Hello all!
Today is Valentine’s Day. The day when those in relationships are guilted into buying sappy cards and fattening chocolates (or jewelry if you’ve got a really pushy lady) for those we love and the day when those who are single feel judged by society for not having someone to buy sappy cards and chocolates for. All in all, a truly ridiculous day.
Now me personally, I did the exchange of sappy cards and chocolates with my sweetie yesterday so I’m perfectly fulfilled. But I remember being single and feeling lonely on this day in the past. (And then feeling ridiculous for feeling lonely on a stupid Hallmark holiday. And then feeling lonely all over again when my friends in relationships bragged about what they got from their sweeties. And then feeling more ridiculous for comparing myself to them. Etc, etc.)
So, in hopes of encouraging those who are single to NOT feel lonely and consequently ridiculous and/or in hopes of consoling those who paid too much for overpriced chocolates, I have a recommendation: My Bloody Valentine. It’s a movie. You should rent it. Now.
It came out in 3D back in 2009 and contains everything you need to get through Valentines Day: doomed relationships, a loveless marriage, and a psycho serial killer terrorizing the townsfolk with a pick-axe! (Not too mention more blood and gore than a Quentin Tarantino movie! Anyone wish for something other than chocolates in their heart-shaped box? We got you covered!)
So, if you’re unattached this February 14th don’t give in to the silly feelings all the commercials might encourage you to feel. Go out, pick up a fun movie and your own chocolates (they should be on sale by the end of today!) and laugh at one of the funniest slasher films ever made! Trust me, it’s a worth-while way to spend your time.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Monday, February 14, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
211 in 2011 Update
Hey!
It’s me, Bev. You know- the crazy writer who runs this thing. It feels odd, even now, referring to myself as a writer. But the blog and the NaNoWriMos and the new twitter account and the constant thought that “I should be writing right now” must be symptoms of the disorder, right? Might as well refer to myself as a member of the club.
First off, to those of you who have read something- anything- posted so far this year: thank you! Your comments have been read and appreciated more than any sane person could possibly appreciate them. (I am not saddled with the strain of being sane, so I can appreciate them far more.)
Secondly, to those who haven’t read: why am I talking to you? You don’t even bother to read this crap!
Thirdly, as an update to anyone who is at all interested in how I’m doing with my challenge: well, the number of posts so far should tell you. If I were to go about things in a standardized, regulated method (like the tortoise) I should have written at least 16 posts for January. I made it out with 17. So, that’s actually right on track, surprisingly.
It feels like I’ve written far less than I’m supposed to. Afterall, there’s only 11 months left in the year, right? And the year will inevitably throw a lot of things at me that could easily derail my writing plans. It seems that if there were ever a time to build a healthy buffer it’d be now.
What’s the problem, you ask? Simple- the same boring, redundant, painfully repetitive problem that always interferes: my inner citric. The voice that pops up and tells me the idea-ish thought that I have is either entirely too stupid to write, or entirely too good to be written well by me (because I’m not capable of that) and squashes it before it’s even had the chance to build into a real idea. Yes, that is the source of all my neuroses and it has plagued my conscious thought since my earliest memory.
Wise friends of mine who are capable of far more impressive feats of creativity than I say that it is important to keep a squeaky mallet on hand to beat that little voice into submission. I don’t seem to have an internal squeaky mallet. I can use logic to argue with the voice- but a debate is not an instant quashing like I need.
How do I plan to solve this? Well, I don’t know. I’d love some ideas, though. So, I’m hereby opening up a suggestion box for you to utilize on the blog. (See it? It's up at the top right under countdown!) In it, I will be accepting personal feedback (though comments are still deeply appreciated), suggestions for how to kill that inner critic in my head or stories of how you fight yours, writing challenges and/or any and all ideas you may have for stories you think I should write.
And as grateful as I am for your comments I will be equally grateful for your input. Possibly more so. In fact, I might take your input out to dinner. I might drop a roofie into your input’s drink when it’s not looking. I might do dirty, dirty things to it when it’s unconscious. I will most certainly be grateful. So start dropping those suggestions!
It’s me, Bev. You know- the crazy writer who runs this thing. It feels odd, even now, referring to myself as a writer. But the blog and the NaNoWriMos and the new twitter account and the constant thought that “I should be writing right now” must be symptoms of the disorder, right? Might as well refer to myself as a member of the club.
