Filmore Smitts Surfs!

If Filmore Smitts was supposed to be overcome with gleeful contentedness, he was gravely under-performing in that category. Following his award for a lifetime’s achievement in analytical typography, he now stood at his apartment's wall-window looking out over the city of Los Angeles. His burgundy tie was loosened in a desperate, anti-suffocative manner, his white shirt sweated and wrinkled. Smitts, it could be said, was in a rut. It wasn’t as much that he thought his job mundane and meaningless, thus rendering his ‘lifetime achievement’ redundant, but more that he’d never had anyone to share any of this with – however bone-numbingly dry and colorless. Women, it seemed, had an incredible capacity of providing man with warm meaningfulness and worth when they cared, and stripping man of any worthwhile value and wholeness when they stopped. For Smitts, no woman ever really gave a crap. His closest friend and devoted companion – his pet parakeet Monseigneur Balzac – had increasing trouble with flights of consolation and heart-to-heart re-motivating, especially since going blind in the fall of eighty-two. With Balzac confined permanently to his cage, Smitts was rendered alone and lonely. The entails of his job, analyzing type-work and its evolution of usage in printed material of all kinds tended to alienate him from himself. Now here he stood, with an award for something that he got stuck with during a time he embraced anything that would remove him from people and interactions with them.

As a child Smitts was picked on sparingly by disgraced bullies or bored classmates; generally, however, he was ignored.  He loved a woman once, or so he thought. He was heading into his sophomore year at Brown when he ran into a Patricia Haggersback in front of the Maths and Sciences campus. There she was, glorious in her yellow carnation sundress, long brown hair, intellectual pair of glasses, holding her books so tight. Filmore hadn’t the slightest clue of how to approach this situation, so he choked up and stood at awkward attention watching as she walked by him, giving him a semi-concerned look, and continued on up the stairs to the main entrance. His eyes followed her journey completely, even glimpsing her glance backward as she approached the three-quarter point of the stair set. This, he figured, had to have meant something. Little did he know, she genuinely feared for her own well being with what appeared to be a potential lunatic present on campus. Ah, but what one doesn't know doesn't hurt. He was to watch her every time she entered his vicinity, and more often than not, even when she didn’t. He eventually learned she was majoring in biochemical engineering, and upon uncovering that piece of captivating information, he nearly wet his pants. As he continued his courses in typography, history of printing, etymology, and his personal favorite – graphology, their paths rarely crossed. That was until one day.

Filmore was seated on a bench in one of the quads eating a potato salad sandwich. Patricia, wandering about, decided to take a seat. He instantly recognized her, and, overcome with anxiety, went about his sandwich wide-eyed. Patricia took about thirty to forty-five seconds to recognize the bizarre man seated alongside. When she finally did, she decided to go ahead and see if he was, in fact, sane and well. Yes. He was doing alright. Of course he was! The woman of his dreams was sitting beside him making the simplified human exchanges known as "small-talk" with him. He then invited her for a cup of coffee, something he just had to do. With nothing else going on, she accepted. And so around the corner to Brown's Beans they headed. Over a coffee he fell deeper in love with this intelligent, passionate, empowered woman. She learned he was actually a completely harmless creature, terribly repressed by years of neglect. He seemed a bit boring, though, nonetheless. Following coffee the two agreed perhaps they'd meet up again sometime before the end of the week (today was Tuesday) and then parted ways. And so they did, meet around a quarter to five on Friday for some late lunch/early dinner at the cafeteria joint next to Brown’s Beans. The insight he was gaining into what women, in this case a most beautiful one, thought and feared and hated and loved was fascinating; more fascinating than a million individual typefaces or even the secret-laden handwritings of a thousand renaissance artists. She appreciated someone to talk to and to share her troubles with who was absolutely incapable of judgment. She knew he was listening, he adored her with those puppy eyes of his, and that suited her just fine. But most of his experiences were boring and his major was absolute varnish. Meetings came and went, mainly when Patricia was stressed or had no one else to meet with, but still - used or not, Filmore was living the ‘best days of his life’. He tried to open up a bit more; about his childhood in Wakosha, Oklahoma and his nurse mother who was never home at night, his traveling salesman father who was never home at all. He was raised primarily by a half-comatose grandmother and their Great Dane Peppito. He had an older sister who spent marginal amounts of time with him just until she was old enough to run off with boys and/or entice him into giving her various food snacks and the whole his allowances. Patricia grew bored of that talk quickly and happily refocused the attentions upon herself. The thing was, it seemed, she bizarrely enjoyed his company. For the first time, the man in front of her did not have to be dashing, smart, or good-looking for that matter, (Lord knows Filmore and his bespectacled, weak-chinned face was far from handsome) he just needed to know how to listen, and how to say what was necessary to make her feel better about herself. Filmore, via the vastly inferior personal experiences of his own, was just this man.

