I've had some requests by friends that have wanted to read some of my stuff. I also wanted to have an archive online. So here you go. I welcome all comments, as long as they're constructive.
The stuff on here ranges from 2004-Present, and is in no chronological order, until you get down to the portion that is more blog-like and less just a dump of short stories.
Hey Mister
“Hey mister, why’re you shakin’ all those eggs?”
A young girl stood staring, eye level with me. Children are born curious, but people have also always felt the need to question my actions.
“I’m making sure none of these eggs are cracked,” I replied as I placed the last jumbo sized egg back into the blue carton. I stood up and she shrunk to knee level. I had reduced my inquisitor.
“Why do eggs crack,” she asked as she followed me through the dairy aisle.
“Well sometimes when they’re being moved they crack,” I carefully maneuvered around a large woman in a red dress whose mind was busy reviewing contents of a recipe in her head making proper notes of measurement in her head.
“Three cups,” I heard her hum as the girl and I continued our walk down the aisle past the cheese. Maybe my answer wasn’t good enough for her.
“Sometimes they crack for no reason at all,” I placed the eggs in the top section of the cart where kids usually would sit, “a carton, is rarely perfect.” I began pushing the cart town the aisle. I grabbed the cart with the malfunctioning wheel; the cart resisted like it was dragging its feet.
“I really like my dog,” she exclaimed.
I didn’t realize she was there, the resistance of the cart must have given her enough time to catch up, not that I didn’t want her to talk to me. I didn’t really mind I had spoken to someone so surely in a long time.
“His name is Carl. My brother wanted to name him Frank, but I don’t like Frank, Frank is like a, like a-“
“Frank is a man’s name,” I said as we continued on. We both thought Carl could be a dog’s name or a man’s.
“Yeah a man’s name. My name is Annie, I wish my name was Lydie. I like Lydie, Liiiddeeeee,” she the name as she raised her head to a cocked back position almost as she was singing a hymn.
Before I realized we were at the checkout line. I put all the heavy items on the conveyor belt.
Annie looked up at me, “Can I put your groceries on there? My mom always lets me put our groceries on there.”
I handed her the bread, and then the eggs.
“The bread is easy and light.”
The total was $46.57 for two weeks of groceries.
“You didn’t get many groceries,” Annie said as she followed behind me. We were almost at the doorway.
“I don’t buy much each trip. “I travel a lot,” I said as the cart maneuvered awkwardly across the front end of the grocery.
As we came close to the doorway I stopped, “Annie you can’t come outside with me.”
She looked up at me half frowning and confused, “Why not?”
“You can’t come out into the parking lot with a stranger,” I then realized how long she had followed me without a parent around.
She looked down at her shoes because she didn’t know what to say. I knew she wanted to keep walking with me.
“You can watch me from the window, ok?”
She nodded her head, it wasn’t a perfect compromise. There rarely are perfect compromises.
I pushed the cart down the row to my car, but just as I was about to reach it the cart dipped. The left front tire had met a pothole and the cart violently slammed down to the ground. Amazingly everything remained inside the cart as well as it could in its disoriented state. As I tipped the cart up and rearranged the bags. I noticed the eggs.”
“Oh no” Annie yelled from the doorway, “the eggs, they cracked!”
She ran to me as fast as little girl legs could carry her. She picked up two cracked eggs and held the mess together cupped in her little hands.
“It’s ok, I can get more,” I answered.
“Yeah but a
carton is rarely perfect.”
Note: A friend suggested that there is an undertone in this story that the man has a wife that can't have children, or is unable to have children himself. I've thought about exploring that, but at the same time don't want to ruin just this simple scene that I really think is quaint and sweet.
This is the one that everyone loved in class and could identify with the characters so well. The characters are really nasty, wacked out people so I always thought that was funny. But at the same time the characters are based off of myself and a few friends of mine. I stole some of the dialog from conversations I had with them at the time.
This was also turned into a short screenplay and almost into a short film. I was going to act as the male lead and my friend who actually inspired the main female role was going to act as the female lead, but then she graduated from college and lost access to the equipment. It was fun to collaborate on the script and come up with the scenes though. Another friend of mine (coincidentally the female lead/filmmaker's brother) was going to record some songs and make some music videos with me as the band in the story and we were going to actually write "Muppet Love" but that never actually came to be.
All’s Fair in Love and Monopoly
“Uh wow,” she said, “there are so many avenues you can go down here. A, get her drunk, B, get her drunk, C, get drunk yourself and cry, D, get really drunk and puke on her carpet, and E, go to Vegas.”
When friends like these, you know your love-life isn’t going to be exactly normal. When the dialogue is coming from a female friend then things are really wacky. My life is a series of train wrecks. The conductors are drunk, the guys at the switch tower are deaf, and the passengers are all ablaze. Last night I woke up and there was a stain on my pillow, and I’m really hoping it was drool. It didn’t smell like drool, fill in the blanks and discuss. If I can’t even identify drool from other bodily fluids, how the fuck can I operate heavy machinery? I mean have a successful relationship?
“I’ve played this game before,” she continued as she stood up on her chair in this Starbucks we always find ourselves in even though I hate coffee and my sweaters are all five sizes too small. “It’s like Monopoly, I’m fucking Park Place, she’s Atlantic Avenue, no not even, she’s that purple one.” At this point she was yelling, there was a disturbed bald man staring at me like I was her handler. Dooooo something his eyes said to me. Sorry sir let me tazer her she’s just a little excited being out of the wild.
“I don’t know,” I interrupted her frantic yet brilliant Monopoly analogy. I worried she would stand on the table, and possibly start doing back-flips. “I’m nervous, what if I fuck this up? I read signals all wrong, I hazily replied. Those bumper stickers that say “God is my Co-pilot” well I feel like that. Julie is my co-pilot, My co-pilot hyped up on speed, constantly picking fights with the meatiest brutes in the bar.
“I’m going to buy you some Railroads if it’s the last thing I do. Don’t over analyze this, just play dumb.”
Don’t over analyze this; just play dumb, easy for you to say. When dating becomes a spectator sport you have all kinds of insight and play analysis that comes in right after the bell. The bell is usually when you fuck up and tell her that her sister looked really hot in her pajamas, or relate her snoring to a puppy being strangled under water. Who the fuck wants to hear puppy murder when they’re trying to sleep?
As Julie and I walked out of the Starbucks, I felt the air of a collective sigh. We stopped a few feet from the door.