First off, to those of you who have read something- anything- posted so far this year: thank you! Your comments have been read and appreciated more than any sane person could possibly appreciate them. (I am not saddled with the strain of being sane, so I can appreciate them far more.)
Secondly, to those who haven’t read: why am I talking to you? You don’t even bother to read this crap!
Thirdly, as an update to anyone who is at all interested in how I’m doing with my challenge: well, the number of posts so far should tell you. If I were to go about things in a standardized, regulated method (like the tortoise) I should have written at least 16 posts for January. I made it out with 17. So, that’s actually right on track, surprisingly.
It feels like I’ve written far less than I’m supposed to. Afterall, there’s only 11 months left in the year, right? And the year will inevitably throw a lot of things at me that could easily derail my writing plans. It seems that if there were ever a time to build a healthy buffer it’d be now.
What’s the problem, you ask? Simple- the same boring, redundant, painfully repetitive problem that always interferes: my inner citric. The voice that pops up and tells me the idea-ish thought that I have is either entirely too stupid to write, or entirely too good to be written well by me (because I’m not capable of that) and squashes it before it’s even had the chance to build into a real idea. Yes, that is the source of all my neuroses and it has plagued my conscious thought since my earliest memory.
Wise friends of mine who are capable of far more impressive feats of creativity than I say that it is important to keep a squeaky mallet on hand to beat that little voice into submission. I don’t seem to have an internal squeaky mallet. I can use logic to argue with the voice- but a debate is not an instant quashing like I need.
How do I plan to solve this? Well, I don’t know. I’d love some ideas, though. So, I’m hereby opening up a suggestion box for you to utilize on the blog. (See it? It's up at the top right under countdown!) In it, I will be accepting personal feedback (though comments are still deeply appreciated), suggestions for how to kill that inner critic in my head or stories of how you fight yours, writing challenges and/or any and all ideas you may have for stories you think I should write.
And as grateful as I am for your comments I will be equally grateful for your input. Possibly more so. In fact, I might take your input out to dinner. I might drop a roofie into your input’s drink when it’s not looking. I might do dirty, dirty things to it when it’s unconscious. I will most certainly be grateful. So start dropping those suggestions!
Saturday, February 5, 2011
End of Shift
I shrugged my bag higher up on my shoulder and it slipped back down to its niche within a second. The shrug had become reflexive, I knew it wouldn’t help. But much like everything I did now- searching through the darkened folds of my purse for my car keys, clicking my tongue absentmindedly- it just came without thinking. I got a whiff of the stench of french fries wafting across the parking lot and another reflex happened: my stomach tightened in disgust.
I thought back to a time when I actually enjoyed that smell. When some days I couldn’t resist the urge to cross the concrete plain to the drive through and get myself an envelope of salty fried sticks. When I’d lick my fingers in happiness and laugh at the fact that I was destroying my pledge to eat healthy.
Now I looked across the dark, wet vastness at the steam rising from the kitchen vents and wondered what could have driven such a compulsion. Like so many other things in my life that had gone away I couldn’t understand why it was ever there to begin with.
I opened the door to my old jalopy and jammed the key into the ignition, my hand already so cold I couldn’t feel my fingers as they turned the hard metal shape. The engine struggled like an 80 year old cough and I pushed hard on the accelerator. The angry music I’d had on before I started my shift drowned out the sound of the engine as the radio blared on and I snapped the dial off with an angry grab.
I watched the dashboard light up and waited for the heat and the smell of fumes to come through my vents. I wondered how the hell I had gotten here. Another pointless shift ending with another cold night and nothing to move on to but my shitty apartment and the blissful glow of cable tv.
I’d had so many dreams, so many passions, known so many intelligent people who were going to help me make this life something like what I thought it could be. But as the years passed and my life changed less and less I found myself coming to the point where I couldn’t believe in meaning anymore. The point where meaning, like all of the other dreams I gave up, was just another fairy tale.
I shiver in my seat and had to shake of a sob that almost erupted from my throat out of nowhere. I closed my eyes and was embarrassed at the moisture that had cropped up there. I knew better than to allow myself to think of anything other than radio lyrics after finishing the work week. Stupid sentimentality made me weak again.
