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On why “Gatsby” is so great, and why you should see it twice.

Published May 17, 2013 by mandileighbean

Well, I suppose I have put it off long enough; upon seeing the film twice, it is long overdue for me to share my thoughts on the most recent cinematic adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic The Great Gatsby. However, before I discuss the movie, I must make it known that there are spoilers abound and that I am – as one student charged me – almost unhealthily obsessed with the novel. I read it every summer and have particular passages committed to memory. The novel changed my life in the sense that it helped me to decide that I wanted to be a writer and while I struggled in that endeavor I would teach high school English. The novel also confirmed in my mind that I could be hopelessly romantic and naïve in a dignified sort of way that made me more of a heroine than a sap.

That being said, I left the theater the first time with an uneasy kind of feeling. I was not sure how I felt about what I had just seen, other than that it was visually stunning and somewhat emotionally moving as I was dabbing at my eyes behind my 3D glasses. Was it the 3D component of the film which left me unsettled and uncertain about my level of enjoyment resulting from the viewing experience? I actually tend to avoid movies in 3D as I find them incredibly hokey – call me a snob, but for me, 3D movies lack artistic integrity and forsake story and structure for the almighty dollar. 3D is a gimmick that unfortunately seems here to stay. Like I said, I am being a total snob and robbing a medium of all of its merit because it does not suit my particular taste, and though doing so is unfair, it is what it is and I will not apologize. I will, however, advise my readers to take everything I write with a grain of salt, considering the extremities of some of my artistic prejudices.

But allow me to hobble off my soapbox to contradict myself and explain how the 3D worked so well in the movie. The scenes that depicted Gatsby’s lavish parties and outrageous lifestyle had to be filmed in 3D, I now realize in retrospect. Consider the adjectives I just employed; lavish and outrageous. What better way to convey such excess than through the 3D element? It did look as if the confetti were raining down upon me, and so helped create the illusion that I was simply another Nick Carraway, within and without in the vast mansion, reveling and sneering at the reckless, careless behavior unfolding all around. Though Nick did not have to pay for his admission ($13.25?! Really?!), I believe my doing so was completely worth it – and mind you, I did so twice. The 3D party scenes helped to create an almost tangible sensation of claustrophobia. As Nick squeezed through Gatsby’s front doors in an impressive throng of strangers, and as tensions soared and tempers flared with the heat in that cruelly cramped room at the Plaza Hotel, I felt smothered and that I was too close. Like Nick, I had had enough of everyone. The way the 3D manipulated my emotions and even level of physical comfortableness was both complete and masterful. I was impressed.

So why was I so undecided after the first viewing? I considered this as my second viewing began, and thought maybe the casting did not quite sit right with me. However, when Leonardo DiCaprio is first shown in the film, when he turns and offers that glorious smile that Gatsby gave Nick and so impressed him with in the novel, I am smiling and smiling so that my muscles are sore and I am seemingly incapable of stopping. I must admit though that I have always been enthralled with the idea of DiCaprio playing Gatsby. Conversely, I was thoroughly disappointed with Tobey Maguire being cast as Nick Carraway, hoping for a larger personality, an actor more likeable. But I noticed that when Maguire plays Nick as disoriented, disappointed, disillusioned, or drained, I felt the same. Though I love Jay Gatsby in a way that only a complete and total lonely, melodramatic bookworm can, I was frustrated and disgusted with him when Nick was in the film – performing a complete 180, as they say – and I can only contribute that to Maguire’s performance. When I read the novel, I am staunchly loyal to Gatsby in an irrational kind of way. For Maguire to prompt me to question that loyalty after years and years of nothing but is a testament to his talent, and I was too harsh when I first judged his casting. Joel Edgerton as Tom was flawless and Carey Mulligan played Daisy brilliantly, although I did not find her able to create a more sympathetic character; she was just as repugnant to me on screen as on the page, but I think that is a matter of personal taste.

Then was it the incorporation of the modern music? Though many of my students complained about the anachronistic soundtrack and score – which greatly surprised me as I believed it, was engineered with them specifically in mind – I rather enjoyed it. I love art and I love style and the music aided in putting the film over the top in both respects. I love the thought behind it, using modern day music of another generation of excess to show the universal, transcendent dangers behind such thoughtless, selfish behavior. The novel is timeless, so the music does become an inconsequential detail, but to drive that point home with the very same music as the vehicle is genius and daring, and I cannot help but be impressed. I also compulsively listen to the majority of the soundtrack which means I must enjoy it (unless it is only for its connection to the novel, which is stretched and strained to be honest).

So if it was not the inclusion of 3D nor the cast nor the music, then why was I less than impressed upon the initial viewing? How could I fall so completely in love with the film after watching it a second time? Are not first impressions the most important? Upon pondering these questions, I am left with only one conclusion: my mood. What had been going on with me? What had been different about the second night?

I cannot remember being so excited for a theatrical release. I bought my tickets early online and like a child at Christmas, could hardly sleep the night before. The day of the film dawned and I was ecstatic. I wore my shirt with pearls to school, falling short of the zeitgeist aura I was going for, but the students appreciated it, especially the sophomores who had read the novel with me earlier in the year. They knew that Friday was “Gatsby Day,” and that I had planned my lessons accordingly. We watched the trailers, noted the visual and auditory symbolism, and tried to decide if Baz Luhrmann assumed those viewing the film had read the book. I was so captivated I even cheated – for lack of a better term – and showed the trailers to my freshmen classes to inspire them to see the film, read the book, or do both. I barely survived my weekly hour of home instruction, excitedly and breathlessly discussing my plans for the evening with the student’s mother. I went to the spring concert for chorus and band at the high school because of a promise to my students, and they seemed genuinely excited to see me and I was genuinely proud of them. I was beaming and sad to leave a little early, but one student even said to me as I was on my way out, “Aren’t you seeing the movie tonight?” I was pumped.

The movie started at 9:30PM, but I had planned to arrive at the theater around 9:00PM to avoid crowds, buy snacks and to avoid any anxiety. I made these plans with my viewing companion whose name has been stricken from the record to prevent any kind of social faux pas. So when it was 8:45PM, I left the concert (missing the last song, mind you) and called my viewing companion, fully prepared to meet this individual at the theater. However, I was somewhat perturbed to learn that at 8:45PM, mere minutes before show time, the individual was at CVS with plans to continue on to Wawa. I let it go though, because I realized that everything was within minutes from home and that I may have been overzealous in planning. There was no guarantee the theater would be mobbed and purchasing snacks beforehand would be cheaper and would save time. I relaxed and my viewing companion decided to meet at home just past 9:00PM. I headed home and waited with juvenile excited.

