Chapter 23

Tonight, in my Readings in Fiction class, we talked about metafiction. It was defined as self-aware, self-critical, and self-reflexive. In other words, the author is very much present in the work, letting you know you are undoubtedly reading a novel while not allowing you to think you are reading anything real. In other words, this is a metafictional text. I had not heard of metafiction before coming here to UTD, and now that it has been defined for me, I’m surprised to learn I am currently writing metafiction. Of course, once I learned who were considered metafictionists: Milan Kundera and Don Barthelme, I guess it’s not too surprising I’m writing that kind of novel.

The fact that this is metafiction has all kinds of potential consequences. For example, not only can I do what I have been doing, weaving my own story loosely into the text and admitting that my characters are fictional constructs, but I could also directly enter the text itself as an actual character and interact with them.

Now, since Sarah has just broken up with Michel and this story is (more or less) about him, there is a danger of losing such an interesting character as Sarah (or at least I hope she is interesting to you). I think I’ll meet Sarah personally, talk to her, see how she is taking what she learned about Michel. But first, I’m going to have to find her.

I’m not sure where she hangs out. I hadn’t thought about that -- it was never an issue. Maybe she’s at a bar here in town. I could wander around town, see if I could find her. The only problem is, she doesn’t know me, so I have to be careful. I don’t want her thinking I’m some kind of stalker.

But what am I thinking, looking for her? I’m the author, after all. I’ll just put her someplace and walk in, sit next to her and talk. So she is at a bar. She’s at Le Marquis, which I don’t think is really all that nice a place, despite the name. Not that it’s seedy. Hardly. More of a college-kid hangout. She’s sitting at the bar, drinking a beer, crying, ignoring everyone else’s inquiries. I sit at the bar, on the stool beside her, and order a beer, ignoring her crying. I know she doesn’t want me coming right out and saying something about it. I’m a stranger to her. I drink my beer and ask for another. Now, she’s stopped crying. She’s looking at me, wondering why I haven’t said anything to her. Minding my own business is far more irritating than making an inquiry. I look at her and ask, “Would you like another beer?”

“Sure. Thanks,” she says, putting her empty bottle onto the bar. I order her a beer, and let her take a few drinks. “Thanks,” she says again. “I’m Sarah.” I introduce myself and ask her what’s wrong. She shakes her head, then tells me about finding Michel fucking his roommate. I tell her he sounds like a real dick, and that she’s bound to find someone new who’s a lot better than him. She thanks me and smiles. I buy us both another beer. She says she’s tired of sitting in the bar, would I like to go for a walk? I’m always up for a walk, especially with someone as attractive as Sarah, so we finish our beers and are out the door, walking down the block, away from her apartment.

“My grandma just found out she’s dying of cancer,” I say. She says she’s sorry, then asks me about her. I tell her what I told you a few chapters back. “I really love my grandmother, though I know I’ve disappointed her lately. She thinks she and grandpa wasted all their money on my college since I'm now getting my Master’s in Creative Writing. I’m thinking about going to UT-Dallas someplace else for my PhD. They’re also disappointed because I’m living with my girlfriend, and they think that’s living in sin. They’re real strict Christians.”

“Oh, you have a girlfriend?” She looks disappointed.

“I guess you could still call it that. She won’t go out with me anywhere, she hates it when I touch her, except to have sex with her, and she hasn’t even had sex with me in three weeks. If you want to call that a girlfriend, then I have a girlfriend. She’s acting more like a roommate I kiss and say ‘I love you’ to occasionally than an actual girlfriend.”

“Don’t even tell me about roommates. That’s what happened with me and Michel.”

“Yeah, but I’m at least being honest about her still being my girlfriend. If she’d let me, I’d fuck her in a minute, but she won’t let me. Well, that’s not entirely true. She was going to let me, but she let me know she didn’t want to so strongly I told her never mind.”

“Most guys would have just fucked her.”

“I’m not most guys.”

“I can see that. Makes me wish you weren’t attached.”

“You’ve only known me for a half hour.”

“Still, I can tell you’re decent. Than counts for a lot right now.”

Well, I don’t know how decent I am. I do think about cheating on Donna quite a bit, especially now that she won’t fuck me. I fantasize about her friend, Maddy. I hate that about me. I thought I was better than that. I’ve always been a strict monogamist, philosophically. But now that I’ve actually had sex and Donna won’t let me have sex with her, I’ve discovered that, yes, I am human, and, yes, I do want to fuck other women. So much for being better than anything. To quote Nietzsche, I guess I’m Human, All Too Human, or, to quote the singer Rob Zombie, I’m More Human Than Human. What can I say? I can only point to myself and say, “Ecce Homo!”

I walk Sarah home, and watch her walk in, staying out on the front step. Still, I cannot cheat on Donna, even in a fictional space. Sarah says good-night before shutting the door behind her. I really have no place to go in this world, so I wander off into the night, out of the world, right off the very page.