Hamel did manage to rid himself of the stigma of virginity during his junior year in high school. It happened in his parent’s car, parked behind a supermarket, with the windows open to combat the heat from both weather and passion, and the unmistakable smell of decaying lettuce overpowering his date’s perfume.
As a university student, Hamel attended parties thrown off-campus with the regularity of others in his classes, met a few girls who were nice to him, enjoyed some moments of awkward groping while both he and his female companion of the evening were beer high.
His one completed copulation occurred in the first month of his freshmen year.
She was a senior. She’d met Hamel a few days previous in a student lounge, had both introduced herself and smoothly dominated the first thirty minutes of conversation. Then, airily, before heading to a class, she’d suggested a picnic lunch, in a somewhat secluded, park-like area of the campus, to celebrate Hamel’s arrival to the university.
The picnic and the coupling had happened in short order, the latter following closely after the former, with both taking less than forty minutes to complete. While she was rearranging herself, Hamel tried to do what he thought might be expected of him, and asked her if she would like to go to a movie the coming weekend. She turned to him, smiled slightly and said “No thanks – today was good enough.”
Hamel was not certain of all that was meant by this remark but perceived it, correctly, as a sign of dismissal.
He saw her again, two weeks later, talking to another freshman outside the football stadium. He’d waved slightly as he walked by; she did not wave back. They never spoke to each other again, even though Hamel saw her on campus from time to time.
He shook off the experience quickly and unemotionally, like shaking raindrops off an umbrella. He remembered her name, and what she looked like naked on a blanket under the trees, and not much else about her. He never spoke to anyone about the incident.
From Hamel’s point of view, there was nothing to tell. As his private, mental epitaph to the incident, he’d simply concluded that he did not know how to connect with “older” women, especially someone three class years ahead of him.
And now, facing the attractive librarian who was even older — by three or four years — than his picnic date, he was convinced of it. He could not think of a single thing to say. She saved him.
“Why is it, “ she asked him, “that you always come here by yourself? Most students seem to study with their friends, though I am not so sure,” she smiled, “that there is much quality academic work going on.” She paused and looked at Hamel with curiosity.
“Is that why you always come to this spot, to stay away from the other students?” Her voice had softened and Hamel felt uncomfortable, as if she were suddenly and unwillingly divulging his private thoughts. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I am not trying to pry. I just wondered.”
“I have friends,” Hamel said, then realized he had answered a question which she hadn’t asked. “Some friends,” he repeated.
“Oh, I wasn’t asking that,” said the librarian. “I’m sure you have some kind of a social circle — people you spend time with. But when you come to the library, you always come alone. And you always head straight for this spot. And I’m wondering,” she paused, and softened her voice. “I’m wondering if you come here to this out of the way study carrel so that you can concentrate on your work
or simply to avoid others.”
Showing posts with label Twitter Novels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Twitter Novels. Show all posts
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Secret Life of Hamel: August, 2009 Posts
It was not surprising, consequently, because Hamel liked to consider and often described himself as a committed pragmatist, that he decided to put his preoccupation with the lecture to good use: his philosophy paper would be based on peak experiences as they applied to the modern university student.
Hamel was sure that he could fill the paper with more than enough “insights” to earn a passing grade. As he continued his walk across the campus toward the library, Hamel began to consider how the paper might begin. His thoughts were interrupted by a friendly greeting from the librarian as he entered the building.
“Back again?” she said.
Her voice echoed slightly in the large open area of the library’s atrium. Hamel looked at her. She was maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven, not all that much older than the co-eds that Hamel knew from classes, the dining hall, or the occasional party that he attended.
Hamel nodded at the librarian without speaking, then turned to climb the steps to the third floor. He was heading for a small cluster of study carrels, located in a wing of the library that other students rarely visited. It was quiet there. On many occasions, Hamel worked in that location for two hours or more without ever seeing another student. Sometimes he would sneak in a quart of beer to drink while he forced himself to read assignments from weighty textbooks or write, painfully, to complete a required paper.
Hamel turned to the left as he reached the third floor, walked a narrow pathway between two imposing stacks of books, lifted his arms to unburden himself of his backpack. He sat at the nearest of the four study carrels, and burrowed into the backpack for class notes and writing materials. He pulled a spiral bound copy book from a side pouch, discovered a red ballpoint pen with a chewed cap, found his scribbled notations from the “peak experiences” class, placed all of them carefully on the top of the desk, leaned back, and stared.
Thirty minutes later, he was still staring, his mind wandering from one place to another, his thoughts drifting with the aimlessness of a page torn from a student notebook, blown across campus by little gusts of wind.
Her voice startled him; he had not heard her approach. “Hi,” she said, “The library will be closing in about fifteen minutes so I thought I’d come find you.”
Hamel looked up into the face of the librarian who had greeted him earlier. She was smiling at him, in a friendly way, and Hamel half-smiled back but did not know what to say. The librarian seemed to sense Hamel’s discomfort. “Every once in a while,” she added, “students fall asleep studying up here. And then I lock up and leave them. They can get out, of course, through the emergency exit but then Security is alerted. Which causes a big commotion.”