9:00PM came and went … as did 9:05PM … as did 9:10PM … as did 9:15PM … as did 9:20PM. We did not head to the theater until 9:30PM. I was furious, seething. Having planned meticulously and purchased the tickets, I could not fathom how someone could be so absolutely thoughtless. To make matters worse, upon arriving at the theater, we had to wait on a lengthy line for our tickets despite being already purchased, and then I was charged twice (but I was handed a cash refund, so really, I can’t complain). By the time we are actually inside our designated theater, the previews have started and the screen is malfunctioning. It seemed that nothing could go my way. Perhaps at that point I did not want to enjoy the movie to aggravate my viewing companion who, ironically, enjoyed it very much. But that would be cutting of my nose to spite my face, wouldn’t it?

The second time around, my viewing companion who is named Raina, was not only on time, but early! We went to an absolutely gorgeous dine-in theater in Edison. We had a drink each, a delicious entrée and shared a delightfully sinful dessert. Despite the food, I was more aware of my response and involvement in the film, my changing emotions that never failed to match those of the narrator and the way I ached for Gatsby and despised Tom and Daisy. I felt as though I had taken a long, hard look at myself and those around me. I was Nick Carraway – observing, within and without – but I wanted to be Gatsby, unfailingly hopeful and tragically romantic. When I told Raina that I was Gatsby, she agreed without hesitation. My first viewing companion actually turned back to me as we walked along and said, “You really want to be romantically tragic, and like a hero in a story, don’t you?”

Of course. That being said, go see “The Great Gatsby.” And do yourself a favor: see it twice.

On uninspired.

Published May 6, 2013 by mandileighbean

I must admit that I have been feeling incredibly uninspired as of late. Not only have I utterly and completely fallen off the wagon as it pertains to dieting and exercising, but I have not written anything creative in quite some time. My journal is filled with entries in which I complain about my shortcomings and nothing more. It is a disappointment and again, I berate myself for having nothing to write about because I have not done anything worth writing about. There has been no chance encounter, no startling image, no overheard turn of phrase to fire up my neurons and facilitate some kind of epic brainstorming session.

Then again, that might not be entirely true. The other day, as Dad and I were getting ready to watch “The Following,” (which is an excellent show on FOX starring Kevin Bacon that I am thoroughly obsessed with now) he was making himself a sandwich. As he reached for the loaf of bread in its plastic bag in a drawer beneath the meat slicer, I noticed an unpleasant look of disgust smear itself across his face. He picked up the bag with what seemed like intolerable reluctance and hurried to place it on the kitchen table, looking at his hands in disbelief. Naturally, I asked him what was the matter, and he told me the bag was wet. Intrigued, I removed myself from reclining upon the couch in the living room to investigate. None of the other bags bread, bagels, and rolls was wet. As a matter of fact, I did not notice anything peculiar or out of place about the bread drawer. I looked at Dad and shrugged before moving to examine the bag in question. The top of the bag, near the tie that closed it back up, was wet and there were tiny, red dots of moisture both on the inside and the outside. I was completely baffled and asked Dad what he thought it was. He brought a hand to his face and sniffed. His face went pale and he told me plainly and simply that it was blood. Then, betraying his flair for the dramatic, he told me it smelled like “dead blood.” While it took both my father and I all of ten seconds to figure out that while Mom had been slicing roast beef in her brand new meat slicer, some blood had dripped onto this particular bag of bread and that nothing sinister nor truly creepy had occurred, regardless of how gross it was, I thought it was a great scene to manipulate, twist and dramatize and use.

Similarly, I had a totally bizarre dream the other night. The details have faded and in all honestly, the dream was more like a few weeks ago than “just the other night,” but the main image has resonated and stayed put. It was a royal blue beetle of large proportions, and with legs made of pink, plastic straws, crawling across the face of a female. The beetle began small, walking in meandering lines across the face and out of view. But when the female stranger turned to face me once more, the bug had suddenly become huge and covered a quarter of her face. It seemed so genuine and real, that I wondered if I wasn’t hallucinating more than dreaming. Thinking of hallucinations had me thinking of one of my ideas for my next novel, one involving a man on lithium and I wondered if I couldn’t somehow forge a connection between the two. I suppose it would be fairer for me to say that there has been inspiration, but I have been too lazy to utilize it. I need to be motivated and I promise to you that I am working on it.

I am reading two novels currently (one I kind of hate but have to finish now that I’ve started, but the other is absolutely fabulous) and cannot stop listening to the soundtrack for the upcoming movie “The Great Gatsby.” My obsession has reached new heights, actually, and is not restricted to the compulsive, repetitive playing of the soundtrack. When I visited BookTowne in Manasquan to try and set up an event, I ended up dropping off contact information and buying a t-shirt.

I cannot remember which author it was, but rumor has it that a contemporary novelist would type out The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald whenever he had writer’s block to cure himself of it. I am curious as to whether or not I shouldn’t give it a shot.

I recently ordered a photography book by Eric Meola which features Bruce Springsteen from the year 1977 to the year 1979. Perusing the photographs and reading the lyrics and essays which accompany them, I did feel a creative sort of tingle and briefly pondered returning to the idea for my next novel which was entirely inspired by the Boss.

I am going up to Bloomfield this afternoon for drinks with some friends from college. I am going to catch up with some of the most wonderful and beautiful women I have had the privilege and pleasure of knowing, but also, selfishly, to perhaps be inspired. Perhaps something will happen along the way; why knows? I suppose the point is that no one knows, and that therein lays the point. A very wise colleague of mine, who is unfortunately retiring at the end of the academic year, encouraged me to take risks and I am proud to say I have taken that advice to heart.

On continuing to “dream, baby, dream.”

Published April 28, 2013 by mandileighbean

It is time to catch up with my life; frankly, it has been long overdue. Every single weekend in April, I have had some obligation – all enjoyable, to be sure – that consumed my only free time, so to speak. With the conclusion of this weekend’s activities, I have a moment to breathe and collect myself, smooth the wrinkles from my clothes, wipe the crumbs and debris away, and tuck bothersome strands of hair behind my ear. I have a precious few seconds to compose myself before Monday starts. It is a wonderful feeling I missed more than I believe I realized.

The first three weekends of this fourth month of the year were all about furthering my professionalism; three workshops dealing with subject matter and the future of the teaching profession. As I said, all of the workshops were useful and I loved meeting colleagues from all over the state, but this last weekend was my favorite because it was filled with love, friends, and romance, and it inspired a few daydreams to implement when I am in danger of bleeding out from boredom.

Friday night was Christine’s wedding and it was breathtaking. I genuinely believed I was witnessing some sort of fairy tale brought to life before me. Christine looked positively gorgeous and as twilight fell upon the meticulously manicured grounds of the estate, I felt all the wind rush around me and out of me, vacating my lungs like rats on a sinking ship. I know it is a crude analogy that does not really fit with the rest of the image, but I suppose that is the point, precisely what I’m going for. I feel sheepish admitting, no matter how silly or common it may be, that in that moment of Christine’s complete happiness and beauty, I succumbed to a sudden, vicious and crippling attack of loneliness. There I was, surrounded by all the things in life that should be celebrated and that make all the unfortunate events in between worth it, and I could think only of myself and only of the negative. I am not proud of it, but there it was all the same and unsure of what else to do, I cried. I cried for how pathetic I am, for how beautiful Christine was, for how happy her and James were and are and always will be, for the friends around me, for the lights and the decorations and the love and the smiles and the good food – I cried for all of it.

