The Lost Scene

Did it Melt Like the Cake in MacArthur Park?

Well, this is embarrassing. Once you’ve read to the end, you’ll know what I mean.

As I was editing Confronting Fate, I found a good place for a “call back”—IOW, referring back to a previous theme, motif, or metaphor. Think of Back to the Future—it’s got some call backs. I don’t mean the overt plot-crucial stuff like the broken clock tower, or the comedic bits like Uncle Joey the jailbird who only feels comfortable behind bars (of his crib, when he’s a baby). More like Marty’s fear of someone telling him his music “is no good” paralleling his young father’s fear that someone might say his writing efforts were no good.

I was hunting for typos and other mistakes when I came to a part that gave me an idea. “Hey, this would be a good place for a call back to that scene by the hockey pond! It would tie the scenes together thematically.” To ensure I used an exact phrase from that previous scene, I stopped what I was doing and opened up the file for Resisting Fate, where I was sure the scene must be.

To the extent that I’m known as an author, I’m known for my action scenes and character dynamics. It’s the action that tends to sell books, so when I tease out excerpts, it’s usually from my action sequences. But I also write some scenes that are lyrical, cerebral, and/or literary. “Lyrical, cerebral, and/or literary” sounds a lot better than “artsy-fartsy.”

Anyway, for the scene in question, Ike was strolling through a light Bloomington snow toward a frozen pond he used to play hockey on with other kids, reflecting on his girl troubles and considering his options in light of some advice on life paths Uncle Si had given him back in junior high. (Aha—another call back!) He’s pondering “forks in the road of life” and, when he reaches the pond, skate marks on the ice become metaphors for opportunities, memories, and other “moments in time.” It was brilliant! (“Brilliant” sounds better than “artsy-fartsy,” too. Anyway, I liked the scene.)

I couldn’t find it. What? After spending a lot of time looking for the scene, I thought, “Maybe it was in an earlier book.”

I’ve always been a little absent-minded, but my memory’s been getting bad enough lately that it scares me. Not remembering where I put a specific scene is kind of a big deal.

I opened the file for Provoking Fate and spent Quite a while searching there. Danged if I couldn’t find it there, either.

Sad, scared (about my mental faculties) and frustrated, I opened the file for Defying Fate. It had to be there. That was the earliest possible point that Ike would be souring on his relationship with Holly, and therefore be focusing his introspection on such philosophical musings.

I couldn’t find it there.

All this took a lot of precious time, by-the-way. I spent even more time going back over the last four books in the series and searching again. Word and Libre Office both have a way to search for specific text. I plugged in “Asian,” “pond,” “skate marks” and other words/phrases I remembered using. No luck at all.

In disbelief, I spent even more time triple-checking for the scene.

Eventually, I had to accept the fact that the scene was gone.

Maybe I overwrote a newer draft of the manuscript with an older draft that didn’t have it. I’ve done stupid stuff like that.

Maybe I accidentally deleted the scene. I was horrified at the thought. I rarely do something that stupid. But when using a laptop with a touchpad, sometimes while typing away, random text will get selected somehow, then deleted with my next keystroke. I watch the keys instead of the screen while I type (bad habit, I know) so this has happened before. I usually plug in a mouse so this won’t happen, but maybe I didn’t do it one time and that scene was what got selected, then deleted. Then, oblivious, I clicked “save” and it was lost forever.

The worst possibility was that I never actually wrote it. Like, I planned it out in my mind while driving, working, or whatever, then I became delusional and thought I had actually done it—not just thought about it. That was a terrifying possibility, but as bad as my memory is, it’s never failed me that badly. I didn’t believe that was it…but the possibility still couldn’t be completely dismissed, given I remembered writing something that evidently didn’t exist.

Fellow creative people probably have an idea what it’s like to lose something you created, and know why I agonized over this so deeply. “It took so long to bake it, and I’ll never find that recipe again.” (Chuck Berry suffered the same phenomenon with some of his songs. You can probably find his rare version of “Memphis, Tennesee” on Youtube these days, that had far better lyrics and music than the “standard” version most Boomers and Silents heard—which I’m absolutely positive you can find on Youtube.) It’s worse than trying to “reinvent the wheel,” trying to duplicate a creative work later. The same muse won’t return to whisper in your ear the same words in the same order with the same flow and nuance. It’s kind of like your pet puppy getting run over by a truck.