She smiled again. “I didn’t want that to happen to you.”
“Thank you,” Hamel said. “I wasn’t sleepy though. I was just thinking.” For the first time, even though he’d seen her on many occasions over the past few weeks, Hamel took notice of the woman standing near him. He observed those things that young men find interesting: a face that he categorized immediately as cute, not beautiful, with dark eyes and dimples that deepened with her smile; rich, brown hair that fell nicely in place, even after a day behind her desk, and perhaps longer than the styles worn by girls Hamel knew from around the campus; and an athletic body, apparent despite her appropriately conservative dark skirt and maroon sweater.
At this point in his life, while women were interesting to Hamel, they did not occupy much of his time. Unlike his few males friends, who always seemed to be moving from one female relationship into another, Hamel did not have a girlfriend. In fact, he'd never had one, not in grade school when liking a particular girl meant enduring endless whispering and giggling among said girl’s friends, and not in high school where girls Hamel liked took no notice of him, and those that were interested in him were,from Hamel’s perspective, dull or unattractive or silly.
Hamel was sure that he could fill the paper with more than enough “insights” to earn a passing grade. As he continued his walk across the campus toward the library, Hamel began to consider how the paper might begin. His thoughts were interrupted by a friendly greeting from the librarian as he entered the building.
“Back again?” she said.
Her voice echoed slightly in the large open area of the library’s atrium. Hamel looked at her. She was maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven, not all that much older than the co-eds that Hamel knew from classes, the dining hall, or the occasional party that he attended.
Hamel nodded at the librarian without speaking, then turned to climb the steps to the third floor. He was heading for a small cluster of study carrels, located in a wing of the library that other students rarely visited. It was quiet there. On many occasions, Hamel worked in that location for two hours or more without ever seeing another student. Sometimes he would sneak in a quart of beer to drink while he forced himself to read assignments from weighty textbooks or write, painfully, to complete a required paper.
Hamel turned to the left as he reached the third floor, walked a narrow pathway between two imposing stacks of books, lifted his arms to unburden himself of his backpack. He sat at the nearest of the four study carrels, and burrowed into the backpack for class notes and writing materials. He pulled a spiral bound copy book from a side pouch, discovered a red ballpoint pen with a chewed cap, found his scribbled notations from the “peak experiences” class, placed all of them carefully on the top of the desk, leaned back, and stared.
Thirty minutes later, he was still staring, his mind wandering from one place to another, his thoughts drifting with the aimlessness of a page torn from a student notebook, blown across campus by little gusts of wind.
Her voice startled him; he had not heard her approach. “Hi,” she said, “The library will be closing in about fifteen minutes so I thought I’d come find you.”
Hamel looked up into the face of the librarian who had greeted him earlier. She was smiling at him, in a friendly way, and Hamel half-smiled back but did not know what to say. The librarian seemed to sense Hamel’s discomfort. “Every once in a while,” she added, “students fall asleep studying up here. And then I lock up and leave them. They can get out, of course, through the emergency exit but then Security is alerted. Which causes a big commotion.”
She smiled again. “I didn’t want that to happen to you.”
“Thank you,” Hamel said. “I wasn’t sleepy though. I was just thinking.” For the first time, even though he’d seen her on many occasions over the past few weeks, Hamel took notice of the woman standing near him. He observed those things that young men find interesting: a face that he categorized immediately as cute, not beautiful, with dark eyes and dimples that deepened with her smile; rich, brown hair that fell nicely in place, even after a day behind her desk, and perhaps longer than the styles worn by girls Hamel knew from around the campus; and an athletic body, apparent despite her appropriately conservative dark skirt and maroon sweater.
At this point in his life, while women were interesting to Hamel, they did not occupy much of his time. Unlike his few males friends, who always seemed to be moving from one female relationship into another, Hamel did not have a girlfriend. In fact, he'd never had one, not in grade school when liking a particular girl meant enduring endless whispering and giggling among said girl’s friends, and not in high school where girls Hamel liked took no notice of him, and those that were interested in him were,from Hamel’s perspective, dull or unattractive or silly.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
The Secret Life of Hamel: June, 2009 Posts
Without knowing what she was looking for, Hamel’s wife scanned the area all around the bus stop. She saw nothing else out of place. She looked up the street in both directions, looked down again to where the coffee mug has been placed, shook her head slowly in confusion. Agitated, frustrated, Hamel’s wife turned and re-crossed the street toward the corner grocery, clutching the mug tightly in her hand. She knew, once she got home, that she’d call the police again and report her find. She was just as sure that it would be a waste of time.
CHAPTER TWO: 22 YEARS, 6 MONTHS, 1 DAY BEFORE HAMEL DISAPPEARED
It was a small, urban campus, in an economically declining section of the city. Academic buildings, once stately and imposing, looked tired in the early evening light, their outsides darkened by the exhaust of too many passing automobiles.
Here and there, walls of individual buildings showcased the talents of local graffiti artists. Iron bars covered first floor windows. Sidewalks were pitted and stained; most were spotted with ugly, black blotches, leave-behinds from a generation of mannerless, gum-chewing students.