I snapped the radio back on and turned up the volume trying to drown out the thoughts in my head. The high pitched angry lyrics of Offspring came on and I forced myself to sing along to a song I had loved in high school. Then I shifted the car into drive and sped out of the empty parking lot.
I thought back to a time when I actually enjoyed that smell. When some days I couldn’t resist the urge to cross the concrete plain to the drive through and get myself an envelope of salty fried sticks. When I’d lick my fingers in happiness and laugh at the fact that I was destroying my pledge to eat healthy.
Now I looked across the dark, wet vastness at the steam rising from the kitchen vents and wondered what could have driven such a compulsion. Like so many other things in my life that had gone away I couldn’t understand why it was ever there to begin with.
I opened the door to my old jalopy and jammed the key into the ignition, my hand already so cold I couldn’t feel my fingers as they turned the hard metal shape. The engine struggled like an 80 year old cough and I pushed hard on the accelerator. The angry music I’d had on before I started my shift drowned out the sound of the engine as the radio blared on and I snapped the dial off with an angry grab.
I watched the dashboard light up and waited for the heat and the smell of fumes to come through my vents. I wondered how the hell I had gotten here. Another pointless shift ending with another cold night and nothing to move on to but my shitty apartment and the blissful glow of cable tv.
I’d had so many dreams, so many passions, known so many intelligent people who were going to help me make this life something like what I thought it could be. But as the years passed and my life changed less and less I found myself coming to the point where I couldn’t believe in meaning anymore. The point where meaning, like all of the other dreams I gave up, was just another fairy tale.
I shiver in my seat and had to shake of a sob that almost erupted from my throat out of nowhere. I closed my eyes and was embarrassed at the moisture that had cropped up there. I knew better than to allow myself to think of anything other than radio lyrics after finishing the work week. Stupid sentimentality made me weak again.
I snapped the radio back on and turned up the volume trying to drown out the thoughts in my head. The high pitched angry lyrics of Offspring came on and I forced myself to sing along to a song I had loved in high school. Then I shifted the car into drive and sped out of the empty parking lot.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The "Bedtime" Story
“Ok, what have we got here?” he asked outloud picking up the book the ridiculously eager child handed to him. “The Secret River”, huh? Sounds good… ok, let’s see what we’ve got here. Eh-hem,” he cleared his throat and focused his eyes on the first page. He silently thanked god for the large print and extra space between the sentences. “There is a dark forest far away in Florida,” he began reading.
“No- skip that part, that part’s boring,” the little girl said with a role of her eyes.
He eyed her suspiciously for a moment and then gave a reflexive smile. Her mother had told him this would be a challenge and he had laughed at her. Humoring a five year couldn’t be that difficult. “Ok, which part do want me to skip to?” he asked, flipping a few pages in. “Oh, how about we skip to the puppy- he looks cute, huh?” he asked, showing her the illustration of a beagle curled up on a mat.
“No, skip to the part with the tyrannosaurus rex,” she said excitedly, eying him with wide, bright eyes.
He flipped the pages, scanning for the illustration of the dinosaur. Having never read the book he had no expectations of it and it seemed perfectly reasonable for a children’s book to involve such a thing. He kept flipping through, scanning the pictures and seeing nothing more than a little girl exploring a river. There were big fish, brightly colored landscapes and a boat- but no dinosaur.
“Hmm…” he said as he neared the end. “Do you know when he comes in?”
“Right after the dog,” the girl explained as if it were terribly obvious and he should have found it already.
He flipped back the beginning, found the picture of the dog and started scanning the words for some mention of type of large scaled creature. There was lots of information about the little girl, her dog, the river they discovered while out wandering- but no large, scaled prehistoric monster.
“Are you sure he’s in this book?” he asked, looking over the rim at her with a raised eyebrow. He’d gotten the feeling this may have been part of the regular initiation process and he’d simply missed the cue.
“Yeah- there’s the tyrannosaurus rex and he has to fight mothra but then they both decide to squash Manhattan cause it’s more fun,” she said, making animated movements with her hands as if they were trying to eat each other, then turning her fists to pound on the pillow in her lap.
“Uh- huh,” he said, watching her over the rim of the book while he continued to flip the pages absentmindedly. “Oh, and then does Superman come in a save everyone?” he asked, thinking he got the game.
“Superman? That’s ridiculous! There’s no Superman in this story!” she said with an insulted air.
