Brasilia Crossed with Trenton
Since I'm in the middle of my self-imposed purgatory, and nothing happens in purgatory (yeah, it's boring, but it's better than pitchforks up the tuckus), I figure that we should take a gander into the lives of Parallel Universe Marty Starks for shits and giggles.
FOB Marty Stark
Divergence: 1974
Technically, he's not a FOB since he never got off the boat. Instead, his dad decided to stay in Taiwan rather than going to New York Polytechnic for his chemistry doctrate. This means same sex schooling until university, and no dates due to that same sex schooling. Well, that no dates part isn't that different from this timeline, is it? Anyway, FOB Marty did extremely well on the exams, got himself a sweet civil service gig, and got arranged to be married to a bucktoothed horsefaced chick from Kaoshung who sorta looks like Mao Tse Tung in drag.
Right now, FOB Marty is totally oblivious that the gravity that weighs down his shoulders and presses his breath out in deep sighs is the soul-sucking ennui and quiet desperation that is a 9 to 5 job, perfunctory sex to create more FOBs (though femme Mao does give good head), and a wardrobe of cheap monochrome suits. This is all he's ever known, so he doesn't know anything different. He's sucking down some really bad Taiwanese beer watching dubbed repeats of JAG in Mandarin, not knowing that if he ever went into that club that he passes by everyday and hears New Order's "Bizarre Love Triangle", his mind will blow a fuse due to the newness, the beat, the song he's never heard.
Starving Artist Marty
Divergence: 1993
Starving Artist Marty decided not to take the LSATs. Instead, much to the despair of his parents, Marty applied to MFA program at the University of Iowa and, with help from Elizabeth Cox, his creative writing instructor at Duke, got in. Starving Artist Marty hasn't talked to his parents for years. He has, though, gotten several of his short stories published in various small press literary magazines and published two novels--works of quiet absurdism overwhelmed by the blase detail of the everyday ordinary. He has a small cult of fans, and critics have favorably compared him Pynchon. The total net income from his literary efforts: $10,000. To supplement his income, he manages a Borders in Cedar Rapids and writes crappy Stargate novelizations under the pseudonym Marty Stark.
Right now, Starving Artist Marty is sucking down some MGDs, discussing the latest episode of Lost with his girlfriend, a plain looking woman with mousy hair, bad glasses and a penchant for comfortable shoes who Starving Artist Marty met in the science fiction section of his Borders. Inwardly, Marty sighs at the thought at perfunctory chunky sex, and begins fantasizing about the cute pixie-like blonde chick in the record department. No love handles like bratwurst has she. Marty is convinced that if she didn't have a boyfriend, she'd be his. He knows this because of the one thirty minute conversation he had with her about trip hop.
Senior BigLaw Associate Marty
Divergence: 2001
Senior BigLaw Associate Marty decided that $180,000 a year was worth days of ass-reaming and the type of stress he imagines shopkeepers behind in payments to the Russian Mob have. So Marty stayed instead of saying aw fuck this noise.
Right now, Senior BigLaw Associate Marty is driving down the 101 and craving sucking down a six pack of Sapporos at home. He has had a total of 4 hours of sleep in the last week. He hasn't been home in three days (there are showers in the office and he has brought a change of clothes). He had been working for two solid days on a fifty page memorandum of points and authorities for a motion for summary judgment which his partner told his was a complete piece of shit (but which his partner noticeably did not make any changes). As soon as the motion for summary judgment was filed, he had to turn to two opposition briefs due Friday that he hasn't started on. The partner wants a draft by nine in the morning, so Marty should be pulling an all nighter, but Marty's head is just cotton right now. So Marty is driving home, trying not to fall asleep, and get maybe two, three hours of shut eye. Marty starts thinking about the business plan all senior associates have to draft if they want to make partner. Hah, what a joke. For the past three years, he hasn't had enough time to fuck, much less pimp himself out to get clients. Marty is thinking of this when a car in the right lane swerves into Marty's car, some bitch not checking to see if she had clearance. Marty swerves, but with his nerves deadened, Marty swerves directly into a pylon holding up the San Antonio Road overpass. Marty last feeling is one of flying, pain, and perhaps not oddly, release.
