Tyler: DoubleBook

So, writing as we do, Roger and I are trying to write a book. I think we'll post some of here from time to time. No matter what Roger says, the book will be called DoubleBook. Fuck Yeah. Here's what I got.




CHAPTER 1: Point Break to Morpheus


“No, I know how hilarious ‘Point Break’ is but just because it’s funny does not make it a comedy. Genre depends on the intent of the creator. That’s just the way it works.”

To Jude’s ridiculous statement I had to respond, “But you have to take into account the cast. Keanu Reeves. Patrick Swayze. Anthony Kiedis. Gary Busey. Come on, Gary Fucking Busey. You cannot tell me whoever cast that movie actually thought it was going to be just an action movie. They knew what they were doing was hilarious. Look, his name is Johnny Utah for Christ’s sake.” He was still unimpressed, “Okay, so say you’re a director or something and someone comes in and says ‘Yeah, so, Reeves and Busey are a pair of undercover cops.’ If you heard that you would instantly think, ‘This shit is going to be amazing.’”

“I don’t know, man.”

“He was the quarterback for Ohio State. It’s so rich.”

Realizing there was no way I was going to concede defeat when I was so far in the right, my roommate opened another beer and changed the subject, “So what’s the deal with you and Lauren? It all seems kind of confusing.”

It was. Kind of. I had met Lauren Cody two years earlier at a party through my sister, she being cooler than I and knowing more people than I ever would. The first time I saw Lauren I was immediately smitten. She had plastic rimmed glasses that framed blue eyes that would make poets want to write using every cliché they knew; they were really pretty. She had curly brown hair that defied gravity for the most part and on her cheek she had three freckles that, according to her, made a backward ‘J’ though I never really saw it. Strangely she never referred to it as an ‘L’ which seemed vastly more logical. Finally, she had one of the most incredible bodies my young eyes had seen. It was quite nice. After our initial introductions her first words to me were ‘smell my hands.’ I did and it didn’t seem as strange then as it does now. After we got over her hands the conversation made its way to literature where we compared authors. I was a fan of Bukowski while she was well read in most of the American and British canon thus sparking my inferiority complex. Eventually we got to music, specifically Modest Mouse and we agreed that we must have looked like the wallflowers at that particular party and that we indeed were like black Cadillacs outside a funeral. We went on several extended dates and I learned she had a boyfriend which was slightly off-putting but I’d never let that stop me before and after a brief courting period and the dropping of her boyfriend she was mine. We dated for two years and all was well and I, as I have found out time and time again, do not do well when all is well. Absolutely nothing was wrong in our relationship but I began to get itchy. My brother had just gotten engaged and through that I could see my window of singledom was rapidly closing. I still had youthful looks and whether they were good or bad I wanted to take advantage of them while I still could. The break up itself was rough. It lasted about two hours in a parking lot of a church in my car. So bad. There was crying and yelling and near violence and it was all the very worst degree of unpleasant. I eventually took her home and she proceeded to call her parents and all her friends so that everyone knew to hate me, which I can’t really complain about having done it to myself. I went home, turned my phone off and went to sleep at some point. The next morning brought a slight sense of freedom and feelings of impending doom. We had nearly all the same friends and were working in the same goddamn place so things were not going to be easy no matter where I went. I called her and we ironed things out with more rational thoughts and words, less profanity. I think after some explaining she could see that we were very close to being married and that was possibly the furthest thing from where I wanted to be. We determined that we would not try to make things anymore awkward than they had to be and decided to strive towards friendship while maybe seeing other people at the same time. At that point I should have known that things would eventually blow up, good or bad. Possibly both. Probably just bad. But I was young and naïve and found confidence in something about myself of what nature I still am not sure. The call ended and I breathed and all seemed relatively good. It was then that I decided to write a novel in an attempt to have a record of what I’d done wrong and to whom I did it.

“I don’t know. It wasn’t really working. We’re doing the stereotypical ‘seeing other people’ thing.” I nonchalantly said while grabbing a beer and sitting back to meditate on my newfound lack of relationship obligations.

“How’s your novel coming?”

“Shitty.” And it was.