I used to be a Drunk Dialer, it is true. It is not a pretty fact, I know, nothing to be proud of or brag about. TO be honest, I am probably still a Drunk Dialer, but I no longer have a phone. Wait. That is not entirely true, and you know how I like to tell the truth, don't you? Well, I OWN a telephone, but I have the good sense to hide it from myself when I bring the bottle out. By the time my fingers are itching to make contact, tell a recently-remembered-amusement , ask you 'WHY!?' something-or-other somethinged, or I just want to wax lyrically on and on and on and on singing my many praises for my Helper, I can not locate the telephone. Where did I put it? I can't remember. If you are one of the three people who has tried to call me in the last three months and I didn't answer, this is the reason why. I was not screening my calls. Had I of known you were actually calling me, I would have pushed the keyboard (or razors, or microwave burrito, or Safeway cake, or road atlas) away from me and answered the phone in an amusing manner. Trust me, it would have been amusing, if not outright funny. I'm good that way. Unless it was YOU, in which case I would have tried to sound flat and pretend like I didn't know who it is when I answered the phone. For a minute, maybe less, before I began to act in an entertaining fashion.
I just can't help myself.
SO. I may no longer be able to be accurately labeled a Drunk Dialer, but I sure am a Drunk Emailer. Not that I am drunk all the time, mind you. This does not mean if you have received an email from me, I was drunk when I sent it. OH NO! Only if the email was sent sometime after 11 or 12 o'clock at night (a 2:30 in the morning email would be a good money bet for drunk-emailing behavior) and if the email contains many mis-spellings, and if there are numerous references to 'My Throat' or the spelling out of some irreverent number (Twenty-seven , fourteen hundred and three, NINE) instead of just typing the number like this: 27, 1403, 9 ... It would be better than even money that I had been hitting the sauce before hitting the SEND button.
The benefit, in my mind, to drunk emailing VS drunk dialing is that I can try to appear less drunk when I type. I may even , in my drunken condition, go against everything I stand for and actually attempt to proof my email and correct spelling errors - I KNOW! I KNOW! I would usually not stand for such Ninny Nancy behavior. Forgive me though - I had been drinking. Another advantage is being able to (with any luck) remember what I wanted to tell you when I began the email. Back in the days of the telephone, the phone would ring, ring, you may answer it, and then there I would be all 'Huh? Who is this? What do you want?!' And if I did realize it was *I* who called YOU , I would just go off on some tangent, being funny and charming as usual, eventually building up to some screaming fit where you are forced to hang up on me, and as I stand there in my shop alone, laughing, still holding the phone to my ear and eventually pull it away to point at it, imagining I am pointing at YOU with my other hand, LAUGHING UNTIL I AM CRYING, I realize I forgot to ever tell you what I wanted to tell you when I called you in the first place and I am forced to hit the redial button, wiping the tears off of my cheeks and trying to regain my speaking voice.
Are there more advantages to emailing?
I think so. There must be. OH YES! Sometimes, after composing a brilliant yet flawed email, I do have the option of NOT SENDING IT AT ALL (Which rarely occurs) and I let it sit stillborn in my email outbox, to possibly be discovered the next day, in which case I usually fairly glow with pride at not having sent the thing. I sure am smart when I'm drunk! I can't believe I didn't send that thing last night! I sure do have my shit together! YES, sometimes I edit and send. It hurts me to even think about editing. So wrong, so weak! Usually I do the 'Raw Thing' and send it out , flawed, unreadable, ranting and without order or direction. I do this when I am sober though, too. Just not at two in the morning.
What-EVER! Believe it or not, there are people out there WHO WISH they received emails from me, regardless of time or mental state from whence they were born. Precious little jewels, these. The emails I'm talking about here, not the people. Precious little jewels to be studied, examined, measured and sent to some special folder. Maybe the 'Restraining Order Evidence' folder. I don't know. My goal is to ultimately alienate EVERYONE I know, or even barely know. I'm doing pretty good so far! Not too many more to go! A lot of you have been pretty easy marks though. One or two of you I can't seem to shake. I don't know what I would ever have to do to actually, finally, REALLY alienate Edward. It will take a lot of work, so I'm saving him for last. I may have to resort to the telephone again, multiple calls at all hours of the night and morning. Calls from the police station, calls from the hospital, calls from various pay phones, hunched under tiny awnings in the dark and the rain outside of 24 hour convenience stores, pretending to be someone else. I don't think he would ever turn his ringer off, he is not constructed that way. What if there were a Situation up the street with MOTHER? HIS RINGER WILL ALWAYS BE TURNED ON. Know this about Edward: In the opera or ballet, out to dinner with Fancy People, in France, on a boat, in temple, whilst in the woods or SCUBA DIVING, his phone is TURNED ON and WITHIN EASY REACH. He does not lose his phone. This is important to know because when I really, and I mean REALLY hit the bottom, I am going to blow that fucker's phone RIGHT THE FUCK ON UP. I'll make him change his ring tone, or turn it down, or I'll die trying.
So, let's go have some fun now! I just thought you should know these things, they seemed important at the time, when I started typing them, about twenty-six minutes ago.
IT IS SUNDAY MORNING. Do the math.
My throat hurts.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
The things I have to say to you :
I had a special area to explore just now .... what was it? Yours? NO. I know that. SO : What was it?
My throat screeches in protest. I have to explain about that Old Lady. I have to, I need to, for it to make any sense. That really happened! I was young, a teenager, she befiled my parts. I attempt to cultivate understanding here, but none may exist. I have very harsh interpreters. Violent. Unfair. Lovely though.
Am I really here right now? The yellow light? The hair of your pet? I fall behind the curve, I slip, the wheels run over me shaking the carriage, you can feel this jostling in your spine.
Not many of you know this, but I have plans! I do! They are realistic and about to be realized. This is the sweet stuff. Finally. This is the fiction zone made flesh. This is going to be lightning hitting Dr. Frankenstien's mess of meat, zapping it into action. Twitch. Twitch!
I love her, I think I do. The world today? The puzzlement? Sudoku. Four Thousand.
I am finished. I am., I know it. I'll tell you more later, BUT, know ye this : I can harmonize on any number of octaves. I can do it. I have skills to fit my way in. If I can't do it naturally, or fake it convincingly, I can make a purchase, cash or trade for labor.
I have to check back soon. Thank you.
My throat screeches in protest. I have to explain about that Old Lady. I have to, I need to, for it to make any sense. That really happened! I was young, a teenager, she befiled my parts. I attempt to cultivate understanding here, but none may exist. I have very harsh interpreters. Violent. Unfair. Lovely though.
Am I really here right now? The yellow light? The hair of your pet? I fall behind the curve, I slip, the wheels run over me shaking the carriage, you can feel this jostling in your spine.
Not many of you know this, but I have plans! I do! They are realistic and about to be realized. This is the sweet stuff. Finally. This is the fiction zone made flesh. This is going to be lightning hitting Dr. Frankenstien's mess of meat, zapping it into action. Twitch. Twitch!
I love her, I think I do. The world today? The puzzlement? Sudoku. Four Thousand.
I am finished. I am., I know it. I'll tell you more later, BUT, know ye this : I can harmonize on any number of octaves. I can do it. I have skills to fit my way in. If I can't do it naturally, or fake it convincingly, I can make a purchase, cash or trade for labor.
I have to check back soon. Thank you.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Small details in big places
I love examining maps.
A few years ago, I could just sit still on a couch or at my desk poring over a Rand McNally atlas of the entire United States, any particular state, even maps of cities. My interest is still easily captured and maintained, but now there is Mapquest online with satellite images, the actual mountains and plains the real thing, shrunken down to fit my computer screen. It causes a sense of awe and wonder in me.
I have driven across the USA several times, and always try to find a route upon which I had not previously driven. My goal is too see every town and city possible, cross every freeway and highway, often even sticking to smaller roads in an effort to see as much as possible. My anxiety usually prevents me from getting out of the car too often during these trips, I feel like I need to get back to The Shop to deal with whatever lingering obligations are waiting me, the emails, the phone calls, the bills. I don't get out of the car a lot. I drive slowly though, and my field of vision always sweeps left and right like a radar dish on top of a warship, I don't miss much visually.
My point is, and I am not bragging right now, but I have seen a lot of America from the road through a windshield or open front window. I can not honestly say I have seen MOST OF or more than you, or more than most people, but I have seen a lot, and I pay attention to what I see. I file details - skylines, smells, temperature, vegetation, roadkill littering the sides of the roads, these are all lodged away in my memory. - MY POINT IS - When I look at a map or Mapquest, or a satellite photo of an area, I can look at most anywhere in the USA and a lot of southwestern Canada now, and imagine exactly what it would feel like there, what it would smell like, who lives where, what the bridge over that tiny blue line of river would look in actual real life and 3D, what gas station has what to eat, what the people who work there look like, if they were nice or not.
I often sit with an atlas open (or now, the computer representations) and squint, and maybe trace with a finger, and can spend HOURS imagining what it would be like on the ground wherever I happen to be investigating, what I would see from the road, I remember what a mountain looked like off in the distance that I can see on a map now, a dark green fold, maybe denoted with a black dot and a name. I know what it may look like to drive around it, in full three hundred and sixty degrees, it may take hours to get around them, it probably does if you can see it on a map. There are similarities between the maps and real life. This is probably obvious, the map an expression of the actual physical world, but it goes further than that.
