Waiting for the Real World to Catch Up

By Brian S. Alexander

“Waiting for the Real World to Catch Up” is the story of Scottrick, a crazed inventor, who was always chasing rainbows. It’s a madcap look at the undefeatable American spirit, with special celebrity cameos by Tina Fey, Meredith Vieira, Martha Stewart, and others!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781624882692

Book preview

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

Gobbledygook gummed up my brain as my goal seemed near. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well – all I needed was a little help.

I would finally meet noted editor Benjamin Siesick to discuss my novel in-progress: Waiting for the Real World to Catch Up. It was in-progress, all right, I had diligently worked on it for over two years. Was my effort all for naught? Hopefully, having a masterful pro, like Mr. Siesick involved would make it shine. Then, it’d be easy to get the dang thing published.

At eight in the morning, I groggily stepped off a Greyhound bus in New York City, straightened my hair and clothes in a washroom, and made my way out to 40th Street. At 11:30, after seeing Mr. Siesick, I would be off to audition for Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Two golden goals in one day.

I decided to save money and walk the fifteen blocks to Siesick’s place; I’d spring for a taxi later to get to the audition. Anyway, I wanted to walk. It was warm for late September and I still had some time to kill before my appointment.

The screeching din of traffic and flashing signs jolted me into Big Apple busyness. No need for coffee, I drank up the dank early-morning air. Wasn’t that just coffee I saw splashed on the sidewalk? Whatever it was, it was dark and brown like coffee.

Heading south, signs of neglect appeared within a few blocks. Tattered storefronts, empty and forlorn, stood before me like barren armpits. Oops! I swerved to the edge of the sidewalk to avoid a grungy torso and dangling legs sprawled on the pavement from a door entrance. This wasn’t exactly the high rent district.

But I was awash with hope, hope that Mr. Siesick would take on my book project, and hope that I would pass the audition test for Millionaire.

After several more blocks, the shabbiness morphed into multi-colored eccentricity. Cozy, but cramped, street level bistros, and lower level service shops. After negotiating an angled cross street, I arrived at Siesick’s address on East 25th Street. A minute or two after buzzing, Benjamin Siesick was at the door.

You must be Scottrick. Did you have any trouble finding the place?

No – it was fairly easy. I walked down 8th Avenue to get my blood flowing, and I only encountered one bum.

Only one?

Yes – so far anyway, I said while Siesick cast a hesitant eye at me. He was sixtyish and established-looking. Not very tall, with graying hair and a fleshy face punctuated by droopy eyelids.

You’re here from Evanston, Illinois, right?

Yes, I just got off the bus.

Just to talk with me about your book? Mr. Siesick’s voice curled up.

No, I’m also here to audition for Who Wants to be a Millionaire? I said, and quickly added, But meeting with you is the main reason I came, before any more hesitancy could show from him.

Oh, I see, we should get on with it, then, Siesick said. I followed him down a narrow hall which opened to a rather austere office with massive bookshelves. A desk cluttered with papers anchored the space in front of a lone window. He steered me to a cushy seat in front while moving to the crumpled leather chair in back. So, Scottrick, like I told you over the phone, I don’t know if I can commit to your project right now.

I know, but I wanted to meet with you. Then if you decide to do it, we’ll be set.

Siesick gave me an imperious look that left me awash with uncertainty. Okay, well, let’s see now, you haven’t done much writing, have you?

No, I can’t say that I have. I’m the author of two nostalgia books and have also taken a writing course. Plus, I’m in a writer’s group, I said.

I’m wary of writing groups, Mr. Siesick said, Their assessments can be off. Like Stephen King once said: ‘It’s the grit that seeps into an oyster’s shell that makes the pearl, not pearl-making seminars with other oysters.’ Then he added with a tone of concern, You haven’t done much reading either, have you?

No, not really.

Mr. Siesick’s eyes clouded over. "Scottrick, it’s a challenge when someone with – let’s say – a lesser background tries to tackle a novel. That’s what your book is, right?"

Oh – yes – it’s fiction, but with echoes of real experience.

Writing based on true events gives authenticity.

"I can’t say it’s all true, but there are rumblings of truth in it," I said.

That’s a problem. You need to define specifically what you’re writing. If it’s true, make it a memoir. Loosely based writing is a trickier sell.

Oh, it’s loosely based, all right.

That was my impression, Mr. Siesick said as he aligned the stray folders on his desk.

I sensed a pause and interjected, Can I use your wash room?