“Martin, have you ever popped your Hip?” One, two, three, halves of a second, yep no time for a response. “What a cool feeling!” She turned and walked away from me, flung the door open and yelled “Well fuck you if Monopoly isn’t your game.” At least I’d never have to set foot in that shitty Starbucks ever again. She joined me at the curb, and we strolled back to my apartment. She walked circles around me babbling, like she was chanting to an idol or charming a snake. Julie is about 5’4” she frightens men, women, and children. She doesn’t have a voice; she has a switch that turns on yelling. If we hadn’t been friends for so long, if I wasn’t indebted to her, I’d be long gone. But we’re not friends we’re family.
“My movie is so fucked! This girl kept the camera for two weeks over schedule.” We both went to NYU, but I chose business and she chose film. When I talked to her my life seemed so mundane and hers was so action-packed that I wished I had the balls to do something different.
“You should cut that bitch,” I replied.
“Seriously, it’s the only camera they loan us, her mother’s a fucking producer what the hell, go ask mommy for help.”
“Tell her to quit wasting 35mm film on her homegrown porno with the Varsity football team from the high school. Get a fucking Handicam, they’re cheaper.”
Sometimes I could catch up, ten years of knowing someone was enough practice.
We crossed from annoying to horrific sometime during freshman year of College. It was either puking chili in the developing tank in the Fine Arts building, or shoving the Ceramics Club’s precious glasses up our asses that tipped the scales. After that point it just became passé because it was everyday, but at the same time it still happened, everyday. .
It took a long while until I had finally met someone who my notoriety hadn’t reached first, she didn’t go to our school. She went to school in another state. I thanked the fact that news didn’t travel that fast to Jersey. It was luck that we’d met at a party at school before anyone could reveal the sordid past of Julie and me. I was tired of us. I was tired of being sarcastic, I was tired of Julie. When I met Mary, her beauty drew me in. Her hair dangled in a bob, and she smiled ever so slightly to show teeth, but not Julia Roberts’ horse teeth. She exploded into laughter at my jokes, even the shit ones. It should have been a bad sign, but I kept watching her smile, and following her hair. She was near my height; I was only 5’7 so she wasn’t an Amazon woman. She was sarcastic, but only up to a certain point, where she drew a line. I would have to learn how to do that. Julie never drew a line and after a decade of a constant barrage of concentrated bizarre events involving bodily fluids and insults slung at the elderly, children, and every minority or majority she could think of it naturally grew to infect me. When Mary invited me to a concert at the local college bar, The Purple Dog, she didn’t blink before I accepted, I’d be there. When I broke the news to Julie I played it down.
“She wants me to go see this band with her , they’re Screamo, Emo, something like that, she says they’re really talented.”
“They go to this school?” Julie replied.
“Yes—“ I irked out, milliseconds before she interrupted.
“They’ll be a shitty, experimental whine fest who writes songs about their girlfriends leaving them, and cutting their hearts out with safety-scissors.”
I turned away. I didn’t need to hear anymore.
“But you should totally go, she’ll definitely let you bone the shit out her afterwards if you stick it out through the whole concert” she said as she tried to recover my attention.
Julie was right at least partly so. Mary and I show up at 7:00, right as the doors open. “We can’t miss the band Mary says. I make a bee-line for the bar, and buy two beers. She stares at the green bottles, almost snarling.
“I don’t drink beer, I don’t want to get fat.” I took a few steps back, out of my bubble of disbelieve where she was no longer untouchable, beautiful, and stunning Mary. It’s a bit too late for that, maybe you should cut back on the cake. Everyday is not your birthday. Stop celebrating.
“OHMYGOD there they are!” she gleefully yelled, back to a celebration.
Looks like someone raided grandpa’s drawers for some sweaters. Their hair hung down blocking their faces. Probably hiding their zit farm faces. The sticker on the lead singer’s guitar read “Hugs not Drugs.” How cute.
“Hey we’re ‘Muppet Love’” the emaciated lead singer proudly proclaimed. Are they fucking serious? Muppet Love? I stifled the urge to vomit or laugh I couldn’t figure out which was more urgent as I glanced back at her, she was glowing. She was fluttering; she’s in love, Muppet Love.
“This is our first song ‘Ernie and Bert.’ They are fucking serious! The other guy, the non lead singer, turns on the iMac and presses the keyboard with a spring in his step. The drums pop up and then the bleeps and bloops. “Sesame Street” and elevator music, ladies and gentlemen, I mean girls and boys, we are back in kindergarten. The lead singer steps up and begins strumming chords. C, E, A, C, E, A.
“I wear my bleeding heart on the sleeve of my shirt.”
This—
“I want to put my hand up your thrift store skirt”
This is not real; it has to be a really good parody. Yes I’m convinced, start smashing shit guys and throwing down.
“Your hair is so beautiful when you wash it with Pert/When you fall down I’ll dust of the dirt”
They take a pause, I look around. They’re all transfixed. I look at all the guys. Who stole all your balls? Did someone suck out all the testosterone in the room, replacing it with estrogen?
Please fucking break something now.
Please go into a monster riff.
Please knock these zombies out of their trance.
“Ernie and Bert, Bert and Ernie, Ernie and Bert, Bert and Ernie, Sesame Street, Sesame Street.”
“Snappy chorus! Fuck you!” someone yelled. Yes! Some other poor sucker got dragged along kicking and screaming, to this festival of whine. I hope he was smart enough to get tanked before he set foot in the door. Let me congratulate this man.
“You’re such a dick Martin,” Mary yelled. She might cry now.
Had I really said it? It’s all instinct now. Muppet Love has stopped playing their Muppet songs, and their loyal Muppet fans have all turned to me.
“I didn’t know emo kids could throw a punch, I thought the crying wore them out.” A familiar voice, I knew I was at home. I was lying in my bed, with the covers over my head. I had been beaten up by a horde of them. Julie was here. She was always there when I was at my lowest.
“Only when they travel in packs for emotional support can they fight like normal people,” I replied. I got up out of bed still in the pants I wore that night, I looked in the mirror. Not that bad, my left eye was black, my face was bruised. They must have given up; maybe I broke someone’s black glasses. Someone had written “Muppet Love 4ever!” on my stomach in red Sharpie.
“So Mary didn’t defend you?”
“No. No, she was down with the ‘Muppet Love’”
“She was a birthday girl, anyway.” Yeah Julie knew all along she liked cake. Julie and I were stuck together, super glued. But I wanted to tear away from her. We’d been friends for so long I feared part of me would be torn out with her.
“You’ll be back, I’m like a disease,” Julie yelled as I casually jogged away from her side in the cold night. I had enough when I wouldn’t spell my name in the snow. I thought the whole act was a bit too juvenile even for us, we had done far more shocking things. Piss just wasn’t interesting anymore.
“If I spell my name, then you have to spell yours too,” I explained.
“I can’t, it’s freezing out here. I can’t maneuver anyway,” she turned red; beaten her at her own game. She wasn’t afraid to do the deed, she was afraid of what I might actually say if she had to be vulnerable to me. If we were stuck together, if I couldn’t maintain a single other friendship for any length of time while we were attached, then she’d better pony up. We had to become something more.