Once you are able to look at a map and be able to picture yourself right there in it, on the ground inside that map, looking up at one of those green points , and able to judge the distance in the satellite picture from how far away from the road (your point of reference) and the point you were - ? You know what a peak looks like from, say, twenty miles away, you look at the map at all the reference points you have memorized, and if you have enough of them memorized in many different areas, and you can match them to the map which you are examining, you can begin to make accurate guesses about how other places you have NOT been to yet may look. And, if you have enough previous experience, you will be pretty close to accurate.
This may not be interesting or surprising, but it allows me to study a map for hours and hours, breathless and near tears imagining the places I want to go. I can imagine the smells, the humidity, the air pressure, the wind, even what the people will sound like when they speak to me in the gas stations. This makes this particular diversion extremely interesting for me. Enjoyable. Educational.
I zoom in, I zoom in more, I squint, I calculate, I zoom once more, and I can actually see the rocks where I watched you leave some of the ashes of your dead mother. I can feel just the same as I did that day, and even if it was not an easy day, my memories of it are entirely pleasant and I revisit that day often, it makes me feel good to think of that time. I can also zoom in on the river that flows out of the Smoky Mountains and down into Chattanooga, with a little work I can see the blue snaking water where we pulled the car over at a wide spot, still in the mountains, and stripped naked, waded and swam, my hands tracing the hollows in the riverbed, fingers sifting the silt resting there, looking for gold or a precious stone. You stood, swam, laid out there naked beside me not far from the thin traffic passing on the road past our parked car, Kudzu vines hanging from all the trees around us, looking like a jungle from some old Tarzan movie. Much later that same day we wound up in a bathtub in Alabama. The next morning was your first time going to a Waffle House. Scattered, smothered and covered - an excellent morning beside yet another freeway.
I watched turtles moving much more quickly than you are led to believe they can, move, sprinting, across the 4-lane highway in Louisiana, in my rearview mirror I saw one run over by a trailer, I backed our car up, a tenth of a mile or more, to check if it was alright - It's five gray/green reptilian extensions remained pinioning slowly out of the brilliantly shattered shell. Hopeless and heartbroken, I pulled back into traffic, back to 75MPH, heading West once again.
After what was probably our best dining experience together, EVER, in West Monroe, LA - We continued west. You were falling asleep in the passenger seat as we crossed the state line into Texas. I drove most of the night, admiring the skyline of Dallas off in the distance twinkling. I drove, I kept driving. Eventually, hours and hours later I was close to the western border. I grew tired, and vision failing, had to pull over. We slept together in the car in a rest stop not too far from Amarillo. I listened to a book-on-tape of some Sherlock Holmes story you bought as I fell asleep upright in my seat.
We drove all of the next day off of the freeway, on secondary roads, across the rest of Texas, into New Mexico, up up up into the mountains gradually, and without knowing it we were climbing into The Rockies,11,000 feet of elevation, the car running funny in protest at the lack of available oxygen there. A thunder storm erupted that night. Before it got dark we could see the flashing black clouds off in the distance and could tell we were driving right into them. As it became night, vivid bolts of lightning were hitting not far away from us as I pulled into Raton, NM and desperately searched for a place for us to pull in out of the storm. A cheap but cozy motel. We ate mediocre enchiladas and tacos up the street before showering and crawling into bed together, the thunder and lightning gone now, but the sound of heavy rain pounding on the roof making me even more glad to have you near me.
I fiddle with cars. I enjoy them. I enjoy machines in general, they do not give confusing messages. They work or not, they are yours or not, objects. Property. I enjoy trafficking across states in my cars. I am usually alone. Sometimes not though.
Recently?
A few years ago, I could just sit still on a couch or at my desk poring over a Rand McNally atlas of the entire United States, any particular state, even maps of cities. My interest is still easily captured and maintained, but now there is Mapquest online with satellite images, the actual mountains and plains the real thing, shrunken down to fit my computer screen. It causes a sense of awe and wonder in me.
I have driven across the USA several times, and always try to find a route upon which I had not previously driven. My goal is too see every town and city possible, cross every freeway and highway, often even sticking to smaller roads in an effort to see as much as possible. My anxiety usually prevents me from getting out of the car too often during these trips, I feel like I need to get back to The Shop to deal with whatever lingering obligations are waiting me, the emails, the phone calls, the bills. I don't get out of the car a lot. I drive slowly though, and my field of vision always sweeps left and right like a radar dish on top of a warship, I don't miss much visually.
My point is, and I am not bragging right now, but I have seen a lot of America from the road through a windshield or open front window. I can not honestly say I have seen MOST OF or more than you, or more than most people, but I have seen a lot, and I pay attention to what I see. I file details - skylines, smells, temperature, vegetation, roadkill littering the sides of the roads, these are all lodged away in my memory. - MY POINT IS - When I look at a map or Mapquest, or a satellite photo of an area, I can look at most anywhere in the USA and a lot of southwestern Canada now, and imagine exactly what it would feel like there, what it would smell like, who lives where, what the bridge over that tiny blue line of river would look in actual real life and 3D, what gas station has what to eat, what the people who work there look like, if they were nice or not.
I often sit with an atlas open (or now, the computer representations) and squint, and maybe trace with a finger, and can spend HOURS imagining what it would be like on the ground wherever I happen to be investigating, what I would see from the road, I remember what a mountain looked like off in the distance that I can see on a map now, a dark green fold, maybe denoted with a black dot and a name. I know what it may look like to drive around it, in full three hundred and sixty degrees, it may take hours to get around them, it probably does if you can see it on a map. There are similarities between the maps and real life. This is probably obvious, the map an expression of the actual physical world, but it goes further than that.
Once you are able to look at a map and be able to picture yourself right there in it, on the ground inside that map, looking up at one of those green points , and able to judge the distance in the satellite picture from how far away from the road (your point of reference) and the point you were - ? You know what a peak looks like from, say, twenty miles away, you look at the map at all the reference points you have memorized, and if you have enough of them memorized in many different areas, and you can match them to the map which you are examining, you can begin to make accurate guesses about how other places you have NOT been to yet may look. And, if you have enough previous experience, you will be pretty close to accurate.
This may not be interesting or surprising, but it allows me to study a map for hours and hours, breathless and near tears imagining the places I want to go. I can imagine the smells, the humidity, the air pressure, the wind, even what the people will sound like when they speak to me in the gas stations. This makes this particular diversion extremely interesting for me. Enjoyable. Educational.
I zoom in, I zoom in more, I squint, I calculate, I zoom once more, and I can actually see the rocks where I watched you leave some of the ashes of your dead mother. I can feel just the same as I did that day, and even if it was not an easy day, my memories of it are entirely pleasant and I revisit that day often, it makes me feel good to think of that time. I can also zoom in on the river that flows out of the Smoky Mountains and down into Chattanooga, with a little work I can see the blue snaking water where we pulled the car over at a wide spot, still in the mountains, and stripped naked, waded and swam, my hands tracing the hollows in the riverbed, fingers sifting the silt resting there, looking for gold or a precious stone. You stood, swam, laid out there naked beside me not far from the thin traffic passing on the road past our parked car, Kudzu vines hanging from all the trees around us, looking like a jungle from some old Tarzan movie. Much later that same day we wound up in a bathtub in Alabama. The next morning was your first time going to a Waffle House. Scattered, smothered and covered - an excellent morning beside yet another freeway.
I watched turtles moving much more quickly than you are led to believe they can, move, sprinting, across the 4-lane highway in Louisiana, in my rearview mirror I saw one run over by a trailer, I backed our car up, a tenth of a mile or more, to check if it was alright - It's five gray/green reptilian extensions remained pinioning slowly out of the brilliantly shattered shell. Hopeless and heartbroken, I pulled back into traffic, back to 75MPH, heading West once again.
After what was probably our best dining experience together, EVER, in West Monroe, LA - We continued west. You were falling asleep in the passenger seat as we crossed the state line into Texas. I drove most of the night, admiring the skyline of Dallas off in the distance twinkling. I drove, I kept driving. Eventually, hours and hours later I was close to the western border. I grew tired, and vision failing, had to pull over. We slept together in the car in a rest stop not too far from Amarillo. I listened to a book-on-tape of some Sherlock Holmes story you bought as I fell asleep upright in my seat.
We drove all of the next day off of the freeway, on secondary roads, across the rest of Texas, into New Mexico, up up up into the mountains gradually, and without knowing it we were climbing into The Rockies,11,000 feet of elevation, the car running funny in protest at the lack of available oxygen there. A thunder storm erupted that night. Before it got dark we could see the flashing black clouds off in the distance and could tell we were driving right into them. As it became night, vivid bolts of lightning were hitting not far away from us as I pulled into Raton, NM and desperately searched for a place for us to pull in out of the storm. A cheap but cozy motel. We ate mediocre enchiladas and tacos up the street before showering and crawling into bed together, the thunder and lightning gone now, but the sound of heavy rain pounding on the roof making me even more glad to have you near me.
I fiddle with cars. I enjoy them. I enjoy machines in general, they do not give confusing messages. They work or not, they are yours or not, objects. Property. I enjoy trafficking across states in my cars. I am usually alone. Sometimes not though.
Recently?
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Cripple/ Becoming
He spent years pretending to need aluminum braces to walk. He would sit on the bus and roll his eyes back into his skull so only the whites would show out to those siting around him. He created an unsavory external expression of himself to project, so when rejected he did not have to feel like the 'real he' was rejected.
