Late Morning, Saturday, February 24, 2024, Madison, New Hampshire
Hi, everyone. It’s a lovely – but chilly – late winter morning here in my corner of northern New England. Currently, the temperature (outside, of course) is 26°F (-3°C) under mostly sunny conditions. With humidity at 38% and the wind blowing from the west-northwest at 8 MPH (12 Km/H), the feels-like temperature is 30°F (-1°C). Today’s forecast calls for sunny skies and a high of 30°F (-1°C). Tonight, the skies will be clear, and the low will be 0°F (-18°C).
On Writing & Storytelling: Scene Six is (Slowly but Surely) Moving Forward
Despite a late start to my writing day, I was able to (finally) start Scene Six of Goodbye, Farewell, and Adios, the penultimate bit of Reunion: Coda’s 13th chapter. I’m not at all superstitious – I’ve had trouble writing scenes for my first novel before – but this particular bit of my first novel (and second book in the Reunion Duology) has been…difficult. I know the story I want to tell, and because it is – necessarily – dependent on the characters and situations in Reunion: A Story – the destinies of 18-year-olds Jim, Mark, and Marty are already set in stone…or paper and ink, if you will. The outcome of Scene Six is not in doubt, not even if you just read Reunion: Coda as a standalone work. But its telling has proven harder to do than the epistolary chapter that preceded it.
It took me two hours to produce the beginning of Scene Six – it is not, as of this writing, even halfway complete – in its present rough draft form. In its unedited, raw form, it is barely one page long, is divided into 11 paragraphs (many of which are dialogue paragraphs), and contains 464 words, not all of which will survive my first editing pass. So, as it stands, it’s shorter now than the 500-word essays I used to write for my ENC-1101, ENC-1102, and ENC-2301 classes at what was then called Miami-Dade Community College, South Campus.
Because I didn’t want to go into a minute-by-minute account of Jim Garraty’s high school commencement, I began Scene Six with a time jump (of 30-45 minutes) after South Miami High’s principal, Dr. Burke (a fictional version of my high school’s real principal, Dr. Warren G. Burchell) calls Jim’s name as the next senior in the long line of grads marching up to the dais to receive their diploma cases.
Thus, Scene Six begins immediately after the end of the ceremony, with Mark and Jim heading out of Miami-Dade South’s Building Seven, aka the Theodore R. Gibson Center, to the designated area where they’ll turn in their rented caps and gowns – a last bit of required business to wrap up their obligations to South Miami High.
She offered her hand – tan, graceful, small, warm, and soft – and I took it in mine. Her grip was gentle but strong, and she pulled me to her, as if we were going to dance a waltz, or a tango.
“There’s no music,” I whispered in her ear.
“Sure there is, Jimmy. We don’t need a band, or a radio, or even a piano. Remember what Mrs. Quincy used to say in Mixed Chorus? ‘Singing is the best way to hear the music you want to hear anytime, anywhere, in any style you like. No middleman, no electricity or batteries needed. Just sing, ladies and gentlemen!’ ”
Alex Diaz-Granados, Reunion: Coda
If the scene were more complete or even edited, I’d share some of it on this post. Instead, I’ll go ahead and share the tail end of Scene Five, since it is a zero-spoilers bit of the story:
The line of graduating seniors moved slowly toward the dais where Dr. Burke, Mrs. Benitez, one of the assistant principals, and School Board member Janet McAliley stood. As each student’s name was called, they walked up to Dr. Burke, stopped in front of him, and took the empty red-brown leather diploma case with “South Miami Senior High School: Diploma” in gold leaf on the front – we’d get the real thing outside the Gibson Center after the ceremony had ended and we’d given back our caps and gowns – and shook his hand with a smile for the mandatory photo op. Then that kid would walk back to his or her seat while the next one did the same thing, and so on.
As I waited – half-thrilled, half-terrified – for my name to come out of the PA, my mind did what it always did when I was nervous or down: it played a movie in my head, a black-and-white flick like the ones you’d see in old war documentaries: me and the other Cobras, wearing the loose jumpsuits of World War II American paratroopers and checking our chutes and gear. 16 okay….15 okay…14 okay….
Then, in a flash, the imaginary versions of me and my classmates were back in our high school, wearing our normal clothes – we didn’t have to wear uniforms back then – and running up and down the stairs or dodging the crowds in the hallways as fast as we could so we wouldn’t be late for class. I could even feel the heaviness of my olive-drab Jansport backpack, crammed with textbooks and Mead notebooks, and the way the straps cut into my armpits as I hustled along the blue-carpeted corridors from one class to the next.
I walked into the dream version of my English 4 (AP) classroom, where I had been just two days before, writing yearbook messages and wrestling with my feelings for Marty. I expected to see Mrs. DeVargas – her cup of Sanka decaf coffee on her desk and probably as cold as a witch’s tit – and my 32 classmates sitting at their metal and plastic flip-top desks.
But – the sane part of my brain noticed – dreams, even waking dreams, have a way of messing with you and breaking the rules of reality and reason. Instead, the sneaky, little bastard in the Skull Cinema showed me a different – but not unfamiliar – scene.
The classroom disappeared as if it had never been there. Instead, I stood, in my white cap and gown holding a dozen long-stemmed pink roses in one hand, in the middle of a fancy ballroom like the ones in Sabrina or The King and I. And like someone who has watched a movie so many times that they lose track, I knew, even before it happened, what was coming next.
Or, in this case, who.
Sure enough, preceded by the delicate aroma of her perfume (it smelled like gardenias and orange blossoms), Marty Reynaud, the girl with the chestnut hair, hazel eyes, mysterious smile, slinky black dress, and sexy dancer’s legs, walked in.