“Hey we’re “Muppet Love,” Mark the twiggy lead singer said once again. Mark lived in the dorms with his roommate James. James was in charge of the drum track and the random computer beeps. We were a three piece now. I was playing bass badly, adopted my own style of tight jeans and pea-green grandpa sweaters. I apologized to the guys, they barely remembered what I thought was a vicious, isolated incident. It happened all the time. It was part of being in a band they explained. As we broke into “Sesame Street,” and I filled in the simple bass line I heard a familiar voice.
“Hey crybaby, you play bass like a fuckin’ bitch.”
Julie sat at the bar, vibrating and blaring. Her mouth had been switched on. As I nodded at her, I narrowly dodged the bottle that crashed slightly to the right of my head. Muppet Love 4eva.
This one has a "Rear Window" kind of feel. I initially had half the story told from the neighbor's point of view but the workshop I was in when I wrote it (Fall 2005 again) didn't like the switching from one point of view to another.
Harold Watches the Neighbors
He keeps taking them into that back room, that beautiful wife and that nice little boy, that abusive bastard. Can’t see into that back room, I’ve got to get closer, I’ve got to see more. Got to do this right. Can’t let Esther know I’m watching them. Can’t have her catching me again. Damned knees, need to get out of here without breakin’ my hip, damned hip didn’t endure as long as God intended it to.
Harold crept through the doorway into the washroom, a small window there lined up with the Sampson’s living room window. There he could see everything. He stepped down off of the dryer in his socks; with a resounding THUMP he slammed face first to the hardwood floor, his feet never went where he wanted them to. He stammered upright slowly, before he knew it he was back on the wood again. It wasn’t an easy task even to get around anymore.
Damn doctors think they know the world at twenty-seven. Esther better be asleep by now can’t have her interfering.
“Esther!” He called out, his voice echoed through their empty kitchen, solely illuminated by a cow night light. There was no response, dead silence.
Good, no interference, nothing keeping me from figuring this all out.
After struggling for ten minutes Harold finally regained his footing. His weak knees were the culprit. That young doctor, the one Esther requested, so sweet she said. But he knew! Oh he knew what Harold was up to! Harold knew he did. Harold had missed a step on the front porch. At least that’s what he had told everyone. He had really been watching them; the boy was in Harold’s lawn, lofting a Frisbee high into the air so he could catch it again and again. If only he was a decade younger, Harold could have played along with him.
“Hey Jamal, how is the first grade?” asked Harold.
“It’s still great Mr. Stevens! Jamal replied.
First grade, Harold thought was one of most important grades in a child’s life. Kindergarten was simple. The kids only went half days now, must have been a burden on his poor mother. Caught up in first grade, the mother, and the son, Harold wasn’t aware of the hose that entangled his leg until he was on the ground holding his injured leg. Gwen raced over to Harold.
“My god, are you alright?” she asked.
“Don’t tell Esther, Gwen,” Harold sputtered out between waves of pain that raced up his femur.
“What?” Gwen replied. He wished his own daughter was as beautiful as Gwen, (she reminded him of Dorothy Dandridge) and his grandson as bright as Jamal.
Harold echoed “Don’t tell my wife. Don’t tell her how this happened.”
Gwen raced back into the house and dialed 911, which worked to Harold’s benefit; he didn’t have to see his regular doctor. That guy thought he knew it all, he was on to Harold. The doctor at the hospital was a solid minded guy, stand up all the way. Harold liked him, he didn’t ask any questions.
“Bandage me up doc!” Harold proclaimed.
“Now Mr. Stevens, please take it easy.”
“Easy as pie, Doc, I’ll take it so easy-“
Harold looked up at the doctor, he wasn’t convinced.
“Doctors orders, I’ll stay in the house.”
That’ll settle it. The doctor finally obliged. No real resistance, no How did this all happen Mr. Winters. There was resistance though. Harold narrowly avoided getting caught again when he slipped and fell off of the dryer. He found if he sat at an angle on the dryer he had a perfect line of sight into their living room. In the dark his outline couldn’t be seen from the living room, or from the outside.
The light flashed on in the kitchen for an instant, Esther had snuck from her sunken spot on the couch to the kitchen for another sugar-free pudding. Her obsession was almost his downfall. As the light flicked on in the kitchen it illuminated Harold’s white socks. Damn pearly, pristine socks. She ran a mean house—like a factory manager every moment of her day was accounted for.
“Harold what the hell are you doing on the dryer?” She whined out.
Harold never did his own laundry. He was trapped; he strained to produce an idea.
“I was checking this light bulb; it seems to be going out.”
Light bulbs, thank god for light bulbs.
“That’s because it’s off Harold. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Nope, he was caught in his lie, damn you Jell-O Pudding.
“I’m just a bit tired.”
“Stop watching our neighbors, it bothers me, and it bothers them. Why don’t you spend any time with me anymore?”
They didn’t share any common interests anymore; his life now revolved around watching other people, but so did hers. She watched TV daily for at least ten hours. Voyeurism, to each their own.
“We’ll go to the park this weekend.”
It was his fall back line; they hadn’t been to the park the weekend before, or the weekend before that. They hadn’t been to the park in months. Either she was just duping herself into believing they would finally go and enjoy each other’s company, or she knew he didn’t want to be in her presence anymore ever again. Hell he didn’t even know her anymore. Jell-O and television were no substitute for ballroom dancing and tennis. When he saw her he saw an old hag, an imposter with baggy eyes and veins in her legs that reminded him of branches of trees. If she had become so grotesque what was he? His hair had yet to escape his head, although it had long been gray, he did not need glasses. When he looked up from the floor, Esther was gone. His response was good enough for her, enough to give her hope. Then a loud slam alerted Harold to his perch like a curious animal. It was the drug dealer, Morris, his neighbor, the tormenter of that poor woman and child. He dealt yayo, he knew it, blow, white china.
Scumbag, always blasting his rap music, bringing over degenerates with their pants hanging off their asses, what they don’t have belts in the ghetto?
His wife accused Harold of being a Law and Order couch cop, because he accused everyone. Sometimes she was right, the paperboy wasn’t stealing the papers from the machines and reselling them, and the girl scouts weren’t putting pot in the cookies. He didn’t have enough evidence for the Police chief. The department blocked his number, because he became a nuisance. Now if there was an accident Esther said they’d have to call 911 now instead of the local Police number. The nerve of them, he was a nuisance? All this scum and filth around him and he was the problem. He was just doing his duty, he founded the damn Community Watch program for their neighborhood, they were too uptight though, and they had no right to remove him from his seat as President, it was his baby.