Like I said, he did this for many years, first as an experiment, then out of spite, later out of habit or addiction to the behavior, and finally because it was the 'real he' who he became. This was an important lesson he never forgot : Pretend something long enough, and it will become real, will become who and what you are.
Some people who met him avoided him because of his apparent disability, others were drawn to him, wanting to help him, or to elevate their own opinion of themselves. Some people DID help him. Most people were transparent at first, their motivations cliche, and later all lazily lumped into some category according to hair color and physical height.
People to him were no longer mysterious at all, his 'condition' would allow them to lower their own defenses and egos, and the 'real them' could spill forth. After years of being treated to people's uninhibited behaviors and actions, he could predict the scant several categories of displayed behavior before it ever began.
He once was on a train in St. Louis Missouri, and became convinced he could make lightning appear in the sky by closing his eyes, wishing hard enough and clenching his lying hands. Three times in a row he tried to do it, three times in a row it worked. He began to feel he had an extraordinary gift the first time this afternoon. He looked left and right to his sides to see if anyone noticed his power. They did not, but they noticed the lightning displayed through the windows of the coach, and this was a satisfying enough start for him.
Another time in Chicago, he discovered a dead man in an alley, apparently homeless and expired from some non-violent means and he knelt over the body and laying his crutches down on either side of the dead man, leaned his face in close to see if he could feel breath issue from his nose or mouth. He touched the cold cheek and knew. He opened the half-closed eyes all the way and looked in them earnestly, trying to find some answer. He tried to will life back into this body, but he could not. He closed his eyes, wished, and clenched his cheating hands. Nothing changed, the body remained still. He quickly stood up and installed the braces again and shuffled quickly along his way. He tried to forget this episode of impotence.
There were times he would begin to enjoy a person, enjoy their company, and he would teeter on the edge of telling them his secret, he would want to make this particular connection 'special' with his admission. He came close once or twice, but as luck would have it, something would go wrong soon before he followed through. Long lean necks and throats pulsed within inches of him so many times and he could feel a naked honesty there, carrying oxygen-rich blood to the cortex, voices - the expression of thoughts and wants - issued from those narrow tunnels of vessels, cartilage and glowing skin. He felt that place was an especially reverent one in these humans. A fragile tube ferrying life and truths (and sometimes lies) and often so wonderful to admire and fantasize of caressing.
His fingers ached for something more than his soul told him he could ever have. This was his future which was fortified almost everyday. HE began to wonder if his actual vision was necessary anymore, maybe it was becoming a disadvantage. Should he wear an eye patch? Thumb out his vision? Wrap his head in gauze like the end of a Q-tip?
Beauty was a curse, he always believed this, even before. To have things given too easily was to ruin the recipient. People are lazy. People take too much for granted. People should experience as much pain as possible, to provide a contrast for when things are good. When things ARE good, you should be anticipating 'the catch', bracing for the floor to fall out away from under you, never get too comfortable, these are the things he believed.
Like I said, he did this for many years, first as an experiment, then out of spite, later out of habit or addiction to the behavior, and finally because it was the 'real he' who he became. This was an important lesson he never forgot : Pretend something long enough, and it will become real, will become who and what you are.
Some people who met him avoided him because of his apparent disability, others were drawn to him, wanting to help him, or to elevate their own opinion of themselves. Some people DID help him. Most people were transparent at first, their motivations cliche, and later all lazily lumped into some category according to hair color and physical height.
People to him were no longer mysterious at all, his 'condition' would allow them to lower their own defenses and egos, and the 'real them' could spill forth. After years of being treated to people's uninhibited behaviors and actions, he could predict the scant several categories of displayed behavior before it ever began.
He once was on a train in St. Louis Missouri, and became convinced he could make lightning appear in the sky by closing his eyes, wishing hard enough and clenching his lying hands. Three times in a row he tried to do it, three times in a row it worked. He began to feel he had an extraordinary gift the first time this afternoon. He looked left and right to his sides to see if anyone noticed his power. They did not, but they noticed the lightning displayed through the windows of the coach, and this was a satisfying enough start for him.
Another time in Chicago, he discovered a dead man in an alley, apparently homeless and expired from some non-violent means and he knelt over the body and laying his crutches down on either side of the dead man, leaned his face in close to see if he could feel breath issue from his nose or mouth. He touched the cold cheek and knew. He opened the half-closed eyes all the way and looked in them earnestly, trying to find some answer. He tried to will life back into this body, but he could not. He closed his eyes, wished, and clenched his cheating hands. Nothing changed, the body remained still. He quickly stood up and installed the braces again and shuffled quickly along his way. He tried to forget this episode of impotence.
There were times he would begin to enjoy a person, enjoy their company, and he would teeter on the edge of telling them his secret, he would want to make this particular connection 'special' with his admission. He came close once or twice, but as luck would have it, something would go wrong soon before he followed through. Long lean necks and throats pulsed within inches of him so many times and he could feel a naked honesty there, carrying oxygen-rich blood to the cortex, voices - the expression of thoughts and wants - issued from those narrow tunnels of vessels, cartilage and glowing skin. He felt that place was an especially reverent one in these humans. A fragile tube ferrying life and truths (and sometimes lies) and often so wonderful to admire and fantasize of caressing.
His fingers ached for something more than his soul told him he could ever have. This was his future which was fortified almost everyday. HE began to wonder if his actual vision was necessary anymore, maybe it was becoming a disadvantage. Should he wear an eye patch? Thumb out his vision? Wrap his head in gauze like the end of a Q-tip?
Beauty was a curse, he always believed this, even before. To have things given too easily was to ruin the recipient. People are lazy. People take too much for granted. People should experience as much pain as possible, to provide a contrast for when things are good. When things ARE good, you should be anticipating 'the catch', bracing for the floor to fall out away from under you, never get too comfortable, these are the things he believed.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Cinco DeMayo's on Tuesday
Pull up a chair and smell the coffee brewing. Sit down and cross your legs, touch your hair and wonder. What time will it be? Can you afford to do this?
I bring out the empanadas, and one of you breaks the silence with your noisemaking party favor. I stare at you, the offender, to let you know how I feel about this sort of thing, then I get back to the distribution of snacks. Every platter has to be just so, even if they are not the fanciest dishes you have ever seen in your life. You think to yourself you saw this very same set at one of those stores in a strip mall last year on the clearance rack. You may be wrong, but this thought brings you a little smug satisfaction nonetheless.
I serve the coffee and tea, all the little china cups tinkling and clattering pleasantly on their plates. I reach across the table to hand you yours, and my sleeve slides up my arm. I Catch you staring at the bruises, and you look away as quickly as I tug my sleeve back down.
Once everything is passed around and everyone has settled down, I am overcome with an urge to make an announcement. What a nice little Tuesday it has turned out to be after all! I begin to clear my throat and wonder to myself if I should tap my spoon on the cup to get everyone's attention before I stand up or after, and right then someone turns on the TV and it is turned up LOUD.
'How rude!' I think, and spin around in my chair to see who
I bring out the empanadas, and one of you breaks the silence with your noisemaking party favor. I stare at you, the offender, to let you know how I feel about this sort of thing, then I get back to the distribution of snacks. Every platter has to be just so, even if they are not the fanciest dishes you have ever seen in your life. You think to yourself you saw this very same set at one of those stores in a strip mall last year on the clearance rack. You may be wrong, but this thought brings you a little smug satisfaction nonetheless.
I serve the coffee and tea, all the little china cups tinkling and clattering pleasantly on their plates. I reach across the table to hand you yours, and my sleeve slides up my arm. I Catch you staring at the bruises, and you look away as quickly as I tug my sleeve back down.
Once everything is passed around and everyone has settled down, I am overcome with an urge to make an announcement. What a nice little Tuesday it has turned out to be after all! I begin to clear my throat and wonder to myself if I should tap my spoon on the cup to get everyone's attention before I stand up or after, and right then someone turns on the TV and it is turned up LOUD.
'How rude!' I think, and spin around in my chair to see who
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
What I would want :
Really:
I would want you to be here. I would want to be warm, asleep, and awakened by you breathing against my neck, into my ear maybe.
I would want to wake up and stand up, and kiss you on your neck, and tuck you in under the blankets and go make coffee for us. I would want to feel healthy and strong and fluid as I did this.
I just want to find you here and sit down and laugh and read or write with each other, things we never got the time to do already. The start can be so confusing, and in certain cases not encouraging, it can be difficult. I would want to find us beyond that point and laughing, warm, limber and wise.
I want to take your face in my hands and hold it, I would kiss it. I would kiss your eyelids, which you would present to my lips. I would kiss your lips.
Since this is fantasy, we would kiss and have sex and get up, and get our bags which are already packed and waiting and go outside, get into my car, and drive to the airport. WE would stand in a line together, giggling about someone in front of us who deserves to be made fun of. We would laugh, then we would show our passports, then we would walk towards the appropriate gate together, and my hand that is not carrying a bag would rest/push on your lower back, it would cup your hip, it would rest on your ass. My face would get close to yours , to whisper a secret, and I would kiss you. I would whisper in your ear. I would tell you you are Special.
we would go through our screening, and pass, and walk down the tube and up the ramp and into the airplane. We would take our seats after putting our bags in the overhead bins, and I would rest my hand on your thigh while we sat and you told me not to worry about the flight. My eyes would close briefly. I would think about how things COULD have been right now, if I were NOT with you on this plane. I would count myself as 'lucky', and then my eyes would open again. I would lean in towards you and, trying to be stealthy, tell you exactly what you want to hear, which for once is exactly how I feel, against your throat and under your ear. What you hear makes you tingle, and then the plane begins to vibrate rhythmically down the runway.
