Novel

NOVEL

THE MAN WHO LOVES PROVO began his novel on a Monday--April 9, to be exact--1979, to be precise. But it could just as well have been 1996. Or December 11. Or a Wednesday. "Beginnings are often hard to pinpoint," the novel began. But he quickly scratched that out and started all over. This time by merely walking and talking.
As he walked, he spoke to no one in particular--but to everyone in general--his voice ringing out in the familiar mix of poly-syllabic textures that went nearly indecipherable by all those who passed. Par for the course.
By mid-day, as usual, Lulu Toast came walking by in the opposite direction. As usual, she stopped, joined him silently for a block and a half until her consciousness kicked into his. That done, she began her questions:
"What would you say is the focus of your novel? Character? Theme? Style? Or what?"
The Man Who Loves Provo began whistling.
"But there are some who say that the modern novel is dead," she replied. "You seem to be countering that argument. Where would you place yourself on the scale of history--literary history, that is?"
Lulu had never seen the Man Who Loves Provo use a yo-yo before, but she walked along hurriedly as he took his out and began spinning tricks along the sidewalk: around the world, walkin' the dog, the daring young man on the flying trapeze.
"I see; I see," she said. For the next little while, they spoke not in words, but just proceeded on their walk down the street, turning a corner, continuing a ways more before stopping at a street-light.
The Man Who Loves Provo put the yo-yo away, took out a marble from his pocket, and rolled it along the gutter. It stopped at a place where the water and dirt made a little pool of mud.
The street-light changed.
Lulu began whistling. The Man Who Loves Provo took out a sheet of paper--eight-and-a-half by eleven--folded it into an airplane, and sent it sailing. Lulu scratched an itch on her cheek, an itch she could have kept secret. The Man Who Loves Provo looked up at the blue sky, toward the yellow sun. Lulu smiled. The Man Who Loves Provo listened for crickets. Lulu combed her hair.
"Listen," said The Man Who Loves Provo, "I can do anything in my novel. Anything!" He paused, waiting for a response. Agitated, he took a breath. "Do you understand that?" Sweat appeared at his hairline; it crept down the creases of his face.
Lulu's eyes turned from blue to green to blue again.
The Man Who Loves Provo taught by example: "Imagine a cup, a paper cup, a twelve-ounce paper cup. It's on the sidewalk. It is full of water. There is a man on the front porch of a house. He is a big man, two hundred pounds. He sees the cup on the sidewalk. He goes inside the house. He walks up the stairs inside the house. He opens the window on the second floor of the house. He climbs through the window. He stands on the window sill, balancing himself, one hand holding the upper window sill. He looks down at the cup. He takes a deep breath. He jumps. He lands right in the middle of the cup, splashing all the water out of it. He pulls his bulk out of the cup. His shirt and pants are soaked. His hair is wet. He bends his head, taps it with a right hand, shakes the water out of his ears. He burps, and a bee flies out of his mouth; then a humming bird; then an ostrich; then. . . ." The Man Who Loves Provo ends his speech.
Lulu Toast is astonished. "How can he do that?" she says.
The Man Who Loves Provo looks her in the eye. He is about to speak, thinks better of it, but then thinks again. "Use your imagination," he growls, impatiently.