John Halasz: How to Write a Novel . Net

Manuel looked up at the clock and murmured a string of curses from under his breath, the particularities of which were audible to him alone. He had to leave for work. This would be his fourteenth consecutive day working at the megamarket and he was, as always, working alone – midnight till noon. But he needed the money; he was taking some history courses through Tele Community College. He didn’t want to be a lifer at the megamarket. After earning his degree in history, he planned to attend the Federal Bureau of Language Academy. He had it all mapped out.

He left the table without a word and began the three-block walk to the subway station, his feet mechanically marching, his backpack bouncing on his shoulders, and his computer book on and in the palm of his hand. In the other hand was a lit cigarette and as he walked he read a few sentences, smoked, and intermittently glanced up at the crowded city streets.

The people, always the people, pressing, pushing, carrying you with them. There were just too many of them – in the air, on the sea, the land and in their tunnels, they bounced around each other, ziging and zaging up and around, intersecting and cutting back to avoid collision. When preoccupied, as was often the case, they would not focus on each other and the colors of faces blurred, became like the mixing of paints swirling into a new color. Red, white, black. Add a drop here, a squirt there, splash it around. Whala! Welcome to America.
Manuel too was not consciously aware of his surroundings; he was transfixed in his book: The History of the Universal Language Laws. He could have listened to the text, but he preferred reading. Furthermore, he did not want to give his brother the satisfaction of supporting his business. They seemed always to be arguing about something.

Manuel did not notice the cameras, which littered the city at every corner. Nor was he aware of their audio- and visual-language recognition devises. It did not matter. Like a grown elephant made helpless from years of heavy chains and failed escapes, Manuel had been contained, had given up. If only for the time being.

One thousand times a second the technologies scanned the crowded city streets, the eyes searching for foreign words, the ears distinguishing between hundreds of thousands of on-going dialogues. Differentiating among the word patterns, sounds and letter constructions of thousands of languages, the computers searched the citizens for texts – newspapers, books, magazines. Even the written word. Weather written in inc, crayon, pencil or blood, the enormous database could detect any non-English words. Foreign words, smuggled under the guise of a transporters, were equally susceptible to the FBL’s x-ray technologies, which could penetrate a briefcase, a pocket, a bag. Almost anything.

A perfect lip reader, the machines monitored the many citizens who, when in a state of emotion, found it impossible not to mouth their words. Out of nowhere a thought would pervade their mind. They would struggle to remember it and move their mouths, trying to recall the different elements of the scene, trying to sort through the various events. The Bureau’s technology would be there, monitoring any foreign words or sounds emitted from their mouths. All this was still a mystery to him.

Manuel walked throughout the sea of people, his head up and weaving throughout the pedestrians. Then down, absorbed in his reading and the people moving out of his way. He finished the chapter and scanned the summary: the counter productivity of a multi-lingual world; years of wasted energy learning other languages; the language of Shakespeare; the language with far more words than any other; easier to communicate. And something about it being easier to overcome prejudice.

“Boom!” Manuel bumped into a woman who had stopped to look up at the tall buildings, apparently an attempt to figure out where she was. She fell and Manuel helped her up. Her smile shined like the sun’s rays, cutting through the gloomy smog of the city and straight to Manuel’s heart. His body relaxed and his downcast eyes focused on the cracked sidewalk where her belongings lie: a purse, a map, and a computer watch, complete with Internet and cellular phone capabilities among other things. Similar to his.

Both sets of eyes focused more closely on the phone, their attention peeked by the deformed shape of its wrist unit. It was broken and she knelt down to assess the damage. “Cock sucker, mother fucker,” she said, shoving the cracked screen in front of Manuel’s face.

Manuel was taken aback by the young woman’s language. Not because he himself did not swear, but because the words sounded so foreign, so dirty coming from her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” he said, the two of them ducking into an alleyway and the people hustling by. “I would be more than happy to buy you a new one. I’m Manuel, what’s your name?”

The woman looked at Manuel, studied him. “Julie,” she said, pointing at her chest, “I can’t do my job without this. I have all my shit saved on here.” She tried to access her files, but they would not open. She squeezed the device together and pressed the telephone button, spoke into its microphone, “Headquarters.” It began to ring. “It’s me Babe,” Julie said to her boss, her husband. “Tell me you updated all the files, Hun.”
“Well yeah, why?”

“Some guy ran into me and I dropped my watch. I can’t access any of the files.”

“Great, she forgot my name already,” thought Manuel.

“No problem. I’m downloading them right now. I had a hunch you had run into some trouble.”

“You know me so well, hun. You’ll see me in a little bit”

“Sooner than you think,” he said, hanging up the phone.
Manuel asked, “Well how can I get a hold of you to repay you?”
Julie hesitated for a moment, read a few sentences on Manuel’s computer watch and extended a hand, which clenched a business card: Julie Featherton, Computer Programmer, Federal Bureau of Language, 555-9807. Manuel’s eyes bulged as he read this and noticed its authentic look. In the background, and taking up the entire card, was the FBL logo – a solitary eagle peering down on the world.

“How do I know you’re not going to just disappear and that I’m never going to see my money?”

“You’ll see me again.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she mouthed.

“Would you like to see my license?”

“Actually, yes.”

