The Bull Years

by Phil Stern

  SOPHIA DANTON

  Steve Levine was the most sensitive person I’ve ever met. The vast, inescapable contradictions of our existence routinely impacted his soul on some unfathomable, intensely existential level, rampaging with bewildering frequency past emotional defenses shredded long before.

  There was an amazing duality to Steve back in our college days. Even in an innocent age he was bright and kind, eagerly embracing new ideas and sensations. His openness was…amazing, really, and in stark contrast to the typical college male focused solely on sex, drinking, and emotional isolation.

  But somewhere deep inside, Steve lived in a state of excruciating anguish. He yearned to really connect with those around him, yet lived in perpetual fear of rejection. Sure, there was a lot of bravado and sharp humor (Steve has the quickest wit I’ve ever encountered), but that was merely his attempt to keep the outer world at some sort of comfortable distance.

  Brooke Smith was much the same. For hours on end she would dash off lines of poetry in what became stacks of notebooks, the culmination of each work prompting either boundless joy or wretched depression. Emotion seemed to pulse from Brooke on an almost tangible level, exhausting both her and everyone else within her aura.

  Oh, how Brooke would cry her eyes out at the slightest provocation, any perceived inequity a cause for almost endless rage! Once we saw a man roughly take a carton of yogurt from his wife’s hand in the supermarket, tossing it back in the cooler. “We can’t afford that,” he muttered, brusquely motioning his spouse to move on. Brooke broke into tears, yelling at the man and trying to pull his wife away. Luckily we escaped the supermarket before the police arrived.

  And Dave Miller. I’ll never forget when my car was completely covered with ice and I had to drive back down to Scarsdale. We spent three hours excavating it, like paleontologists freeing some woolly mammoth discovered in the Arctic, one painful ice chip at a time.

  You know, I really miss them all. But after what happened…well, maybe it’s best this way. And really, it was so long ago. I mean, do the Steve, Dave, and Brooke I knew even still exist?

  They probably don’t. The young people I loved have probably been wiped away by the real world, existing only as they once were in my memories.

  STEVE LEVINE

  When I was up in New York a few weeks ago visiting Mom, she complained my sister had ordered her a laptop. Like many children of our generation, Megan is very frustrated with our mother’s fear of computers. My father, who died five years ago, was even worse. He steadfastly refused to even go near a computer.

  I’d tried explaining to my sister that, for an old person, an unwanted computer was like having a caged tiger in the house. It was of no earthly benefit that they could possibly imagine, yet might conceivably break loose and devour them in the middle of the night. Megan told me to shut the fuck up and mind my own business.

  Still, lacking anything else to talk about in our weekly phone call, I decided to bring it up. “Did your new computer come in yet?” I cheerfully asked.

  Yes, Mom guardedly acknowledged.

  “Well, how is it?”

  “Fine.” Sourly, she took a deep drag on a cigarette.

  “Oh, good. What have you done so far?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you…turned it on yet?”

  “No, honey, of course not. I don’t want to break it.”

  As it turned out Mom had gone so far as to open the box, but was then instantly arrested by a sheet of simple instructions.

  “Mom, read me what it says.”

  “‘Attach power cable to rear power port, then plug cable into available power source, as shown in diagram A-1,’” she drawled, certain I would be forced to acknowledge the devious complexity of the task before her. “Honey, I have absolutely no idea what that means.”

  “Mom, that’s just a fancy way of saying you need to plug it into the wall.”

  “Well, I just don’t know.”

  “Look, Mom, if you bought a new…toaster, let’s say, and it had a plug, wouldn’t you just plug it into the wall?”

  “Of course.” Another cigarette drag, then silence.

  “Well,” I finally offered. “This is kind of the same thing, with just one more step. First you need to plug the cord into your computer…”

  “Look, Steve, you know I’m not a technical person. I already told Megan to come take it away.” Now I was treated to a deep, mournful, old-person sigh. “Anyway, you know what your sister’s really after. Megan already told me Jacob refused to buy her a new computer, so now she’ll get this one.”

