Before the Buzzer by Cain Randle
A man goes to a memoir writing conference and gets a dose of his past he hadn't expected.
I had been thinking about writing a memoir for twenty years and staring at a blinking cursor in a blank Word document for the past three years. Instead of moving my fingers and just writing the thing, I attended another (my twelfth) memoir writing conference - this one was in Chula Vista - where they guaranteed to help me unlock my past and write a best-selling tell-all that would become the next multi-episode Netflix thriller.
Registration fee, hotel, airfare, car rental, food. Unlocking your past does not come cheap. But I hadn't been back to California since the year I turned twenty, so even if the conference was a bust, maybe I could rent a car and drive up I-5, check out some of the old haunts.
Other than the catchy and cringeworthy conference titles (this one was called Mem-Wars: The Mind's Battle Between What You Think Happened and What Really Happened), the first thing you learn when attending these memoir-writing get-togethers is that the world is chock-full of pathetic people exactly like you who are also trying to write a memoir.
The enterprise is pretty sad when you think about it. All of us grim people digging in our belly buttons, wasting lots of time, money, and life, being taught how to write a memoir by people who haven't written a memoir, much less lived long enough to have anything worth telling. But there we sit, learning how to write a memoir that should never be published, read or remembered. And, let's be honest, who gives a flip about our stories anyway?
You will quickly discover just how small the world really is when you've attended as many of these events as I have. A room full of familiar faces, paired with familiar names, matched with familiar stories of abuse, abandonment, and neglect. To hear us tell it, it's a wonder we've survived to adulthood, much less long enough to tell our sad little stories.
Invariably, the opening activity during the first session is the share-a-thon. And what you are sharing is the trauma, the hook for your book. No trauma, no hook; no hook, no book. Get what I'm saying? Since I was already well-acquainted with all the glum tales being shared, I looked over my notes, seeing what fresh spin I might offer on my stale tale when my turn came around.
Our small memoir-writing cadre had been invaded by a new navel-gazer, a woman from Chico. She was the first conference participant to provide a brief two-minute fly-over narrative snapshot of her Mem-War. Her story caught my attention right away.
Her name was Terri. She wore her hair in a neck-length bob and was broad-shouldered. When she coughed and cleared her throat, I saw the edge of her wire-rimmed glasses but that was the nearest I got to seeing her face since I was sitting four rows behind her.
I closed my notes and listened to her speak in a flat monotone voice about something that happened when she was seventeen.
"We never took off our clothes," Terri said, "and there was no sex, but I had friction burns and bruising caused by furious dry humping through multiple layers of denim. He wore 501s, and those rivets -"
Terri was startled by the unanticipated interruption of laughter from the other conference attendees. After adjusting her glasses and clearing her throat, she continued.
"I was raised in a Pentecostal family. Very moral, strict, upright. My parents were fond of the boy because he was kind and personable and well-mannered and treated them with deference, and me with respect, and one time he even came and played guitar at my church and sang a song he'd written.
"After the service, he asked my mom if it would be okay if he took me to get a soda and she said it would be fine, but because we lived out near Butte Creek Canyon, and he lived on the opposite side of Chico from us, she asked him, because of the late hour, and because she was worried about him hitting a deer in the canyon late at night, to take me to my grandmother's place when we were done. Nanna's Airstream was in an RV park no more than a mile from him.
"After sharing a cola and some tater tots, we drove to my grandmother's place. He walked around the car and opened the passenger door and I got out, and the best I remember, I grabbed him and kissed him - I'd never kissed a boy before - and then he kissed me back, and then the next thing I knew we were stretched out on the front seat of his car making out like there was a shot clock and we had to get it done before the buzzer sounded."
Another round of laughter that Terri had not anticipated. She waited for the last chuckle to subside before saying, "And then he got rid of the car and bought a motorcycle, which put an end to the making out in front of my grandmother's Airstream. Instead, we'd ride his Suzuki to Bidwell Park and lie on the grass and fool around and talk about my senior year that was coming up.
"He never said anything about going to Chico State or whether he would even go to college. I just assumed... well... I don't know what I assumed. Anyway, we never went farther than hungry kissing and the rubbing, but we switched to looser clothing and softer fabrics, so the humping didn't hurt."
The room erupted in a final blaze of laughter that was quickly doused when Terri, in a dispassionate, expressionless voice, said, "I'm fairly certain he came every time because I could feel him... well, you know, through the clothing. But I never did... at least, I don't think I did... I mean... I was too busy looking up at his face... I'll never forget it... the smell of tater tots and ketchup on his breath... I can still see him in my mind... such a handsome boy.