I would want you to be here. I would want to be warm, asleep, and awakened by you breathing against my neck, into my ear maybe.
I would want to wake up and stand up, and kiss you on your neck, and tuck you in under the blankets and go make coffee for us. I would want to feel healthy and strong and fluid as I did this.
I just want to find you here and sit down and laugh and read or write with each other, things we never got the time to do already. The start can be so confusing, and in certain cases not encouraging, it can be difficult. I would want to find us beyond that point and laughing, warm, limber and wise.
I want to take your face in my hands and hold it, I would kiss it. I would kiss your eyelids, which you would present to my lips. I would kiss your lips.
Since this is fantasy, we would kiss and have sex and get up, and get our bags which are already packed and waiting and go outside, get into my car, and drive to the airport. WE would stand in a line together, giggling about someone in front of us who deserves to be made fun of. We would laugh, then we would show our passports, then we would walk towards the appropriate gate together, and my hand that is not carrying a bag would rest/push on your lower back, it would cup your hip, it would rest on your ass. My face would get close to yours , to whisper a secret, and I would kiss you. I would whisper in your ear. I would tell you you are Special.
we would go through our screening, and pass, and walk down the tube and up the ramp and into the airplane. We would take our seats after putting our bags in the overhead bins, and I would rest my hand on your thigh while we sat and you told me not to worry about the flight. My eyes would close briefly. I would think about how things COULD have been right now, if I were NOT with you on this plane. I would count myself as 'lucky', and then my eyes would open again. I would lean in towards you and, trying to be stealthy, tell you exactly what you want to hear, which for once is exactly how I feel, against your throat and under your ear. What you hear makes you tingle, and then the plane begins to vibrate rhythmically down the runway.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Turning Fucking Forty
(I am so cold!)... I, personally, am not ready for it. I credit this milestone with most of my unreasonable behavior of this last year, the arrests, the whathaveyou, the dread.
I felt some stirring at turning thirty, but I was living in Taiwan at the time, and at least on an adventure, living life! Let's get real here, too : I was turning THIRTY. There is not much to be depressed about THAT. Thirties are GOOD. Young, nimble, but not stupid like a teenager. Hairy chest, but not hairy back. The world still an oyster! Unmarried still something to brag about, not an admission of ansavoriness.
I will not kvetch. I'll say it again : I WILL NOT KVETCH! I still have not had to work for another person or entity for ten, twenty years. I DO have spare time to do things I want to do; write, play guitar or piano, cook, close my eyes and wish I was somewhere else... I am going somewhere else, and soon. 2011. I enjoy the odd-numbered years, those of you who may know me in real life may know this about me. This is it. This is my year. I carve this out for myself, or I carve myself out. I want to go someplace warm. I have knocked out so many looming, overripe obligations this last year, I am ready to treat myself to something warm and pleasant. I will still move my lips to myself when I think about what I want to say to you, but do not want to deal with at that particular moment.
I still have THINGS. I have limited time. I bite my lip and think about a place I visited recently:
I felt some stirring at turning thirty, but I was living in Taiwan at the time, and at least on an adventure, living life! Let's get real here, too : I was turning THIRTY. There is not much to be depressed about THAT. Thirties are GOOD. Young, nimble, but not stupid like a teenager. Hairy chest, but not hairy back. The world still an oyster! Unmarried still something to brag about, not an admission of ansavoriness.
I will not kvetch. I'll say it again : I WILL NOT KVETCH! I still have not had to work for another person or entity for ten, twenty years. I DO have spare time to do things I want to do; write, play guitar or piano, cook, close my eyes and wish I was somewhere else... I am going somewhere else, and soon. 2011. I enjoy the odd-numbered years, those of you who may know me in real life may know this about me. This is it. This is my year. I carve this out for myself, or I carve myself out. I want to go someplace warm. I have knocked out so many looming, overripe obligations this last year, I am ready to treat myself to something warm and pleasant. I will still move my lips to myself when I think about what I want to say to you, but do not want to deal with at that particular moment.
I still have THINGS. I have limited time. I bite my lip and think about a place I visited recently:
Wings bursting out my back, bone shredded, boots torn loose and blood pumping in hot black gouts. Body lifted and carried up high enough that everything is visible at once, smell of burning hair curling through broken glass. Dark puddles fill and vague gray reflections dance in their surfaces, breaking apart and coming together again and again. A dull glow in my eyes still as I hold my breath anticipating the next pain, fingernails digging white and then red half-moons in the palms of my hands, ears filled with the whispering of fluids and flame. I hear a scream
I change
I was
It was lost, it is gone, gone, gone into that dark maw, tongue and lips smacking, hot and obscene. To trade that for this? Great grubby hands reach out and try to snag something to take back inside.
Why do I have to remain in this world in which I feel I do not have a place? I do not fit in anywhere, and the things I want are always out of my reach. It is heartbreaking, almost everyday. I scan the horizon looking for something that will command my interest, and if I find it, it belongs to someone else, or some other time. I feel worthless. I am a waste.
But, then, I found Jesus.
Jesus was living just under the bridge here, and his shopping cart had bright yellow 'caution' tape wound all over it.
I had wandered down under the bridge that afternoon, weaving this way and that with my stainless steel vessel full of liquor and ice clinking peacefully in my grip, looking for an appropriate place to land, should I be forced to fling myself from the bridge if I found myself backed into that particular corner.
I was stumbling around under the shadow of the bridge, looking up at the distant green handrail I would have to hurdle in order to make my statement. How fast would I be traveling at that time? I fancied a graceful (in black and white, and at least 96 frames a second, preferably at night and in the rain) sprint across all four lanes of traffic followed by one long leap/stride stretching to that handrail, and with that one last powerful push against material Earthbound, arc slightly up and out, to sail those few precious seconds through the air, arms pinioning, do-rag aflutter above my wispy tuft of (still pretty much all black - suh-NAP!) hair, legs kicking slightly as trained to do in a swimming pool thirty-six years ago, to float, float, flail, fall fall ..... WHERE?
That was the question.
I didn't want to just land on the grass like a dog turd. ANYONE could do that.
I was reluctant to land in the river itself, there was too good a chance of surviving, and even if I were lucky enough to expire, my corpus magnum would be even more bloated than before I set myself free. When I was weighed at the morgue - THEN WHAT? Bloated, white, waterlogged, an unfair weight, I tell you! TO say nothing about the appearance of my swollen toes, fingers.... STUFF. It would be cold in that water. I did not want to be unfairly judged. I KNOW the people that work there take pictures with their cellphones to post later on some website or other, and I was not going to be made a fool of after my passing.
So, I was looking for a good place to land, preferably a cement pad, or steel rail, and unfortunately most of the places matching these requirements were directly UNDER the bridge, and I could not calculate a way in which to fling myself from the bridge, and then drift back under the platform from which I launched myself. Not without a gliding device, elastic bands, or an unusually stiff wind. It wouldn't be easy. I began to consider a length of rope - If it were long enough to allow for the sprint across the highway and subsequent flight, but would deny too much horizontal progress, and create a return arc - but how? I stared up, up up high at the towering green steel girders, and took another drink, imagining if I were to tie the rope much HIGHER than street level before my flinging took place ? -
I was then interrupted by a voice.
...
But, then, I found Jesus.
Jesus was living just under the bridge here, and his shopping cart had bright yellow 'caution' tape wound all over it.
I had wandered down under the bridge that afternoon, weaving this way and that with my stainless steel vessel full of liquor and ice clinking peacefully in my grip, looking for an appropriate place to land, should I be forced to fling myself from the bridge if I found myself backed into that particular corner.
I was stumbling around under the shadow of the bridge, looking up at the distant green handrail I would have to hurdle in order to make my statement. How fast would I be traveling at that time? I fancied a graceful (in black and white, and at least 96 frames a second, preferably at night and in the rain) sprint across all four lanes of traffic followed by one long leap/stride stretching to that handrail, and with that one last powerful push against material Earthbound, arc slightly up and out, to sail those few precious seconds through the air, arms pinioning, do-rag aflutter above my wispy tuft of (still pretty much all black - suh-NAP!) hair, legs kicking slightly as trained to do in a swimming pool thirty-six years ago, to float, float, flail, fall fall ..... WHERE?
That was the question.
I didn't want to just land on the grass like a dog turd. ANYONE could do that.
I was reluctant to land in the river itself, there was too good a chance of surviving, and even if I were lucky enough to expire, my corpus magnum would be even more bloated than before I set myself free. When I was weighed at the morgue - THEN WHAT? Bloated, white, waterlogged, an unfair weight, I tell you! TO say nothing about the appearance of my swollen toes, fingers.... STUFF. It would be cold in that water. I did not want to be unfairly judged. I KNOW the people that work there take pictures with their cellphones to post later on some website or other, and I was not going to be made a fool of after my passing.
So, I was looking for a good place to land, preferably a cement pad, or steel rail, and unfortunately most of the places matching these requirements were directly UNDER the bridge, and I could not calculate a way in which to fling myself from the bridge, and then drift back under the platform from which I launched myself. Not without a gliding device, elastic bands, or an unusually stiff wind. It wouldn't be easy. I began to consider a length of rope - If it were long enough to allow for the sprint across the highway and subsequent flight, but would deny too much horizontal progress, and create a return arc - but how? I stared up, up up high at the towering green steel girders, and took another drink, imagining if I were to tie the rope much HIGHER than street level before my flinging took place ? -
I was then interrupted by a voice.