Sure, go ahead, it’s down the hall to the left.

Thanks, I said. I guess I needed to use the john. But mostly, I wanted to collect my thoughts, and try to think of a way to get Mr. Siesick on my side.

His washroom was one of a writerly man. Numerous pithy sayings and quotes on small wooden plaques were strung about the walls.

You can’t wait for inspiration, you have to go after it with a club. – Jack London

What’s the use of being a writer if you can’t irritate a great many people? – Norman Mailer

You can’t blame a writer for what the characters say. – Truman Capote

Why shouldn’t truth be stranger than fiction? Fiction, after all, has to make sense. – Mark Twain

Don’t call someone a writer because they string words on a page, that’s like giving a chicken breeder credit for laying eggs. – Brian S. Alexander

Oh, well. If I couldn’t win him over, it’d be okay. I’d just have to ace the audition test for Millionaire. Anyway, meeting Mr. Siesick on this trip was just extra gravy. Think of all those times I came to New York only to audition for that blasted game show – without even passing their test. What a waste!

Finally, I was back with Siesick. While I was gone he had lit up a pipe and was over at the window, pensively looking out. A glimmer of light accentuated his features as the pipe smoke swirled about him. I could imagine what he was thinking:

My ads always attract these loonies. They show up with some cumbersome, half-baked fiction, wanting me to make it readable and engaging.

Sure, I read some of his novel. It was a novel all right - a novel mishmash. I could hardly sort through it. He’s like thousands of others, with big dollar signs in their eyes, but little on the written page.

He looked back at me while I sat. Scottrick, your book would take more time than I have right now, he said, and paused before continuing. But, I do have a tip for you: Strive for clarity.

I struggled to respond. But, Mr. Siesick, you don’t have a sense of my work. If you could just realize all the good things in it, I’m sure you’d want to help.

Okay, I’m willing to listen, he said as his gaze wandered back to the window, Why don’t you read some of it from the start?

Sure, I said, and flipped my case open and began.

*  *  *

My tale begins on some ordinary day some time ago. Many years ago, to be exact (that’s not very exact, but will have to do for now). It probably was a bright, crisp spring day with the fresh smell of newness such days bring to mind. We encounter our boy tooling down the road in his rather beat up old Chevy Nova ragtop. Just as likely to fall apart on the spot as to become a collector car in the far-off future.

All young people have far-off futures, don’t they? Even if they are nearly half-blind to their present realities.

Well, on this day, cruising along a narrow band of roadway hugging the route of the rolling Wabash River, there is more than a hint of anticipation in the air. Scottrick, our boy, has a very important letter jutting out of his shirt pocket. Not just a letter that you get and open right away. It was one that cried out for a fantabulous routine to be a part of its opening so that it could be savored. It was a response from Parker Brothers about his latest invention, Rock Star, a game he sent to them for evaluation.

Scottrick planned to open his letter on a squarish blob of concrete at the highway rest park. Here, there would be imagined ceremony and pomp. The slab could even turn into a shrine of sorts, where the magical missive was first read.

Was this the splendiferous discovery that would change his future?

*  *  *

Scottrick, you need a stronger beginning.

I know. I’m trying to come up with one, I said.

The first few pages need to be engaging, and relate to the central focus of the book. Most agents, editors, and readers, for that matter, only read the start, and if it doesn’t capture their fancy, they toss it aside. It has to wow them. Like ‘The Devil Wears Prada,’ where the reader is instantly thrust into the drama of the demanding fashion editor versus lowly assistant.

I was hoping you could help.

I might be able to suggest something, but I usually don’t make major changes. Those need to come from the author.

Oh.

"Perhaps, your expectations are unrealistic. Editing is an ethereal thing – there has to be a synergism with it, or it doesn’t work. Right now, I’m busy with other projects."

I’m sure you’d like my book if you knew more. There are some great things in it that aren’t apparent by reading the first few pages.

That’s probably true, but it still needs reworking. I don’t know when I could commit to it.

That’s okay. I can work with your schedule.

Well, there might be something later… But before I decide, I need to get a better grasp of your story. I know that inventing was a primary motivation of your character, but how did it come about? And what were the ramifications? These are things readers will want to know before they can show empathy for him.

Fair enough, I said, But there was something else that was bothering me the day I went out to the rest park with that letter from Parker Brothers.

*  *  *

On the way, I stopped at the local food mart for a pop and ran into James Sowell, the president of my old fraternity, the Delta house.