  Mom was probably right. My sister was one of those women who simply didn’t understand that, even though her husband had a good job, there wasn’t an unlimited supply of money. So Megan was dipping into the unspecified parental-gift budget to buy herself another computer.

  Actually, Megan and I haven’t spoken much in the last year-and-a-half. Following an obscene Christmas shopping spree Jacob, my brother-in-law, had given my sister an ultimatum; either surrender her credit cards peacefully, or he was going to a divorce attorney. In a panic she’d called me, wailing and complaining about her “cheap” husband, but finally admitting they owed ten grand to Lady Visa and Master Card (as they always say at the Renaissance Fairs). I told her to stop treating her husband like a fucking tool and give up the credit cards. Megan called me a jackass and slammed down the phone.

  But back to old people and computers. I have a theory about this. If you ever watch those old NASA propaganda films from the 1960's, they liked to show massive rows of computers whirling away, attended by serious men with thick glasses. The voice-over would then imply that, unless you studied physics with Einstein in the old country before earning doctorates at a half-dozen Ivy League schools, you had absolutely no hope of understanding computers. Leave computers to the “rocket scientists.” Mere mortals need not apply. That’s what the old people of today think of when someone mentions computers.

  Think I’m kidding? Just last week a senior approached me in a coffee shop, staring at my laptop like some remote tribesman seeing an airplane for the first time. As was the norm he stood back several feet, as if my computer might rear up and bite him.

  “Can you tell me how one can look up the…” the guy slowly began, as if he’d been rehearsing the question for quite some time. “Oh, sugar cubes and hot molasses! Hey, Ethel, what did Kendy call it?”

  “Henry! For God’s sake! It’s called the interweb!” Ethel bellowed back from across the room. Clearly, Henry was an idiot.

  “That’s it! The interweb!” Pointing a wobbling finger in my direction, Henry now nodded with great conviction. “You see, my granddaughter Kendy wants us to look up the interweb, so she can send us pictures from college!”

  “I think it’s bullshit!” Ethel yelled. “She can send her goddamn pictures by U.S. Mail, just like a normal person would!”

  Ethel had spunk, I’ll grant her that, but I would have left her years ago. “Well, sir,” I gently replied, addressing myself to the saner of the two. “I’m on the internet right now using my laptop here.” Like some retarded clown pointing at his oversized feet, I indicated said laptop. “I’m using the coffee shop’s wi-fi service.”

  Eyes bulging, he glanced down at my laptop. “So you’re saying that thing there is the interweb?”

  “No, sir. You have to get online…”

  “Can I just look up the interweb in some book?”

  “Henry!” Ethel screamed. “Shut the fuck up and get back over here!”

  Utterly confused, Henry swayed back and forth, finally grabbing onto a table for support. “But Kendy said…”

  “KENDY IS A FUCKING WHORE!” Bellowing like a mental patient, Ethel lurched up from behind a pillar, her face purple with rage. “Just like all of Pamela’s children! Let’s go!”

  Without another word, Henry and Ethel stumbled out of the café.

  But in perfect fairness, at least my generation grew up with calculator
s, VCR’s, video games and such. We were used to diving into new things. But to our parents? There was nothing digital. They’re like the old sailing masters who refused to use those newfangled steam engines. They can’t wrap their minds around it.

  I wonder, though. Will I be like Henry and Ethel some thirty years from now, pestering strangers in some futuristic coffee shop to explain, let’s say, trans-dimensional orgasmic wave exchange? Here’s how it might go:

  “But I don’t understand,” I’d begin. “Everyone else gets to have mental sex with the cross-dimensional elves! Why can’t I?”

  The beautiful young stranger would bring a concerned finger to her full, lush lips. “But sir, all you have to do is imagine a female elf, sitting on a green rock at high noon in the alternate dimension…”

  “But I’ve done that!” I’d exclaim, dropping my geriatric frame into a chair a bit too close to her. “All I get is sun burn!”