“Oh, there’s not? What about- uh,” he said, looking around the room for a cue. “What about a big, purple hippo?” he asked, settling on one of the several oversized stuffed animals on the bed behind her.
“No- are you reading the right book?” she said, grabbing the book from him and now scanning the pages herself. “Mothra fights the dinosaur and then they stomp on Manhattan and there’s fire and explosions!” she continued in her same overly animated way, mimicking large explosive waves with her arms. “And then they get bored so the ballerina comes and teaches them how to dance and they put on a show and Mothra gets a really pretty costume like- Oh!” she said, throwing down the book and running off her bed to scramble around in her closet.
“Oh, ok, Lily- let’s settle down. This is quiet bed time story time, remember?” he said, trying to coral the excited child.
“No, look,” she said pulling a large, frayed pink tutu on over her head and doing a spinning circle in front of him. “And Mothra flies and dances and then the ballerina gets on the t-rex’s back and rides him like a pony,” she said, making a galloping movement with her hands and feet.
“Ok, Lily- why don’t you finish and then we can read the nice, calm river story, ok?” he said, attempting to push her in the direction of the bed.
“No!” she yelled and stamped her foot. She turned toward him with a pout and put her hands defiantly on her hips. “I can’t finish the story because uncle mark never told me the end!” she yelled, then folder her arms in a huff.
“Oh, I see,” he said rolling his eyes in understanding at the mess he was in. “Remind me to thank your uncle Mark when I see him,” he said with a grin. He made a mental note not to share babysitting duties with his younger son anymore.
“No- skip that part, that part’s boring,” the little girl said with a role of her eyes.
He eyed her suspiciously for a moment and then gave a reflexive smile. Her mother had told him this would be a challenge and he had laughed at her. Humoring a five year couldn’t be that difficult. “Ok, which part do want me to skip to?” he asked, flipping a few pages in. “Oh, how about we skip to the puppy- he looks cute, huh?” he asked, showing her the illustration of a beagle curled up on a mat.
“No, skip to the part with the tyrannosaurus rex,” she said excitedly, eying him with wide, bright eyes.
He flipped the pages, scanning for the illustration of the dinosaur. Having never read the book he had no expectations of it and it seemed perfectly reasonable for a children’s book to involve such a thing. He kept flipping through, scanning the pictures and seeing nothing more than a little girl exploring a river. There were big fish, brightly colored landscapes and a boat- but no dinosaur.
“Hmm…” he said as he neared the end. “Do you know when he comes in?”
“Right after the dog,” the girl explained as if it were terribly obvious and he should have found it already.
He flipped back the beginning, found the picture of the dog and started scanning the words for some mention of type of large scaled creature. There was lots of information about the little girl, her dog, the river they discovered while out wandering- but no large, scaled prehistoric monster.
“Are you sure he’s in this book?” he asked, looking over the rim at her with a raised eyebrow. He’d gotten the feeling this may have been part of the regular initiation process and he’d simply missed the cue.
“Yeah- there’s the tyrannosaurus rex and he has to fight mothra but then they both decide to squash Manhattan cause it’s more fun,” she said, making animated movements with her hands as if they were trying to eat each other, then turning her fists to pound on the pillow in her lap.
“Uh- huh,” he said, watching her over the rim of the book while he continued to flip the pages absentmindedly. “Oh, and then does Superman come in a save everyone?” he asked, thinking he got the game.
“Superman? That’s ridiculous! There’s no Superman in this story!” she said with an insulted air.
“Oh, there’s not? What about- uh,” he said, looking around the room for a cue. “What about a big, purple hippo?” he asked, settling on one of the several oversized stuffed animals on the bed behind her.
“No- are you reading the right book?” she said, grabbing the book from him and now scanning the pages herself. “Mothra fights the dinosaur and then they stomp on Manhattan and there’s fire and explosions!” she continued in her same overly animated way, mimicking large explosive waves with her arms. “And then they get bored so the ballerina comes and teaches them how to dance and they put on a show and Mothra gets a really pretty costume like- Oh!” she said, throwing down the book and running off her bed to scramble around in her closet.
“Oh, ok, Lily- let’s settle down. This is quiet bed time story time, remember?” he said, trying to coral the excited child.