...
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Chapter 5 (a)
The professor had given me three tasks to complete in exchange for the car, and it seemed like a good deal for me, I mean, I was happy with this arrangement. I was handy at fixing things, and I had agreed to no repair too difficult or time consuming, they appeared to be little errands that Wavery did not have the time or interest to perform himself. He fancied himself a Busy Man, an Important Man, and I was happy to keep this opinion afloat if it meant I could possess the Citroen soon. It is true I often had to bite my tongue to prevent arguing with the man myself, but he often, more often than not, spoke a language of efficient naked truth that I appreciated. I'll tell you more about that later.
Now, I was setting off on my first assignment : I was to go to an elderly mother-of-a-friend of Waverly, and fix her television set.
The professor did not want to come with me, but gave me an address and instructions to be gentle with this woman, she lived alone and had 'several cats'. He repeated himself on this point, and asked if I had allergies to the animals, which I did not. I was asked to sign a waiver of release on this matter, which I agreed to do. I was told the woman was the mother of a very important engineer who had gone to school with professor Waverly, then later transferred to MIT and became famous for inventing a new type of latex used in waterproofing umbrellas and overcoats. She lived alone (if you do not count the cats) and was slow to answer the door, I was warned. I was told I may have to bang several times and must wait several minutes before giving up that she would respond. She did not own a telephone.
I did not know what the complaint was regarding the television, but I had an impressive set of screwdrivers and sockets, and I knew how to use them. I had experience in this area. I could do this, if it meant buying her a new/used TV and replacing the broken one, I would do it.
I got in my car with my tool bag, started the engine, and followed the directions to the house I was given.
the woman, Mrs. Blackwell, lived about 20 miles away from me, as far away as can be and still live in the same city. I navigated the streets and freeways skillfully however, and traffic was light, and I arrived in about a half hour.
Upon arrival, I found her home to be an odd one. Every other house on the block stood up proud, high on the rise of green lawn from the street, but in the case of her address, only the roof was visible from the sidewalk where I parked. The house was actually in a hollow several yards sunken from street level, and about a hundred feet back. It was in a dark, cold pocket, and I had to walk across a catwalk of boards and scaffoldings to arrive at her door, and it was very dark under branches of surrounding trees when I began to knock.
I knocked, and there was a noise in response from within. I could hear babbling of some sort, a radio program or television emcee introducing, explaining, but I could not make out any actual words through the door. I knocked. I knocked again. There was a shout of some sort from inside the house. I was standing on a deck about twenty feet above the earth outside this front door, and very aware that the deck looked unmaintained, mossy, rotten. This deck was probably always in the shadows of the trees and hill and house, always slick and green. There was another shout from inside, I waited, I knocked again and shouted myself : " HELLO?"
I heard something fall over inside the house. The noises were becoming closer to the front door where I stood. There was a thump. There was a yell. I eventually heard scratching noises, and finally, the door was opened a crack. An old woman's face was in the crack of door and door jamb.
"Who are you?" The mouth moved.
"I'm Zak. Daniel Waverly sent me over to look at your TV? Is your television broken or something? I am here to fix it."
"Who?" She asked again. I had the impression her eyes were not focused on me, but at a distant spot behind me. I turned around to see if something were there. There was nothing there, tree branches hanging low, the blue sky in tiny fractured pieces beyond.
"DANIEL WAVERLY. He sent me to look at your TV. It's broken?" I said again.
Her eyes in the small crack of doorway narrowed with suspicion. "Danny? YOU'RE NOT DANNY WAVERLY." She told me.
"NO!" I responded "I am not! But HE sent me to look at your TV. It's broken?"
"My TV doesn't work!" She hissed through the crack of the door opening. "What do you want with my TV?!?"
"I am here to FIX IT. Daniel... Danny, sent me to fix it."
She focused on my for a few seconds, then looked beyond again into whatever dimension she was paying attention to. " Well. I always liked Danny. Are you married?" she asked the space behind me. She backed up a bit, I could tell and then warned me: "I am going to open the door now. Don't let the cats out." The door closed, and I could hear the chain being removed from the safety latch. The door opened again, much wider this time, and immediately a flood of orange stripey kittens hemmoraged forth out of the doorway over my new shoes and onto the deck behind me. I was reminded of a video I had once seen about Lemmings. The memory chilled me, and I hoped it would not prove to be prophetic.
"OHHHH NOOOOO!!!!" The old woman yelled "My cats! Don't let them out!!!!" She tried to block the doorway with her feet and legs, but she was too slow and doing it all wrong.
The cats were already out. I don;t know how, but there were about fifty of them, all tiny, all about the same size, about two month old kittens. They were everywhere, mewing. Meowing. They did not go over the edge of the deck and fall like the Lemmings did, they just spilled out and covered the dark moldy area and began to meow in their tiny voices. Misses Blackwell began to panic and cry "OH NOOOOOOO!!!" over and over again from the doorway. I picked up one kitten at a time and tried to put it tenderly back inside the house, but as soon as I would put it down, it would scurry back outside. More cats were flooding outside from the breached door. I could not keep up.
I began to pick up several of the cats at a time and throw them roughly inside through the open door. Once the woman noticed this, she tried to protest "You're THROWING THEM!!", but it was the only way. If I threw three or four at once, only one or two would emerge from the door and skitter across the slimy deck to the edge and begin to meow into the waiting abyss. It took about fifteen minutes, but I managed to get all the cats thrown into the house, with only one or two lost over the edge of the deck.
As soon as there were no cats outside, I stepped inside the house and pulled the door shut quickly behind me, preventing any more escaping felines. It took a couple of seconds, but then I was overwhelmed with the filthy scene laid before me.
All windows were covered with blinds, which were fashioned from towels and blankets, so it was very dark in the house. The only light provided was from a couple of lamps with no lampshades. There was a terrible smell all around me, and it was hot inside. The place smelled of cat shit and there was also a sweet smell, a sickeningly sweet smell of .. over ripe fruit? Rotten bananas? Underneath it all was a strong odor of tobacco smoke and booze. It took some effort on my part not to retch. I actually had to lift the collar of my shirt up over my nose in an attempt to filter out the filth I imagined drifting into my airways and body. I didn't care if it appeared rude to the woman, my lungs are valuable to me! What I at first thought was a dirty mangy carpet turned out to be a linoleum floor covered in dried, packed down cat shit and dirt and dust, smashed and kneaded and left to harden for years and years. I looked with sorrow down at my new shoes I had just purchased the day before and wanted to keep clean. 'I'm sorry!' I thought to my shoes. 'I'll make it up to you somehow!' There were piles of papers and bottles and trash and furniture stacked everywhere, in some places almost up to the ceiling. There was NOTHING clean in this house, and everything was pulsing and moving with all the cats sleeping and playing and meowing and hiding and stretching everywhere. the scene was horrific, and if I had not seen it for myself firsthand, I would not have believed such a place existed. I resisted the urge to turn around and bolt back out the door, I really wanted that Citroen, I tell you!
The woman had stumbled about halfway back across the room, balancing herself on the piles of dishes and laundry and trash that were stacked around her. She reminded me of one of the frogs Wavery had been telling me about, the ones that wait on a lily pad until another available pad is within reach before hopping. She would clutch at a tower of garbage and collect her balance and energy before pushing off for the next one, like a sailboat stopping along a chain of islands. When she reached the middle of the room, she turned to address me:
"Are you one of Danny's boys? Are you married?"
"No. I'm Zak. I've been helping Profess... I mean, DANIEL, out with some stuff. I'm a mechanic. I mean, I fix things. I'm not married. Not yet."
She tried to stand still, but was wavering, swaying, is if she were standing in the back of a moving truck. Her long, white, straight hair swayed and brushed against her nightgown. I noticed then for the first time that she was drunk.
"Not yet? You have someone picked out though? Engaged? Treat her right! Don't be a bastard like Danny is. Don't listen to him. He's a bastard!"
I started to reply " No, I won't. And I don't have anyone picked -"
"BASTARD!" The woman interrupted, shouting. She turned away from me again and took a step, and her shoe landed right on the orange ringed tail of one of her cats. The thing made a loud cry and jumped straight up into the air, causing the woman to lose her balance for a moment and lean back and sit on a pile of junk on her coffee table. "Whoa! My cat!" she said to herself.
I scanned the room looking for the TV. I saw it against the far wall, on top of a dresser, one of the few things in the room not covered in dirty clothing or trash. It was tiny, a 13" plastic cube, with chrome antennae standing tall in the customary 'V' shape. It was all the way on the other side of the room, and I was going to have to walk across this floor to get there. The thing was not going to come to me, as much as I wish it would. I steeled my nerve and then asked Mrs. Blackwell: "Is that the TeeVee? What's wrong with it?"
"My TV's broken." She said silently, still looking down at the ground around her slippers. She blinked once or twice, like a person just waking up, and then fixed me in her vision. "I can't see my shows! That ... the.... The UH-HUH there, it just upped and quit on me last week. Danny told me he would fix it! That sniveling bastard!"
"Well, that's why I'm here, Mrs. Blackwell. Profes... I mean, DANIEL, sent me to fix your TeeVee. I'm going to fix it for you so you can watch your programs. Can you tell me what it did? I mean, how is it broken? What did it do?"