"I found out later that he lived in Chico only for that one summer. Someone said he went to college in Oklahoma and then got married. Became a soldier or teacher or minister or coach maybe. I don't know. Something like that. I tried Googling him once, but...
"I never thought about what happened that summer until recently, you know, with the Hashtag MeToo movement thing. I mean, I didn't do anything against my will, but I was barely seventeen, and he was almost twenty, so..."
The spike-haired lady running the session asked Terri what she would say to that boy if she could see him now. Would she get even with him? Would she press charges? Would she castrate him? All the women in the room seemed sorely disappointed in Terri's response because they wanted her to let the guy have it with both hashtags.
Terri adjusted the earpiece on her glasses and softly said, "I guess I would tell him that I really liked him and was disappointed, heartsick, and hurt when he just vanished without a word."
And that's how my Mem-War writing days ended. I took a substantial financial hit, sneaking out and leaving the three-day conference after only ten minutes, but it was worth it.
I called my wife from the airport. When she answered, I could hear my kids squealing in the background. Sounded like they were tearing the house apart. I told her I was coming home. Said I was done with battling the past, ready to surrender to the future. She said, "That's nice," and could I pick up a gallon of milk on the way home from the airport. "Two-percent, please."
During my flight to Houston, I thought about the boy's side of Terri's story. What would he say about that summer if given the chance to tell his side of the story? For starters, he'd say he didn't get rid of the car; it was repossessed because he couldn't make the payments. He'd say that he agreed with Terri about there being no sex. Just a lot of urgent breathing and kissing and tongues and rubbing and the dry humping. He'd say that he never took Terri's shirt off or tried to feel her small, muscly breasts, even though he is pretty sure she wanted him to. He'd laugh and say that he vividly remembers her taking his shirt off, though. He'd say that he faintly remembers cupping her bottom, but he didn't slip his hands down the back of her pants to feel her firm, athletic butt. He'd apologize for asking to see the tattoo of a tiny panda just below her bikini line. He'd ask Terri if she remembers hanging on to him for dear life that day they raced some crazy military guy on a Honda 350 who was on leave from Travis Air Force Base.
The boy would say that things with Terri might have turned out differently if she'd only told him she thought he was handsome. Or that she really liked him. He'd say that a heads-up about her being barely seventeen would have been a nice bit of information.
And just to set the record straight, he'd say it wasn't ketchup on his breath - it was secret fry sauce.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
Registration fee, hotel, airfare, car rental, food. Unlocking your past does not come cheap. But I hadn't been back to California since the year I turned twenty, so even if the conference was a bust, maybe I could rent a car and drive up I-5, check out some of the old haunts.
Other than the catchy and cringeworthy conference titles (this one was called Mem-Wars: The Mind's Battle Between What You Think Happened and What Really Happened), the first thing you learn when attending these memoir-writing get-togethers is that the world is chock-full of pathetic people exactly like you who are also trying to write a memoir.
The enterprise is pretty sad when you think about it. All of us grim people digging in our belly buttons, wasting lots of time, money, and life, being taught how to write a memoir by people who haven't written a memoir, much less lived long enough to have anything worth telling. But there we sit, learning how to write a memoir that should never be published, read or remembered. And, let's be honest, who gives a flip about our stories anyway?
You will quickly discover just how small the world really is when you've attended as many of these events as I have. A room full of familiar faces, paired with familiar names, matched with familiar stories of abuse, abandonment, and neglect. To hear us tell it, it's a wonder we've survived to adulthood, much less long enough to tell our sad little stories.
Invariably, the opening activity during the first session is the share-a-thon. And what you are sharing is the trauma, the hook for your book. No trauma, no hook; no hook, no book. Get what I'm saying? Since I was already well-acquainted with all the glum tales being shared, I looked over my notes, seeing what fresh spin I might offer on my stale tale when my turn came around.
Our small memoir-writing cadre had been invaded by a new navel-gazer, a woman from Chico. She was the first conference participant to provide a brief two-minute fly-over narrative snapshot of her Mem-War. Her story caught my attention right away.
Her name was Terri. She wore her hair in a neck-length bob and was broad-shouldered. When she coughed and cleared her throat, I saw the edge of her wire-rimmed glasses but that was the nearest I got to seeing her face since I was sitting four rows behind her.
I closed my notes and listened to her speak in a flat monotone voice about something that happened when she was seventeen.