Hey, Scottrick! Have you made your first million yet? he said as I passed by him at the check-out.

Umm, I’m still working on it, I said, and gently patted the letter from Parker Brothers in my pocket.

Well, Scottrick, try not to get yourself killed in the process. How would you spend the money?

Heck, I could never forget James Sowell. His actions led to my expulsion from the Delta house. What a pain to see him, just as I was set to open that long-awaited response from Parker Brothers.

If only I hadn’t been so careless at the end of my junior year. I was busy working on a new invention, a folding metal thing for cooking eggs in a toaster, and decided to experiment with a prototype made out of wire, aluminum foil, and a small piece of metal in the frat kitchen. I knew my design needed tweaking, but thought it was close.

I broke open an egg, poured it into the unit, and put the assembly into the toaster. Depressing the lever, my enthusiasm bubbled. Aha! The heating coils came on and it started cooking. A minute or two later, wafts of smoke emerged, then a burning smell. I tried to remove the cooker from the toaster, but it was stuck. I jiggled harder on the cooker, but it wouldn’t budge. I was frantic.

Then a fire flared up and soon jumped to the adjacent greasy wall. I managed to pull the plug out, but the fire raged on and got more intense. I struggled to keep from choking.

James Sowell zoomed into the kitchen and started yelling, Fire! Fire!

I tried to signal that it was under control, but he was enraged. He grabbed a large pot of water from the sink and dumped it on the mass of flame and smoke. I threw a wet towel over the toaster, and a loud sizzling hiss and more smoke ensued. Another pot of water was tossed at it, and the fire squelched to a dying whimper. Brackish water cascaded over the counter and onto the floor.

Scottrick, you idiot! he screamed as I stood meekly by. What the shit! You almost burned the place down! His torrid temper wasn’t as easy to rein in as the fire.

When he realized that I was testing a new invention, he became even more livid. You’ll have to get the wall fixed, and buy a new toaster. We can’t have this at the Delta house! Start cleaning it up, right away! He jerked open a window and left the room in a huff.

Cleaning up was the easy part; I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the entire area. Fixing the wall and replacing the ruined toaster was another matter. I could only pay with promises.

Later, a special council meeting was called, and a verdict handed down. I wouldn’t be allowed to return to the Delta house that fall.

CHAPTER 2

When I first got to college, and landed a dorm spot at ancient Cary Quadrangle, joining a fraternity was the furthest thing from my mind. My roommate, Richard Shapino, was from Connecticut. He was a shrimpy wisp of a guy with a sallow Italian complexion and long dark hair, who sometimes got huge red lumps on his face and back. It seemed like you could squeeze them and olive oil would come flowing out.

Richard had a liberal East Coast attitude that I found snobbish, and a matching mousey girlfriend, Penelope. She must have been a good catch, and worth following out to the untamed Midwest for college.

My relationship with Richard came to a screeching halt over my car collecting hobby; especially after I started scrounging around in junk yards and dragging old 1955-57 Chevy parts back to the room. (Behind the times in 1972, or ahead of the times, take your pick.) This was a strange behavior indeed, almost climb-the-walls strange to Richard. After the first month or so, our relationship moved from mutual annoyance to impasse.

Once, I came back to the room at dusk, and was wrestling a huge box of car parts as I put the key in the lock.

I heard a stir inside and thought, Oh no, they’re at it again.

I entered the cramped quarters; it was only about eight feet wide with well-worn furniture from the 1940s. A hulking metal bunk bed clung to the wall on one side while two utilitarian wood desks fit tightly against the other, giving little space for a stand-off.

Richard and Penelope were in the top bunk, studying together or studying each other. I heard whispers and giggling as I struggled with the awkward box and moved toward my desk at the rear.

Can’t you do something, Richard? I thought we’d be alone, Penelope said in a whiney but muffled voice.

What can I do? He’s my roomie. He lives here.

Then I heard a soft, Oh, and more giggles and shuffling. Don’t do that Richard. He always shows up when we’re trying to study. I’ll do the Psych reading tomorrow, I better be going.

Richard looked down from his lofty berth, as a haughty lord might. What do you have there, Scottrick? he asked.

Parts for a 1957 Chevy.

Ohhh, Penelope squirmed. She poked her head out next to Richard’s, and gave him a perplexed look. Since heading the Waffley Institute Daddy only drives a Cadillac. He’s even taken it to the White House.

You really have to go, kitten? Richard said.

