Novel Excerpt

For your reading pleasure I've excerpted the first chapter of my done-with-second-draft-but-still-revising novel.

Entropy

1

In the fall, sometimes the humidity leaves for a while. Sometimes it isn’t so hot, and the clouds are just right, and if you want to be somewhere nice, somewhere you can relax, outside is the place you want to be.
Today is like that. The air has that smell, that crisp feeling. Only a very light breeze moves the tree branches. I sit at a picnic table, my back to the sun. It warms me, makes me feel a little better. The sun is good. It can make you forget if you just let it.
I sit here alone. My coworkers sit together in small groups. Some are at tables, others lounge on the grass, sit under trees. A lawn mower buzzes and the smell of the grass fills the air, makes it seem like summer, not fall. I think everyone who works at this place is eating lunch outside. That factory makes you want to escape when you can. I mean, the noise alone will drive you crazy, but add to that no windows, and it’s worse than a prison.
So just about everyone is out here, and nobody has come near me, nobody has spoken to me. Which is how I want it. But you know, I can feel their eyes on me. I can imagine their conversations about me, wondering how I’m taking it, trying to find out what the real story is. By now, you would think I would be old news. Why should it be a big deal?
But maybe nobody is concerned with my situation. Perhaps their interest is just in my imagination. Who knows?
Anyway, I take a bite of my sandwich and put it down, then spread my newspaper out in front of me. A person’s shadow darkens the paper, but I don’t look up. Maybe she’ll go way. I know it’s a she because there is only one person who would feel the need to talk to me now -- Fat Marge. Fat Marge and her sidekick Kelly. Kelly is the pretty girl of the two. Very pretty. I’ve no idea why she hangs out with Fat Marge. Fat Marge is a pain, she talks to whomever she can, whether they want to talk or not. And she’s always bothering me. Always. She constantly tries to get me to listen to her religious babble. She tells me that Jesus is Lord, or that He loves me, or that He is coming. Jesus is coming. Right. Like Fat Marge would be the first person to know.
“Hey buddy.”
I look up. Instead of Fat Marge, it’s Dixon McCullough. I want to say, “go away,” but don’t.
“Hey,” I offer up instead.
Dixon sits down. He’s a strange guy. I mean, he’s hard to figure out. From a distance, he looks like harmless, typical -- he’s got the right clothes, the right walk. He’s got that look. But when you’re close, you see the problems; his clothes are generally scruffy and wrinkled, his hair is always shaggy and uncombed. Those kind of things.
“Look, Nick,” Dixon says to me. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife.”
He puts his sweaty hand out for me to shake.
I’m shaking hands and thinking I should have told him to go away.
“Thanks,” I say.
Dixon is not someone I would consider a friend. Of course, that could apply to everyone at this factory, everyone here at ComBuilt. There is really nobody here that I’d call a friend. But I’ve got lots of acquaintances. Tons.
So Dixon is still sitting here. He opens a paper bag, retrieves a sandwich, starts to eat. A breeze comes up and rattles my newspaper. It levitates momentarily, then settles once the wind dies down.
I try to ignore Dixon. Try to ignore his unshaved face, red-rimmed eyes. He reminds of this kid I knew when I was six or seven. This kid was mean -- I remember one time he caught a frog and made it jump out of his second-story bedroom window over and over again until the frog was dead.
Dixon looks just like that kid.
“You must feel bad, I guess,” he says.
“What?”
“Your wife having left you and all. It’s pretty fucked up, I guess.”
“Uh huh,” I say.
Dixon pulls a thermos out of his paper grocery bag. He opens it and pours the liquid into the little cup thing.
“Would you like some?” he asks.
“No, no thanks,”
“Are you sure?”
“Really, no thanks. I’ve got my own”
I hold up a Diet Pepsi.
“Okay,” he says.
He smiles and takes a drink.
I go back to my paper.
“So, I was thinking,” he says.
I look up, take the last bite of my sandwich.
“I was thinking, it might be fun if we went out tonight. You know, go bar hopping or something. It might be good for you.”
“I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I feel fine.”
“Oh, I know. I didn’t mean you weren’t. I just thought it might be fun to go out.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “But thanks for asking.”
Dixon nods, pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers me one.