The hell with them, Morris was a coke dealer.
Harold watched Morris come in from his Cadillac pimp car, he did every night. Morris eased his head left to Harold’s house, smirked and nodded. Morris pulled the knit cap off of his head as he walked into the door, and tossed his leather jacket in before he stepped in the house himself.
Goddamn punk kid get a real job, stop slinging crack.
A white van circled the block five times in an hour, both Harold and Morris’s attention turned to it. As Morris tore through the house slamming doors, and snapping blinds shut. Harold could no longer see in. He became anxious, not concerned with his own safety but rather the safety of Gwen and Jamal.
He missed his own kids, grown and long gone, they rarely called. They claimed they were busy, but who’s too goddamn busy to call their own father? He missed his wife, ballroom dancing, and his old life, but he was crippled, too old to function they told him. The only time he felt crippled and old was in the mornings.
Finally after what seemed like an eternity of being left in the dark, they stammered out their front door: Gwen clutched a pink suitcase given to her by Esther. Clothes hung sloppily out of the sides. Jamal walked out wearing Star Wars pajamas still in a daze. Harold knew he had been asleep since eight. Four hours of sleep wasn’t enough time for him. Time was cruel.
As they stepped out into the cold night air, Morris motioned for Gwen to lead Jamal to the car. While buckling Jamal in the backseat Gwen noticed Harold watching them now from a large front window where he was closer to the outside world, her face was panic stricken. Harold watched as Morris squatted down behind their front bushes, seeking cover. Morris knelt with a green box, opened it and produced a .45. Harold knew this because in his mind he was Detective Harold Stevens.
Harold fell from the dryer, this time because shots rang out. The quiet was now shattered. Dogs and car alarms roared at each other. Suddenly, Harold was no longer peering from a safe haven; he was out in his lawn. He thought he should have stumbled out into the lawn; he was a crippled old man, but as he ran out to Morris these ideas seeped from his memory. He had even forgotten his crutches, he was capable.
I’m leakin,” Morris yelled as Harold ran to his fallen body in the lawn.
“You’re not leakin’ you’re bleeding you thug.” Harold bit back; he knelt down next to his neighbor’s body. A bullet had grazed Morris’ shoulder; Harold tore his shirt and tied it around Morris’ arm as Morris looked on in surprise.
“Don’t call the cops,” Morris pleaded.
“I know what you do! I know who you are, you goddamn drug dealer! You’ve got that wife and that son, and you fuck it all up with this shit!” No longer being a spectator, Harold was now a furious, barking commander.
Harold watched as clarity washed over Morris’ face for a moment before it returned to a petrifying scared state, there was purpose behind the old man watching them.
“So what are you going to do! Turn me the fuck in, what you think that’ll do for them?”
Harold ran back to the house.
“Esther, it’s happened,” Harold yelled. For once he was right but he didn’t have time to revel in his glory.
“I need your help,” he continued, as Esther came in from the living room. He was searching for his damn keys because he couldn’t remember where he put them last night because he was too busy watching other people’s lives.
“Your keys are on the table,” Esther said as she interrupted his search, “I put your wallet there too, you need to be more organized.”
Grabbing the keys and his wallet in one quick swoop he bolted back into the lawn. Harold held Morris’ shoulders, as Esther held his legs; she had always taken care of their family’s health problems and now she falling back into her old habits as a nurse. As a team, they hoisted him into Harold’s station wagon, then eased his body into the back seat and slowly closed the doors; Morris lay powerless in the back, his wound staining the seat.
“Esther, take her and the boy home now,” Harold said in a remarkably calm manner. “I’ll be home soon as I’ve sorted this out.” His wife nodded in acknowledgement, and watched him as opened the car door. He felt her eyes watching him for the first time in years. She was watching in awe not in contempt of his actions.
Then Harold eased his body into the driver’s seat of the ancient station wagon. Harold put he car into to reverse and as he caught Morris’ eyes.
“What are you doing with my family?” Morris questioned as the backseat danced around him, as his consciousness slowly leaked out.
“I’m doing what you should have done. I’m taking care of them.”
I wrote this in Fall 2005, one of my favorites. Well received by the workshop I was in at the time.
NOTE: The last sentence was included at the request of my teacher at the time, there was a lack of closure in her opinion, and I can be cryptic in my "lessons taught." It was a valid suggestion even if I'm still not sure I like it being there.
Aleatoric
Aleatoric – adj done randomly; characterized by chance, often in reference to art or music
When I stumbled across the word aleatoric, I recalled the nature of chance in my life. Would I wake up late because the power went off in my building again? Would I miss the bus as a result? Would my boss write me up or just fire me from the deli? Some days I wondered if I would even wake up at all. I overslept my way through half a semester of college before I withdrew, I didn’t care for the school it wasn’t my first, second, or third choice. Now I was only making a couple hundred bucks every paycheck in a dead end job that I should have been fired from weeks ago. The only choice I made on my own was this apartment building, and the power always went off in the middle of the night.
“Life is so divergent, take this or that path, make this or that choice. Right or wrong, right or left, it’s all up here,” my co-worker Kenny said as he gestured to his temple, right above his black glasses. The glasses accented his eyes; they were pearly around his pupils. Wooly hair belonging to anyone else would be out of control, but Kenny kept it well maintained. He reminded me of Herbie Hancock my first introduction into jazz was a performance my uncle taped years ago. Watching that performance inspired me to start playing piano myself. I quit piano, among other things, after high school.
“Well this morning,”--my eyes darted to the floor-- “nothing’s really working up here,” I said as I gestured to my head. My glasses did nothing for my face, my skin anemic, my eyes spaced-out, and then there was my matted hair.
“Ah hell with that, you are always on that self-defeating you’ve got to get off that train.” He was fiery, tired of my constant berating of pretty much goddamn everything.
“My sandwich, gentlemen?” piped up our customer, our sole customer at this hour. It was 10, who eats at 10 in the morning? I glanced at my hands, two hands, two halves of a sub.
“You want mayo on this?” I asked the beady eyed man.
“It’s a BLT. Mayo is standard,” he crudely answered.
“Well nothing is standard, everything is a choice,” Kenny shot back. I watched his glasses bob up and down on his brow when he said nothing and everything.
We finished up his sandwich; a collaborative effort one that I felt that morning wasn’t something I could handle on my own. The customer paid in exact change. I bet most clerks like this practice, at the same time I wonder, how many men carry change in their pockets. Do they have coin purses? Once the sole annoyance of the hour left, with his receipt reporting his exact change, and his BLT with the standard mayo on it, we cleaned up the remnants of shredded lettuce that clung over the brim of the bin.
“How do you handle things like that?” Kenny was nonchalant all the time; I had to know what his secret was. He was never flustered, always collected.
