A Murphy Moon

Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni taught creative writing at the community college I went to a long time ago. I enrolled, and learned some things about my own style that I still use to this day. My writings those days, as they are now, are overly dramatic and infused with lofty notions of love and relationships that are transcendental. Thanks Rexroth, Sappho, et al.

Recently, some good friends sent me copies of old letters I wrote dating back to my days in high school. They are silly, quaint, petty, offensive – all the things I am now but to a greater degree. Attached to one of the letters was a copy of a story I thought I had long ago lost. Something I had no paper copy of…it had only ever been stored on some old and missing floppy disk (the big ones made of thin plastic that you could use as fans – probably the only thing they’re good for now). An individual I once knew brought up the "Murphy moon"from this story a couple of months ago. I hadn't thought about it since I wrote the story and I thought I’d never see the text again. But here it is. It’s so…embarrassing? It’s an amalgamation of high school and community college loves, I think. Reading it, I think about how some things in my writing (and life) still haven’t changed. OK, here it is – unedited with new superfluous footnotes in all its goofiness and sappiness.

I Still Love You

In the beginning she nervously gave him a piece of paper torn from her lunchbag that just read “Molly". The two connected sitting on the grass. ‘Green thoughts under a green shade’[1], staring at a white wall, talking for hours about everything. Molly and Desmond[2] continued on the phone until the dawn of the next day, trying to describe the sunrise. They wrote letters to each other, the long childlike essays on the mundane and the supernatural. Together they agreed the talk of music was pointless – music was better left to those who had nothing else to say.[3] During their breaks he read her Crichton and Clancy and she delighted him with Miller and Bukowski.[4] In the dark they waited for every premiere, chewing on Junior Mints. Molly took him to see Ginsberg and La Dolce Vita[5], he loosened her up to John Woo, Jackie Chan and Peckingpah[6]. She kept every box, every ticket stub. Every now and then they manic-panicked themselves and danced under a Murphy moon.[7] He promised to buy her a star; they would both go away to the unknown together. And Molly cried for Desmond when he could not. He punched holes in his wall. She was jealous of his innermost thoughts, because they were with him every minute of the day and she was not. Desmond sang to her on the roof and gave her a Snapple bottle full of rain.[8] Molly put a white rose in it, caressed him in her arms, saying so soothingly, “Nothing’s gonna change our world.[9]” He looked up to her face, smiled and said, “I’ve seen everything under the sun, but only you have made my days brighter…”

During a stormy afternoon, Desmond traced the little lines along her palm.[10] They sat on steps, hail pounding the pavement just two feet away. “Whenever it rains, I think about you and always smile”, he philosophically said, trying to find a way to say it best. “Tell me, do you love me because you need me? Are we only here to keep ourselves from falling apart? Do you really still love me?” Molly had water in her eyes, he wiped them dry and kissed her cheek. “I love you more than I ever loved anyone before or anyone to come[11]…I love you more than words can say[12]…Those songs always play in the back of my head…Do you remember them?”, whispered Molly. They tried not to think about it. Molly and Desmond lie in their beds, lying to themselves, wondering if they’ll sleep[13].

Life continued, many emotions passed on.[14] In the street, when one or the other wasn’t paying attention, they gave wayward glances to the opposite sex.[15] During long trips away from one another, saying goodbyes were so much fun. Amongst friends, they saw each other as vague memories, fading pictures in their pockets. Walking through the front door, they no longer rushed to a ringing phone. Sitting with Desmond’s friends, talking about the past, Molly had nothing to say or add. Two races never to live in harmony.[16] The letters written are filled with blank lines halfway down the page and over to the back.[17] In one letter Desmond wrote: “Sorry there is so much empty space, but I have nothing else to say to you”, but he threw it away.

Nowadays the only sounds made are the changes of channels on the television. In the car they drive around aimlessly, the sunrises less familiar than the TV glow. Desmond and Molly Jones are voyeurs into happy lives. In the Mission, past the 475 Valencia[18], the couple eat in silence at La Cumbre[19]. They look only at their super burritos[20], the seldom rubbing of their legs underneath the table only accidents to be corrected. Their little arguments are no longer so cute; their offbeat eccentricities not as appealing as they once were before. He asks her for a light and she holds the cigarette with just her mouth, gently touching hers to his, a nicotine kiss. Old habits that they wish would die.[21]

Desmond looks away and says, “I still love you.” Molly smiles and replies, “I still love you, sure as God.”

“No you don’t.”

“No I don’t…you know I’m just kidding!”

“There’s always some truth to ‘just kidding’.”[22]

Molly laughs. “I’m just joking.”

“Mmhmm. You know what…the saddest thing about the past is that it has no future.”[23]

“Make it last then.”

“Make it last.”

T H E * E N D

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[1] From The Garden by Andrew Marvell.

[2] These characters are one of many musical references in this story. Molly and Desmond are the protagonists in the Beatles’ Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.

[3] This is a story with nothing to say.

[4] In high school, I read more Crichton books than I care to now admit. Clancy’s books, however, I never read. Miller and Bukowski satisfied prurient desires and punk rock fixations.

[5] Every budding literature and film buff in high school has to start somewhere. I find Allen Ginsberg absolutely dull and almost detestable now. In fact, I have no more patience with the "Beat" writers at all. So unimaginative really. With the exception of Burroughs - and he has a tenuous connection with them anyway.

[6] I was such a guy moviegoer back then!

[7] Manic Panic was the go to hair dye back then. Quick and easy. A [Peter] “Murphy” moon means many things to me, but I remember that in the context of this story it specifically refers to a Black Moon: the second new moon in any given month. My high school girlfriend was a death rocker (before the term “goth” became so ubiquitous), we both liked Peter Murphy and Bauhaus and she practiced Wicca (a Black Moon occurrence is a significant event).

[8] Oh boy, I really loved Snapple in those days. And I actually did these things for someone.

[9] The Beatles’ Across the Universe.

[10] Jawbreaker’s Chesterfield King.

[11] Jawbreaker’s Jinx Removing.

[12] Leo Sayer’s More Than Words Can Say. A soft rock classic. Schmaltzy stuff we always liked to listen to on the easy listening radio station when the mixtapes got boring.

[13] The Replacements’ Skyway: “You take the skyway, high above a busy little one-way. In my stupid hat and gloves at night I lie awake, wondering if I’ll sleep…wondering if we’ll meet out on the street.”

[14] Bad transition!

[15] This sentence makes me wince because it is so heterosexual and exclusive. I’m embarrassed by it.

[16] This is an awkward sentence struggling for profundity.

[17] I used to write her so many letters, I got bored with them and never did it for anyone else again.

[18] The Epicenter Zone started by the late Tim Yohannon of Maximumrocknroll. Record store, community center, hangout, Food Not Bombs, the 90s. Lovely place gone like the personalities that volunteered there. The late vibrant Lance Hahn of J Church (wearing the flannel in the picture to your right) used to give me lectures on English peace/protest punk bands that I should listen to. R.I.P. everyone and everything.

[19] Of course, Pancho Villa’s around the corner is a better taqueria! And then there’s El Farolito and Taqueria Cancun right around the way…

[20] I think if I were to write this now, I would not use the term “super burritos”. It's not very romantic.

[21] I still really like these last four sentences and the imagery they conjure up. Especially since I’ve quit smoking.

[22] Unfortunately, I still believe that to this day. It makes one suspicious of everything, and is no good for anyone.

[23] I made a note of this stating that this was from Jack Kerouac but not entirely. Funny, I hate Kerouac now.