One grey and rainy spring day, Patricia asked Filmore if he wanted to catch the afternoon’s showing of that new Scorsese flick, 'Taxi Driver’. Not terribly big into films, he agreed anyway. What was to follow would haunt him for the rest of his days. The film itself was gruesome and excessively bold for his tastes, but he was enthralled, of that there was no denying. Patricia was captivated as well, but kept a more mature head on her shoulders. She was a self-proclaimed cinephile and tried to hit the movies at least once a week, workload allowing. This, however, was the first time he had been invited to come along, after six months of fellowship. He figured this was finally his ‘in’. Stake his claim he must. Whether this was the furthest thing appropriate from a date film mattered not. Two-thirds of the way through - approaching the climax - felt like the right time. Whether or not the screen was littered with vile, vicious, inhumane exchanges and displays of humanities shortcomings and follies, and just how these frames could potentially affect intimate encounters for a particularly cerebral woman like Patricia did not cross his mind. He was inexperienced and he was in love. He was also terribly counterintuitive. His hand moved for her leg, which she quickly ushered away with a distracted look of discontent and grievance. He continued moving forward and in for the kiss. As his lips approached the side of her mouth, a scene of most unfortunate events involving child prostitution and grisly murders was taking place. To say the least, Patricia was profoundly appalled. The events on screen finally managed to shock her sufficiently, and now learning of what her ‘friend’ was able to conjure up in his mind during such a significant lead up repulsed her outrageously. Following the film she attempted to leave on her own, with Filmore trying to present his case to their court of two. Safe to say, they weren’t going to the pictures together again anytime soon. Two weeks followed before their next true interaction. Filmore hoped things had blown over but the exchange was curt and unwelcoming. He once more tried agonisingly hard to make his long-harbored feelings known to her. Unfortunately for him, however, Patricia decided to take that very moment to brush the incident aside and, stepping all over his words, finally made her feelings known to him. She did not find him attractive, interesting, or appealing. She merely enjoyed his selfless commitment to doting on her and supporting her, emotionally, through whatever may have been niggling her at any given time. They could remain ‘friends’ if he so chose, but school was ending soon and anyway, she had begun seeing a WASP law major who played polo, drove a BMW, had a chiseled jaw and could charm the First Lady into a favor, sexual or otherwise.