“What you mean things like that? He paused searching my eyes, “That man,” a grin spread across his face. “That man hasn’t been with a woman in a decade, his own mother tenses up when she has to hug him goodbye.”
My days when I could just shoot the shit with Kenny made time go faster, when my other co-workers were here, there was this air of too much professionalism around.
“That man is too uptight. Put some coal up his ass, pull out a diamond that kind of shit. Full of angry fury, pissing into the wind, can’t keep frustrating life. What he doesn’t understand is life doesn’t care about Mr. BLT out there. You know that right, Knight?” He knew to flip that rhyme at the end; he slung words and complications, the momentum of anything aletoric he would swing around and send off into space. I was named after a Knight of the Round Table, Lancelot, My parents always overachieving and making lofty expectations even at my birth. Kenny and I had been through dozens of shifts together in the past few months, and I was constantly taking mental notes. He could defuse a situation with words. I had no doubt he could handle anything.
After the mid-afternoon rush we talked about our families. Kenny told me about the time his best friend was interested in his sister.
“He tried to convince me, that ‘well friends were the best people to trust, you could always count on a friend.’” He alternated his focus from sweeping the honeycomb floor, but his eyes transfixed on me as he spoke. He spoke so vividly with words and intonation that I was mesmerized. I was deaf and he was signing the words to me.
“I told him, ‘you’ve seen her droolin’ on herself, you’ve seen her act a fool’ he wasn’t having that though, he continued on pressing the situation. My sister had just come into her own, you know how that is.”
A stout bald man interrupted the story when he eased his torso in the doorway.
“You got the City Paper here?”
“Sorry my friend, try two doors down, the drugstore.” Even with something as simple as directions, he had it all kicking up there in his head.
“Thanks, have a good one.”
The man leaned out the door and waddled off to the drugstore. As the lock on the door clicked shut, Kenny continued.
“Anyway, I told my friend to give it a shot, see how it rolls. I wasn’t mad at him. He was a trustworthy man.”
“You had absolutely no problem, with that?” I couldn’t believe his ease, if it were my sister, if I had a sister, and it was my friend. Friendship over, period.
“I mean it’s not my life, you know? What would I do to help that situation? You gotta know when to act, and when to just let it go, Knight. Let’s get this rug up.” And with that he had it summed up, and we were now moving the rug out the door to snap it up. It took one quick motion from the both of us, and all the debris was thrown off the mat on to the sidewalk.
“See you know that, Knight. We got that down ages ago. Practicality, take that random and make it work for you.” He taught me that on our first day working together, he had always instilled simplicity into this job, and anything we did as a team would breeze on by. As we hoisted the carpet back in through the doorway, timing it all right so that when the door closed halfway through the coffin sized rug’s venture back into the deli that it stopped on our shoes, not on the rug. I looked up at him; he knew that I wasn’t quite satisfied with the ending.
“So my sister married him, he’s now my brother-in-law.” I nodded somberly in accordance. He looked at my sad head, pushed his glasses back up to his brow and said,
“No, I’m just pulling the wool, she told my best friend he was like a brother to her. My sister, sometimes she out finesses me.”
The day was a breeze-by, hours, minutes, and seconds. Random moments, they were spent themselves quickly until the final intruder stepped through the door. The boss always visits when you’re having a bad day.
“Kenny I need to talk to you, in the back,” Phil, our boss said as he hung his coat over a chair.
Somehow he knew I had missed the bus, I had been 30 minutes late. I imagined the BLT man and Phil in cahoots to steal any remote pleasure I got from my job, most of which comes in the form of a paycheck.
I watched Kenny and Phil talk, Phil gestured frantically, it related to me. It’s all aleatoric, random chance of my life that he has to come in today of all days. Phil walked over to me and began to rant.
“I know you were thirty minutes late, I’ve got my eye on you. If it wasn’t for your father I wouldn’t keep you on here any longer.” His voice faded out, I could just let him know I really didn’t want to be there any longer. I didn’t want to be out of a job. What would Kenny say? While I watched his lips move, I thought for a while.
“Sir,” I finally interrupted, he could have been talking about how the Mets lost to the Red Sox last night for all I know, “I apologize. Because of circumstances out of my control I was late to work.” I needed a good finish. “It’ll never happen again.”
“It had better not, this has happened a half a dozen times. Kenny says you’re good with customers,” I had to stifle the urge to laugh; to me they were all like the BLT man. “Your father says you’re thinking of going to medical school at night time.” I mentioned it once and my dad the amazing doctor latched on and decided it was my destiny.
“Yes I’m considering it, as long as I can work out a decent schedule.”
“Of course we can, we’ll talk about it later I have to take care of payroll at the bank.” He took his coat from the chair. Maybe I can fool them all into thinking I’m doing something with my life, or maybe I should do something.
Before we knew what time it was, our shift was over. We could go home. As we walked down to the corner, he would turn left and I would wait for the bus, the same one I missed that very morning. Usually my feet would ache, my head would pound, but today I felt content. I hadn’t felt this way since I forgot what an imagination was. Kenny bobbed, I wondered what he was thinking about, but we kept conversation pretty light as we walked those five blocks after our shift on the Tuesdays and Thursdays that we worked together. I stopped at the bus stop, and we shook hands as we did every shift.
“You just keep letting that random flow and you’ll be settled, Knight.”
As he turned to walk down the corner, still nodding, I looked at the schedule in the bus stop and realized it was Labor Day. The bus wasn’t coming. I called out to Kenny.
“Did you know it’s Labor Day?”
Kenny replied, “Nope, we didn’t get the day off.”
I picked up the pace to catch up with him.
“They aren’t running the busses today.”
“How far do you live?”
“I can just call a cab.” I stated confidently, something that would have stressed me out before, a minor inconvenience like missing the bus was now so simple.
“You can do that, but I wanted to loan you something.”
I thought about just telling him some other time. I wasn’t sure if he was being polite, but at the same time I didn’t want to duck out on him.
We walked further down the street, to his building. I couldn’t see the top. As we stepped into the foyer, he nodded to the doorman. I was surprised to see that a doorman was still employed, it seemed so antiquated. We got on the elevator.
“This is a nice building.” The elevator buttons were surrounded by an ornate brass design illuminated perfectly, not one burnt out.
We finally reached Kenny’s floor, the seventh floor, and walked down to his apartment, 709.
“This building is peace, and my apartment is a savior,” he said as he slipped the key into the keyhole, easing the knob to open the door.
I stepped in and looked around; all there was in his living room was a couch, chair, and coffee table with a woman’s picture on it. All were somewhat dingy but still well maintained. The couch and table faced a record table. The speakers hung humongous on the walls like they were posters.
“Did you see my mother?” He called from the bedroom.