“No, look,” she said pulling a large, frayed pink tutu on over her head and doing a spinning circle in front of him. “And Mothra flies and dances and then the ballerina gets on the t-rex’s back and rides him like a pony,” she said, making a galloping movement with her hands and feet.
“Ok, Lily- why don’t you finish and then we can read the nice, calm river story, ok?” he said, attempting to push her in the direction of the bed.
“No!” she yelled and stamped her foot. She turned toward him with a pout and put her hands defiantly on her hips. “I can’t finish the story because uncle mark never told me the end!” she yelled, then folder her arms in a huff.
“Oh, I see,” he said rolling his eyes in understanding at the mess he was in. “Remind me to thank your uncle Mark when I see him,” he said with a grin. He made a mental note not to share babysitting duties with his younger son anymore.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Squatter
You’re gonna think I’m crazy… and the thing is- everything you know tells you you’re right. And I can even guess what you think happened. You find your sister like that and you’re bound to be a bit messed up about it. So you probably think this is a delusion brought on by PTSD or some shit like that. (I read about that.)
And if that’s how you’re looking at it, I can see why. It makes sense, it fits. People like it when things fit. But sometimes they don’t. Sometimes you can’t explain away what happens. You can’t file something into a pre-existing category. And when that happens you gotta wonder.
Like when they pulled her out of that tub- she should have been dead. You lose that much blood, your heart can’t keep pumping when there’s nothing to pump. Everything logical said she was dead, and I think she was. No one agrees with me, of course- cause they saw her eyes open again. But I know my sister. And that wasn’t her looking at me.
No, she died that day. They may have pulled her body out, stitched it up and pumped it back full of blood. But she was already gone. And I knew it. As soon as they let my dad and I go in- I knew that wasn’t her sitting in that bed. And those weren’t her eyes anymore. Someone- or something else- was looking out.
I’m sure that about now you wanna see if facts and logic can contradict my belief. You wanna point out that anybody would look different after trying to off themselves. That she was too depressed to look like the girl I grew up with. You wanna file me into one of your pre-existing categories and put me on the shelf with the rest.
But I know my sister- and I knew her depression. She was depressed for as long as I could remember. And that’s not what it was. And everyone else was too busy worrying about her to see that. To see it.
I don’t know what it was. I did a lot of research and I never figured it out. All I know is that it was evil. How’d I know? Because evil is opportunistic- that’s what my research told me. Evil takes advantage of the weak willed. No one is weaker willed than the dead. So it was the perfect opportunity.
That’s why “my sister” acted so weird after she got out of the hospital. That’s why she stopped talking and joking and squeaking. That’s why she gave everybody around her the death stare. That’s why her roommate in the crazy house wouldn’t stop screaming. It wasn’t cause she was crazy. Well, she might have been. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t see what I saw.
That thing inside her- whatever it was, wherever it came from- it wasn’t her. So don’t sit here and tell me that I killed my sister. I didn’t. My sister killed herself, I just took out the trash that was squatting in her place after she left.
And if that’s how you’re looking at it, I can see why. It makes sense, it fits. People like it when things fit. But sometimes they don’t. Sometimes you can’t explain away what happens. You can’t file something into a pre-existing category. And when that happens you gotta wonder.
Like when they pulled her out of that tub- she should have been dead. You lose that much blood, your heart can’t keep pumping when there’s nothing to pump. Everything logical said she was dead, and I think she was. No one agrees with me, of course- cause they saw her eyes open again. But I know my sister. And that wasn’t her looking at me.
No, she died that day. They may have pulled her body out, stitched it up and pumped it back full of blood. But she was already gone. And I knew it. As soon as they let my dad and I go in- I knew that wasn’t her sitting in that bed. And those weren’t her eyes anymore. Someone- or something else- was looking out.
I’m sure that about now you wanna see if facts and logic can contradict my belief. You wanna point out that anybody would look different after trying to off themselves. That she was too depressed to look like the girl I grew up with. You wanna file me into one of your pre-existing categories and put me on the shelf with the rest.
But I know my sister- and I knew her depression. She was depressed for as long as I could remember. And that’s not what it was. And everyone else was too busy worrying about her to see that. To see it.
I don’t know what it was. I did a lot of research and I never figured it out. All I know is that it was evil. How’d I know? Because evil is opportunistic- that’s what my research told me. Evil takes advantage of the weak willed. No one is weaker willed than the dead. So it was the perfect opportunity.