But before I could give her the roses – they were for her, after all – Marty looked over her shoulder, as if she had company, and pointed her right finger at me.
As I stood there with my mouth open and my right hand gripping the bouquet of roses, I saw Mom, Mark, and Bruce Holtzman, the guy who had gotten me into the Men’s Ensemble two and a half years before, walk into the ballroom and stand in a loose half-circle around the girl I so desperately loved.
My heart skipped a beat, maybe two, as Marty took the roses from my hand without a word. She looked at the bouquet thoughtfully, then at me. Her lips curled in a smile, a brilliant smile that made me shiver and ripped my fears to shreds.
Without looking away from me, she waved to Mark, gave him the roses, then focused on me.
“Come on, Jimmy,” she said with that classy British accent that set her apart from all the other girls in our class, “let’s dance. For old times’ sake.”
I wanted to tell her that I was a lousy dancer, especially ballroom dancing, and that she’d end up with a pair, maybe two, of bruised toes. And where was the music? In the original dream, there had been a 1940s-style Big Band orchestra like Tommy Dorsey’s or Glenn Miller’s Army Air Force Band.
Marty didn’t care. “Come on, Jim Garraty. One last dance. One last shot.”
How could I say no?
She offered her hand – tan, graceful, small, warm, and soft – and I took it in mine. Her grip was gentle but strong, and she pulled me to her, as if we were going to dance a waltz, or a tango.
“There’s no music,” I whispered in her ear.
“Sure there is, Jimmy. We don’t need a band, or a radio, or even a piano. Remember what Mrs. Quincy used to say in Mixed Chorus? ‘Singing is the best way to hear the music you want to hear anytime, anywhere, in any style you like. No middleman, no electricity or batteries needed. Just sing, ladies and gentlemen!’ ”
“I can’t sing and dance at the same time –“ I tried to say, but Marty silenced me by putting her finger on my lips.
She leaned in close and whispered, “We’re dancing. They’re singing.”
I had nothing to say, so I let her hold me tight again. I could feel her body on mine, and I almost fainted.
For a moment, there was quiet, then Marty led the way as Mom, Mark, and Bruce started to sing:
For a long time my dear, I’ve been waiting
For the words that you never would say
And alas my poor heart you are breakin’
For they tell me you’re goin’ away
As you go to your home by the ocean
May you never forget those sweet hours
That we spent in the Red River Valley
And the love we exchanged mid the flowers
Come and sit by my side if you love me
Do not hasten to bid me adieu
But remember the Red River Valley
And the one that has loved you so true
My eyes popped wide – I bet they looked like white plates with brown dots in the middle – and I gasped as I remembered that afternoon in the chorus practice room when Marty and I sat side by side behind the Kawai piano, the one with the sticky C-note, and sang Red River Valley together. A wave of nostalgia and regret hit me hard, and I felt hot, wet, and salty tears in my eyes.
Just then, a strong male hand grabbed my right shoulder and shook me harder and harder. “Garraty! Come back to Earth right the fuck now, Garraty! Snap out of it!”
In a flash, Marty, Mom, Mark, and Bruce were gone, and I found myself staring ahead as Cindy Garcia walked steadily toward the dais, where Dr. Burke, Mrs. Benitez, and School Board member Mrs. McAliley waited for her.
I turned my head a bit to see who had shaken me out of my reverie. It was Devon Garrison, the kid with the zits who was next in line. He looked at me like I was nuts…or a moron.
I snapped back to reality and realized that he was right. I was up next. I had to get ready to walk up to the dais and get my diploma case. I had to act like nothing had happened. I had to pretend that I didn’t just have one of the most vivid and heartbreaking daydreams of my life.
“Hey, man. I don’t know what your problem is, but you’re up next! Get your head out of your ass or wherever the hell you’ve been, okay?”
I nodded at Devon and tried to smile. “Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. Thanks, man.”
He gave me a skeptical look and let go of my shoulder. “Whatever, dude. Just don’t screw this up, okay?”
I watched as Cindy reached the dais and stopped in front of Dr. Burke. She held out her left hand for the diploma case and shook his hand with her right. She smiled for the camera and then walked back to her seat.
Dr. Burke looked at his list and cleared his throat. He spoke into the microphone and announced the next name.
“James Kevin Garraty!”
My Weekend Agenda
It’s Saturday morning here as I write this, and my plan for today is to work on Reunion: Coda for about an hour, making edits and tidying up Scene Six a bit. I’d rather do that today rather than wait until Monday; I was stuck on starting the damn scene for so long that I feel obligated to at least get rid of the most obvious “first draft” issues before adding more to it during the regular workweek.
Of course, if I feel up to it and decide to do more writing to make up for lost time – I want to publish Reunion: Coda this year, after all – I will. It’s not as if I had a posse of friends like the one I once had in South Florida from the 1970s to 2016, or a girlfriend (I’ve had a few in my lifetime, including the four women at several periods since 2000) to spend time with. I also don’t have a nearby shopping center with a Barnes & Noble or Waldenbooks to browse – and even buy – books in, or a movie theater to catch a new flick. So…I can either chill here in my office or bedroom (which is where my working TV is set up), or write to keep my mind occupied and thus keep depressing thoughts at bay.
If I decide to just take it easy after I edit Scene Six….well, then I’ll relax with a book, movie, music album, or a computer game. That’s been my weekend routine for several years now, anyway (since 2020, anyway).
In any case, I’ll be working for a while after my usual midday break. It might not sound appealing to some folks, but it’s better than sitting alone in my part of the house, accompanied by my thoughts and fears.
A Certain Point of View, Too 
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