“No I think she must have stepped out.”
“No, on that’s her
on the coffee table, this was her apartment. Knight, do you have record
player?”
”I think the needle is broken, but we have one covered in dust in my dad’s
office,
why?”
“I want you to hear this.” He then emerged, dressed in the same attire as the doorman.
I looked at him in puzzlement; he reached into his doorman’s coat pocket and pulled out a phonograph needle.
“You’ll need this.” Then he walked towards another doorway in the living room, and opened it up. As he slid the door open, I noticed it was a walk-in closet, full of records. Kenny had made makeshift shelves, and lined almost every free inch of them with records, there were thousands. He walked in and came back out with a record; even from afar I noticed the cover was pristine.
“You’ll need this too,” he said as he handed it to me. “I heard you play piano, Tell me what you think of Hill’s playing.” The album, Point of Departure by Andrew Hill, I had never heard of him.
I looked around the living room, fairly empty.
I ran my hand along the couch, encased in plastic.
“You like that? My mother--she had some taste I’ll tell you that much, kept it all clean too.”
His world, solitary.
I followed him back out into the hall way and down to the doorman. He shook hands with the door man and filled his place.
“Pay phone is down one block, you got it now Knight.” He then shook my hand, smiled and pulled his doorman’s cap on.
I walked out the door, reading the back of the album, reading the credits. I realized I didn’t know much about jazz. Only the big names, the ones that everyone knows: Coltrane, Davis, Mingus, and Hancock. My uncle was a jazz fan, and responsible for the inkling of knowledge I did have on the subject. As I read the cover of the album I changed my mind about going back to my apartment. I walked to my parents’ house instead, only a few blocks from Kenny’s building. I politely said hello to my mother and father, they were eating dinner together.
“There’s more in the fridge, just heat it up in the microwave, come in and eat with us.”
“I’ll come back out later and eat.” I moved my dad’s record player and speakers into my old room. He would never even realize that they were gone. The needle fit, which was remarkable to me. I put on the record. Hill’s movements on the piano were unlike anything I had heard before, at first they seemed so random, but as I listened a second time I realized they were calculated. The music was seamless. Hill’s piano playing accented the other players: Richard Davis on Bass, Eric Dolphy, Joe Henderson, Kenny Dorham on the horns, and Tony Williams on drums. I remembered what it meant to me to play, when it wasn’t exhausting running through the same routines over and over, it had been so long. After the second listen, I found myself in the den playing piano, not even remembering the trip there. As I went through the scales, it felt like home again. I felt my mother’s eyes watching over my shoulder.
“We kept it in tune, in case you wanted to play again.” I had been away for a year, a needlessly difficult year.
I wrote "My Robot's Got the Blues" back in August/September of 2004, it was loosely inspired by the song "The Robot's Got the Blues" by Worm is Green which you can hear here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ziT7Du5fUxM
Don't know how relevant the works cited really is, but you can look the link if it still works.
My Robot’s Got the Blues
I jarred awake; I could hear something other than silence in my room. I glanced at the red LED light on my clock it was 3 in the morning. Then my eyes focused on a LED further away, further through the dark cool room. This LED was blinking, and then I could isolate the noise, a gentle whirring noise. I tried to speak, but the words were trapped. I coughed to clear my throat,
“Vernor, why are you recharging in my room?”
He was startled. Then I heard a defeated voice, an almost sickly, disposed of voice.
“I didn’t want to be alone tonight, I didn’t want to sleep alone tonight.”
“Why would you say something like that!” I paused when I heard him sigh. I tried to change my tone of voice but I was still frustrated because he woke me up from a sound sleep. “-robots don’t need to sleep.”
When you buy a robot you expect it to serve certain purposes, clean your house, wash your car. Those menial tasks that people don’t have the time or energy to do when they work all the time. That’s why I ordered Vernor. I was buried in work even at home, and I no longer had the time to keep my own home clean. When I got home, I would gaze at all the clutter around. I needed relief, I hated living like a slob. I thought of those old science fiction movies with the robot maids. I remembered a news story about the very thing become a reality. I found a small company in the back of Popular Science magazine. They shipped Vernor overnight. The seven foot tall box looming on my porch, when I glanced out my window in the morning it sat there blocking out the sunlight. I opened my door carefully, careful not to alarm my neighbors. Most neighborhoods have one crazy lady, my neighborhood was full of crazy ladies. When surrounded by the insane, you start questioning your own sanity. Seeing no sign of any neighbors, I crept out to the crate. I had a crowbar around in the garage, for no particular reason, which is a good enough reason for me. I cracked the box open, not a good idea at 7 o’clock in the morning. The wood splintered, and the noise shattered an otherwise pristine morning. Dogs barked, car alarms blared, and I heard a few faint rhythm lines of snoring stop. No time for messing around now, if I didn’t hide it as quickly as possible it would become the spectacle of the morning.
It looked like the pictures in the back of the magazine, but far more slender. It was a cold metallic blue, it reminded me a tall old man, looking almost emaciated. The robot itself was surprisingly light, I threw it over my shoulder and hoisted it in through my house. I searched the now hollow cocoon for the instructions. I expected a large dictionary sized thing that outweighed the robot. I found a sleek folder in a reflective blue color, almost the same color as the robot. “Operating and Maintaining Your Acetec Personal Assistant.” Personal Assistant sounded like secretary, or even worse sex slave robot. I opened it up and found a long slender pencil like rod in pouch. I found a small hole underneath the right arm. The eyes, which once were dark circles that reflected no light, like endless pits, now suddenly lit up in a bright green glow.
I flipped through quickly because suddenly I felt like I was being watched. The operations section instructed me to refer to the robot as Vernor. They could have just called it nerdy if that was the best they could do. Imagine a kid named Vernor, I would have begged my parents to home school me if they’d named me Vernor, or I would have just poisoned them. My mind focused on that word poisoned. Would he turn on me and poison me, would I hear a voice like HAL’s in “2001” saying that he “couldn’t do that Micheal.” Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I looked through the booklet for customer support. It was hiding in the back almost as if they never wanted anyone to call for help. I called them up. It rang twice, I thought well at least they’re busy. After it rang a fifth time I started panicking. They were a quack operation and I was the first victim of a robot annihilation. They would make it look like an accident, and have a team of their workers come by and clean my house out tomorrow. Then a voice answered back from the seemingly endless string of rings.
“Acetec Inc. how can I help you?” said a hollow voice.
“Yes my name is Michael Stern, my robot was just delivered this morning.”
“You mean your Acetec Personal Assistant?” That’s it read off your card, make sure you don’t read the trademark symbol by accident. I don’t want to confuse you for one of them.
“Oh erm yeah, personal assistant. Look this thing is guaranteed to never attack people right?”