Women were cruel, cold and calculating. He was hurt terribly and so engulfed himself in his exceptionally boring studies. This helped him excel academically, though it gravely hampered any potentialities of a healthy social life. High marks earned him a job at the Hall of Records in New York, where he settled into a one-bedroom apartment. Shortly thereafter he acquired Monseigneur Balzac. Shortly thereafter Balzac went blind. Shortly thereafter Filmore received a promotion, more responsibility and relocation to Los Angeles, a city he loathed (the smog, the 'hippies', the cars, the scandals). It seemed as though the quality of his work life and that of his personal life were mutually exclusive and despised each other passionately. Looking back now, out at the view from his relatively fine apartment, nothing seemed worth it. Who the hell was he? Fimore Smitts had to be the sorriest human being alive right now, in Los Angeles at least. He lived twenty-five minutes from the beach and yet knew not how to swim, let alone surf! (a hobby he grew to admire, from a distance of course). His skin remained as pale and pasty as the day he was born. Why did he sacrifice so much for no reason? All of this began to hit him now, but now he was fifty years old and knew not what may lie ahead of any substantial worth. He turned away from his balcony door and headed towards Balzac. Much to his mortification, Balzac lay flat on his side on the floor of his cage. Twenty-four years, he was a good bird. Grief-stricken, Filmore walked to his bar and poured himself a drink. He was not too familiar with the niceties of fine liquor and figured the best thing he had for this morose occasion was an ‘Imported Napoleon Brandy’, sounded sentimental enough. He knocked a glass back to Balzac, first and foremost. He knocked a glass back to Patricia Haggersback, for the hopes that she was unhappily married and probably the victim of some highly unfortunate affair of some sort. He knocked another one back to his Great Dane Peppito, the greatest companion a child could have hoped for. Finally an idea flowed in his head, bold and buoyant as a boat pressing on in stormy water. Hell his life was pretty stormy water at this point. Rethinking your entire life’s decision-making process at fifty was far from ideal, and far, far from shore. He stumbled his way to the balcony and opened it to the brisk autumn air. The air smelled fresh and nice, and the moon smiled at him it seemed. He guessed that must be a solid sign. 'Call it a game Filmore', he thought, 'you stayed in it longer than anyone would have expected.' With that he walked back to the bar and placed his glass down. He ran towards the balcony and leaped. The leap of liberation, he thought, nothing really mattered now. The air crisp, cool, and applauding. He didn’t see much in his mind - all the more appropriate, he figured. But with an abrupt thud he landed upon what felt like a needlish bed of furry bones. 'What in the hell just happened?' he thought to himself. The ‘79 Ford Ranchero of some landscapers continued down the canyon road, with a one Filmore Smitts entangled among the shrubbery in the back. At the bottom of the canyon, the intersection of Topanga and Ventura, he hopped off. The landscapers had no clue, he had no clue.

Torn and dirtied he headed down the strikingly luminescent valley boulevard. He couldn’t even escape this series of unfortunate events, he thought. That was until he reflected upon that liberating leap, the rush of the cool air, and the sudden thud of a chance unexpectedly thrown back at him. Here stood a man who thought he had nothing left going for him, leaped from his balcony and like a sunken pinball unknowingly on only it’s first life was re-holstered into the launcher. He could now do anything he wanted. It seemed it clearly wasn’t his time to go, he hadn't, actually, yet given this game all he had. So he walked on down the road. He walked until dawn. He walked until the stores opened. He purchased a new set of comfortable clothes - cotton shorts, linen shirts, mocassins. He walked into a barber and got himself a Travis Bickle haircut, because, well, screw it. He purchased a Great Dane named Peppito le Deux. He resigned from his job. He headed straight for the beach and learned to swim. He learned to surf! He tattooed Monseigneur Balzac across his back. Filmore Smitts was undefeated in pool at Barnacle Bill’s by the Beach. He was a burgeoning beer connoisseur and knew his bourbons from his ryes. He smiled, everyday.

Heading back from the water one sunny late afternoon, Peppito le Deux determinedly barked, pestered and grabbed the attention of a darling lady in a yellow sundress. Peppi sat next to her as she pet him endearingly, Filmore looked over politely if not skeptically. Her name was Sierra, she was a multi-instrumentalist in a local touring orchestra and she happened to have a growing fascination in graphology. She found his haircut appropriately audacious and commented on the cleverness of his tattoo, loving such a name for a pet. They went for dinner. She wanted to hear about his life and found him far from boring. He was shocked to be talking to someone who wanted to listen. Her enthusiasm for him was incomprehensible. He taught her to surf. She taught him clarinet. Not too long after she moved in. Not too long after they were married. Not too long after he stood on his balcony and breathed the brisk autumn air. The air smelled fresh and nice, the moon smiled at him it seemed. He walked over to his bar and poured himself a glass of his finer bourbon, some of his aged 'Woodford Reserve’. He knocked one back for Monseigneur Balzac. He knocked one back for Peppito le Deux. Hell, he knocked one back for himself, finally. He looked over at the bed where Sierra lay reading. She noticed and looked over at him; she smiled sweetly. With that he walked over to the bed and they made love. Smitts, it could be said, was certainly not in a rut.