Saturday was Liz’s bridal shower. It was held at an adorable place called Café Paris in Metuchen. I went to the shower straight from the hotel where I stayed at for Christine’s wedding, so I looked less than spectacular, especially since I had fallen asleep without washing my face. Mascara caked inside my eyelids and as a result, my eyes were bloodshot. I can only imagine what kind of first impression I made. I would be more horrified but since I knew the people I was sitting with, it could have been worse. Lauren, Lindsay and Christina are all happily in love, and Meghan is planning her wedding. I slung back mimosas. Tim and Liz are two of the greatest people I have ever had the privilege, honor, and blessing of meeting. Both – Tim in particular – shaped me into the woman I am today. They introduced me to an amazing organization and collection of people that taught and inspired and supported me more so than I ever deserved. Tim and Liz getting married is evidence that sometimes, good things do happen to good people and that love is alive and well. It makes me happy and it makes me cry.

Today, during mass, the priest blessed a couple who had been married for 60 years. I turned to my little brother and smiled. I wonder if he thinks it’s weird that I’ve never brought anyone home to meet Mom and Dad. I wonder if what he wonders even matters. I wonder if the blessing was a sign from God that it is going to happen for me one day, or if it was just a coincidence that I was surrounded by marriage all weekend. I wonder if this all stems from that hormonal time of the month, a beer or two too many, watching “When Harry Met Sally” alone in an empty hotel room after the wedding, or because my next novel idea is about an engagement that is wrecked irreparably. Do I want to wreck it because I am bitter, lonely and resentful, or because I honestly think the plot is entertaining?

I worry that I am a broken record; I know this is not my first blog entry of this nature and I am can confidently guarantee it will not be the last. Is that a bad thing? Am I throwing another spontaneous pity party? Am I sticking to what I know because it’s comfortable?

I need to start living – meeting new people, experiencing new things.

On literal weddings and metaphorical funerals.

Published April 15, 2013 by mandileighbean

First and foremost, I would like to begin this post by sending my prayers to the victims, their friends, families and loved ones, and the entire city of Boston. I would also like to borrow the sentiments of Fred Rogers and urge all of us to look at those helping and sacrificing to provide aid, rather than be utterly and completely incensed. Evil does happen – it absolutely does – but so does good, and we must never lose sight of that if we are to remain loving, compassionate and human.

I must admit that the post I had planned for this evening now seems completely frivilous and in poor taste, at least somewhat. However, that being said, I am going to continue because not doing so will not help those afflicted in Boston and perhaps posting my ramblings will offer a distraction, at least for a moment or two. Then again, I probably flatter myself greatly in thinking enough people read this blog to place a judgment of value on the timing of my posts. So, please, allow me to talk about this past weekend.

I was seated with colleagues and friends in a purposely poorly lit bar. There was nothing remarkable about the venue; it could have been any Irish pub anywhere in New Jersey. I did think it was slow for a Saturday night, but that is not a complaint. I was idly sipping a Coca Cola and Jack Daniels, suffering through it patiently as some kind of demonstration of bravado that was unwarranted and probably unnecessary. We were gossiping and chatting, generally enjoying ourselves, when someone familiar walked in. All the blood rushed to my face and hands so that they felt swollen and numb, utterly useless, and I suddenly became unattractive to the point of being grotesque – or, at least that’s what I felt like. I wanted him to see me, but at the same time, I was comfortable with recognizing without being recognized. It was not like there had been some great love affair; it was only a schoolgirl crush, juvenile notions compounded with lonely fantasies and absolutely nothing more. Yet there I was all the same, reacting as if some great figure from my past had walked in with the sole intention of rekindling some great passion. It was silly and I know that, but it’s all I have and I can’t help it and I am not sure if I always feel like apologizing for it.

He did walk over to say hello, but he started with those seated farthest from me. He hugged and gave quick kisses upon the cheeks of the ladies, offered a firm handshake to the lone gentleman present. He did not say hello to me at first; he sat with those he knew the best and had a long conversation. It gave me a chance to sip at the alcohol through the straw desperately, to giggle to expunge nerves that were winding tighter with each passing moment. I delighted in the teasing, perfectly happy to entertain some farfetched notion that any kind of mutual attraction was possible when really, his mere presence made me feel so unworthy. “Indeed, when he did come over to say hello, he offered a genuine embrace, but then turned away to spend most of his time talking to the others. Though his arm rested upon the back of my raised chair – some kind of hybrid between a chair and a stool – he did not make eye contact. I received the impression that I was unimportant, boring and even a nuisance. I wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. How he had the ability to make me feel so small was perplexing until I realized I allowed it, because my writer’s imagination and romantic mind were turning nothing into something important, something worth writing about when honestly, it was baited breaths and daydreams – nothing more. But every time he left, he would place his hand on the small of my back ever so lightly, just to signal he was leaving but promising he would return.

He told us he was attending a wedding and for one positively horrifying moment, I thought it was his wedding, and that meant that the infintisemal window of opportunity I laughably deemed was present for him and I had been slammed shut. However, he was simply attending a wedding. So the next day, when I was attending informative workshops during which I should have been paying more attention and behaving in the fashion of a consummate professional, I was imagining. What else can I do when my expectations never ever come to fruition? I closed my eyes and saw myself, in some kind of slinky, sexy yet elegant evening gown, colored emerald green. I was not wearing shoes – perhaps they had been discarded on a dance floor, or thrown to the side to better enable movement because I was running, and running fast. My long hair flew out behind me, all waves and curls that no blow drying or hairspray could ever possibly hope to replicate, and my arms and legs pumped in unison with my heart like some well-oiled machine I have never before seen. Across cobblestone warmed in the sun I run, and there he is, running towards me. Left behind is his jacket, and the sleeves of his shirt are pushed up from his wrists to his elbows. His tie is blown back over his right shoulder as he sprints towards me, just as eagerly and as quickly as I am running towards him. Eventually we will collide, fall into each other’s arms, crash against one another’s body. Will it be a passionate explosion, or will we both slow just before contact is to be made and simply stare, chests heaving from breathing hard? I do not know, because the daydream always ends, and it is always unfulfilled. I have never run towards someone who was running towards me.

I imagine it is one of the greater experiences of this world.

On catching a break.

Published April 7, 2013 by mandileighbean

March 30th was my last night in Vero Beach, Florida. I must admit that I was sad; I had such a wonderful vacation. I lounged in the sand, soaked up the sun, shopped in expensive boutiques, tried a new style with a new haircut and feel completely at peace with myself and those around me. That vacation had been everything I needed it to be and more. However, I must also admit that I missed New Jersey and as I left, I was excited to see my family.

