf tip鈥 he slurs in his mild mannered way. 鈥淚鈥檓 sure I鈥檝e told you before. Burn your grass in swathes, not all at once. It could get out of control, and then you鈥檇 be in trouble.鈥
My wife, Donna, laughs for him. His wife laughs also and tells him he鈥檚 repeating himself. He becomes clownish at this point. Raises his hands in a mea culpa gesture. He polishes off his beer bottle. It鈥檚 the same story every year and he knows it. I don鈥檛 remember when this end of summer ritual began, but I don鈥檛 even pretend to listen anymore鈥.
His wife, Meredith, places a single roasted corn cob on her styrofoam plate and mentions her weight. Donna tells her she looks great, but she鈥檚 not fooling anyone. Meredith has been growing stouter and more medicated as the years pile on. She鈥檚 not terribly attractive. Lumpy of body and mind. Slack as a flat tire. There鈥檚 no definition to her legs, yet she insists on weekending in khaki shorts. Blue spider veins transverse from the side of her thighs down to her cankles and her orthopedic footwear. She鈥檚 only 45. A college administrator. Department of Literary Arts and Literistic Awareness鈥.or something equally ridiculous sounding. She thinks we鈥檙e kindred spirits.
鈥淲e鈥檙e both writers,鈥 she likes to say. 鈥淵ou understand how it is dealing with academic egos.鈥
I don鈥檛, though. Not really. I only worked at a university tangentially -- in one of their public facing offices, and that was years ago. I sensed the danger and tried to avoid the academic ego entirely. I freelance occasionally. I鈥檒l write articles or essays. Nothing big published yet. I have a novel I鈥檓 finishing up. I cobble a living together. Donna is the one with the real profession, and I love her for it.
The only bright spot, the only personality in the Anders home is their daughter, Gabrielle. And for the first time in a couple of years, she鈥檚 back at the table, looking listless and nursing a long neck herself. Spiked cider. The kind of thing I imagine Smurfs drink. It鈥檚 probably because she鈥檚 had the baby. Babies will do that to you -- suckle the life force right out. Hers is asleep in the house, but there鈥檚 a baby monitor nearby and every once in a while a garbled coo comes through. Poor Gabi looks terrified when she hears it, and that makes me think of Phillip Roth. Something about people fucking themselves into a life. Anyway, Gabrielle has managed that perfectly. She was always a little too quick. At fourteen, she looked seventeen. At seventeen, she looked twenty-six. She got pregnant the summer after she graduated high school. Ended up staying with her grandparents a little bit, but is back now, working at the mall and attending a local community college. The same one her mother works at.
She looks great, though. There鈥檚 no denying that. Listless, sure, but somehow better because of it. The baby is going on two years old now and Gabrielle has filled out even more, if that鈥檚 possible. A young Sophia Loren. No cankles on her鈥.
There鈥檚 no dad. Well, there is a dad, but he鈥檚 never mentioned. Meredith has never spoken of it to Donna anyway. The gossip is that the baby鈥檚 father was Gerhardt Meuller over in Sherwood Forest, but who鈥檚 to say? The baby is sort of Aryan looking. Snow white hair. Blue irisis. Rosy cheeks. Gabrielle spent a lot of time at the Meuller鈥檚 babysitting. She even went with them on summer vacations to the beach. I鈥檇 buy it, that Gerry was the dad鈥. The fact they moved away so suddenly without anyone knowing where is what makes people suspicious. I imagine they鈥檙e back in the fatherland now. Cologne, I think.
At any rate, as I was saying, Gabrielle is the only bright spot in the murk that is the Anders household. Meredith has her cankles and her absurd 鈥淟iteristic鈥 department. Paul is a sociopath about to lose his mind. And Donna and I are their next door neighbors. Some might think I鈥檓 a little too fixated on Gabrielle, and they would be correct. But It鈥檚 not for reasons they鈥檇 assume. I鈥檓 nearing forty and I like my life exactly how it is. I wake up and make Donna breakfast. I see her off, and then I go out to my shed where I work on whatever I feel like working on. In the afternoon I might go to a museum or to see a movie. Or I might meet up with other writer friends to talk bullshit about our nonexistent careers, how to get an agent, or how the internet is destroying us all. Then I come home. Open a bottle of wine. Enjoy a glass on my deck. If Gabrielle is around she鈥檒l come over and have one with me. I know she鈥檚 not quite twenty-one, but she鈥檚 been knocked up, so I figure all her horses have left the barn and some wine might do her good. She鈥檒l guzzle it down as young adults do, flirt a little for practice, and then run home, panic-stricken, when it dawns on her that she left the baby alone in the kitchen...and the oven鈥檚 on. I鈥檒l prepare dinner then. Write a few notes, and when Donna comes home, have a nice meal.
It鈥檚 a good life. Clean. Straightforward. Sustainable.
The only reason the kid comes over is because she鈥檚 been selling me her Adderall since she was fifteen.