"We never took off our clothes," Terri said, "and there was no sex, but I had friction burns and bruising caused by furious dry humping through multiple layers of denim. He wore 501s, and those rivets -"
Terri was startled by the unanticipated interruption of laughter from the other conference attendees. After adjusting her glasses and clearing her throat, she continued.
"I was raised in a Pentecostal family. Very moral, strict, upright. My parents were fond of the boy because he was kind and personable and well-mannered and treated them with deference, and me with respect, and one time he even came and played guitar at my church and sang a song he'd written.
"After the service, he asked my mom if it would be okay if he took me to get a soda and she said it would be fine, but because we lived out near Butte Creek Canyon, and he lived on the opposite side of Chico from us, she asked him, because of the late hour, and because she was worried about him hitting a deer in the canyon late at night, to take me to my grandmother's place when we were done. Nanna's Airstream was in an RV park no more than a mile from him.
"After sharing a cola and some tater tots, we drove to my grandmother's place. He walked around the car and opened the passenger door and I got out, and the best I remember, I grabbed him and kissed him - I'd never kissed a boy before - and then he kissed me back, and then the next thing I knew we were stretched out on the front seat of his car making out like there was a shot clock and we had to get it done before the buzzer sounded."
Another round of laughter that Terri had not anticipated. She waited for the last chuckle to subside before saying, "And then he got rid of the car and bought a motorcycle, which put an end to the making out in front of my grandmother's Airstream. Instead, we'd ride his Suzuki to Bidwell Park and lie on the grass and fool around and talk about my senior year that was coming up.
"He never said anything about going to Chico State or whether he would even go to college. I just assumed... well... I don't know what I assumed. Anyway, we never went farther than hungry kissing and the rubbing, but we switched to looser clothing and softer fabrics, so the humping didn't hurt."
The room erupted in a final blaze of laughter that was quickly doused when Terri, in a dispassionate, expressionless voice, said, "I'm fairly certain he came every time because I could feel him... well, you know, through the clothing. But I never did... at least, I don't think I did... I mean... I was too busy looking up at his face... I'll never forget it... the smell of tater tots and ketchup on his breath... I can still see him in my mind... such a handsome boy.
"I found out later that he lived in Chico only for that one summer. Someone said he went to college in Oklahoma and then got married. Became a soldier or teacher or minister or coach maybe. I don't know. Something like that. I tried Googling him once, but...
"I never thought about what happened that summer until recently, you know, with the Hashtag MeToo movement thing. I mean, I didn't do anything against my will, but I was barely seventeen, and he was almost twenty, so..."
The spike-haired lady running the session asked Terri what she would say to that boy if she could see him now. Would she get even with him? Would she press charges? Would she castrate him? All the women in the room seemed sorely disappointed in Terri's response because they wanted her to let the guy have it with both hashtags.
Terri adjusted the earpiece on her glasses and softly said, "I guess I would tell him that I really liked him and was disappointed, heartsick, and hurt when he just vanished without a word."
And that's how my Mem-War writing days ended. I took a substantial financial hit, sneaking out and leaving the three-day conference after only ten minutes, but it was worth it.
I called my wife from the airport. When she answered, I could hear my kids squealing in the background. Sounded like they were tearing the house apart. I told her I was coming home. Said I was done with battling the past, ready to surrender to the future. She said, "That's nice," and could I pick up a gallon of milk on the way home from the airport. "Two-percent, please."
During my flight to Houston, I thought about the boy's side of Terri's story. What would he say about that summer if given the chance to tell his side of the story? For starters, he'd say he didn't get rid of the car; it was repossessed because he couldn't make the payments. He'd say that he agreed with Terri about there being no sex. Just a lot of urgent breathing and kissing and tongues and rubbing and the dry humping. He'd say that he never took Terri's shirt off or tried to feel her small, muscly breasts, even though he is pretty sure she wanted him to. He'd laugh and say that he vividly remembers her taking his shirt off, though. He'd say that he faintly remembers cupping her bottom, but he didn't slip his hands down the back of her pants to feel her firm, athletic butt. He'd apologize for asking to see the tattoo of a tiny panda just below her bikini line. He'd ask Terri if she remembers hanging on to him for dear life that day they raced some crazy military guy on a Honda 350 who was on leave from Travis Air Force Base.
The boy would say that things with Terri might have turned out differently if she'd only told him she thought he was handsome. Or that she really liked him. He'd say that a heads-up about her being barely seventeen would have been a nice bit of information.
And just to set the record straight, he'd say it wasn't ketchup on his breath - it was secret fry sauce.
What a fun and poignant delight! I love it!
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