Book 1-5 were published, and were missing the scene. Book 6 was not yet published. Yes, I searched that file, too, in case you were curious.

Finally, after cussing myself quite a bit, I set out to write the scene again. I decided to put it in Confronting Fate, after Ike’s euphoric high from his accomplishment in football is dampened by Holly’s drug-fueled drama. Here is my re-creation of the scene:

While Holly was on an acid trip one evening, I took a drive around Bloomington. The streets and sidewalks had been plowed, but a few inches of snow covered nearly everything else. It reminded me of the Christmases Dad and I used to spend here.

What good times those were.

I parked at the Woolworth Store and began to wander on foot.

A gentle snow fell over the town. As I moved through the light, sporadic foot traffic, I felt the Big Spooky hovering over what would otherwise have been a pleasant, tranquil atmosphere. It served as a reminder that this was the post-JFK assassination world, and the benevolence of postwar America was likely lost forever.

A Tier Three redhead, window shopping at a clothing store, flashed me a smile. Later, a blonde (who might have been Tier One without the pixie haircut and all the hippie regalia) coming out of the Sears & Roebuck looked me up-and-down, scowling. This reminded me of the stress and drama that would inevitably engulf me when Holly's latest trip was over.

I had just been a part of something great. I led my team to an accomplishment that would be remembered long after we all died. In this timestream, anyway. But rather than reveling in the euphoria, I was unhappy and dreading the hours, days, weeks and months ahead.

I remembered back when Dad lectured me about life paths, as we sat in the car outside Carson Junior High and I prepared to begin my new life. His advice then was golden, though I didn't really think that much of it at the time.

Holly had been sweet, and intelligent, and fun to spend time with. But when I got romantically involved with her, that took my life onto a fork in the road that led me to here and now, where I should have been as ecstatic as the Beatles after their first American tour, but was instead dreading what lay ahead.

In order to play football, or go racing, or flying, or time traveling, or anything I loved, it would require a major emotional struggle with her, first. And then I wouldn't be able to fully enjoy whatever I did, because I knew when I returned to her, she would use her every emotional weapon to make me suffer for it. Even if I didn't go do something I enjoyed, she would punish me for not conforming to the image of what she thought I should do, think, believe, and be. Her attempts to change me (with the exception of my emotional state) had all failed, and she sought revenge for that, too. She was like a Jekyll/Hyde. The sweet, intelligent, fun Dr. Jekyll lured me in (and, in decreasing frequency, still made occasional appearances). But Ms. Hyde was who lived under the same roof with me most of the time.

My feet, or subconscious, took me out of the downtown area along a path that led to the pond where I used to play hockey as a kid. Sidewalks lined the street, now.

I had fallen into a trap much like my doppelgänger had, by grabbing the low-hanging fruit. He settled for an aggressive woman who pursued him, rather than put in enough effort to seek and win a woman who would have made a better fit. But he suffered low self-esteem. I had no such excuse for entangling myself with Holly.

Life went so much smoother without romantic involvements. Why, then, was I always finding new plates to spin? Was it instincts? Hormones? That initial, euphoric rush of a new romance always eventually gave way to a decline and break-up—some uglier than others. I could admit to myself that some, perhaps most, were largely my fault.

After Susan way back when, I had never trusted the concept of "happy ever after" and white picket fences, but I guess I still harbored hope for that ideal down deep inside. Madalina caused me to overtly entertain it as a possibility, but that romance crashed and burned, too—in the worst way.

Could I swear off all women and just keep to myself? Theoretically, yes. And I could accomplish a lot more goals in life, that way, without the drama and distraction. But those damn primordial urges would either drive me nuts or persuade me to start spinning plates again, sooner or later.

Besides, I was stuck with Holly. She claimed to love me, and to not want anybody else. How could I dump her? It would devastate her, the way Susan devastated me.

