THIRD PERSON OMNISCIENT

by Daniel Olivas
 
 

Owen Socrates Ramirez liked to joke that he was a man marked for failure and pain. He said this not because his father named him Owen Socrates -- which by itself would be enough to mark a man -- but because Owen consciously denied his own worth and usually clung to mediocrity despite wanting to do more. So, most nights after work as a red-vested employee at the Woodland Hills Target where he was in charge of re-stocking the automotive, electronics and toy sections, Owen nursed a nice buzz while drinking several Buds watching reruns of the X-Files on cable or maybe Jerry Springer or CNN News or, if he really didn't care, Geraldo Rivera's new "news" talk show. He ate crispy Cheetos and canned tamales but, whenever he could, he tried to work them off at the Spectrum Club on the StairMaster and the free-weights. But after he worked out, he went to the gym's little snack bar and drank down two or three.

Owen had pleasant enough looks with dark curly hair and a beautiful brown complexion. And he knew his manners and charmed most people with his never-ending strings of "thank yous" and "pleases" and "don't mention its." But he had few friends and never really knew what it meant to be in love. Owen grew accustomed to his life and stayed where he was more out of inertia than anything else.

Owen's father, Alfonso, chose the name "Owen" because, other than Mexican rancheras, Alfonso loved country music and Buck Owens was his all time favorite. But "Owens" is not an appropriate first name so Alfonso dropped the "s" and it became "Owen." The "Socrates" was a different matter. When Alfonso was a young boy growing up in San Diego, his father gave him a dog named Socrates. When Socrates died three years later of a tumor in his face, Alfonso cried for weeks. Alfonso loved that dog more than even his parents. So, when he grew up and got married and became a father, he made certain that his son would have "Socrates" somewhere in his name.

"What an idiot," Owen's father would often mutter under his breath. But not to Owen's face. When Owen was around, his father acted like nothing less than pure Ozzie Nelson: very supportive and always there to offer a little fatherly advice and consolation. He'd say, "You know, mijo, you've got to grab the bull by its horns in life." He said this to his son despite racking up a string of business failures like the combination car wash/hot dog stand. "Why not?" Alfonso told his wife and Owen. "People have nothing to do while their cars are being washed and wouldn't you want to have a nice foot-long Hebrew National with relish and that delicious French's Mustard? I know I would." Of course, his venture failed, like all the others, and the city inspectors cited him because he alternated the car washers and the cooks but the car washers never washed their hands when they went to cook and a horrified customer saw this and made an anonymous call to the authorities. In any event, after Owen poured out his heart to his father and left the house for his apartment or school or work feeling better about himself because his father faithfully offered kind and thoughtful advice, Alfonso would invariably mutter to himself, "What an idiot."

And Owen's mother, Aurelia, would say to her husband, "Yes, mi cielo, our only son is an idiot."

By the age of twenty, Owen acquired his own little apartment on Victory Boulevard in Canoga Park and he spent most of his non-working hours drinking and eating alone and watching TV. He graduated from Canoga Park High two years before and intermittently took college credit courses at the community college. The only true joy in Owen's life occurred once a week for an hour and a half at 8:30 p.m. in a small classroom. "Fiction Writing for Beginners." Originally, Owen signed up for it because it offered three units and he figured there was very little for him to know or do in order to get a passing grade. The course description said: "Throughout the semester, the students will learn basic writing techniques in the area of fiction. The class will require one short story per week with a short reading list of important works of fiction. The students will be exposed to all genres of fiction writing and will have a chance to critique the other students' work. Instructor: Miriam Anna Eisler. Thursdays at 8:30 to 10:00 p.m. Three units."

Miriam Anna Eisler was not a full professor nor an assistant professor. Miriam -- as she told her students to call her -- was a real author. She wrote novels and taught because she loved to talk about writing and because it kept her attuned to young people and how they talked and thought. She secretly took notes right after class to remember the bits and pieces of conversations she surreptitiously eavesdropped on during those few minutes before and after class when the young men and women talked freely about sex, TV, the internet and anything else that seemed important to them.