“Yes sir, we don’t plan on bringing on the apocalypse, they are totally safe. Even former President Bush has one of these on order.”
It’s so reassuring when someone famous who I don’t know and have never met, and frankly don’t give a damn about has one.
“Ok great, so how does it work?”
“Well if you want it to just do normal chores like we had highlighted in our ads then just say the robots name and then say ‘normal operations’ and it should respond. If you have another other problems, just call us back. Have a great day, thanks for purchasing from Acetec.”
He didn’t even ask me if I needed any other help, he just ended the conversation for me. I was on my own. “Vernor, normal operations,” I said deadpan almost robot-like. He then answered back “Operations status normal, please instruct.” So then I thought of all the things that needed to be done around here, all the things I had no time for because of my heavy work schedule. The only reason I was home, even though it was a Saturday is because I took the phone off the hook. I got tired of being called in every Saturday to answer questions about something everyone else at the business should already know. By the end of the night my house was spotless. It even cleaned the ketchup off of the ceiling from when my nephew and niece were here throwing food around. It was meticulous, but it never spoke. When midnight rolled around it came to me in my room. “At 24 hundred hours, this unit is to be charged for four hours, to maintain power levels.” So I plugged it in, it took me awhile to get used to the whirring, and the constant blinking green LED. Tomorrow night it was going in the garage.
After about a week I felt like Vernor was a phantom since he never spoke to me. It was as if I had moved in with a roommate that comes and goes as he pleases. I don’t even get the occasional head nod of recognition. What was I asking for out of this robot? The chores are all done, am I crazy for wanting more out of a robot. I look at the calendar and realize that it’s my birthday today, as I’m realizing this fact the phone rings. It’s my sister. She usually only sees me one a month, but that’s my fault. The psychiatrists have all said that I isolate myself from people, and of course that led me to isolating myself from them. They weren’t really helping me. I fill her in on all the mundane details of my life. Then I tell her about the robot. Then her voice goes from supportive yet bored, to excited.
“When can I see it, is it like they are in the movies?” I haven’t heard her this excited in a long time.
“Just come over. I’m here all day.” I tried to mask my pathetic whine with an accommodating eagerness.
“Ok great! I have to stop at the bank, get the dog food, and water the plants, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She was always busy, but she was glad that she was busy. We were exact opposites in that area. I always felt bored, but when I took on more work or a hobby it would always overwhelm me. No one is ever there to help me sort through my problems and prioritize things. As I pulled out the chair to slump down and take a seat at the pity party, I was at the head of the table at least, I heard the doorbell ring. “So where is it? I want to meet it.” She might as well bowled me over when she came in through the door.
As Vernor crept through the house, I saw that she was getting nervous.
“Jamie, it’s not like in the movies, it’s not going to attack you.”
“I know, I know. I’m just nervous. How did you find out about this thing?”
Then it came around the corner, the stringy body seemed so fragile.
“This is Jamie my sister.” I realized how stupid it was to give introductions, it didn’t speak. It stood there, motionless, waiting for a command.
“What’s wrong?” She questioned.
“It doesn’t really talk unless it’s required.”
“That’s boring, we have to find something out, don’t you know people that play with stuff like this? Those guys from Vermont who you said never leave their labs except to sleep.”
“This is exciting, just think of what you can do with a robot that could think.”
“Jamie, robots can’t think for themselves, they’re programmed.”
“But what if they could? What if you and your friends can do something?”
I had lost touch with all my friends from college. I failed to return every call, turned down every invite, until eventually they just stopped calling. I didn’t have the heart to tell my sister. I buried the fact that I was very alone in my work, and started to use all my technical knowledge to start writing code to program the robot to feel. I put him on a regiment of watching my every move for a month. I wasn’t the best example of a human being to watch, but I was still something to learn from. Everyday he would follow me around watching me, asking questions about everything. After each answer, he would pause, he was constantly storing information.
Vernor began doing what every American does, soon he was watching television when I was at work.
“This fine program is called “Will and Grace,” the one man Will lives with the one woman Grace, but they aren’t married.”
“Yeah that’s because Will isn’t attracted to her.”
“What do you mean attracted, magnetically?”
“No, I mean physically attractive”
“Like a husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, right?”
“Yes like that, Will is Homosexual. He likes other men.”
“Oh, I don’t understand.”
“It’s just a matter of preference, some people like other people of the same sex.”
“Oh I think I may understand.” He had even picked up a tone of voice to indicate confusion.
“Your sister called, we had a lengthy conversation about me, and she is coming over. I think she is attracted to me.”
“What do you mean? You invited her over?”
“Yes Michael, don’t worry you can go to bed if you want, she wants to see me.”
I promised I would call her immediately after I had finished programming Vernor, I had been trying for perfection so I never got around to calling. So she called me.
She burst through the door. “Where is he? He was so polite on the phone, What a great idea this was Michael.”
As we stepped through the doorway my sister’s face lit up. “Hi Vernor. Michael maybe if you were as sweet as Vernor you wouldn’t live alone”
“I live alone by choice” I proudly exclaimed.
“Sure you do, Vernor we need to find him a girl.”
“We sure do Jamie. How are the flowers?”
He knew my sister’s name; he knew she was a florist. If the whole idea wasn’t so preposterous then I would think he was interested in my sister.
We sat down on the couch, Vernor suspiciously sat between my sister and I. It didn’t matter that I was there; their attention never strayed to me.
“Ok you two have been talking for 5 hours I think you’ve about found out everything there is to know about each other. I have to go to the dentist.”
“Yeah and I have to stop and see Frank. I think he might be the one Michael. It was so nice meeting you Vernor.”
Vernor then did something that immediately set off a blaring alarm; he took my sisters hand and held it to his mouth like he was kissing it. “The pleasure is all mine.” Jamie’s face turned a bright red.
“Oh thank you Vernor, you’re so smart and flattering.
We walked out the door, my sister of course never changing the subject from Vernor except finally to say goodbye to me.
When I returned from the dentist, Vernor was waiting for me like a faithful dog.
“How was the dentist appointment?” he followed in toe as I walked to the kitchen.
“No cavities, no problems.” I went to the refrigerator to get a soda.
“Well you floss and brush everyday, twice even.” Then he noticed the coke in my hand. “Oh no, are you trying to rot your teeth Michael?”
Why was he following me so closely?
“You are sure taking an interest in me.”
“Well we’re friends Michael” “Of course we’re friends.” I answered quickly and confidently. Then the bomb hit.
“What does you sister think of me?”
“She says you’re very smart and nice to her. Where did you pick up those lines from?”
“Television while for the most part
is silly, while I’ve learned a lot from watching you. It has taught me a way
with words.”
Television had taught him to act more suave than I.
“She’s a lovely woman, do you think she would want to marry me?”
