Last week’s homework assignment for my creative non-fiction writing class was titled:
Disjuncture as Key Material (or locating conflict as story pressure)
Brainstorm times when you or someone you know felt angry or out of place or challenged. Make a list. Then, for each topic, give a thematic title, or what the issue at heart is about. Locate which of these experiences taught you or the other person something important. Take one of these and map out the “Dramatic Arc” — that is, how the character began, a couple of obstacles, and how the character changed. Work this into a story.
So I wrote a scene from 15 years ago or when I had a confrontation with my dad. I plan to work this into a much longer essay, with more fully developed ‘place’ and ‘character’ and some chunks of expository as soon as my writing coach tells me I no longer have to go cold turkey on it.
“No, goddammit, I’m not locking up my guns.”
With his teeth clenched and hands on his hip, my dad’s veins bulge out of his neck as we face each other in the driveway in front of his castle, my boyhood home. My mother’s standing on the patio at the front door, watching us, hand over her mouth. I muster an argument one more time. “Why not? It’s for the safety of your grandchildren when they visit, that’s all I’m asking.”
“It’s my house and I’m not changing the way I live just for you and them. So fuck you.”
The script says it’s now time for me to walk away, head down, hiding my quivering lip. I’ve done it a hundred times. But I don’t. Something clicks in my brain and I make a slo-mo decision to be mad, to deliberately ratchet up my tone and volume to match his. I walk a step closer to him, hands on my hip, and I lean my face to within about a foot of his.
“Don’t you say ‘fuck you’ to me, goddammit,” I yell. “I never insult you that way. If you’re gonna yell at me, fine, yell all you want but don’t insult me.”
My mother starts crying and goes back inside the house. He lowers his voice. “Okay, but I don’t think you have the right to tell me how to live in my own house.”
We argue in lowered voices for a few more minutes. He looks at his watch and says, “You’re gonna miss your plane if we keep standing here arguing.” He lightly cuffs me on the shoulder and smiles. “C’mon, I’ll give you a ride to the airport.”
In the car, he’s almost giddy. “We’ve never had a yelling match like that before. It’s great to clear the air like that, isn’t it? Did you see your mother. She was freaked!”
“Yeah, that was pretty interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at you like that.”
“No, I don’t think you have. I respect you for it, though. But now I have to ask you, man to man, when are you going to quit being so pussy-whipped by your wife? She’s always bitching about safety crap — seat belts, matches, guns — why don’t you just tell her to go to hell?”
He’s smiling. He wants to be pals with me, united against our wives. Oddly, I’m ready for this.
“Don’t you ever call me pussy-whipped,” I growl. “Robbie and I have learned to hash out our differences. We fight but we fight fair, without insults and putdowns and then we talk it out. You and mom never do that. Never. You’re horrible to each other, hurt each other, and then bury your resentments. Your marriage is horseshit. Mine isn’t, so don’t go telling me how to be a husband when you don’t have a fucking clue yourself on how to be one. And as far as all that safety shit goes, I agree with her.”
“Okay, okay, lighten up,” he laughs. “I was just making a suggestion.”
“No you weren’t. You were insulting me again and it’s pissing me off.”
“Okay, sorry. Say, what time does your plane come in on Friday? I should be able to pick you up.”