As far as the so-called itinerary I had in mind for the trip, I did not finish “The Fountainhead” by Ayn Rand, but I only have a few pages left. I wrote, but nothing of real value or quality, and nothing as far as truly beginning a second novel. I talk about writing a lot, but I fear that lately, it has become only talk and nothing more. I have to make the time to read and write, and truly devote myself to my passion. I know that statement seems paradoxical and that one could argue that if I was truly passionate, I would not have to force myself to make time for writing. That being said, I will admit that teaching consumes much more of my time than I had originally anticipated. The goal for next year is to strike a healthier balance between striving for my dreams and being responsible at work. Teaching pays the bills and while I love it and am fulfilled by it, writing is what pumps my blood through my veins. Writing is what I see when I close my eyes, and the first thing I look for when I open them.

While on vacation, I attended the sunrise mass for Easter and went with Kim and Carol to Cracker Barrel for breakfast. It was the perfect ending to a perfect trip.

One of my ceramic brackets for my braces popped off while I was eating sushi … imagine that. I’ll called my orthodontist and set up an appointment. Once I got there, they removed the brackets – surprise! there was two – but did not replace them. If it’s not one thing, it’s another; but I say that with a smile on my face.

Below is an assortment of photos from my vacation. Enjoy! Maybe one will inspire YOU to create a poem or a short story. If one does, please feel free to share it!

On needing a break.

Published March 26, 2013 by mandileighbean

Hello there, Stranger Danger! It has been quite some time since we last spoke. Unfortunately, not too much has happened, nothing terribly exciting. Well, aside from the past three days, which were a complete whirlwind. But – I am jumping ahead. Let me begin with a highlight of the past two weeks.

The play was a roaring success! The students were so talented, and sweet, and appreciative. They made me cry and they made all the time spent, all the bruises, and all the frustrations completely worth it. I was given flowers and a signed poster and a t-shirt, and was truly touched. I know I kind of decided that I wasn’t going to be stage director next school year, but if Lee asks, I will say yes.

Lee was amazing. I miss spending hours and hours with her every day. She is so sweet, and she is beautiful inside and out. I wish she had won The Biggest Loser at work. She came close, though; second place! I rounded out the top five and was only one pound shy of my goal weight! I want to lose another fifteen before the end of the academic year, and then I am going to tone. I am more motivated than I have ever been before, and believe I have a shot at making it this time – a real, bonafide chance. That will most likely happen after this vacation, though – which brings me to my (slightly) harrowing tale.

I have been looking forward to Spring Break more so than is healthy and probably humanly possible. I had plans to begin my second novel, to continue dieting and exercising and to really relax. I used the word “need” whenever I talked about it, and I talked about it constantly. Everyone at work was echoing similar sentiments; we all agreed that between the mold in the middle school, the split sessions, the bomb threats, Hurricane Sandy, the offensive bathroom graffiti, the new Danielson model of evaluating teachers, and schedule changes, the school year has sucked (pardon my lack of eloquence). Personally, I believed that I was cursed for having such a year be my first full year as a teacher, and those suspicions were doubly reinforced when I tried to leave, to finally catch a break. The rare occasions where I am selfish always seem to occur on the worst possible days. I have always had the worst timing; even Mom says so.

“And the sky opened up, and God looked down, and He said, ‘I hate you, Amanda Bean!’” Nothing that I plan ever works out; it never goes as planned, even despite all of my desperate, frantic prayers that are intermittent with sobs. Nothing goes right for me. In the film “Stranger than Fiction” with Will Ferrell, the main character discovers that his life is being narrated, and thereby dictated, by a female author. To find out how his story ends, he must first determine whether his story is a comedy or a tragedy. He keeps score in a little notebook, and soon believes that he is living a tragedy. I now firmly believe that I have this in common with Harold Crick, the character’s name that I have just remembered. Better yet, I would argue, and do so successfully, I’m sure that my life more closely resembles a Shakespearean tragedy. However, if that is the case, then where, oh where, is the sweet release of death?

I know that I am guilty of being melodramatic, particularly with that last line, but I earnestly believe that I cannot win for losing and that if it weren’t for bad luck, I would have no luck at all. Every time I look forward to something, it inevitably and devastatingly crumbles. My reality NEVER meets my expectations. As a result, I recently marched myself into the fairly swanky convenience store beside the Shell gas station where I was temporarily stranded (Exit 118 off I-95 South in Thornburg, Virginia) and purchased a pack of Marlboro Red 100′s – cigarettes. I planned on smoking as many as it took to keep from drowning myself in my “pity-pool-of-tears” party. I only smoked one, though I did so down to the filter. I was distracted by the healthier urge to write and the 24 ounces of coffee that I also purchased.

I was about an hour and a half away from Missy’s house when my car overheated. The needle was BURIED in the red and steam was POURING from the engine. I called my dad asking him if I should pull over, or what else I could do, and he began listing the WORST CASE SCENARIO; that my car would have to be left in Virginia and be towed, that I could not have the Spring Break vacation I had been salivating over. Being a dramatic, young woman, I began to cry. Dad said, “Jesus Christ! This is why you can’t go anywhere!” and, essentially, blamed me for the whole incident. Naturally, I cried harder. I then called John, and he was SO cool, calm, and collected and totally talked me off the ledge. Working together via cell phone, we were able to get the car a couple of more miles. It overheated again, and I had to pull over and there, on the side of the interstate, in the cold and in the dark, I was going to have to wait nearly two hours for Missy to come and find me. There my car would sit, abandoned. I was back on the phone with Dad (I had over forty calls in total that night from Missy, John, Dad, and Mom) when flashing yellow lights suddenly appeared behind me. I was kneeling on the passenger seat in the front, remarkably disheveled, searching for a flashlight to check the fans in the front of the engine. My high heels were near the pedals, on the floor by the front seat. My eyes went wide and I was worried that my life was about to turn into that scene from “Taken.” I was waiting for Dad to say, “Mandi, these men are going to take you.” Luckily, it was only Steve from the Virginia Department of Transportation. He wanted to make sure everything was okay, and I am fairly certain he can read minds because he explained why it took him so long to leave his truck and to come to my car is because he had to call it in to the local police. Could he have seen my wide eyes, wild hair and trembling lips? Maybe.

But Steve was a godsend. He looked under the hood, added anti-freeze and that may have fixed the problem, but a new problem emerged right there before our eyes, as unbelievable as it may seem: my battery was dead. This was most likely because I had left my lights on while parked and waiting for the engine to cool down. Steve explained that he had a soft bumper and would push me to the nearest exit, which was only about a mile away. There was a Dairy Queen where I could park and wait for Missy. He pushed me all the way there, gave me his card and left me with the knowledge that three hours ago, right where I had been stranded, a helicopter landed to fly an elderly woman to the hospital after her car and trailer flipped, with her, her husband, and their dog inside. The woman did not make it. The scene was chaotic and horrifying. But I was okay – I suppose that was his message. He was smiling when he walked away.

I made it to Missy’s after she came to rescue me with Jimmy. She drove three hours to get me somewhere safe, even though she had two little ones at home and work the next day. She sacrificed a lot for me, and John had been so calm and helpful and reassuring. They were excellent. I owe them SO much.

