Whims of the Time Traveler 27.1: May 9th, 2010
"Caramel Kisses" is an unfinished novel I began to write back in 2009 and stopped working on in 2010. The two main characters - Adriana Maguire Reynard and Emma Burking - would ultimately be revised for my later completed novella, "The Liffey Is Half-Asleep," in 2011. Several elements of "Liffey" can be found in their original forms in "Caramel Kisses," such as the characters' names, the haiku scene, and Adriana's penchant for writing.
Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing.
Caramel Kisses: Chapter Thirteen
by Belinda Roddie
“Adriana?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever thought of getting a real job?”
Directed pause before the next line. It gives the statement undesirable tension. Cross upstage, begin the conversation.
“That’s a weird question. Is my current job imaginary?”
“No, I mean…maybe a job where you don’t have to jump around the Bay Area, taking up assignments. I mean, where you have your own office.”
“And?”
“A more solid income, you know? I mean, it always changes. I can’t keep up with all of it.”
“Emma, getting a solid full-time job isn’t my priority right now.”
“But we need –”
“I’ve mainly been doing this in order to maintain a back-up account. Back-up savings, you know.”
“For what?”
“For grad school.”
“What?”
“If I get a full-time job now, it won’t be an option.”
She tenses up. Do some pacing, Adriana. Move around stage. Explore the space. It’s yours. Don’t freeze up. Deliver your lines naturally. That’s the ticket.
“You never told me you were interested in grad school.”
“I didn’t? I’m sure I’ve told you before.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Sure I have.”
“Well, if you did, you didn’t mention you were taking some of your paycheck out to make this ‘back-up account.’”
“You want me to get a ‘real job,’ right? Well, if I go to grad school, I’ll get one.”
“Well, what will you do in grad school?”
“Get an M.F.A, probably. Get teaching jobs.”
“You want to be a professor?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re sure you can actually teach?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I want to know the subtext of this dialogue, because now I know I haven’t written this script. She’s acting out of character. Or maybe this is just another shade of it. She’s working jerkily with that mixer. There’s cookie dough leaping from the bowl.
“Oh, I don’t know, Adriana. I just find it hard to believe that you didn’t consider teaching until now.”
“Emma, we were in a recession two years ago. You really think they were hiring teachers who didn’t have credentials?”
“Well, why didn’t you get a credential while you were still at college?”
“I was focusing on my major!”
“Then after college. Look, I’m just wondering why you didn’t take some opportunities until just now. I mean, we need the money…”
“Who are you, my mom?”
“I’m not trying to be a parent, Adriana.”
“Trying isn’t the same as being. Why are you doing this?”
Each time I speak, Emma makes the mixer goes faster. A shrieking whir resounds in the space, and my ears start to ring. There’s something wrong here. No one’s following any script. Hell, there may not even be a script because no one’s following any given pattern. What’s wrong, Emma? Has your lordship struck a nerve? Has she angered you in some way recently? What’s the motive? What’s the purpose? What’s going on in this scene? What? What?
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean why are you suddenly getting so demanding? I told you already I was saving up for grad school. I told you to move in with me so we could save some money while I was saving up for grad school. Why are you acting like I’m doing something horribly, horribly wrong?”
“You didn’t emphasize on grad school until now!”
“You haven’t been listening, have you?”
“Okay, you know what? I’m done here. Forget I said anything.”
“What? No, you’re not going to leave me hanging like this.”
“I’m done.”
“Don’t shut up on me, Emma!”
“I said I’m done!”
I grab her hand. She pulls away and leaves gray flour on my fingers. It smells dusty in the kitchen, unclean. Not sweet or fresh like it normally does. Her face is contorted under the ceiling lights, the stage lights. She doesn’t look at me.
“What do you want from me, Emma?”
“Stop it.”
“Because if you want me to be the efficient, independent husband type, then I’m not there yet. Okay?”
She doesn’t reply. I prod her.
“Okay?”