Manuel took out his license and she copied down the information, snickering at his photo. “It’s a bad picture, I know. I get paid next Friday,” he said, changing the subject. “It’s biweekly, so I’ll call you at work to arrange a meeting.”

“Why don’t you just email it?” she asked.

“Sure. If you’d prefer that.”

“Yes. It would be easier. It’s at 2001 Main Street. But before you go, do you know how to get there?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m going to Main Street right now if you’d like to come along. I work in the Megamarket.”

Julie nodded in agreement and they began to walk the final few blocks to the subway station. Manuel became more uncomfortable with each stride of silence. There were so many things he wanted to ask her about the FBL. But he couldn’t think of a clever way to bring them up. If he were online he would be himself, confident and at ease behind the anonymity of a computer screen. This, however, was one of those rare face-to-face encounters. After a few more minutes of silence, the atmosphere had become too intense and he forced himself to speak. “So, you’re a programmer at the Federal Bureau of Language, huh? W-w-w-what’s that entail?” he stammered.

“It’s mostly classified. But I do just what the job title states; I program many of the government’s computers. Jack, my boss, just tells me what function needs to be served and I make it happen.

“Hmmm. Sounds interesting. Is Jack the one you were talking with on your phone?”

“Yes.”

“It sounded like the two of you have an interesting relationship – business and personal I presume?”
“Strictly business.”

“Yeahmm,” he mumbled. “I’m planning to apply to the Academy after I graduate from Tele Community College.
I’ve wanted to work for the FBL as long as I can remember. In the technology field. Just as soon as I’m done with my history degree.”

“Yeah. Well, good luck,” she said.

Manuel and Julie approached the station and as they entered the turn-style, an elderly, unshaven man asked Manuel for some change. “Sorry,” Manuel said, “I’m broke. No, I wish I were broke; I’m in debt and going to be even more in debt once my school loans start.”

The man turned around before Manuel had even finished speaking and was asking the next person for money. He collected five dollars and asked another person.

“So, how come you don’t know how to get to your headquarters? First day?”

“No. First day at this location. I’d been working at the National Headquarters for about five years now, but there’s a greater demand in this part at the moment. But I really can’t tell you much more. I’ve already said too much.”

“I see. Well, it’s easy to get there. You just take the red line to Ogden St and then take the Green line to

Main. I’ll show you of course.”

Manuel and Julie stepped into the moving hallway, walked onto the down elevator and to the approaching subway. “Good timing, huh?” said Manuel.

Manuel weaved his body around the boarding passengers and entered the electromagnet subway car. Seeing two open seats side-by-side, he looked for Julie. She had not yet fought her way through the crowd, and the passengers were ogling the seats, hurrying toward them. Manuel raced toward the seats, sitting on one and throwing his backpack on the other, much to the dismay of the middle-aged man who sat down on it and jumped right back up, his briefcase flying into the air and his tightly-pinched tie flailing about. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see your stuff there.”

Julie had made her way over toward Manuel. “We’re in luck. Two open seats,” he said.
She sat down and they took in their surroundings, focusing on anyone and anything but each other. Observing the passenger’s idiosyncrasies, they carefully averted discovery by looking at the floor, the wall, the ceiling. One man clicked his finger nails, another bit his and spit them on the floor. An elderly woman rocked back and forth in her seat, tried to comfort herself. A young man, scarcely old enough to drink, balanced a beer on his knee and played a hand-held video game.

Julie and Manuel listened to the sounds of the subway. The electromagnetic track was silent as it whisked its passengers along, but there was the endless chatter, the words being spoken, often to one’s self and sometimes to another. To whomever they were spoken, they were spoken in English, and English alone, lest the cameras or the Bureau discover them.

It had only been thirty years since the laws had passed, and foreign languages had become a thing of the past. Left in the wake of change were foreign language teachers and international relations workers. Let alone culture, tolerance, and history. But few were conscious of their loss.

The subway slowed down. “We have to change lines at this stop,” Manuel said, and he stood up from his seat, which was filled before he had stood halfway. Several passengers gave signs of disapproval and Julie took her time exiting the cart.

“Come on,” Manuel said. He was being pushed away by the exiting passengers and he could not see Julie in the dense crowd. It cleared out a little bit as the passengers went to the connecting train, and Manuel searched some more. His frustration increased with each passing minute. Taking his hands off his hips, Manuel checked the time. Ten minutes before work.

Julie was gone and so too were any reasons to endure one of his boss’s rants. Manuel had been two minutes late last week and Mr. Gredy had made a tremendous fuss, his rhetorical question too much for Manuel to ignore: “Do you know what time it is Manuel?”

“Time for you to leave,” he countered.

“Get back here. I don’t appreciate your smug comments.”

“That’s okay, I’m used to not being appreciated.”

“Well, show up on time and maybe…”

Manuel cut him off. “I’ve been on time or early every day for the past three years, worked my ass off every minute and gone well beyond the duties of a stock-person. I’m late once and all that is erased. Where was the gratitude then? The appreciation?”

“Thanks. And get your ass here on time.”

Now the next train was approaching, and with this incident in his mind, Manuel walked briskly away, deciding to take the stairs rather than the tredporter, which would likely be congested at this time of the day. Frustrated and being pushed by passengers exiting the train, Manuel went to one of the connecting lines to the megamarket.