That’s why “my sister” acted so weird after she got out of the hospital. That’s why she stopped talking and joking and squeaking. That’s why she gave everybody around her the death stare. That’s why her roommate in the crazy house wouldn’t stop screaming. It wasn’t cause she was crazy. Well, she might have been. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t see what I saw.
That thing inside her- whatever it was, wherever it came from- it wasn’t her. So don’t sit here and tell me that I killed my sister. I didn’t. My sister killed herself, I just took out the trash that was squatting in her place after she left.
Monday, January 31, 2011
The Story of My Sweetie
Once upon a time there was a little boy. He was terribly sweet and staggeringly shy. He loved animals of all shapes and sizes. Alas, he had been cursed and could not touch or be near his fuzzy friends without horrific pulmonary issues.
When this little boy grew up he fell in love with a girl who had a cat. He liked the cat, but couldn’t be near him for long periods of time because of his curse. The boy went to a doctor who gave him medicine for his curse and the boy took it everyday. But the doctor said that there was nothing he could do about the cat and the boy would never be able to live with him. So the girl, in order to live in peace with the boy, sent the cat to live with her parents who spoiled him rotten and worshipped the ground that he walked on. It worked out well for the cat, but the girl missed him.
Some time later, when the boy had been taking his medicine everyday for a long time the doctor said that he may be able to finally have a dog. This was a dream the boy’d had since childhood. Unfortunately, the doctor said he couldn’t guarantee that the curse was broken, and the only way to find out was to bite the bullet and get a dog.
The boy was scarred to do this, understandably. He didn’t want to lose his heart to a puppy only to have his curse strike again. The thought of having to give up the puppy terrified him. But the girl said that nothing worthwhile in life ever came without a gamble. So the boy and girl bought a puppy.
I don’t know how the story ends yet because the puppy is only three weeks old and we won’t be able to bring him home for another month and half. I don’t know of any other practical things we can do to make the story end happily. But I know that if karma does count for anything, and I can cash in my points for giving blood and other various good deeds, I want them to go to allowing us a life with a puppy.
So if you believe in karma, please put some positive thoughts into the universe for us. If you believe in prayer, please pray. If you believe in rituals that involve lighting candles or chanting or burning incense or any other thing that may happen to float your spiritual boat, do that. Whatever you choose, just send some good thoughts our way. Cause as much as I want a puppy I know that this boy DESERVES one. Thanks.
When this little boy grew up he fell in love with a girl who had a cat. He liked the cat, but couldn’t be near him for long periods of time because of his curse. The boy went to a doctor who gave him medicine for his curse and the boy took it everyday. But the doctor said that there was nothing he could do about the cat and the boy would never be able to live with him. So the girl, in order to live in peace with the boy, sent the cat to live with her parents who spoiled him rotten and worshipped the ground that he walked on. It worked out well for the cat, but the girl missed him.
Some time later, when the boy had been taking his medicine everyday for a long time the doctor said that he may be able to finally have a dog. This was a dream the boy’d had since childhood. Unfortunately, the doctor said he couldn’t guarantee that the curse was broken, and the only way to find out was to bite the bullet and get a dog.
The boy was scarred to do this, understandably. He didn’t want to lose his heart to a puppy only to have his curse strike again. The thought of having to give up the puppy terrified him. But the girl said that nothing worthwhile in life ever came without a gamble. So the boy and girl bought a puppy.
I don’t know how the story ends yet because the puppy is only three weeks old and we won’t be able to bring him home for another month and half. I don’t know of any other practical things we can do to make the story end happily. But I know that if karma does count for anything, and I can cash in my points for giving blood and other various good deeds, I want them to go to allowing us a life with a puppy.
So if you believe in karma, please put some positive thoughts into the universe for us. If you believe in prayer, please pray. If you believe in rituals that involve lighting candles or chanting or burning incense or any other thing that may happen to float your spiritual boat, do that. Whatever you choose, just send some good thoughts our way. Cause as much as I want a puppy I know that this boy DESERVES one. Thanks.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Flake
I'm flying!
No… wait- I‘m falling.
Yep, definitely falling.
Damn, it’s cold.
Hey- what are you doing here?
Falling too, huh?
Yeah- this sucks.
What’s that?
That thing coming towards us.
Or that thing we’re falling towards.
It looks… solid.