The next day, Mom and Dad drove down to my car. I did not see my father, but he assessed the problem (which was simple; the car needed antifreeze), fixed it, and went back home because he had to pick Mike up from his camping trip. That’s seven hours in the car for me. Mom spent the entire day in traffic to come down, only to drive me to my car the following day. All that time, all that money (gas, tolls, etc.) for me. Dad even filled my tank with gas (which was unbeknownst to me, and I purchased $2.51 of gas and spilled it all over me). And after driving through the McDonald’s Drive Thru in first gear, it was smooth sailing.

I made it to Vero Beach, Florida. I spent the day outside in the beautiful sun. I had my phone interview – which was a live radio interview – on the beach. The interview was conducted by an incredibly sweet, professional, and talented junior by the name of Jeida from Atlantic City High School. I thought it went extremely well, and Jeida ended the conversation by letting me know she wanted to interview me AGAIN in the near future. And while the interview was going on (and while my hot wings were getting cold, but I’m not complaining because they weren’t worth the trouble; I have braces now), I began to schedule another interview with Montclair State University’s Alumni Association. I got some sun, some sand, some good food, to experience the local flavor, and most importantly, to relax. Life is good.

It’s funny how things work out sometimes.

On clinging to the past.

Published March 4, 2013 by mandileighbean

On Monday of this past week, I found the moon. It was fat, full, gluttonous, and bright. I have a picture to prove it.

I have another resolution for this relatively new year: to be as artistic in possible in all that I do.

I deposited my second royalty check – $23.22. From October 29^th to December 31^st, I have made $95.40. I am not, and have never been, a “numbers person.” I am not sure if this means I am doing well, average, or poor. All I know is that I want to keep writing, and I suppose that is the most important thing. I did little to no writing this week, which is possibly why this blog post is so scattered and superficial.

I am convinced that in a former life, I was happily married to Ricky Ricardo.

Running in the wind is romantic and freeing. Running in the wind and the rain is stupid.

There is a dry, red, and raw patch of skin on my hand between my thumb and pointer finger. When I stick the cap on the opposite end of the pen, the plastic irritates the area. I have icky winter skin. I am over the cold, bitter weather.

I am sick of being tired.

I am envious of Winona Ryder – or at least her hair, especially when it is short. I remember feeling similarly after seeing, “Girl, Interrupted.” I watched “Reality Bites.” I liked the tone of it and I do sincerely miss the 1990s somewhat. I really am a fan of the earthy, sloppy fashion that was considered chic. I would like to bring that style back, but am unsure if I would be able to do so single-handedly, and am equally unsure if there would even be any other willing participants; I might have no other choice than to embark on a lone wolf fashion revolution. Either way, I am going to dress and style my hair accordingly – I am excited to buy new clothes once I lose the weight. Manufacturers really do not make fashionable habiliments for larger people.

I am mostly excited for Spring Break and vacation in Florida. I called my Aunt Kim tonight and squared away the details. Dad and his friend Andy fitted my car with new struts and fixed a leak that had to do with the transmission. I am constantly making a mental list of what I want to do before leaving. Lately, the trip has been all that I have been thinking about. I do not mind going alone, but Mom is thinking about coming along, and that does not upset me at all.

Sometimes, when I wash my face, I make the water too hot and steam rises up from the sink basin in the bathroom, and the water burns my hands, and opens my pores so wide that they sizzle. Once I was worried because for a brief moment, I could not get the cold tap to turn. Eventually I did, and it made me think of that scene from “My Cousin Vinny” when Marissa Tomei and Joe Pesci are ironically analyzing the dripping faucet that is off-screen as litigators would in court. Then I wonder how a casting director could match Pesci with Tomei (or vice versa). I worry that such wondering makes me shallow. Am I shallow? Am I a bad person?

What if I do not find romance after my teeth are straightened and after I’ve lost the weight? Will I have to conclude the defect is not my physical appearance, but in my personality, my very being?

I am going to take up painting this summer.

I need to write.

My last baby tooth, which never fell out, was pulled on the last day of February. So long, Little Mandi. The very last tangible remnant of my childhood was violently yanked from me. It was for the best – it was causing an infection and discoloration – but I was sad to see it go. I am reluctant to grow up and relinquish my sometimes irrational passions, and I am unwilling compromise between responsibility and desire; I don’t wanna. But then again, I am getting braces. Maybe it all works out and I will never have to escape my adolescence.

The way to blast blubber this week was to give up extreme thinking. I set a realistic goal of losing two pounds, and I lost 1.8 pounds; just two ounces shy. I have lost 18 pounds total since beginning dieting and exercising and I am getting closer to my goal. Chipping away little by little is okay; I am seeing results without being perfect or extreme, and that is both a very important and difficult lesson to learn.

On longing to be trendy.

Published February 25, 2013 by mandileighbean

“The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story and writes another.”

- James Matthew Barrie

This week’s way to blast my blubber was to use time wisely; if there are only 30 minutes free in your daily schedule, use it to pack a nutritious lunch and to closely watch what you eat, rather than try to squeeze in a workout. I usually stick to that rule, but this week, I worked harder to make sure I did not go over my daily calorie limit. As a result, I lost three pounds this week. My confidence is bolstered and my determination has more than doubled. So please ignore the fact that I am currently contradictorily snacking on some Funyuns.

My colleague, Jill Ocone, is such an inspiration. She is truly following her passion, regardless of cost. She stopped living to work, stopped being consumed by work at home. There is no reason why I cannot do the same.

Sometimes, when I am running in the morning, I try very, very hard to find the moon in the sky. I make myself dizzy by searching in spinning circles, neck bent uncomfortably backwards, and though there are plenty of stars to go around, I cannot find the moon.

Sometimes, when I am running in the morning, it is so frigid that my iPod’s battery is completely drained after about 20 minutes. I do not usually get rattled on my morning walk and jog, but with no contemporary music to drown them out, I become aware of the creepiest sounds. The wind makes the branches of the trees creak and groan. A few American flags snap in wavelengths. A dry, crunchy leaf scuttles across the barren pavement – the perfect horror movie soundtrack and every now and again, I snap my neck this way and that in a futile attempt to determine the cause of some noisy disturbance in the blackness around me. Was the snapping of a twig merely evidence of movement by some furry, cuddly woodland creature, or something more sinister, if, in fact, it even existed at all?