  First staring off into the distance, the stranger would then turn her gorgeous green eyes to me. “Are you refracting your Hanson ding-a-ling before inversing your Bently bing-bong? That might be the problem.”

  “What are you talking about!” At this point I’d be screaming out of sheer frustration. “Listen, I just want to fuck some elves!”

  And then the stranger would stand, laying a sympathetic hand on my shoulder while leaning down into my tortured old guy face. “Sir,” she’d purr. “It’s so easy. Anybody can do it. There’s a whole dimension out there, full of horny elves, just waiting for your mental energy to penetrate their minds…”

  “But I don’t know how!” I’d shriek. “Can’t we…I mean, can’t we just go somewhere private and have some old-school sex? Just you and me? Together?”

  Shocked, she would then stand up straight, slapping me across the cheek. “Pervert!” And with that she’d flounce out of the coffee shop, hopping in the nearest jump tube for the short trip back to her apartment on the moon.

  But the point is, that’s what we sound like to old people trying to understand computers and the internet. It’s just beyond them.

  By the way, I thought I’d share my latest missive from yet another prospective literary agent:

  Dear Friend,

  Thank you for giving us the opportunity to review your work. Unfortunately, our client list is full right now, and we’re not in the position to take on any new projects. Best of luck in your future literary endeavors!

  Sincerely,

  The Go-Fuck-Yourself Literary Agency

  Of course, that’s not the agency’s real name, but you get the idea. Actually, I don’t mind form letters. Impersonal rejection is easier to take.

  On another matter, I was listening to the local sports talk station this morning. For the benefit of sports talk show hosts everywhere, let me explain something.

  Nobody, and I mean nobody, gives a shit about the Tour de France. In fact, if Napoleon were still alive and running things, he’d execute everyone involved.

  So, speaking on behalf of heterosexual American males everywhere, let me say that if a bunch of guys want to put on skintight outfits and ride bicycles around the French countryside, that’s their business. But by no means does that constitute a “sport,” and it should not be discussed as such.

  Incidently, I still haven’t heard from Brooke. If I don’t contact her soon, I’m going to have to find another fourth person for this project.

  DAVE MILLER

  In science fiction, characters are always going back and forth in time to change one thing or another. Reality itself becomes malleable. Any mistake can be corrected, any negative outcome altered to suit future conditions.

  But in real life, when your crazy girlfriend gets pregnant, that’s the one reality you have to deal with.

  Look, I’m not exactly sure how it happened. All I can tell you is that Jen was on the pill. That’s right. Jen was on the pill and she got pregnant anyway. She’s always sworn up and down that she didn’t miss any pills.

  But you know what? It would also be entirely in Jen’s character to miss an entire week of pills, or get the weeks mixed up and take the placebo pills during the wrong week, and then just deny she’d done anything wrong. Taking responsibility for her own screw ups was never Jen’s strong suit.

  In retrospect, I don’t know why I trusted her even with this mild responsibility. After all, anything having to do with time was utterly beyond her. If Jen was supposed to register for a class on Tuesday, she might wait until Thursday, then get confused as to why it was already booked up. She’d wander into a one o’clock job interview at three o’clock, wondering what the big deal was. A paper due tomorrow somehow got moved back in her own head to next week. Clocks, schedules, dates…none of that made the slightest difference. Jen was perpetually on Jen Time, a special dimension where the plane won’t leave until she gets there, the class starts when she arrives, and the birth control pill only need to be taken when she remembers to take them.

  Which means, in Jen’s twisted mind, she might actually be telling the truth. How can one miss taking a pill, or two or three? After all, if it never occurred to her to take the pill, then how could she miss it? You can’t miss something you don’t think of, can you? Just like all those stupid professors who failed her for missing class. Didn’t those fools understand she was sleeping Wednesday morning? If they really wanted her to attend class, or take a test, why not schedule them at a time when she wasn’t sleeping?