A figure appeared through the falling snow, blocks ahead, moving toward me on the same  sidewalk. I took an interest despite myself because, though I couldn't distinguish many details at that range, it was obvious from the form and locomotion that the figure was female.

That same old primordial instinct was rising up again.

Every single spinning plate had eventually fallen and crashed, yet I was always on the lookout for one that would keep spinning in perpetuity.

I kept walking. The woman kept walking. She had black hair in a shoulder-length bob. She wore a belted cream-colored overcoat that extended down almost to the ankles.

What I should do, I told myself, is not look at her. I should focus my gaze ahead, but past her, for a couple reasons.

One: the country was changing for the worse since the JFK assassination. Places like Bloomington were still mostly safe for a woman to walk alone at night. Mostly. But big cities like Minneapolis, not too far away, were decaying steadily. Former safe middle class neighborhoods were becoming slums and every woman by now had heard horror stories about the sick, dangerous predators who targeted lone women in urban jungles. So I could avoid making her nervous by just walking by as if I didn't have any interest in her.

Two: the more I looked, the more interested I might become. But I was with Holly. We lived together.

Despite what logic dictated, I looked.

As we drew closer, her features came into focus. She was a young Asian woman. Tier Two at least, even bundled up for winter. She was dressed modestly, including knitted mittens, and striding purposefully as if she had somewhere to be on a strict timetable. But her haste and conservative dress didn't completely hide the mesmerizing feminine swing of her hips.

I didn't know where she was coming from or going to, or why, but my mind sped along at light speed. Was she Korean? Vietnamese? Burmese? Thai? Chinese? Japanese? Was she an immigrant, or US Citizen? Did she speak English? How did she come to be in Bloomington? Did she have a job, or was she still living with her parents? Was she married? Was her marriage arranged? If single, did she have a boyfriend?

The closer we drew, the prettier her face became. She noticed me staring, and looked away.

Pathways.

This sidewalk, this path, was bringing us into close proximity, at least for a moment. Literally.

In a figurative sense, this was a potential fork in the road.

What if I smiled and greeted her—would she respond? If my game was tight, could I initiate a conversation? Would she give me her number? Go out with me—even just for coffee? Would we hit it off? Would I get a second date? Would we become intimate? Would our romance last longer and end better than all the others? Or would it end at all? Maybe she was "the one" and we would stay together permanently, have kids, move on to white picket fences.

Those were a whole lot of forks in the road. Each one could potentially put me on a path that led to happiness, or regret. They could lead me to somewhere worse than I was now. They could lead me to something great. Or it could lead somewhere between those extremes.

The distance between us closed to 20 yards. I had only a few seconds to either take the turn, or maintain my current heading. And once this fork in the road was behind me, the opportunity would probably be lost, permanently. Excepting some twist of fate, we would never cross paths again—leaving me to eternally wonder if she might have been "the one."

Even at my current age, I was still embarrassed at how I assumed Gloria, then Susan, respectively, was "the one." I came close to feeling that way about Juanita. I did start thinking that way about Madalina...and maybe she was, in fact, "the one." But Fate took her and our baby from me, regardless. There were times when the question occurred to me: was Holly "the one?"

The thought hadn't occurred to me since Woodstock.

But still, I was with Holly. If I began spinning another plate at these coordinates, they both might find out about each other. Then what?

Nothing I wanted to deal with.

An image of Mona Lisa flashed in my mind. Ever faithful. Ever hopeful. Solid as a rock. Never asking anything from me but to accept her love.

Was it love? Did love even exist outside popular song lyrics and greeting cards? Well, I didn't doubt Niki's sincerity at all. She believed she loved me, and she was never wrong about what was in a person's mind...or "heart." If there was ever a leading candidate for "the one," it was her. Why had I kept her at arm's length? Why had I not taken what she freely offered?

The lovely Asian woman folded her arms and looked away again after a furtive glance at my face. She appeared apprehensive, if not fearful. No doubt she wondered if I was a rapist or serial killer—or some other flavor of bad news. Her vulnerability elevated her to Top Tier, and made me want to offer her my protection.