I think I need to indulge in writing some fan fiction again; it can inspire something of literary merit. Many borrow characters and plot lines and images to create a foundation for something new. Currently, I am thinking of “True Blood;” I know vampires are passé, but I keep having this recurring image of a beautiful but battered young woman with a bruised and broken body and beaten face. She is sitting in the front pew of an old and tiny church, at the end. She has been crying, sitting and staring straight ahead with dead, vacant eyes for presumably hours. Then, a devastatingly handsome man – or monster? Or a creature? – suddenly appears, standing in the carpeted aisle beside her. He looks concerned and seems genuine, but her response is icy cold: “You don’t belong here.”
It’s not like her to be cruel, especially not to him, so he deflects her verbal barb with an easy smile and explains, as he has done many times before, that vampires not being able to enter churches in actually a myth, and he’s about to begin a long-winded explanation when she cuts him off.
Misunderstood, she nearly snarls to clarify that she knows damn well that he can be there, but she does not want him there. She has wounded him and it shows all over his face.
“I’m not the one who beat the shit out of you. Why are you so pissed at me?” Though her body language is coming through loud and clear that she wants to be left the fuck alone, he sits beside her. Begrudgingly, she moves for him.
And I want her to unravel – tell him EVERYTHING. Her boyfriend, a bartender who is slowly but surely developing a drinking problem, got loaded and hit her. It has never happened before and she believes her boyfriend is really and truly sorry, but everything is different now and that is sad and scary. She was trying to help him, to be loving and supportive and all the good things, but she still got rocked. In her moment of weakness, she is bitter and vengeful and hateful. It is unlike her, and it makes him nervous. He is not easily rattled and his change in demeanor is not lost on her, though her demeanor is changing as well. She asks him if he’s all right, seamlessly slipping back into old habits and tired behavior.
He laughs without much humor and says that he’s fine, that she shouldn’t give a damn if he’s fine or not, and that maybe she should be more vicious and guarded, like it might not be such a bad thing. She nods and wipes her eyes. Silence falls over them and he feels as if he needs to break it, so he asks her how long she’s been there.
She shrugs and says nothing.
He suggests they leave and go somewhere else.
“Why?”
“Because, honestly, you’re just sitting and stewing in your misery and that solves nothing- it only begets more misery.”
“What could we do?”
It’s an innocent question, but the answers that immediately spring to his mind are not. He takes a second to compose himself because he doesn’t want to scare her; she is good and pure and that is what he likes – loves? – about her. He has to protect it; he has to keep it safe. “Where have you always wanted to go, but have never been?” “France,” she answers without hesitation, like she’s simply been waiting to be asked that very question.

“… if you’d only asked me.”

“If I don’t ask you, would you ever think of asking me?”

I am always surprised (whether it is pleasant or not has yet to be determined) by which blog posts garner the most attention and end up receiving the largest amount of views. The last entry I posted was personal and somewhat pessimistic, kind of made me seem shallow and pitiful, and has more views than the short story I wrote. A wonderfully caring colleague sent me a Facebook message absolutely dripping with sympathy and a classmate whom I have not seen nor spoken to in years, left an encouraging, empathetic and appreciated comment on my blog. These things surprise me.

I guess it’s like that part in the movie “The Breakfast Club,” where Basket Case Allison dumps all her baggage – literally and metaphorically – on the couch, thereby inviting everyone into her problems. So it’s unreasonable then for her to be angry when people comment, offer advice, and so on and so forth. It’s just that I honestly was not looking for pity, sympathy, or attention – I was just purging thoughts, just writing. It is a fine line between my private self and public self and balancing how I see myself against how others do. I know I shouldn’t care, but I do and that’s how I am, take it or leave it.

I have a deplorable habit of being interested in men whom I cannot have – the distance keeps me safe from rejection, and it keeps me romantically tragic.

I need to start reading Stephen King again.

When it’s rainy, I want to stay in my bed, curled beneath the covers.

The roses in my classroom are dying.

Why am I always so negative?

A radio station contacted me back! It is run by a high school in Atlantic City. It will most likely have an incredibly small audience, but it will be more of an audience than I have now.

My second royalty check came for the month of December: $23. 22; one print book and nine Ebooks.

The Manchester Branch of the Ocean County Library forwarded my information to the larger – and frankly, better – Toms River branch. I am hopeful.

Yesterday, I ventured to Brooklyn with a friend to attend a bridal shower. It was wonderfully trendy and beautifully artsy. The music completed the atmosphere perfectly and I never wanted to leave. I made plans to travel to Paris, fell in love with love all over again, and yearned to be more creative and artsy in everything I do. It was an awesome shower.

On being in love with every actor.

Published February 19, 2013 by mandileighbean

“I never let what happened stay in the past.”

I was better than I usually am on Valentine’s Day this year – I remained cheery and optimistic until the next day. I woke up, logged onto Facebook, and was immediately inundated with nauseatingly adorable gifts and status updates. Without the students to exaggerate the negativity and thereby make it unattractive and absurd, a bitter taste filled my mouth and I instantly felt blue. I am sure the Radiohead song playing softly in the background did not help.

On top of that, I did not lose a single pound for the second week in a row. I only have myself to blame because I have not been counting my calories like I should. I can try and blame it on my menstrual cycle or stress (teacher evaluation workshops, the backdrop for the play falling over), but the truth is that I have been weak. I am disappointed in myself. I am ashamed.

Saturday morning, I watched a good-sized portion of the movie “Mannequin” while eating breakfast. When I was younger (and only slightly more impressionable than I am now), I was absolutely obsessed with the movie. Reasons for my obsession seem obvious – such as Andrew McCarthy at his most vulnerable, quirkiest, and most appealing – but upon deeper reflection, it is so much more than that. There is something dangerously intoxicating about what one creates loving its creator in a singular, unique, and romantic kind of way; like creative types can cure their own loneliness and save themselves. That aspect of the “fairy tale” is reassuring but at the same time, it is worrisome because does it not suggest that those same quirky, odd, different, creative people cannot find romance organically? Unless there is some kind of divine intervention or fantastical happenings, are weirdoes never to find love? Maybe that’s why the first blog I created to promote my writing was titled “Letters to Eliot” and was comprised of nothing more than pathetic and embarrassing love letters to a fictional character of my own creation. Is that really so different from falling in love with a mannequin? At least the mannequin was tangible and at least it came to life and at least it loved its creator back and at least they lived happily ever after.

Regardless of the deeper meta-fictional meanings of “Mannequin,” (or if they even exist) I am once again infatuated with Andrew McCarthy. I keep playing the scene where we met over and over again – the way I made him turn to me and smile, the way I made him laugh, his inexhaustible charm, and the strength of his embrace when he hooked me around my waist and pulled my close. It was like it was scripted, which is why I am so disappointed in its lack of an ending. That same Saturday night, Hallmark Channel aired a new romantic comedy which was unbearably corny, but it starred Andrew McCarthy as a brooding cowboy and naturally, I was enthralled.

I also watched a 45-minute documentary about Elvis Presley called, “Elvis: Summer of ’56.” It was all about this girl named June Juanico and her relationship with Elvis. It was surreal to hear her describe how he pulled her aside after a show and kissed the back of her neck, of how he called and wrote, and how she felt comfortable enough with Elvis to adjust his belt. It is incredible to think anyone could have genuine, intimate moments with the King of Rock and Roll. June understood that sentiment; she called it quits after Elvis was rumored to be involved with Natalie Wood (and who could blame her? There’s no competing with Natalie Wood!) And believe it or not, it seems that even Elvis understood the sentiment because when speaking of the insane amount of screaming, crying girls, he said, “They don’t love me, they love the idea of me.” I am going to include that in my second novel or die trying.