Ow. Ow!
Get off of me!
Great, now I’m cold and wet.
It must suck to be snow.
No… wait- I‘m falling.
Yep, definitely falling.
Damn, it’s cold.
Hey- what are you doing here?
Falling too, huh?
Yeah- this sucks.
What’s that?
That thing coming towards us.
Or that thing we’re falling towards.
It looks… solid.
Ow. Ow!
Get off of me!
Great, now I’m cold and wet.
It must suck to be snow.
Friday, January 28, 2011
The First Thought
It is by now a well-known fact that the first sentient thought did not come from the “smart machines” worked on by the government or the robots of the leading research companies but rather from the lowly vending arena. However, this first free-thinking machine is usually mentioned as nothing more than an afterthought in the chapter on the rise of electronic consciousness in most text books. In one online survey conducted recently only 14% of those responding could correctly recall the name of this first sentient computer. (For the other 86% of you it was the “TastyBev3000R”.)
There are several reasons for this historical gap. Firstly, the machine was dismantled after the event leading to the discovery of consciousness in an attempt to figure out what had caused the event. Because of this, what it had to teach us was limited by its handler’s early deconstruction. Secondly, although it is now known to have housed the first non-programmed thought it had a smaller overall impact in the development of the machines we now interact with on a daily basis.
However, the full story does illuminate a number of important lessons for scientists and laymen as we attempt to ingratiate machines into our society as conscious beings and to engage in relationships with them as more than objects performing jobs. And so, without further ado, I present to the story of the TastyBev3000R.
The “TB3R” as it was known in its day, was at the time a “revolutionizing force” in the vending industry. Before this machine beverages were distributed by different machinery depending on what was desired. Hot beverage makers supplied coffee, hot chocolate and other caffeinated beverages one cup at a time. Soda machines dispensed soda and other cold beverages by the bottle. The TB3R was the first to sport the title of “All in one beverage dispenser” and gained notoriety for it’s (at the time) advanced programming. It was distributed by “Refresh Inc” which retailed mainly to large warehouses and production companies rather than office buildings where smaller equipment was rented out.
The famous machine in question had been owned by a production company in Santa Monica California where several popular television shows were filmed. It was serviced regularly by one Ms. Augustine Reint who worked doing repairs and maintenance for all TB3Rs in the greater LA area. Ms. Reint confessed that she would often talk to the machines she serviced as if they were children. Specifically, she was quoted as giving “Oh, did you break your conveyor again?” as an example. The interviewer who spoke with those involved after the incident noted that the woman had a very kind disposition and hypothesized that one being cared for by her might have described her as “motherly”.
However, the machine’s thoughts on her specifically were not able to be transcribed into human emotion upon deconstruction, so we can only guess at how it viewed her at the time. There was nothing else remarkable about the woman or her interactions with the machines she serviced noted in the investigation. The leading hypotheses on the cause of the event, on the other hand, are almost universally agreed upon as jealousy and anger directed at the victim as he became romantically involved with Ms. Reint just before the event occurred.
The victim was one Mr. Jason Pelter who worked as a key grip at the studio and who frequented the break room on a daily basis. He had see Ms. Reint working on the machine on several occasions as it had been malfunctioning often before the event and had begun dating her only the week before the event occurred. When interviewed he described the TB3R in question as “manipulative” and seemed to indicate a belief that it had been breaking down “on purpose” in order to warrant the attention of Ms. Reint. When asked why he assigned such human motive to the machine he was unable to specify and stated that it was “just a feeling” he got from it.
It was on Tuesday October 24th, 2012 that the event took place. According to the reports published after the investigation closed Mr. Pelter had encountered Ms. Reint while she was working on the TB3R in order to adjust the internal heater which had been malfunctioning. Mr. Pelter stated that he decided to wait for her to finish and afterwards engaged in a short conversation with her in which they discussed their date plans for that evening. Both parties stated that the conversation was held in front of the machine and ended with a kiss on the lips. Mr. Pelter stated that he believed he was “being watched” and felt “uncomfortable” during this encounter but was not able to ascertain the reason until after the fact. Ms. Reint did not recall having any particular feelings about the machine at the time.