"It DOESN'T WORK!" She yelled, flailing against the pile of trash she was resting upon. She pushed herself up to a standing position, knocking another cat onto the floor. It ran out of the far doorway and into another room.
"Alright. I'll take a look at it!" I reassured her, and began to step carefully across the room, trying not to step in anything too fresh or moist.
I made my way across the room to the television and twisted the stained knob to the right to turn it on. It was an old thing, and the power knob was also the volume knob. I turned it far to the right and in a few seconds it began to emit a hissing noise out of it's tiny speaker, so I knew it had power. A red light on the front glowed as well, telling us it was in fact turned 'ON'.
"WEll, it has power. " I said out loud top the woman, who had crept up behind me and was now siting in a huge, dirty ashtray on top of a coffee table.
"I can't see anything! How am I supposed to watch THAT?!"
The screen was completely black, it was true. I switched the channel selector knob around and around several times, and nothing improved, vision-wise, but I was able to hear a program or commercial once or twice. I began to sweat in the hot room. A cat had hopped on top of the TV and curled up with it's nose under it's tail and begun to sleep. I asked the woman about a calender on her wall to distract her momentarily, and when she looked away at the calendar, I tipped the TV forward, and the sleeping cat slid off and onto the floor, waking mid-air and landing on it's feet. It looked back up at me accusingly.
I got nervous and began to mumble to myself, not knowing what was wrong with the television : ".. yeah. The vertical probably isn't off, and I can hear the capacitors charging... I can hear it, so the power supply isn't blown... Could be the tube itself or the secondary coil.." I slapped it once or twice right on the top of the set. When that didn't work, I slapped a couple more times on the back of it. The cats near me ran away for a minute or so before returning, mimicking the cloud of dust which rose from the small plastic cube before settling down again.
"What are you saying?" Mrs. Blackwell leaned forward to decipher my speech. "Why are you hitting it? I did THAT already! Don't you know what you're doing? Where is Danny? HE didn't have the nerve to show up himself, did he? Are you married? MY husband died twenty years ago, thank God. HE was a bastard, too"
I did not know if she was comparing her husband's bastard qualities to mine or Professor Waverly's, but I took some offense to the comment nonetheless. I am a very sensitive person. You should know this about me.
I waited a few seconds, and then strategized an escape plan right then and there : ' I have to take your TeeVee back to my shop and inspect it more thoroughly." I told Mrs. Blackwell. I can't tell what is wrong, but know you this : I WILL FIX IT. I will. I am not a ... BASTARD.. like you like to say. I'll be back. With your TeeVee. Fixed, working. I will. "
Now, I was setting off on my first assignment : I was to go to an elderly mother-of-a-friend of Waverly, and fix her television set.
The professor did not want to come with me, but gave me an address and instructions to be gentle with this woman, she lived alone and had 'several cats'. He repeated himself on this point, and asked if I had allergies to the animals, which I did not. I was asked to sign a waiver of release on this matter, which I agreed to do. I was told the woman was the mother of a very important engineer who had gone to school with professor Waverly, then later transferred to MIT and became famous for inventing a new type of latex used in waterproofing umbrellas and overcoats. She lived alone (if you do not count the cats) and was slow to answer the door, I was warned. I was told I may have to bang several times and must wait several minutes before giving up that she would respond. She did not own a telephone.
I did not know what the complaint was regarding the television, but I had an impressive set of screwdrivers and sockets, and I knew how to use them. I had experience in this area. I could do this, if it meant buying her a new/used TV and replacing the broken one, I would do it.
I got in my car with my tool bag, started the engine, and followed the directions to the house I was given.
the woman, Mrs. Blackwell, lived about 20 miles away from me, as far away as can be and still live in the same city. I navigated the streets and freeways skillfully however, and traffic was light, and I arrived in about a half hour.
Upon arrival, I found her home to be an odd one. Every other house on the block stood up proud, high on the rise of green lawn from the street, but in the case of her address, only the roof was visible from the sidewalk where I parked. The house was actually in a hollow several yards sunken from street level, and about a hundred feet back. It was in a dark, cold pocket, and I had to walk across a catwalk of boards and scaffoldings to arrive at her door, and it was very dark under branches of surrounding trees when I began to knock.
I knocked, and there was a noise in response from within. I could hear babbling of some sort, a radio program or television emcee introducing, explaining, but I could not make out any actual words through the door. I knocked. I knocked again. There was a shout of some sort from inside the house. I was standing on a deck about twenty feet above the earth outside this front door, and very aware that the deck looked unmaintained, mossy, rotten. This deck was probably always in the shadows of the trees and hill and house, always slick and green. There was another shout from inside, I waited, I knocked again and shouted myself : " HELLO?"
I heard something fall over inside the house. The noises were becoming closer to the front door where I stood. There was a thump. There was a yell. I eventually heard scratching noises, and finally, the door was opened a crack. An old woman's face was in the crack of door and door jamb.
"Who are you?" The mouth moved.
"I'm Zak. Daniel Waverly sent me over to look at your TV? Is your television broken or something? I am here to fix it."
"Who?" She asked again. I had the impression her eyes were not focused on me, but at a distant spot behind me. I turned around to see if something were there. There was nothing there, tree branches hanging low, the blue sky in tiny fractured pieces beyond.
"DANIEL WAVERLY. He sent me to look at your TV. It's broken?" I said again.
Her eyes in the small crack of doorway narrowed with suspicion. "Danny? YOU'RE NOT DANNY WAVERLY." She told me.
"NO!" I responded "I am not! But HE sent me to look at your TV. It's broken?"
"My TV doesn't work!" She hissed through the crack of the door opening. "What do you want with my TV?!?"
"I am here to FIX IT. Daniel... Danny, sent me to fix it."
She focused on my for a few seconds, then looked beyond again into whatever dimension she was paying attention to. " Well. I always liked Danny. Are you married?" she asked the space behind me. She backed up a bit, I could tell and then warned me: "I am going to open the door now. Don't let the cats out." The door closed, and I could hear the chain being removed from the safety latch. The door opened again, much wider this time, and immediately a flood of orange stripey kittens hemmoraged forth out of the doorway over my new shoes and onto the deck behind me. I was reminded of a video I had once seen about Lemmings. The memory chilled me, and I hoped it would not prove to be prophetic.
"OHHHH NOOOOO!!!!" The old woman yelled "My cats! Don't let them out!!!!" She tried to block the doorway with her feet and legs, but she was too slow and doing it all wrong.
The cats were already out. I don;t know how, but there were about fifty of them, all tiny, all about the same size, about two month old kittens. They were everywhere, mewing. Meowing. They did not go over the edge of the deck and fall like the Lemmings did, they just spilled out and covered the dark moldy area and began to meow in their tiny voices. Misses Blackwell began to panic and cry "OH NOOOOOOO!!!" over and over again from the doorway. I picked up one kitten at a time and tried to put it tenderly back inside the house, but as soon as I would put it down, it would scurry back outside. More cats were flooding outside from the breached door. I could not keep up.
I began to pick up several of the cats at a time and throw them roughly inside through the open door. Once the woman noticed this, she tried to protest "You're THROWING THEM!!", but it was the only way. If I threw three or four at once, only one or two would emerge from the door and skitter across the slimy deck to the edge and begin to meow into the waiting abyss. It took about fifteen minutes, but I managed to get all the cats thrown into the house, with only one or two lost over the edge of the deck.
As soon as there were no cats outside, I stepped inside the house and pulled the door shut quickly behind me, preventing any more escaping felines. It took a couple of seconds, but then I was overwhelmed with the filthy scene laid before me.
All windows were covered with blinds, which were fashioned from towels and blankets, so it was very dark in the house. The only light provided was from a couple of lamps with no lampshades. There was a terrible smell all around me, and it was hot inside. The place smelled of cat shit and there was also a sweet smell, a sickeningly sweet smell of .. over ripe fruit? Rotten bananas? Underneath it all was a strong odor of tobacco smoke and booze. It took some effort on my part not to retch. I actually had to lift the collar of my shirt up over my nose in an attempt to filter out the filth I imagined drifting into my airways and body. I didn't care if it appeared rude to the woman, my lungs are valuable to me! What I at first thought was a dirty mangy carpet turned out to be a linoleum floor covered in dried, packed down cat shit and dirt and dust, smashed and kneaded and left to harden for years and years. I looked with sorrow down at my new shoes I had just purchased the day before and wanted to keep clean. 'I'm sorry!' I thought to my shoes. 'I'll make it up to you somehow!' There were piles of papers and bottles and trash and furniture stacked everywhere, in some places almost up to the ceiling. There was NOTHING clean in this house, and everything was pulsing and moving with all the cats sleeping and playing and meowing and hiding and stretching everywhere. the scene was horrific, and if I had not seen it for myself firsthand, I would not have believed such a place existed. I resisted the urge to turn around and bolt back out the door, I really wanted that Citroen, I tell you!
The woman had stumbled about halfway back across the room, balancing herself on the piles of dishes and laundry and trash that were stacked around her. She reminded me of one of the frogs Wavery had been telling me about, the ones that wait on a lily pad until another available pad is within reach before hopping. She would clutch at a tower of garbage and collect her balance and energy before pushing off for the next one, like a sailboat stopping along a chain of islands. When she reached the middle of the room, she turned to address me:
"Are you one of Danny's boys? Are you married?"