Owen surprised himself when, on the first session of "Fiction Writing for Beginners," he found himself studying Miriam's face and body and hands as she walked up and down the front of the class and talked about what she expected from the students. She was well into her sixties, very flat chested and trim, almost athletic, wearing slacks and a yellow Oxford shirt. Miriam wore no make-up, had a Brillo pad for hair, which was almost completely white except for a few coils of brown, and only wore a wedding ring for embellishment. Her face was as pale and brittle looking as a Saltine but her eyes betrayed a quick, youthful glint. She fascinated Owen and he felt certain that Miriam would somehow become a part of his life.

Owen never before heard of Miriam. But he found out that she had published countless short stories and several novellas and novels over the last forty or so years. Miriam was a Jew and usually wrote about being Jewish and poor in New York during the 1940s. Owen bought a slender book of Miriam's collected New York stories and he suddenly left his world of Target and the San Fernando Valley and Buck Owens' music blasting from his father's boom box when they had Saturday barbecues, and he entered the world of Brooklyn and kreplach and anti-Semitic employers who asked, "What kind of name is that?"

But the stories that almost shocked Owen were the ones where the protagonist is a college age woman who was sexually active and complaining about an emotionally distant boyfriend. How did she know how to write those kinds of stories? Where did she learn about sex?

For the first assignment, Miriam had the students write a very short piece of fiction - no more than three pages -- about one thing that they knew very well. It could be anything. A dog. A parent. The first time you fell in love or thought it was love. Anything. But it had to be fiction as well. 

And it had to be in the third person omniscient. Miriam explained what the third person omniscient meant. Owen stared at Miriam's mouth as she said, "third person omniscient." Her teeth were slightly yellowed but very straight. Owen had to think of a topic.

That whole week, while he worked at Target, or visited his parents, or sat on his green vinyl couch in his cramped apartment, Owen thought about what he would write about. He read and re-read Miriam's collection of short stories. She made it seem so simple. Owen read the jacket flap that had a picture of Miriam with her bio under it. It's a strange picture, thought Owen. Miriam is smiling with her head tilted down and her eyes are closed. Closed! Why would she be photographed like that? She had nice eyes. It was strange picture.

But Miriam's bio told Owen why she made writing seem so easy: Recipient of the Andrew Lytle Fiction Prize. Winner of the Pushcart Editors' Book Award. Recipient of a Wallace Stegner Fellowship. Miriam had attended Yale and Stanford. She was an accomplished author. And Owen worked at Target and attended community college and was going to submit his first piece of fiction to Miriam Anna Eisler. Why even bother?

But Owen did his project. He forced himself to sit at his computer and lay down one sentence at a time until he created a paragraph and then he'd begin the next sentence. Owen then printed it out on his beautiful new Hewlett Packard DeskJet 882C and very carefully edited each word and phrase like a surgeon trying to remove every bit of cancerous tissue. He based his story on his paternal grandfather's trek to California from Chihuahua, Mexico in the 1920s. Owen made up most of the facts but he tried to use some of the bits and pieces of family history that he could remember. But it was supposed to be a work of fiction so it's okay, he thought. He entitled his story "Journeys" and e-mailed it to Miriam two days before class.

On Thursday night, he came early to class. Two female students cuddled in the corner and shared a big cup of Starbucks coffee. Miriam sat at her desk looking at a pile of papers and making marks on them with a sharp red pencil.

She looked up momentarily when Owen came in. She didn't smile and she looked back down and kept on making marks on the papers. Owen sat down and waited for the class to fill. He tried nonchalantly to observe Miriam and to discern if she had his story before her but he couldn't tell. It was still warm out and the moon shone hard and bright into the classroom. Owen wore shorts and a madras shirt and Nike sandals. His hands perspired. Within fifteen minutes the class filled.

Finally, the bell rang and Miriam stood up. Students' murmurs enveloped the classroom punctuated with an odd laugh here and there. She walked slowly and deliberately to the middle of the class and said, "Why did I give you kids directions on what to write when only one or two of you even bothered to listen to me?"