Um humm, She purred, and made her way down from the bunk, landing with a slight thud. After eyeing my junkyard frazzled hair and crumpled box for a moment she said, Richard, your roommate must be from Indiana. Nobody wears their hair like that back East. Call me tomorrow. Then jostled for her things and left.

Are those really car parts or are you planning a covert operation? Richard asked.

These are rare air conditioning parts, I said.

Look at the mud on your shoes, Richard said, peering through glasses that had migrated down his nose. What’s up with you? That box has to be put in storage. You can’t keep it here.

But it’s too valuable, I said.

To who? Nobody wants that crummy junk.

I’ve paid over half my tuition by selling car parts like these.

That stuff won’t get you anywhere, just like that old car you keep squawking about.

My dad’s 1955 Chevy Nomad is a classic today.

It’s your family jewels, He said and added, Don’t come around tomorrow. I’ll be studying with Penelope. Then he went over and flipped on a tape. The opening beats of Jethro Tull’s Thick as a Brick engulfed the room.

Oh no, there’s that strange music again, I thought.

With Richard, I always felt under some kind of intellectual scrutiny. My appearance, demeanor, and nerdy science courses, were odd to him, like a rare bug specimen: the local Midwestern yokel.

Following his liberal leanings, Richard was an ardent McGovern supporter that fall and even attended a rally in Chicago. I was a Nixonite because I didn’t know any better. Nixon enjoyed huge popularity at the time, so I kind-of went along, but with no real conviction. Just like the Beatles were my favorite group, two years after they disbanded, but only because lots of other people still liked them.

In some ways, I was jealous of Richard and studied him for clues, because I didn’t have a style that was working. When the first strains of Jethro Tull wafted over his stereo, I had never heard of the group and was even turned off by it. But after a while, those baroque Tull sounds resonated in my brain, and I claimed them as my own. I sort of glommed onto Richard’s laid-back manner and dress as well. But like dirty underwear, I was too shy to change in front of him. So after my first semester, I moved on to the greener pastures of a new residence hall.

A curious thing happened when I made the switch. With few spots available at mid-term, the trouble brewing was beyond my radar.

My new roommate at Whyme Hall was so bonkers that I was the proverbial chicken waiting for slaughter. His actual name has escaped me, but everyone just called him Bugs. I can still see his long ratty hair, battered hat, boots, and grungy clothes – a notorious presence for a sterile 1970s dormitory.

Bugs did drugs, lots of drugs. Mostly marijuana, I think, but open to all. If you guessed that his last roommate couldn’t take it anymore and quit school altogether, you’d be right. Befittingly, his space was crammed with psychedelic posters, and hundreds of rock albums; mostly strange and bizarre like Black Sabbath, Blue Oyster Cult, and Frank Zappa. Any of which was like dousing my youthful brain with battery acid.

When I arrived, Bugs room at Whyme Hall was almost a noted feature of the place. He had bungled through several terms of liberal studies, and everyone seemed to know about him. With bonzo hippy lair on one side, and freshman emptiness on the other, the room was really his - I was just a visitor. But I did have a favorite group by then, Jethro Tull, and at least he could relate to that.

Students and assorted freaky types who enjoyed a toke of marijuana now and then gravitated to Bugs like festering flies. Once, I was in the room, trying to get some reading done on a hazy winter afternoon. Boots clomping down the hall and amalgam of other noises provided a forewarning.

Bugs spilled into the room with two cohorts, glowing like a weirdly overgrown spider bringing hapless victims to his web.

See, what I told you, just look at this whopper, Bugs said, while retrieving a humongous bong from his over-head cabinet.

Let’s try some of this, man, The first chap said with eyes afire while pulling out a small plastic bag of green stuff from his coat. I just scored an ounce of Acapulco gold! That was Billy; zombie-like, with scraggly hair, and ruddy complexion. Just getting by in Chemistry, he often used his laboratory training to cook up hallucinogenic bon bons.

Far out! Bugs exclaimed, following with a sheepish head twist and a spaced-out smile.

Bugs, I just want some regular marijuana, none of that freaky stuff, The second chap said. That was John Leopard; a fresh-faced college type, trim and athletic, with a startling short haircut. Oddly out of place with these weirdoes, like the normal looking Marilyn character on the Munsters.

Scottrick, we’re going to light up a bong. You want some? Bugs said glancing my way.

No, I have to study, I said.

Study, schmudy, your brain will turn to putty, Billy said in a soft sing-songy voice.