  At that point we’d been dating about eight months and her act was wearing thin. Yeah, she was always good to go, which was a major plus, but I was tired of her making me late to everything. If I tried hurrying her along, Jen would just complain and slow down even more. She couldn’t understand why her life was perpetually out of control, and when I tried to help her she’d just get angry. It was all getting to be a drag.

  So one day, after I began seriously contemplating a breakup, we met after class for a milkshake. As usual, she was late. Though we’d agreed to meet at 4 o’clock, Jen didn’t come tripping through the ice-cream shop door until 4:30.

  “Oh, Dave!” Kissing me on the cheek, she bounced down in the opposite high-top chair. “What a day!”

  “Yeah.” Pointedly, I looked at my watch. “You’ve kept me waiting a half-hour.”

  “What?” Confused, she looked over at the wall clock. “Didn’t we say 4:30?”

  This was a common Jen dodge, lying about when we were to meet to cover up her own lateness. Just last night, after a big fight, she’d agreed not to do it anymore.

  “No, we said 4 o’clock,” I insisted. Her class, which was a five-minute walk from the ice cream shop, had ended at 3:45.

  “Whatever.” Jen rolled her eyes, indicating the discussion was over. “Look, I stopped to chat with the girls, okay? I have a life too, you know.”

  “Of course.” Sighing, I rubbed my eyes.

  “Listen, Dave, don’t start with me, all right? I got a letter from the school.” She handed over an envelope with the official university seal. “Can you tell me what it means?”

  In short, Jen had been expelled. Apparently all those missed classes and uncompleted assignments had caught up with her. Both troubled and relieved, I passed the letter back. “It says you’ve been kicked out of school,” I announced, a bit more harshly than I’d intended.

  “I know!” Frustrated, she snatched the envelope. “But why? My parents got the same letter today. They’re freaking out.”

  It was that time at the university. Two guys living on my floor had moved out yesterday. They hadn’t attended a single class, sleeping until noon and then playing video games all day. Some people just aren’t cut out for college.

  But Jen had at least tried, in her own wacky way. I almost began to feel sorry for her. So once more I carefully explained the college expected her to be on Eastern Standard Time rather than Jen Time. She actually focused on what I was saying, face screwed up in almost comic concentration.

  “But I want to do classes and pape
rs and stuff!” she finally exclaimed, a tear running down one cheek. “I like it here. Do you think they’ll give me second chance?”

  This had been the second chance. She’d been officially warned a month ago to clean up her act. “I don’t know,” I mumbled.

  “But Dave, I love you, and I love it here!” Leaning over, Jen took my hand. “I don’t want to go!”

  And this was the Jen Paradox. Looking up at me, head coquettishly lying along the table, Jen was a very sexy, sweet girl.

  “Well, look,” I began, squeezing her hand. “Maybe if you…”

  But just then the waiter came over, interrupting us. “What are you guys going to have?” The place was filling up and he was obviously very busy.

  And right on cue, Jen did one of the things that had really begun to annoy me of late. Sitting up, she made a point of smiling broadly, catching the waiter’s eye, and then waiting several beats. “Thank You!” she intoned with great conviction. “I appreciate your saying that, and all the Positive Attention you’re showing us here today!”

  Frowning, the waiter looked at me. I shrugged, telling him I wanted a milkshake. Jen farted around for a minute and then ordered a sundae. As the waiter was leaving, Jen made a point of pompously thanking him again.

  “Dave!” she complained as soon as the waiter was out of earshot. “You didn’t thank him! We’ve talked about this!”

  After reading a book recommended by her mother, Jen had decided she was some kind of social expert. As with all self-appointed authorities, Jen was now endeavoring to indoctrinate me.

  “Thanking people is a great way of generating Positive Attention,” she continued. “It let’s them know you don’t take them for granted, and see them as Real-Life Individuals!”

  Every time Jen assailed me with the buzz phrases from her book I wanted to strangle her. “All right, Jen, that’s great.” Yeah, this was all getting really old.