"No. I'm Zak. I've been helping Profess... I mean, DANIEL, out with some stuff. I'm a mechanic. I mean, I fix things. I'm not married. Not yet."
She tried to stand still, but was wavering, swaying, is if she were standing in the back of a moving truck. Her long, white, straight hair swayed and brushed against her nightgown. I noticed then for the first time that she was drunk.
"Not yet? You have someone picked out though? Engaged? Treat her right! Don't be a bastard like Danny is. Don't listen to him. He's a bastard!"
I started to reply " No, I won't. And I don't have anyone picked -"
"BASTARD!" The woman interrupted, shouting. She turned away from me again and took a step, and her shoe landed right on the orange ringed tail of one of her cats. The thing made a loud cry and jumped straight up into the air, causing the woman to lose her balance for a moment and lean back and sit on a pile of junk on her coffee table. "Whoa! My cat!" she said to herself.
I scanned the room looking for the TV. I saw it against the far wall, on top of a dresser, one of the few things in the room not covered in dirty clothing or trash. It was tiny, a 13" plastic cube, with chrome antennae standing tall in the customary 'V' shape. It was all the way on the other side of the room, and I was going to have to walk across this floor to get there. The thing was not going to come to me, as much as I wish it would. I steeled my nerve and then asked Mrs. Blackwell: "Is that the TeeVee? What's wrong with it?"
"My TV's broken." She said silently, still looking down at the ground around her slippers. She blinked once or twice, like a person just waking up, and then fixed me in her vision. "I can't see my shows! That ... the.... The UH-HUH there, it just upped and quit on me last week. Danny told me he would fix it! That sniveling bastard!"
"Well, that's why I'm here, Mrs. Blackwell. Profes... I mean, DANIEL, sent me to fix your TeeVee. I'm going to fix it for you so you can watch your programs. Can you tell me what it did? I mean, how is it broken? What did it do?"
"It DOESN'T WORK!" She yelled, flailing against the pile of trash she was resting upon. She pushed herself up to a standing position, knocking another cat onto the floor. It ran out of the far doorway and into another room.
"Alright. I'll take a look at it!" I reassured her, and began to step carefully across the room, trying not to step in anything too fresh or moist.
I made my way across the room to the television and twisted the stained knob to the right to turn it on. It was an old thing, and the power knob was also the volume knob. I turned it far to the right and in a few seconds it began to emit a hissing noise out of it's tiny speaker, so I knew it had power. A red light on the front glowed as well, telling us it was in fact turned 'ON'.
"WEll, it has power. " I said out loud top the woman, who had crept up behind me and was now siting in a huge, dirty ashtray on top of a coffee table.
"I can't see anything! How am I supposed to watch THAT?!"
The screen was completely black, it was true. I switched the channel selector knob around and around several times, and nothing improved, vision-wise, but I was able to hear a program or commercial once or twice. I began to sweat in the hot room. A cat had hopped on top of the TV and curled up with it's nose under it's tail and begun to sleep. I asked the woman about a calender on her wall to distract her momentarily, and when she looked away at the calendar, I tipped the TV forward, and the sleeping cat slid off and onto the floor, waking mid-air and landing on it's feet. It looked back up at me accusingly.
I got nervous and began to mumble to myself, not knowing what was wrong with the television : ".. yeah. The vertical probably isn't off, and I can hear the capacitors charging... I can hear it, so the power supply isn't blown... Could be the tube itself or the secondary coil.." I slapped it once or twice right on the top of the set. When that didn't work, I slapped a couple more times on the back of it. The cats near me ran away for a minute or so before returning, mimicking the cloud of dust which rose from the small plastic cube before settling down again.
"What are you saying?" Mrs. Blackwell leaned forward to decipher my speech. "Why are you hitting it? I did THAT already! Don't you know what you're doing? Where is Danny? HE didn't have the nerve to show up himself, did he? Are you married? MY husband died twenty years ago, thank God. HE was a bastard, too"
I did not know if she was comparing her husband's bastard qualities to mine or Professor Waverly's, but I took some offense to the comment nonetheless. I am a very sensitive person. You should know this about me.
I waited a few seconds, and then strategized an escape plan right then and there : ' I have to take your TeeVee back to my shop and inspect it more thoroughly." I told Mrs. Blackwell. I can't tell what is wrong, but know you this : I WILL FIX IT. I will. I am not a ... BASTARD.. like you like to say. I'll be back. With your TeeVee. Fixed, working. I will. "
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Chapter Four (b)
She didn't believe what I told her about my living situation. My Personal Assistant and I lived together - SO WHAT? - She was younger than I , that much WAS true, and quite attractive as well - but was that MY FAULT? I think not, and I am not in the business of apologizing for things I am not responsible for. You should know this about me. The woman just loved to argue. I am not talking about the assistant here, I am talking about whoosits, what's-her-name, the little one. The one I was seeing at this time when I first met the professor. If it was true she loved to argue, it was especially true that she loved to argue about my Personal Assistant. My Helper. She had a cornucopia of complaints to register about her, ranging from makeup application to clothing choices to phone etiquette. I tried to remain neutral, grunting occasionally while she droned on and on about my helper, but I'll tell you what: I was beginning to feel disloyal about the whole thing. Once she found out that we really did live together though? That was pretty much the end of it.
SO - My Personal Assistant and I had been living together for nearly two years at that time, and there was nothing to answer to at that time, no apologies, no explanations. We had nothing to hide, we were on the up-and-up. We were family, just like you and your mother or father, brother or sister. The same. *Maybe* a tiny bit better as we had Special Plans to go Special Places like Idaho, or Alaska, Australia, and we did not bicker about whether Mother sent a more substantial Birthday Check to whom . What was I saying?
My PA and I had been living together for some long time already, a house with a big yard not far away from The Shop, Her animals could graze, and I had another driveway in which to park invalid cars. We got along well, we had already established that much. I could keep the sink clean, and she could too. I agreed we could use a goat, and I meant it. She wanted a Bird of Prey, and I was all for it, so long as the thing would be cloistered into it's own small area. They have talons. Sharp Talons. My throat is not prepared for such an assault. I could abide the bird, but not the claws. This was a standoff between us early on, which we managed to over-maneuver. We arrived at an agreement, she and I (I'm talking about my helper here, not Whoosits), her bird would live in a closet on the North End of the house, far away from me, and I was Okay with this, I would do it. I had my own unpleasantries. I do not want to get into detail here about my own personal unpleasant behaviors or characteristics, but I know I have them too. Most of them do not involve tearing flesh from bone, or shitting wherever I happen to be perched at the time the urge strikes me, but I can be difficult in my own ways.
Not long after I met the professor, he came over to our house to bring a few dead animals he had collected earlier in the week to feed to The Helper's bird. She tried to explain to him that the bird would only eat a rat or squirrel if it were alive and the bird could kill it. The professor chuckled in a patronizing way and countered with some oblique reference to buzzards or vultures and went ahead and put the paper bag full of dead rodents in our freezer, noting that they may come in handy if the bird was to 'Get hungry enough'. I recognized the look of horror on the helper's face as an unhappy one, and I help up a hand to let let her know she should not protest right this very minute. Professor Waverly had already alienated the helper with his comments earlier in the day suggesting she was retaining water, and she was hot for an excuse to get in an argument with the man.
"Thanks." I told the professor, who was now rummaging through the refrigerator.
"Did you really put that bag of rats in my freezer?" asked The Helper
"I do what I can. Do you have any pomegranate juice and a few limes?" asked Waverly.
"Limes?" I asked, and looked at The Helper. "Do we have limes?" She was glaring at me, not speaking.
"What about the wheat germ? Is it not refrigerated?" He began to open and close crisper drawers and sniff at Tupperware containers. "You two have not been eating nitrites have you? I can tell I have my work cut out for me here! Thank Heavens I found you while you are still young people and you still stand a chance."
SO - My Personal Assistant and I had been living together for nearly two years at that time, and there was nothing to answer to at that time, no apologies, no explanations. We had nothing to hide, we were on the up-and-up. We were family, just like you and your mother or father, brother or sister. The same. *Maybe* a tiny bit better as we had Special Plans to go Special Places like Idaho, or Alaska, Australia, and we did not bicker about whether Mother sent a more substantial Birthday Check to whom . What was I saying?
My PA and I had been living together for some long time already, a house with a big yard not far away from The Shop, Her animals could graze, and I had another driveway in which to park invalid cars. We got along well, we had already established that much. I could keep the sink clean, and she could too. I agreed we could use a goat, and I meant it. She wanted a Bird of Prey, and I was all for it, so long as the thing would be cloistered into it's own small area. They have talons. Sharp Talons. My throat is not prepared for such an assault. I could abide the bird, but not the claws. This was a standoff between us early on, which we managed to over-maneuver. We arrived at an agreement, she and I (I'm talking about my helper here, not Whoosits), her bird would live in a closet on the North End of the house, far away from me, and I was Okay with this, I would do it. I had my own unpleasantries. I do not want to get into detail here about my own personal unpleasant behaviors or characteristics, but I know I have them too. Most of them do not involve tearing flesh from bone, or shitting wherever I happen to be perched at the time the urge strikes me, but I can be difficult in my own ways.