“I don’t smoke,” I say.
He nods again and lights his cigarette. The smoke drifts across to my face. He lets the smoke flow out of his mouth and breathes it back in through his nose.
Then he exhales.
“I only smoke one a day,” he says.
“Like vitamins,” I say.
He laughs, “Yeah, like vitamins. Of course, I also smoke when I drink. Smoking and drinking just kind of go together.”
“Like raping and pillaging.”
He laughs again -- it’s more of snort. He’s seems unsure of whether I’m making fun of him, or just joking around. I’m not too sure either.
I clean up my garbage, fold my paper, stand up.
I say, “I guess I’ll see you inside.”
“I guess,” Dixon says. “See you.”
I let my eyes adjust to the dim light, then go to my workstation. The air in here isn’t very fresh. A faint chemical smell lingers. I reach my table and take out my tools; once the conveyor starts going, I’ll be ready.
The conveyor starts exactly on time, and work begins. It’s funny, everything in here starts exactly when it’s supposed to. I guess sometimes the people don’t. But the machines -- they always do. They start, keep going. Every movement, every turn of a sprocket is done when ordered. And it seems like the machines here never break. I mean never. They just keep on going, keep on churning. They stop for no one.
So work has begun. There’s the bustle of movement and shouts. There’s the high-pitched beeping of equipment, the constant rumbling of the conveyor. The noise assaults your ears until you are sure they will start bleeding. If someone were being murdered, if someone were having their heart ripped from their chest, you’d never hear it over the din.
I lift a computer off of the line and start putting a disk drive into it. The work goes rapidly, and once the drive is in, I run a quick diagnostic. The machine checks out, so I attach the correct paper work, put the computer back onto the line, watch it disappear down the track where someone is eagerly waiting to box it up. I pick another machine and start the process all over again. Little concentration is needed, and my mind usually wanders.
That’s not good. It’s been a month or so since my wife left, and on every one of those days I’ve thought about her. I sometimes try to stop, try to think of other things, because, let’s face it, there’s no use thinking about my wife -- it will do no good. But inevitably my thoughts drift to her. So I play games with it, try to remember different details. Sometimes the memory of our wedding comes to mind. Other times it’s stupid things I remember. Like once, when we were still dating, she was so proud of herself for having cleaned up my apartment while I was at work. But I got mad at her -- was she saying I was dirty or something, saying that I couldn’t take care of my own place? Really, she just wanted me to say she had done a good job. She wanted my approval, but I just couldn’t see it. Instead, I ended up starting an argument.
That type of stuff always seemed to happen with us. Arguments over things we couldn’t recognize.
And other memories come and go. After awhile, I don’t try to stop them. Maybe if I let the memories happen I can get them out of my system. Like when a song is stuck in your head; if you try to block it out, you never get rid of it. But if you just sing along, before you know it, the stupid thing is gone.
A lot of times I try to remember when I knew she was going to leave. I mean, she never told me she was leaving. She just left. But still, I had to have known. How can you live with someone for four years and not know something like that? I probably knew for a long time. Maybe even before she did.
Dixon walks by my workstation. That guy is never where he is supposed to be, and yet no one seems to care. I watch him walk past and think about his offer. Why don’t I go? How bad could it really be? Lord knows it’s better than sitting home watching television. Besides, who else is there for me to go out with? Not that I really long to go out, but what the hell?
Still, Dixon is pretty out there. I mean, he kind of gives you that uncomfortable feeling. Maybe it’s the way he looks a you, like he’s searching for weakness or something. Or maybe it’s because the guy doesn’t seem to be all there. I don’t know.
The day drags by, but finally it is three-thirty. I clean up my area, lock the tool drawer. I join the crowd streaming towards the parking lot. Dixon is up ahead of me.
I find myself calling out, “Hey Dixon.”
He slows and lets me catch up.
“Yeah?”
“You still feel like going out drinking?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” he says.