Let me walk you home, Beautiful. Take my arm, and I'll watch out for you. I won't let any rapist, any serial killer, any big bad wolf get near you.

There were now only 12 feet between us. Then seven feet. Then we were at the ideal distance for me to smile and tell her something that could prompt her to stop and talk to me—just as I had done upon first seeing Juanita. My face muscles began pulling into a smile.

I shifted my gaze forward, past her, and kept walking. We passed by and I caught a mild fragrance of flowers. Perfumed soap or shampoo, perhaps. I grimaced, cursed silently, and kept walking.

I missed that turn. That alternate path was now behind me. Probably for forever. The contours of her face were burned into my memory, though, and I cursed myself for opportunity lost.

I continued walking until I reached the pond. Surprisingly, no kids were playing hockey. Nobody of any age was there skating, or doing anything else. It was just me, the pond, and the downward-meandering snowflakes.

The crude wood-frame goals were still there, much worse for wear than I remembered. The pond was much smaller than I remembered, too.

I trudged through the snow right up to the edge of the pond and examined the ice. There were thousands of skate marks crisscrossing the surface. None of them were mine and Holly's. I hadn't taken her here to skate, for some reason.

Each of those marks represented a moment in time. Some were no doubt left during neighborhood hockey games. Some left from just skating around for recreation, as part of a social gathering. Maybe some were left by couples on dates. Or boys and girls who hadn't dated yet, but wanted to. Maybe some of those marks were left by boys who stoked up their courage, stopped in front of their crush, and asked her out. Maybe the girls wanted him to, and accepted the offer. All kinds of moments might have happened on the pond—some mundane, some momentous. Some of those moments might endure in the memories of those who lived them, for the rest of their lives. Those people could probably describe everything about some of those moments, in vivid detail.

All I could see was skate marks on the ice. Come spring, the ice would melt and the physical record of those moments would be lost forever.

Lost forever, just like the raven-haired beauty I passed on the sidewalk I didn't smile at or talk to. Just like all the forks in the road of life I had, or would, pass by with my gaze focused straight ahead. Or all the turns I did or would take, but shouldn't have.

Fast forward to after Confronting Fate is launched. I reassemble all the books of the series for a digital “box set” and, possibly, a harbound compendium. I’m using Kindle Create to format this huge monster, but I keep getting drawn into the text and find myself reading, recreationally. (Even though I’m the one who wrote it, that happens. I wrote a book I would enjoy reading, after all.)

As just such is happening…I come across the missing scene!

It’s there!

It’s not lost—just misplaced!

Remember when I said Defying Fate was the earliest possible book I could have put the scene in? You don’t? Well, then, you have no right to judge me. So nyah-nyah.

It’s there in Rebooting Fate, right before Ike’s first break-up with Holly. Here’s how it reads:

I took a walk through town by myself one afternoon while Holly was at work. Bloomington was even stranger by then. The Big Spooky was stronger. Young adults not only had angry, cynical attitudes, but they looked different, too. Young men were growing their hair out down past their ears—some down to their shoulders. Young men's and women's clothing fashions were changing, too. Both wore skin-tight jeans. Tee shirts were multicolored in weird patterns. Guys wore normal shirts unbuttoned down to their chests in warm weather. Some girls went without brassieres, and the outline of their nipples were visible. I saw older kids smoking joints in public places now and then, and realized that the culture was transforming into the one I was born into.

America was changing its path.

I passed a lot of window-shoppers as I walked through the falling snow that day. A Tier Three girl smiled at me as we passed. A Top Tier girl gave me the Female Glare of Guarded Evaluation. I entered a residential area, strolling toward the pond where I had learned to play hockey. Some 400 yards away, a figure walked toward me on the same sidewalk. Obviously a female. It made me think of Madelina, even though the hair was black.

The distance gradually closed between us. She wore a long coat—like a fur-lined trenchcoat. The black hair was cut in a shoulder-length bob.

Closer now. Under the coat, from what I could tell, she was dressed conservatively—not the wild, slobby style that was becoming so common with everyone else. She was short and petite, with an understated, natural swing of the hips. Not wide enough to be overtly sexy; but still a charming locomotion.