The class fell silent. Miriam continued: "When I said, 'Write what you know,' how is it that most of you wrote science fiction? One story was about robots, for God's sake, and I am quite certain that very few of you have ever had a run-in with a robot." Miriam's voice was strong but she displayed a calm almost as if she made this speech many times before.

"And someone wrote about two dogs that spoke to each other with their minds. Telepathic dogs, for God's sake! What's up with that?"

Some students laughed at Miriam's use of such a hip expression but she continued until the laughter stopped: "And what about the third person omniscient? Almost everyone began their story with the word 'I'!"

Owen sighed in relief because, so far, Miriam's criticisms didn't sound like they applied to his short story.

"And everyone is either making love or taking drugs or both." The class let out a collective giggle. "Well," said Miriam with a smile and several students started to laugh knowing that a punch line was coming. "Well, the way some of you look and dress, the 'making love' parts are certainly fiction!"

And, at that moment, Miriam had the class captured tightly in her hand. Most would not go on to write anything worth publishing, but they would learn a little about why some authors talk to them and why others didn't. That, by itself, Miriam believed, was worth a little something.

At the end of class, after she let some of the students read their stories and she made observations about a nice turn of phrase (those were few) or a sprightly metaphor (fewer still), she handed out the graded papers and gave out a new assignment. Owen walked out of class without looking at his grade. As the students dispersed, he walked alone to the parking lot. A breeze blew kicking up little tornadoes of dust and leaves but it felt good. Owen stopped under a light pole by his Honda Civic and opened his paper and let out a sigh. Owen received a B over a B+ for his story. The top score was for style and the bottom for content. She wrote "Good Job!" in red on the top of the paper. Throughout the three pages, Miriam made comments and suggestions on how to improve the story. Owen smiled and grabbed his keys from his backpack and opened the car door.

Owen took his story to his parents' house for the Saturday barbecue. Several times, when he and his parents sat eating and listening to his father's loud Buck Owens' Greatest Hits tape, Owen reached down into his pocket to pull out his story so that he could brag a little. But he hesitated each time and kept it hidden.

Alfonso said very little as he scooped up frijoles on his corn tortilla like a grave robber shoveling dirt in search of morbid treasures. Finally, he said, "Mijo, we went to that new restaurant that just opened on Ventura Boulevard. You know, 'José's' off of Fallbrook."

Owen looked up from his paper plate. "Oh?" he said. "What did you have?"

Alfonso took a long drink from his silver can of Coors and let out a burp. "I wasn't too hungry so I ordered something small. You know, as the French say, 'the wrong cart.'"

Owen stared at his father who sat there looking smug and proud of his worldliness. Frijoles and arroz stuck to Alfonso's mustache like tasty icicles.

"What?" asked Owen. "What did you order?"

Looking impatient, Alfonso said, "'The wrong cart.' You know, when you order something without all the side dishes."

Owen said nothing. His mother smiled. "Mijo, anything else to eat?"

"No Mom. I'm fine." And they finished dinner in silence slumped over their plates like wet burlap sacks filled with mulch while Buck Owens cheerfully filled the void.

Before leaving, Owen finally screwed up enough bravery to show his short story to his parents. They stood in the doorway and he handed it to his father.

"I was one of the few who followed her directions and do it right. She liked it. Look at my grade." Owen felt nervous but proud.

"Very good," said his father.

"A good grade," said his mother.

Owen smiled. He took the story form his father's hand, kissed his parents and walked down the cement steps of the porch. Owen reached his car that he had parked, as usual, behind his father's champagne-colored Lexus in the driveway. He turned and looked at his parents who waved from the doorway. Owen smiled back, waved with the rolled-up short story like it was an Oscar or an Emmy, got into his car and backed it out ever so carefully. He could still smell the barbecue. The sun began to set and bright streaks of red and orange and purple filled the western horizon.

As Alfonso closed the door to his house, he muttered, "What an idiot." And Owen's mother nodded in agreement.