“What! What do you mean? You can’t be serious. Love a robot?”
“Michael why is there a problem, I love her, she seems to show feelings towards me. What could stand in our way?”
“You are a robot, people don’t fall
in love with robots. You don’t even know what love is. You shouldn’t even have
any propensity to fall in love with anyone.” My head was spinning, but I paused
for a second to gather thoughts. “I guess being created by a man that’s why you
are attracted to women. But you can’t, you don’t understand.”
”You’re right, I don’t understand” I sensed a sadness in a robot voice, and I
didn’t know that it was possible. What could I say to make this just end
abruptly; I couldn’t sit here explaining everything.
“She doesn’t love you, she’s married.”
“She-doesn’t-love-me?” Each word sounded more and more heartbroken.
“I’m sorry Vernor, this was all a mistake, I just needed someone myself to be there for me.” It hit me almost as hard as I thought it was hitting him. “This is all my fault, I’m sorry”
“So what do I do, why do I feel this pain? How do I deal with this? There is no one out there for me.”
“You have to recharge. You’ve drained yourself constantly learning, and now you’ve let your emotions get the best of you. You need to rest.”
The next morning I woke up, and I smelt burning electronics.
“Are you cooking Vernor?”
“No Michael, now I’m as free as you are.” He sat there on my living room floor, a frayed wire circling him. He had torn his plug from his back, he could never recharge to regain any energy. He would slowly die, and as he died these emotions would worsen.
“You don’t know what you’ve done.” I barked. “Now you are unstable.”
“No you don’t know what you’ve done.” I had never heard anger in his voice. Even if he had done all this on his own, this was my fault.
“I’m sorry Vernor, I’m just a dreamer.” I really didn’t know what to say. I stammered for something poetic something eloquent that would make me seem less responsible, less evil.
“Well I’m living in nightmares. Turn me off. If you really do care about me- Turn me off.” He pleaded.
“I’m sorry Vernor, it was too quick. I shouldn’t have done this in the first place, and I shouldn’t have neglected your learning process.”
“It’s too late now, if you care, if you care at all. You will do what needs to be done.” He rose to his feet and walked towards me. I began to stumble backwards. Then as he was before me he turned and kneeled. He raised his right arm.
“Just end this Michael, deliver me from this pain.” His eyes dimmed, he collapsed forward and I dropped the key. I huddled next to him holding his lifeless shell within my lap. Tears soaked my shirt, and then lightly fell on his metallic body. I was alone again.
Works Cited
Artificial Intelligence: A.I. Dir. Steven Spielberg With Haley Joel Osment, Jude Law. Warner Brothers, 2001.
Picard, Rosalind. “Will Robots Ever Learn to Love?” 2001. 11 Oct. 2004
<http://www.telegraph.co.uk/connected/main.jhtml?xml=%2Fconnected% 2F2001%2F07%2F05%2Fecfai05.xml>
Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein. London: Penguin Books, 2003.
I threw this together in the past 5-10 minutes, have fun:
Lake Drainer
So today I drained a lake.
Pulled the plug right out of the bottom.
Wasn't much to it, just happenstance while I was fishing.
A fish told me a secret, one other than the fact that he could talk.
He said, "Look friend, we need a break from the boring blues. The fish and frogs we've been talking and we need to rid ourselves of this lake."
I asked him, "Well won't you all die?"
"No sir, us fish will go down the hole with the water, and the frogs, well the frogs will be fine on land until the rain comes and fills the lake up again."
So I did it, I angled my line enough to throw it in and pull the plug.
It was a glorous spinning spectacle.
The frogs all croaked and the fished jumped in and out of the water as it swirelled down.
And once it was all done and gone, I walked into the lakebed.
Put that plug back in.
And walked along my way.
The next week it rained and filled it up all over again.
I went for a visit and the frogs had returned.
And a then a frog told me a secret she said "Look friend..."
So I did it all over again.
Shugo Tokumaru is the truth.
Although I can't recall the "who said" or "where I read" about the following recently the gist of the idea. The author had been accused of being contradictory, to which they replied something to this effect "Of course I contradict, I have a right to because I am so complex, there are many layers and sometimes they just don't quite agree."
So is that a cop out answer to contradiction?
I don't think so because I can consistently stick steadfast to a moral grounding or a central thought but still let the details fluctuate on a regular basis, and I think that's fair.
“I wish you’d stop that,” she said as she twined me down the road.
“If I knew how to stop being sick. I obviously would stop,” I answered as I continued to walk pausing only to dry heave motioning my head towards the grass.
“Fluorescent bulbs? I mean it just doesn’t really make any sense at all. It’s like saying windshields fight crime,” I continued before we turned a corner.
It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t warm, that hour it just didn’t feel like anything. If I knew what the inside of a vacuum was like it would probably feel like that, but who knows what the inside of the vacuum feels like?
As my head slowly bobbed up and down from it’s lowered position in efforts to reassure myself that I would not walk directly into a brick wall, or an elderly lady, a man caught my eye.
“Excuse me young man, is there anything I can do to help you?” he asked hush-hush, although there was no one around. My attempts at vomiting offended him and he wanted me to be out and done with it.
“If you can remove all fluorescent bulbs from all the points of interest in this city, then you can probably help me.”
“He’s serious you know,” Emily interrupted, as she began twining me again. “The doctors say he’s sensitive.” She mouthed the word longingly at him. As if it could pierce his brain, and suddenly he’d have an answer for me.
“Well we can all be sensitive. Should I phone a cab?”
“Only if the cab driver can assure me that he will break all fluorescent bulbs in our paths. If he can then so be it!” I announced as I flung my head down in the last grand gesture and collapsed into the grass. It was all very dramatic in hindsight, but at the time it felt like I would definitely be dead soon. Sweat flooded my body and my clothes were reduced to sponges for perspiration. Maybe I had a really severe long-lasting case of food poisoning. Fluorescent lighting is obnoxious but can it really threaten life?
“Tokyo Rose, dude she was the Tokyo Rose,” Mark yelled.
“Oh no that’s a bunch of shit,” I replied. He had recently become obsessed with urban legends and in particular that of Amelia Earhart.
“Yeah dude, the Japanese took her and used her for their own purposes!” He then sipped his coffee and sad down on my floor with his legs crossed. When people cross their legs it confuses my brain. I always think they’re tangled. Always.
“What about the fact that they were off course? Everyone knows that. They just fell into the ocean.”
“Man it’s Japanese and she’s the Tokyo Rose! I just know it!”
I was afraid we’d argue for a day or two if I didn’t think of something fast.
“Yeah, the Japanese probably killed her.”
“Who would kill Amelia Earhart?!” he exclaimed.
“It’s pretty obvious. The Japanese.”
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