joshua sorenson
the empathy lecture
a death wish kind of day
The air is full of fake-deep takes. Everyone has to weigh in, give their two cents, let everyone else know what they think it’s “all about”. Then there’s the film-bro down the front trying to refund everyone’s opinion, interrupting as often as he can with an ‘Um, actually—'. The lecturer has tried to stop him, but this is Pulp Fiction we’re talking about. People like him were born believing they know everything about it.
‘Um, actually, I like the dance scene because it shows us that there are layers to Mia Wallace and Vincent Vega.’
‘Um, actually, they show different parts because that’s what’s important to the character.’
‘Um, actually—’
You read a film blog. Gold star. Who cares what you think? You haven’t showered in three days.
I take out my phone and message a friend:
shit lecture kms
The “kms” practically inserts itself. Some people end every message with “lol” or “haha”. I end mine with “kms”. It drives everyone nuts. Claire hates it the most. She’s sitting down the front. Wedged between Mr. ‘Um, actually’ and someone anonymous who she’s having a little too much fun with. The last time we didn’t sit together in a lecture I didn’t know her name.
I never type “kms” with suicidal intent. I’ve promised everyone, especially Claire, that it’s not a threat, just a way to cope. Vincent Vega stands unfazed in a hellfire of bullets; I make light with a cheeky “kms”.
Spilled coffee on my top? “kms”.
The bus is late? “kms”.
Sent a stupid text, digging up the corpse of a long-dead relationship again? The message starts “claire you wont believe what ive done…”, I insert remorse in the middle somewhere before rounding it out with “kms”. Claire doesn’t reply. Claire doesn’t sit with me in the lecture.
My friend messages back:
That sucks
Can u not say kms tho?
The lecturer tries to reassert control. ‘Let’s unpack that line, “I’m trying real hard to be the shepherd”. What do you make of it?’
Someone offers their opinion. Right on schedule, the rebuttal arrives, ‘Um, actually—’.
I type a tongue-in-cheek “kms”.
‘It’s the theme of the movie’, Claire interrupts. My finger hovers over the send button. ‘Vincent doesn’t see anything as important. Because of that he never reacts, and that means he never changes. So, he dies. Jules does react. At the start, he takes a life and at the end, he spares one. He changes.’
My finger shifts from the send button to the delete button.
I open up my chat with Claire. I send:
sorry
the anger equation
How does her mouth make that shape? There is no scientific explanation for that expression. Muscles are not meant to operate like that, surely. I take out one of my graph paper notebooks.
Click. I put my pen against paper and trace the trajectory of the lecturer’s expression. Up, across and over, down. A perfect arch. Click.
The lecturer tries to start a discussion— about what? I don’t care, I should never have chosen film studies as an elective. Before she can get a full sentence out a menace— let’s call him Asshole— interrupts. The lecturer’s lips tighten.
Click. I write up a quick equation. Asshole is still talking. Click.
y=1/20 x^2.
The mathematical equation for her impossible expression.
The lecturer tries to regain control. Click.
Asshole wrestles it back. Click.
Again, and again, and again the interaction plays out. The lecturer makes a bid for control— a rocket arcs toward the sky. Asshole finds an ever-inventive way to interrupt—fuel runs out before the rocket clears the stratosphere. The rocket arcs back down again.
Sociological y=1/20 x^2.
Asshole keeps talking, ‘Um, actually—'.
Click.
The lecturer’s expression is heated magnesium.
Click.
Diamonds could form between her lips.
Click.
I don’t blame her.
Click.
We all want Asshole to shut up too.
I get out my phone. My finger slips. The front camera opens.
I’m scowling. My mouth in a perfect arch.
y= –1/20 x^2.
pulp fiction’s dance scene
I hate that I don’t hate him anymore.
We moved in on the same day. His palm was sweaty, and he shook my hand too long. ‘Hurt, Carter Hurt’ was how he introduced himself. Like he was James fucking Bond. The only thing we had in common was that we both ticked “night owl” and “snores infrequently” on our roommate surveys.
‘We both like movies’, he pointed out. This was untrue.
Hurt, Carter Hurt liked movies. I liked film.
The only directors he could name were Quentin Tarantino and Christopher Nolan. I name dropped Nicolas Winding Refn and Lars Von Trier and he looked at me like I was speaking another language. Hurt, Carter Hurt was so film illiterate I don’t think he could tell me what a 4:3 aspect ratio was, let alone name a film in which it was employed (The Grand Budapest Hotel. Obviously). The only good thing about him was that he owned a TV.
Hurt, Carter Hurt also snored. Frequently.
My plan was to sever our obligatory friendship once class started. My pastime of choice became composing and rehearsing the excuses to avoid him. ‘Oh, there’s so many readings— Ah, early start tomorrow— Actually, I’m meeting someone—’. As I walked to my first lecture, I tried to pick out which one I would use. I arrived at the lecture hall and a decision simultaneously. A moment later he arrived, too.
‘I thought we were going to walk down together?’ Hurt, Carter Hurt said.
‘You’re studying film?’
‘Yeah, I told you a thousand times’, he said, ‘I love movies.’
Hurt, Carter Hurt had a monopoly over the TV, so he had a monopoly over me. I couldn’t watch the week’s prescribed film without him. So, we made a ritual of watching them together. Taxi Driver, Modern Times, 2001: A Space Odyssey.
‘I wanna be just like Stanley Kubrick’, he said afterward.
‘Dead?’ He laughed at that.
This week we had to watch Pulp Fiction.
‘I love it’, he said, as if his fucking excitement was sub-textual.
I asked him which part he liked the most. He said it was when Mia Wallace and Vincent Vega dance. I told him that was everyone’s favourite part, he wasn’t special.
He said he knew. ‘My Mum and I danced like that.’
‘What, you don’t anymore?’
‘No, she died when I was little. This was her favourite movie and that bit reminds me of her. So, I guess it’s my favourite now too.’
I shut up. We watched the movie.
He’s awful in the lecture today, interrupting more times than I have fingers to count them on. ‘Um, actually—’ he cuts in, again and again. It’s intolerable. His opinions are bad, his analysis is worse, and he speaks like a poorly written screenplay. But I know how happy it makes him. How recklessly fucking happy Carter Hurt is right now. And I can’t help but be a little happy too.
Josh Sorensen is an Australian writer. He is currently living in the Illawarra region where he studies at the University of Wollongong. Currently, Josh has found a home at Film Era, where he is a regular contributor. His writing has also appeared in Much Ado About Cinema, Memoir Mixtapes, and this bio. Find Josh on Twitter and Instagram @namebrandjosh.