Mason Bugs the Shit Out of Me Sometimes, But He Does Believe in Things Happening

Mason and I pass through the black door into the smoky underground. Violet and the band are already playing, Violet shaking her guitar and singing eyes-closed into the mic, a crowd of happily-obsessed boys and girls swaying in front of her.

"Of course most of it is bullshit," Mason is saying as we walk to the bar, "but most of everything is bullshit, Mike. Ninety-five percent of all the great scenes throughout history have been bullshit, but with that five percent of real genius that comes shining through and can't be ignored. Two Guinnesses?" he says to the bartender, holding up fingers. "And Chicago, right now, has that five percent. Easily. Which is why I say we have the capacity to be thought of as one of the great scenes of modern literature in the future."

"Yeah, but..." I pause. I pick up my beer. "But."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know. Doesn't that happen everywhere? Seattle's got a scene. San Francisco's got a scene. Madison, Wisconsin's probably got a scene, for fuck's sake. There's nothing special about a group of writers who get together in some city, at some specific time, and whose work influences each other. What makes this a great scene?"

"One word, Mike," Mason says, holding a finger up in the air and pausing. "Documentation." This makes me laugh, and Mason says, "No, I'm serious. What's the one thing in common with all the legendary scenes in history? The beats, Anne Sexton's little crowd, the dadaists, anybody you can point to? Their exploits and work were fully documented, by either the artists themselves or an outside party. Would the beat generation have become legendary if it didn't have 'Howl' and 'The Subterraneans?' Maybe." He takes a drink. "But not fucking likely."

I laugh and say, "Okay, so all we need is to find someone willing to walk around and recognize what geniuses we are and write our biographies."

"Ah, it's a self-fulfilling prophecy," Mason says, shaking his hand at me. "The simple act of writing about a scene makes it a scene. A 'Scene,'" he says, quoting the air with his fingers. "And whatever's written about in the scene becomes The Scene, and whatever's left out is officially not a part of The Scene. I mean, look at this," he says, pointing at the stage. "Here we are at Knee Jerk, watching Violet pour away on the stage. Just another Sunday night to us, right? And she's just one of the... what, fifty? Sixty artists in Chicago we know right now? But if you write about this night in a book, or I write a poem about this night, if we go on and on about how talented and beautiful Violet is..."

"Yeah..." I sigh, staring at Violet.

"Yeah, well... hey Mike," he says, snapping his fingers. I awaken out of my daze and turn back to him and he continues. "We write about Violet and how important to the scene she was, and we don't write about... say, Travis. So then thirty years from now when Chicago, mid-90s, has become A Scene and they're reading our documentation, Violet will now forever be known as a mover and a shaker of that Scene. And Travis... well, Travis will be forgotten. A minor fringe part of the Scene, no matter how important he is now to our lives."

Mason takes another drink, continues. "It's all about having the right attitude. If you consider what's going on as something important, and you write your work with that attitude, then everyone else will think of it as something important and they'll treat it as something important. And suddenly it becomes important. The key is all in documentation, my friend."

The band ends their set, leaves the stage to get some drinks. I say, "Don't you think that's kind of pretentious? All of us sitting around writing stories about how important our scene is and how everyone else should be paying attention?"

"Of course it's pretentious!" Mason yells. "The very act of writing is pretentious! What are we really doing when we write something? We're publicly saying, 'Here, what I'm saying, what I'm saying right here is something important, I think. I think it's important enough to write down, and it's important enough for the rest of the world to buy and read.' That's the first thing any professional artist has to come to grips with, the incredibly pretentious attitude behind our behavior." He takes a drink of his beer. "The quest for Scene status is nothing less than a quest for immortality itself. That's just human. Everyone wants to be remembered beyond their years in this mortal coil. Most people have children to solve this quest. We artists write our stories. And we pray that people will still want to read them long after we're gone."

"Hey guys." Violet suddenly shows up from out of nowhere.

We both turn. "Hi Violet," we both utter in sing-song unison.

"Glad you could make it."

"We love you, Violet," Mason says. "We wouldn't miss it."

"We love you, we really really do," I add.

She looks at us, smiles, shakes her head. "You guys are dorks, you know that?" Mason and I look at each other questioningly, then both silently nod our heads.

"I'll see you later. Stick around."

"Yes, Violet," we both say in unison again. We watch in silence as she walks away. After a long moment of silence I say, "Maybe I will write about Violet."

"Yes," he says, still watching her. "Yes, Violet deserves to be immortal. You'll put me in the story, I hope? I want to be immortal too."

"Sure, what the hell," I say. "What do you want your name to be?"

Mason looks up into the air, ponders. "Seth," he finally says. "Seth, why not? That's a cool name. Makes me think of cardigan-wearing band members and zine editors with an obsession for four-square."

"Seth it is," I say.

"Look," Mason says, leaning in and quieting his voice. "I know this is a fun little bullshit repartee we're having here. No one's ever going to pay attention to us. You know that. I know that." He looks into his pint glass. "But I really do believe that things are happening here, right now, right this moment. I think there's things happening in Chicago that are important, and special, and maybe not happening anywhere else in the country right now." He shrugs.

"Yeah," I say, shaking my head. "I know. I feel like that too."

"Another beer?" he asks, shaking his empty glass.

"Yeah."

"Alright." He takes the glasses and walks off to the bar. I just stand and watch Violet strapping her guitar back on, thinking about what I'm going to change her name to in my story.

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Copyright 1998, Jason Pettus. All rights reserved.