Occasionally, in his walk from dormitory to library, Hamel would pass a skeleton tree, barren of leaves, or a concrete bench, cracked and crumbling from age.
For many students, February was a dismal, depressing time on the university campus; Hamel, typically, had little reaction to season or scenery. He walked across campus oblivious to them both.
Hamel’s mind was occupied with other things, principally a five-page philosophy paper due in two weeks and, as yet, not begun.
Hamel was, at best, an average student. He studied irregularly, as much from boredom as anything else. His grades, consequently, were unremarkable, consistent with the effort he applied, at odds with his considerable intelligence.
Hamel enjoyed reading, but his tastes were eclectic and rarely in line with the academic courses in which he was enrolled. His professors considered him to be something of a mystery. This was fine with Hamel. As long as his academic results were sufficient to maintain the financial support of his parents for his education, Hamel was unconcerned.
Occasionally, however, Hamel encountered a topic that piqued his interest. Recently, his professor in Ethics, a wild-eyed, wild-haired individual, with a degree from Cambridge, and an accent from Mississippi, presented a lecture entitled The Peak Experience Life: An Ethical Perspective.
Hamel did not understand why this teacher felt it necessary to title each of his lectures. It seemed a little pretentious, like his wearing academic robes to class and insisting that students address him as Doctor instead of his given name.
Most of the class thought the man bizarre; Hamel considered him a buffoon. Others complained about his poor teaching methods; Hamel simply ignored them. Since the course itself was of little interest to Hamel, the professor who taught it was, by default, insignificant. He was an easy grader and, therefore, neither a problem to be addressed nor an obstacle to be overcome. The professor was, in fact, so totally unimportant to him that Hamel would have had difficulty answering even the simplest of questions about the man. A fellow student once asked Hamel if he found the pronounced scar
CHAPTER TWO: 22 YEARS, 6 MONTHS, 1 DAY BEFORE HAMEL DISAPPEARED
It was a small, urban campus, in an economically declining section of the city. Academic buildings, once stately and imposing, looked tired in the early evening light, their outsides darkened by the exhaust of too many passing automobiles.
Here and there, walls of individual buildings showcased the talents of local graffiti artists. Iron bars covered first floor windows. Sidewalks were pitted and stained; most were spotted with ugly, black blotches, leave-behinds from a generation of mannerless, gum-chewing students.
Occasionally, in his walk from dormitory to library, Hamel would pass a skeleton tree, barren of leaves, or a concrete bench, cracked and crumbling from age.
For many students, February was a dismal, depressing time on the university campus; Hamel, typically, had little reaction to season or scenery. He walked across campus oblivious to them both.
Hamel’s mind was occupied with other things, principally a five-page philosophy paper due in two weeks and, as yet, not begun.
Hamel was, at best, an average student. He studied irregularly, as much from boredom as anything else. His grades, consequently, were unremarkable, consistent with the effort he applied, at odds with his considerable intelligence.
Hamel enjoyed reading, but his tastes were eclectic and rarely in line with the academic courses in which he was enrolled. His professors considered him to be something of a mystery. This was fine with Hamel. As long as his academic results were sufficient to maintain the financial support of his parents for his education, Hamel was unconcerned.
Occasionally, however, Hamel encountered a topic that piqued his interest. Recently, his professor in Ethics, a wild-eyed, wild-haired individual, with a degree from Cambridge, and an accent from Mississippi, presented a lecture entitled The Peak Experience Life: An Ethical Perspective.
Hamel did not understand why this teacher felt it necessary to title each of his lectures. It seemed a little pretentious, like his wearing academic robes to class and insisting that students address him as Doctor instead of his given name.
Most of the class thought the man bizarre; Hamel considered him a buffoon. Others complained about his poor teaching methods; Hamel simply ignored them. Since the course itself was of little interest to Hamel, the professor who taught it was, by default, insignificant. He was an easy grader and, therefore, neither a problem to be addressed nor an obstacle to be overcome. The professor was, in fact, so totally unimportant to him that Hamel would have had difficulty answering even the simplest of questions about the man. A fellow student once asked Hamel if he found the pronounced scar
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Monthly Recaps
Humor me here. Let's pretend that some reasonable number (let's say, five) of the 259 people who are ostensibly following The Secret Life of Hamel on Twitter are REALLY following The Secret Life of Hamel on Twitter. But then one of them gets the flu and does not go on the computer for a week. And another forgets to pay his/her Internet bill for a month. And two get so captivated watching Dancing with the Stars that they forget about Hamel for a while.
Don't these people deserve an easier way to catch up than reading updates in reverse order?
I agree. That's why I have decided to provide monthly recaps. (Also: this helps me remember what has been said so far.) So, look for the first recap sometime after April 1. And monthly recaps thereafter. For the next twelve and a half years.
Don't these people deserve an easier way to catch up than reading updates in reverse order?
I agree. That's why I have decided to provide monthly recaps. (Also: this helps me remember what has been said so far.) So, look for the first recap sometime after April 1. And monthly recaps thereafter. For the next twelve and a half years.
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