She’s beginning to cry now, just like when we left the park in the stingy grasp of last winter. She moves her head away from the bowl so the cookie batter doesn’t get salty. I feel the bruising in my chest again and I feel genuinely sorry and hug her, smudged apron and all. I hold her tightly, the shadows dissipating from my face and furrowed brow, and she clings to me and I smell like vanilla extract and chocolate chip cookies and tears even after she pulls away.
Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing.
Caramel Kisses: Chapter Thirteen
by Belinda Roddie
“Adriana?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever thought of getting a real job?”
Directed pause before the next line. It gives the statement undesirable tension. Cross upstage, begin the conversation.
“That’s a weird question. Is my current job imaginary?”
“No, I mean…maybe a job where you don’t have to jump around the Bay Area, taking up assignments. I mean, where you have your own office.”
“And?”
“A more solid income, you know? I mean, it always changes. I can’t keep up with all of it.”
“Emma, getting a solid full-time job isn’t my priority right now.”
“But we need –”
“I’ve mainly been doing this in order to maintain a back-up account. Back-up savings, you know.”
“For what?”
“For grad school.”
“What?”
“If I get a full-time job now, it won’t be an option.”
She tenses up. Do some pacing, Adriana. Move around stage. Explore the space. It’s yours. Don’t freeze up. Deliver your lines naturally. That’s the ticket.
“You never told me you were interested in grad school.”
“I didn’t? I’m sure I’ve told you before.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Sure I have.”
“Well, if you did, you didn’t mention you were taking some of your paycheck out to make this ‘back-up account.’”
“You want me to get a ‘real job,’ right? Well, if I go to grad school, I’ll get one.”
“Well, what will you do in grad school?”
“Get an M.F.A, probably. Get teaching jobs.”
“You want to be a professor?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re sure you can actually teach?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I want to know the subtext of this dialogue, because now I know I haven’t written this script. She’s acting out of character. Or maybe this is just another shade of it. She’s working jerkily with that mixer. There’s cookie dough leaping from the bowl.
“Oh, I don’t know, Adriana. I just find it hard to believe that you didn’t consider teaching until now.”
“Emma, we were in a recession two years ago. You really think they were hiring teachers who didn’t have credentials?”
“Well, why didn’t you get a credential while you were still at college?”
“I was focusing on my major!”
“Then after college. Look, I’m just wondering why you didn’t take some opportunities until just now. I mean, we need the money…”
“Who are you, my mom?”
“I’m not trying to be a parent, Adriana.”
“Trying isn’t the same as being. Why are you doing this?”
Each time I speak, Emma makes the mixer goes faster. A shrieking whir resounds in the space, and my ears start to ring. There’s something wrong here. No one’s following any script. Hell, there may not even be a script because no one’s following any given pattern. What’s wrong, Emma? Has your lordship struck a nerve? Has she angered you in some way recently? What’s the motive? What’s the purpose? What’s going on in this scene? What? What?
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean why are you suddenly getting so demanding? I told you already I was saving up for grad school. I told you to move in with me so we could save some money while I was saving up for grad school. Why are you acting like I’m doing something horribly, horribly wrong?”
“You didn’t emphasize on grad school until now!”
“You haven’t been listening, have you?”
“Okay, you know what? I’m done here. Forget I said anything.”
“What? No, you’re not going to leave me hanging like this.”
“I’m done.”
“Don’t shut up on me, Emma!”
“I said I’m done!”
I grab her hand. She pulls away and leaves gray flour on my fingers. It smells dusty in the kitchen, unclean. Not sweet or fresh like it normally does. Her face is contorted under the ceiling lights, the stage lights. She doesn’t look at me.
“What do you want from me, Emma?”
“Stop it.”
“Because if you want me to be the efficient, independent husband type, then I’m not there yet. Okay?”
She doesn’t reply. I prod her.
“Okay?”
She’s beginning to cry now, just like when we left the park in the stingy grasp of last winter. She moves her head away from the bowl so the cookie batter doesn’t get salty. I feel the bruising in my chest again and I feel genuinely sorry and hug her, smudged apron and all. I hold her tightly, the shadows dissipating from my face and furrowed brow, and she clings to me and I smell like vanilla extract and chocolate chip cookies and tears even after she pulls away.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since May 9th, 2010.
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