What’s your brain turning into? I wondered, as the three of them set up shop in the center of the room.

Hey, you wanna hear some Zappa and the Muthers? Bugs said as he drifted over to his stereo. A few moments later, odd funky bass beats filled the room.

Finally after the lights went dim and the bong lit up, I put my book down and became transfixed by the theater of the absurd being acted out in front of me.

Scottrick, why don’t you take a puff? Bugs asked.

Well, I don’t know, I said.

I watched Billy inhale, and turn reddish as he held his breath for maximum effect, disgorging the smoke with a sudden whoosh. Bugs was smooth on the draw, like an experienced pro. The funky, pungent smell of marijuana wafted through the room.

Okay, I’ll try a little puff, I said.

The bong was passed to me and I drew in the vapors half-heartedly, making soft bubbling sounds. I let out an anemic cough but felt nothing.

The bong went around, and I took a few more tokes. Coughing some more, I felt a twinge of headache and became strangely morose.

Some people get like that, Bugs said with an amused grin while eyeing me, Maybe you’ll like it better next time, Scottrick.

Would there be a next time? What was time anyway? I repeated to myself, as my mind zonked out. Lost in thought, I waved to signal no more. It was hardly an enlightening experience.

A while later, I heard a muffled, Thanks, Bugs, and the trio disbanded into the hall.

I fell asleep.

Later, I ran into John Leopard quite a bit, as his room was just down the hall. He was a freshman too, but in ROTC. To compensate for the regimentation, he bent his behavior in other ways; hence, the pot smoking.

John was drawn to Bugs’ lair a couple times after that first meeting. Since we were both from Northern Indiana, and taking some of the same classes, we struck up a friendship, but not because of pot smoking, because I didn’t continue with it. I guess I appealed to his free-spirited side.

Yes, I grew my hair long, and became more uninhibited, but in a reserved way. I even popped a psychedelic pill during one of Bugs’ get-togethers with an out-of-town weirdo and almost had to be taken away by men in white coats. Another time, I was herded along to help pick a crop of wild marijuana growing in a remote Jasper County corn field. Did I really do this? It seems incredible. I was a brainless follower, and my grades suffered.

I still managed to do the car parts thing on occasion, and even bought a 1955 Chevy jalopy for $300, to roam the Indiana highways and byways. In addition to searching for remnants of a long-gone automotive past, it also provided a way to free myself of Bugs.

That 1955 Chevy was a rolling nightmare. Once, the brakes wouldn’t hold at a highway red light, and slowly, with a will of its own, the car crept across the road, red light be damned. Another time, the horn started blaring and wouldn’t stop, attracting unwanted stares. Popping the hood and yanking a few wires fixed that. And then, the ultimate terror trip in a beat-up car: flying down a two-lane road with a semi- trailer coming in the other direction. Whoosh! The hood flipped up, crashing onto the roof, and disrupting the drive, and the beat of my heart. Afterwards, a replacement blue hood was bolted to the otherwise red and white car, making it red, white and blue – but definitely more pathetic than patriotic.

John and I palled around on occasion, but not for car parts because it wasn’t his thing. Once, I was driving along in the jalopy with him and got stopped by the police. I was upset to be pulled over and in a testy mood. The officer gave me and my wild hair a quick look and asked how old I was, to which I replied, Look at my driver’s license and subtract.

For the rest of that term, I was transfixed by the sounds of Jethro Tull, and played their records over and over, nearly wearing them out. I even sang along with them, and discovered that I could sing a little like their vocalist, Ian Anderson. As I sang more and more, I molded my voice even closer to that of Ian’s. It was uncanny. For someone who once winced with indifference to Jethro Tull as they surged from my roommate’s speakers, I now seemed to worship them. They became the soundtrack of my life. I was itching to learn the guitar, and be more like my idol, Ian.

The first week of summer break, I went down to the local music store and shelled out $100 for a guitar, and started lessons at the ripe old age of nineteen. It wasn’t long before I started making up strange little songs that sounded a lot like Tull songs. My Ian warbling must have sounded weird to those who heard it. My mom once asked, Why do you sing with an English accent?

CHAPTER 3

When I returned to Whyme Hall in the fall, I switched rooms, and no one ever asked why. John Leopard was back and still sharing with a friend from high school, Steve Espo. Bugs had someone new to mess with, and his surreal world faded into my past.

The shenanigans of the spring semester had undermined my prospects as a student, and I