Not long after I met the professor, he came over to our house to bring a few dead animals he had collected earlier in the week to feed to The Helper's bird. She tried to explain to him that the bird would only eat a rat or squirrel if it were alive and the bird could kill it. The professor chuckled in a patronizing way and countered with some oblique reference to buzzards or vultures and went ahead and put the paper bag full of dead rodents in our freezer, noting that they may come in handy if the bird was to 'Get hungry enough'. I recognized the look of horror on the helper's face as an unhappy one, and I help up a hand to let let her know she should not protest right this very minute. Professor Waverly had already alienated the helper with his comments earlier in the day suggesting she was retaining water, and she was hot for an excuse to get in an argument with the man.
"Thanks." I told the professor, who was now rummaging through the refrigerator.
"Did you really put that bag of rats in my freezer?" asked The Helper
"I do what I can. Do you have any pomegranate juice and a few limes?" asked Waverly.
"Limes?" I asked, and looked at The Helper. "Do we have limes?" She was glaring at me, not speaking.
"What about the wheat germ? Is it not refrigerated?" He began to open and close crisper drawers and sniff at Tupperware containers. "You two have not been eating nitrites have you? I can tell I have my work cut out for me here! Thank Heavens I found you while you are still young people and you still stand a chance."
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Chapter Three (c)
'Professor Waverly' gestured me over to his computer monitor with an encouraging waggle of his fish stick. "Come take a look at this!" He bit off another piece and began to chew, humming to himself suddenly like a happy cat. I despised him already.
"What?" I wanted to know, still coming closer.
"You really must read this. The evidence is right here for you and the rest of the world to see! " This time he gestured too enthusiastically with his cup of tea, and some sloshed out of his cup and into his keyboard with a hiss. A small cloud of steam issued forth from between the plastic keys like a conjured genie. The computer continued to function as before, unfazed. "Dammit!" He yelled to himself. "They don't make them like this anymore!"
I came over to where he was perched and looked over his shoulder at the computer monitor, which was old and glowing green. it looked like something from an old movie about the future. Typewriter font emerged from the left-hand side of the screen, and made it's way to the right in a stuttered path. I had no idea where he found this ancient computer, or how it was working now, but it seemed to be connected to the internet, and he had searched something or other. He had found his answers here in vibrant neon color. Every line of text offered from this thing was precluded with a "<" or ">" like ; "> affirmative. That is correct. Fish oils are necessary in twelve cultures."
Things like that. Old Fashioned computer things. It baffled me. I did not understand the Hows or the Whys. I was also aware that I had other things to do, and was becoming anxious, having spent almost three hours in this basement already.
"What?" I asked him again while sidling up beside him to look into his antiquated monitor.
" Take a look at THIS if you still doubt me. " He drew a line in the proverbial sand. I moved closer and squinted, trying to make sense of this crazy monitor.
Sure enough, in unnatural florescent green font there it was : "> FISH OIL. NECESSARY. >ELEVEN CULTURES DEPENDENT. VITAMIN 'C'. >B12. WALRUS BLUBBER. ..." I had no idea what this was all about or where he found it, but vitamin C and walrus blubber and fish oil were all mentioned in the same paragraph. ... Who cares? I wondered. I may be wrong though. I began to doubt myself. I felt drugged. Dizzy. Sick. What was in that tea?
"Ummm... Where did you get this?" I asked " Is that the internet? Why is it green?"
"What THAT is, Zak, is the result of nearly twenty years of intense research conducted amongst the indigenous populations flourishing North of the Arctic Circle. Theirs is a fish-oil rich region. Perhaps one of the richest on the entire planet! They are a hardy people. They live a long time, and their lungs are as pink and clear as they come. Tell me something: Have you ever seen an Inuit smoking crack cocaine? What about Methamphetamines? Now answer truthfully, have you ever seen an Eskimo smoking so much as a Cuban cigar?" As he waited for my answer, he ate the last piece of his fish stick in one bite, and began to hum again while chewing.
"Ummm... I guess not. I am not sure I've ever seen an Eskimo, now that you mention it. I don't think I've seen a Cuban cigar either. How would I tell if I saw a real Eskimo and not an Indian or something? I mean, if they weren't wearing a fur? Could I tell?"
I should have just humored him and said 'NO.'
Pointing a finger in the air to hold his turn, he finished chewing, swallowed, and then addressed my question.
"OH ZAK, You would certainly KNOW if you saw a true fish-oil disciple if you were to meet one in the flesh, and would definitely take notice if you were to even sit near them on a bus. The only things these people smoke are seal or walrus backstrap, Cod, and Salmon! As a result not only is their skin aglow with health and vitality, but they begin to emanate a certain odor after a lifetime of fish-oil enjoyment. The stuff practically oozes out of their pores! In addition to the many cardio-thoracic benefits, the people become absolutely waterproof as well! It is a win-win! Tell the truth: Have YOU ever had to slide down an icy cliff on your back into the Arctic Sea after a wounded seal?" He was staring at me again, blinking through his round lenses, waiting for me to answer him.
"No."
"Well, if you ever did have to do such a thing, you would wish your skin was glistening with the oil of a good cold-water fish. It would be advantageous. Live to be a hundred, too! Of course, there are drawbacks. Every advantage presents drawbacks as well, am I right? There is no free lunch, so to speak."
I thought about how I just shelled out seventeen dollars at Skippers for his lunch, and became curious if the professor was mocking me with this statement.
"... I guess not." I was aware that I may have been being tested. None of this made much sense to me, I just wanted to buy his car. I began to feel like I was being subjected to some elaborate prank. I could do this a while longer still. I really wanted that car.
"What?" I wanted to know, still coming closer.
"You really must read this. The evidence is right here for you and the rest of the world to see! " This time he gestured too enthusiastically with his cup of tea, and some sloshed out of his cup and into his keyboard with a hiss. A small cloud of steam issued forth from between the plastic keys like a conjured genie. The computer continued to function as before, unfazed. "Dammit!" He yelled to himself. "They don't make them like this anymore!"
I came over to where he was perched and looked over his shoulder at the computer monitor, which was old and glowing green. it looked like something from an old movie about the future. Typewriter font emerged from the left-hand side of the screen, and made it's way to the right in a stuttered path. I had no idea where he found this ancient computer, or how it was working now, but it seemed to be connected to the internet, and he had searched something or other. He had found his answers here in vibrant neon color. Every line of text offered from this thing was precluded with a "<" or ">" like ; "> affirmative. That is correct. Fish oils are necessary in twelve cultures.
Things like that. Old Fashioned computer things. It baffled me. I did not understand the Hows or the Whys. I was also aware that I had other things to do, and was becoming anxious, having spent almost three hours in this basement already.
"What?" I asked him again while sidling up beside him to look into his antiquated monitor.
" Take a look at THIS if you still doubt me. " He drew a line in the proverbial sand. I moved closer and squinted, trying to make sense of this crazy monitor.
Sure enough, in unnatural florescent green font there it was : "> FISH OIL. NECESSARY. >ELEVEN CULTURES DEPENDENT. VITAMIN 'C'. >B12. WALRUS BLUBBER. ..." I had no idea what this was all about or where he found it, but vitamin C and walrus blubber and fish oil were all mentioned in the same paragraph. ... Who cares? I wondered. I may be wrong though. I began to doubt myself. I felt drugged. Dizzy. Sick. What was in that tea?
"Ummm... Where did you get this?" I asked " Is that the internet? Why is it green?"
"What THAT is, Zak, is the result of nearly twenty years of intense research conducted amongst the indigenous populations flourishing North of the Arctic Circle. Theirs is a fish-oil rich region. Perhaps one of the richest on the entire planet! They are a hardy people. They live a long time, and their lungs are as pink and clear as they come. Tell me something: Have you ever seen an Inuit smoking crack cocaine? What about Methamphetamines? Now answer truthfully, have you ever seen an Eskimo smoking so much as a Cuban cigar?" As he waited for my answer, he ate the last piece of his fish stick in one bite, and began to hum again while chewing.
"Ummm... I guess not. I am not sure I've ever seen an Eskimo, now that you mention it. I don't think I've seen a Cuban cigar either. How would I tell if I saw a real Eskimo and not an Indian or something? I mean, if they weren't wearing a fur? Could I tell?"
I should have just humored him and said 'NO.'
Pointing a finger in the air to hold his turn, he finished chewing, swallowed, and then addressed my question.
"OH ZAK, You would certainly KNOW if you saw a true fish-oil disciple if you were to meet one in the flesh, and would definitely take notice if you were to even sit near them on a bus. The only things these people smoke are seal or walrus backstrap, Cod, and Salmon! As a result not only is their skin aglow with health and vitality, but they begin to emanate a certain odor after a lifetime of fish-oil enjoyment. The stuff practically oozes out of their pores! In addition to the many cardio-thoracic benefits, the people become absolutely waterproof as well! It is a win-win! Tell the truth: Have YOU ever had to slide down an icy cliff on your back into the Arctic Sea after a wounded seal?" He was staring at me again, blinking through his round lenses, waiting for me to answer him.
"No."
"Well, if you ever did have to do such a thing, you would wish your skin was glistening with the oil of a good cold-water fish. It would be advantageous. Live to be a hundred, too! Of course, there are drawbacks. Every advantage presents drawbacks as well, am I right? There is no free lunch, so to speak."
I thought about how I just shelled out seventeen dollars at Skippers for his lunch, and became curious if the professor was mocking me with this statement.
"... I guess not." I was aware that I may have been being tested. None of this made much sense to me, I just wanted to buy his car. I began to feel like I was being subjected to some elaborate prank. I could do this a while longer still. I really wanted that car.
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