Sunday was a great day. It was Dad’s 52^nd birthday, so I am especially glad that it was beautiful and bright, albeit windy and cold. We all went to Mass together. Mikey faked (I think) a stomach ache and did not join us for the Olive Garden. I had many glasses of wine, too much pasta, and I laughed heartily. Most importantly, Dad enjoyed himself. On the way home, he tried to freeze Sam and I out by rolling all the windows down and locking them in place because Sam and I had been good-naturedly tormenting Mom (flicking her ears and whatnot). I tried to distract Dad by giving him a Wet Willy in his right ear so Sam could sneakily slide her arm between the left side of Dad’s seat and the door and unlock the windows. My efforts failed, but Sam managed to reach the controls for Dad’s seat, so she moved him up and forward, shoving the steering wheel into his chest and the tops of his thighs. He looked silly and absurd and wildly uncomfortable. We all laughed until we couldn’t see straight.

Upon arriving home, we descended upon the furniture in the living room. Dad lounged across the love seat, Mom claimed the chair and I was solo, sitting upon the sofa, until Sam came and lay down, stretching her legs over me. We were all comfortable, we were all watching “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” and we were all together. It was a beautiful day.

Paul Newman’s blue eyes and Elizabeth Taylor’s violet eyes were just as glorious as the sky I observed while walking and jogging that night. The wind made me feel young and restless and wild, like it kicked up all the old, dry negativity within me and swirled it so that when it settled once again, it was something more like optimism and vitality. The quickened pace of the blood in my veins and of the air in my lungs, with the moon nearly directly over my head so that I had to awkwardly crane my neck to see it, with the tiny, twinkling stars, and with the darkening, layered shades of blue of the evening sky, made me feel incredibly grateful to be alive. That night, I fell in love with life, and with love, and with possibility.

I want to fall in love this summer.

I have been highly critical of the band Fall Out Boy in the past, but I’ll be damned if they didn’t have some fantastic lines.

“I thought I loved you, but it’s just how you looked in the light.”

“I could write it better than you’ve ever felt it.”

Sixth way to blast my blubber: write a list of reasons why I want to lose weight:

- I want to be as beautiful on the outside as I am on the inside.

- I want to be appealing to beautiful men.

- I want to be noticed by beautiful men when I go out.

- I want to feel sexy.

- I want to look sexy.

- I want to be healthy.

- I want to have more energy.

- I want to live longer.

- I want to finally lose the weight and prove myself wrong.

- I want to better myself and improve.

- I want how I envision myself to be reality.

- I don’t want to feel ugly around my beautiful friends.

- I want to feel better about myself and feel confident.

- I want to be the full package; funny, smart and pretty.

- I want to change my life.

On boys on bicycles.

Published February 16, 2013 by mandileighbean

Hello all!

I present to you a short story I started writing while on vacation in Florida at the beginning of last month. I am trying to work on being creepy in a subtle way. Please comment to let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy it!

BOYS ON BICYCLES

Mandi Bean

By all accounts, the vacation was desperately needed by the Smith family, so the uncooperative weather was especially frustrating and almost painfully disappointing. Amber felt the sting of missed expectations most keenly as she had deemed the trek to the Sunshine State a necessity because she absolutely needed to feel the baking rays of a fat, sweltering sun fall heavily upon her as she squished cooled, clumped sand between her toes while standing at a meandering shoreline, watching breaking waves. The sudden, nearly physical yearning for a sandy shore had surprised Amber, but in hindsight, it made perfect sense. Amber and the rest of the Smith family hailed from the Great Garden State, which had recently been brutally ravaged by Hurricane Sandy. With rollercoasters claimed by the Atlantic, enacted martial law, and missing pieces of the famous and beloved boardwalk, the Jersey Shore was no longer a place to escape to. Indeed, many of its inhabitants were escaping from the coastal communities up and down the shore. The Smiths were no exceptions and for reasons Amber could not explain, she needed a beach.

This inexplicable need did not grasp anyone else and Amber had difficulty rounding up family members to head to the beach. In the end, only three others decided to pile in the Hyundai with Amber; her twin sister Susan, her young cousin Adam, and her aunt Kim, at whose home they were vacationing. Adam was a restless kid looking to get out of the house and, being his godmother, Kim wanted to please Adam and her devotion compelled her to come along (Amber believed Kim’s unconditional love and devotion knew no bounds and that Kim would follow Adam to the ends of the earth were it ever asked of her). Susan’s motivations were not as obvious, and Amber could only surmise that her twin simply wanted to drive.

With Susan at the wheel and with Kim as the co-pilot, Amber and Adam claimed the backseat of the car and thus began the fifteen minute drive east to the ocean. There was superficial, intermittent chatter but starting, let alone maintaining, a conversation became more trouble than it was worth over the wind roaring in and out of the open windows. Amber was happy to stick her arm out of the window and flatten her palm so that her hand rode the waves of air; it was worth the annoyance of having to squint against the powerful gales and to constantly and continuously tuck bothersome strands of hair behind ears to keep them from sticking in the corners of her lips and eyes. It did not matter to her that it was cold (for Florida, anyway), nor did it seem to matter to anyone else. The windows stayed down for the duration of the drive.

When the Hyundai came to a rest in a slanted parking space, Adam bounded from the car, excited for room to run in a way that only a child can be excited. The adults hurried after him, up a flight of wooden stairs to a sparse boardwalk, and then down another flight of wooden stairs to the beach. The beach was essentially deserted aside from a few other small groups of more obvious tourists and some die hard fitness fanatics reaping the cardiac benefits of running in the sand. Amber, before making it all the way to the chilly sand, sat upon a wooden stair to roll her jeans over her calves and above her knees. She also removed her flip flops and held them firmly in hand when she joined the others near the water. Adam raced Kim along the shoreline as Amber and Susan chased the water back to the ocean and then promptly fled from the icy liquid as it traveled back over the sand. Amber and Susan also wrote “New Jersey” in big, capital letters in the sand, using their feet and toes. Then, for a change of pace, Adam raced Susan as Kim and Amber observed, occasionally interfering with either runner by playfully using physical restraint to impede progress. Short of being tackled to the ground, the runners were breathless, laughing and spinning to a halt in the sand as their loved ones hung about their shoulders and waists.

Though everyone was having fun, it really was too chilly for the beach. The four resolved to pack it in, call it a day, and head on home. Amber paused at the top of the stairs leading from the beach to the boardwalk to take one – just one – longing backward glance at the sand and the rough waters of the Atlantic. Sullenly, she unrolled the legs of her jeans and wiggled her feet and toes back into her flip flops. There was only sea as far as she could see, and the landscape made her feel limitless and full of endless possibilities. It was intoxicating and she offered up a silent prayer to Whomever Might Be Listening for warmer weather and longer trips to the beach.