I wondered if I should avert my gaze. If we were near my native coordinates, she would have good reason to be leery of strange men. Maybe it was getting that way here and now, too. I didn't want to make her nervous; but my curiosity won out and I continued watching her as the distance closed.

Now close enough to make out all the details, it was obvious she was a very attractive Asian woman—probably in her early 20s. I placed her at Tier Two, from what I could see. As she walked, she crossed her arms. She had an air of vulnerability and insecurity that I found beautiful in a woman. As we came within five yards, she glanced up at me with nervous apprehension and possibly a little fear.

Dad could make surprisingly accurate deductions about people with no more information than what I knew about this woman. Maybe I was getting better at it, too. I just knew this woman was a great catch. Something about her screamed it at me. She would be faithful. She would be loyal. If she was affectionate on top of that, then she was mate material.

I wanted to smile at her and say hi. Could I strike up a conversation with her? Could I put her at ease? Could I get her to agree to walk with me? Could I convince her to go into one of those little shops in town and have a coffee or sandwich with me? Would she open up? Would we hit it off? Would she go out with me on a serious date? Would we be compatible? Would we be happy together? Each of those variables occurred to me as we passed. And finding out the answers would be worth the risk of rejection, I thought.

But I was already spinning a plate right here in this same time and place. I walked right past her. All those questions became moot. We would probably never meet again. All those opportunities were lost forever.

I remembered Dad's advice on my first day at Carson Junior High, and began pondering the life path I was on. Just today, I had passed several potential forks in the road. The girl who smiled at me was one. The girl who gave me the FGGE (Female Glare of Guarded Evaluation) was one. The nervous Asian woman was one. And Holly's ambush with the mistletoe had been one, putting me on the path I walked now.

Had I chosen the right one? Had I missed a better one? Had I dodged a bullet because one of the girls I saw today would turn out to be like Susan was at the end?

And then there were other entire networks of paths at the other coordinates I frequented.

The pond was unoccupied when I reached it. Strange—kids should be out of school. I walked up to the edge of the pond and looked at all the marks left by skates. There was a philosophical metaphor in that, I figured. Those marks were made during a game, probably. A moment in time. A moment that was enjoyed by some. Full of excitement and hope for some. Maybe for some it was a bad memory for whatever reason. But whatever people were there left their mark in the ice. The people were gone now. Life had turned the page and that moment of time was now past. There was no going back and reliving it—just like there was no going back for me and getting a second chance to take any of those forks in the road I had passed by. Time is like a river. Its movement might be perceived as fast or slow; but the movement could not be stopped. And by the spring thaw at the latest, all those skate marks in the ice would be gone forever. No record would be left of what happened during a moment in time.

My first thought was: “You idiot. Didn’t you check for the scene in Book 2?”

Apparently, I didn’t. Rebooting Fate was where Ike met Holly. Way too early for that scene…ahem.

My second thought was: “I re-created that scene for nothing!”

My third thought was: “Alternate verbiage notwithstanding, I have the same scene in the series twice.”

I wonder if readers groaned when they read it the second time, like I groan when I catch Gilbert Morris recycling the same scene in different books? Or do they just chalk it up to some old fart repeating himself unnecessarily?

What to do, now?

Well, I think the scene fits better in the final book than where I had it. So I keep the one in Confronting, delete the one in Rebooting. Feel free to laugh, because I can’t remember if I re-uploaded the edited version of the latter. I have it corrected in the Box Set, but don’t think I did it with that individual novel. Gotta check, but it’s gonna take a while because my desktop (where I have the updated files, of course) is inaccessible at the moment.

I took the two versions of that scene and tried to merge the best elements of both. When everything is re-formatted and re-uploaded, the hybrid should be all that’s left.

Hey, thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed my dementia and my artsy-fartsy prose.

BTW, if you’ve read one or more of my books and like them, please consider rating/reviewing. Especially Resisting Fate. For whatever reason, it’s only got one rating—and a 3-star at that—which is a death-knell for a book on Amazon.