But perhaps Amber wasn’t the only one longing for scenic escapes – no matter how brief – because once everyone was safely back inside the car, Kim made a suggestion. “Turn right at the end of this street instead of left,” she instructed. “I’ll show you guys where the really nice houses are.” Susan dutifully obeyed and with all the windows down, the foursome traveled northwest along Ocean Drive. There was nothing remarkable to be seen at first, but eventually the sprawling hotels and quaint seaside shops gave way to exotic looking vegetation that concealed starts of cobblestone driveways that led to grand mansions, which, at times, could not be seen from the road. Those homes in view were certainly impressive.

There were stone staircases with wide steps leading up to double front doors from either side, and the doors were made of rich, sturdy mahogany. There were balconies with thin, delicate-looking iron railings. There were terracotta roof tiles covering wide, sloping roofs that turned houses into haciendas, complete with cement archways, an overabundances of hues of orange, and which betrayed the historical Spanish influence on the entire state. The accompanying guest houses were all substantially larger than the Smith family home and truly dwarfed the house of the surrounding residential communities.

Susan was only barely rolling along, operating the vehicle at a snail’s pace. Open-mouthed, she craned her neck from left to right and back again, incredulously observing the excess of wealth on either side. Her scan was panoramic so that, at the very least, the driver was conscientious enough not to slam into anything. That being said, Susan did neglect to look into her rearview mirror as she was so wholly taken by the new and exciting scenery. As a matter of fact, it was not until Amber made an announcement from the backseat that Susan gave any kind of thought to the rear.

“There’s a car behind us,” Amber said, her neck twisted gracefully over her right shoulder. She turned forward after a beat and added, “He looks pissed.”

“So what?” Susan grunted dismissively, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted. She stuck her pale, toned arm out of the open window and waved the following car around, indicating the driver should pass the four-door filled with unabashed looky-loos. He passed, after shooting Susan a murderous look, and everyone relaxed, as if a useless, creeping anxiety had been relieved.

But that was only because the rear faded from their minds and no one turned to see the bicycle following so closely that the rubber tread of the front wheel nearly grazed the bumper. It would have been an unsettling sight indeed, especially when the rider’s face came into clear view. His young face was not innocent as it should have been, but was instead so blank and vacant and devoid of emotion that irrational as it may seem, the boy seemed sinister and cold. His youth and carefree activity did nothing to dispel the image of evil that lingered about his person, just beneath the surface.

Adam, upon being confined to the car, became restless once more and fidgeted in the seat. He looked all around for excitement, even for some trouble, and was successful when he looked behind him and saw the young boy. Adam knew the boy was about his age, but also knew instinctively that the boy was somehow much older. There was experience and wisdom running through the odd lines of his face. Adam believed the young boy knew things that young boys shouldn’t know, had seen things young boys shouldn’t see, and had done things no one should ever do, regardless of age and gender. His tiny body shook uncontrollably and he scooted to the end of the seat so he could whisper in Kim’s ear, “There’s someone else behind us.”

“What?” Kim asked as a reflex, because she had clearly heard Adam and required no further explanation. She turned around in her seat to look out the back window. She saw what Adam had seen and then some, because her advanced age allowed her to comprehend and articulate the oddity of the scene. Laughing without much humor to keep her own fears at bay and to assuage the unspoken ones belonging to Adam, Kim said to Susan, “Wave this kid around. He’s tailgating you on a bike.”

Susan laughed with genuine humor. “That’s ridiculous,” she smiled and once more sticking her pale, toned arm out of the window, she waved to the boy. She quickly wondered if he would know what the provincial gesture meant, and she was about to yell out instructions in an annoyed tone when he sped past the car. He was moving so quickly and so close to the window that Susan had to pull her hand in speedily, as if she had been dangling it before the open mouth of a hungry alligator. “What the hell, man!” she roared. Angry and in need of validation for her visceral, intense reaction, she turned to Kim. “Did you see that?”

Kim shrugged, merely imitating a cool indifference. Her voice betrayed her as it trembled ever so slightly. “Kids can be just as rude or as creepy as anyone else.” Though it had been chilly, the weather would have been described as downright frigid by Kim, the longtime Florida native, and she rolled up her window fast. “Let’s just keep going.”

Amber laughed. “You’re not afraid of an elementary school kid, are you?” She shook her head slowly, still smiling.

“There’s more,” Adam whispered. An intense silence filled the already cluttered interior of the car, and their eyes followed two more boys, older than the first, cycling by at an almost impossibly slow pace; it was as if they were not even moving. The eyes of the boys were just as intently focused as those of the passengers in the car, each party staring the other down. Kim, Amber, Adam and Susan observed with wide eyes, betraying their fearful emotion without much thought. The boys on bikes gazed back with a curious detachment that hinted at a complete lack of empathy and as a result, also hinted at a complete ability to terrorize. Adam started softly crying. Amber unbuckled her seat belt, slid close to him and wrapped her arms around him.

“Let’s get out of here, Sue. This place is weird. I don’t like it.”

“Okay, okay,” Susan responded, slightly agitated by fear. She made to increase the pressure her foot was placing on the gas pedal, but found that she could not because the three boys on the bicycles had parked themselves directly in front of the car, so close that the boy who appeared the oldest, trailed his fingers along the edge of the hood.

“Back up, back up,” Kim chanted.

Susan shifted the car into reverse and lifted her eyes to the rearview mirror and had to stifle a scream. More boys on more bicycles were now barricading any possibility of escaping from the rear. “Roll up your windows! I’m locking the doors!” Susan commanded, her voice cracking as it reached a level of hysteria never before reached. For a brief moment, she wondered if she was being silly; they were children on bicycles. Where was the threat? What reason was there for the sweat accumulating, or for the increased pace of her heart, or for the tears pricking at the back of her eyes?

Amber, still holding tightly to Adam, had locked the doors and was waiting for the window on her side to complete its infuriatingly slow progress upwards. She stared through the windows for a pair of sympathetic eyes, for someone who looked as if they might care. All she could see were these mini monsters, these children with stone faces who were intentionally scaring them. It did not make any sense and for Amber, that was the worst part about it. It had been chilly, yes, but it was still sunny. They were on vacation in Florida, observing how the other half lived. It was not dark and ominous and they were doing nothing illegal or harmful, nothing to justify such a turn of events. Her eyes frantically and desperately scanned the surrounding lawns for adult eyes, aged eyes, eyes with wrinkles that belonged to someone who could rush over and demand the absurdity cease and desist in an authoritative tone. Amber’s eyes only met statues that may have once been human, but could not possibly be human now. They were adults on lawns, pushing mowers or chatting idly with neighbors, and they were observing the harassment and intimidation occurring before them, but there were no passing looks of disgust or pity. Their faces were blank and their eyes were pointed in the right direction, but it did not seem as if they were really seeing.

Kim, Susan, Amber and Adam were helpless and all alone.

Only Adam’s soft and horrible moans penetrated the suffocating silence. Agonizing minutes passed where the aggressors remained absolutely still and the victims only breathed in and out.

Then, suddenly, the boys on the bicycles descended.

herbeautifulmonster

A young writer just getting started ... Through shameless self-promotion