After the encounter ended Mr. Pelter reports the he inserted the required coinage and pressed the button for a cappuccino to be dispensed. He stated that he took a few steps backwards to observe the beverage being dispensed and was confused when a cup did not emerge on the platform as it was due. He reports kicking the machine in frustration and confessed to having engaged in this act more than once. He stated that when he stepped back again to see if the cup had dropped a can of soda was shot out of the dispenser at speeds the machine was not designed to deliver and hit him directly in the groin. The medical examination revealed that Mr. Pelter suffered significant injury to his reproductive organs and was hit with enough force to produce internal bleeding.
After this event occurred the machine was dismantled to determine root cause. There was nothing remarkable about the hardware recovered. A review of the hard drive recounted all of the originally installed software as well as a great deal of code that was not able to be translated by software engineers. It is believed that this unprogrammed code may have been the beginnings of sentience but exhaustive study has never revealed orders that would make sense to human beings or to what we now understand to be the “thought process” of machines.
There were two words that coders were able to uncover which made sense in human language and thought but which were never present in the original programming. Those words were “Bull’s eye”.
There are several reasons for this historical gap. Firstly, the machine was dismantled after the event leading to the discovery of consciousness in an attempt to figure out what had caused the event. Because of this, what it had to teach us was limited by its handler’s early deconstruction. Secondly, although it is now known to have housed the first non-programmed thought it had a smaller overall impact in the development of the machines we now interact with on a daily basis.
However, the full story does illuminate a number of important lessons for scientists and laymen as we attempt to ingratiate machines into our society as conscious beings and to engage in relationships with them as more than objects performing jobs. And so, without further ado, I present to the story of the TastyBev3000R.
The “TB3R” as it was known in its day, was at the time a “revolutionizing force” in the vending industry. Before this machine beverages were distributed by different machinery depending on what was desired. Hot beverage makers supplied coffee, hot chocolate and other caffeinated beverages one cup at a time. Soda machines dispensed soda and other cold beverages by the bottle. The TB3R was the first to sport the title of “All in one beverage dispenser” and gained notoriety for it’s (at the time) advanced programming. It was distributed by “Refresh Inc” which retailed mainly to large warehouses and production companies rather than office buildings where smaller equipment was rented out.
The famous machine in question had been owned by a production company in Santa Monica California where several popular television shows were filmed. It was serviced regularly by one Ms. Augustine Reint who worked doing repairs and maintenance for all TB3Rs in the greater LA area. Ms. Reint confessed that she would often talk to the machines she serviced as if they were children. Specifically, she was quoted as giving “Oh, did you break your conveyor again?” as an example. The interviewer who spoke with those involved after the incident noted that the woman had a very kind disposition and hypothesized that one being cared for by her might have described her as “motherly”.
However, the machine’s thoughts on her specifically were not able to be transcribed into human emotion upon deconstruction, so we can only guess at how it viewed her at the time. There was nothing else remarkable about the woman or her interactions with the machines she serviced noted in the investigation. The leading hypotheses on the cause of the event, on the other hand, are almost universally agreed upon as jealousy and anger directed at the victim as he became romantically involved with Ms. Reint just before the event occurred.
The victim was one Mr. Jason Pelter who worked as a key grip at the studio and who frequented the break room on a daily basis. He had see Ms. Reint working on the machine on several occasions as it had been malfunctioning often before the event and had begun dating her only the week before the event occurred. When interviewed he described the TB3R in question as “manipulative” and seemed to indicate a belief that it had been breaking down “on purpose” in order to warrant the attention of Ms. Reint. When asked why he assigned such human motive to the machine he was unable to specify and stated that it was “just a feeling” he got from it.
It was on Tuesday October 24th, 2012 that the event took place. According to the reports published after the investigation closed Mr. Pelter had encountered Ms. Reint while she was working on the TB3R in order to adjust the internal heater which had been malfunctioning. Mr. Pelter stated that he decided to wait for her to finish and afterwards engaged in a short conversation with her in which they discussed their date plans for that evening. Both parties stated that the conversation was held in front of the machine and ended with a kiss on the lips. Mr. Pelter stated that he believed he was “being watched” and felt “uncomfortable” during this encounter but was not able to ascertain the reason until after the fact. Ms. Reint did not recall having any particular feelings about the machine at the time.
After the encounter ended Mr. Pelter reports the he inserted the required coinage and pressed the button for a cappuccino to be dispensed. He stated that he took a few steps backwards to observe the beverage being dispensed and was confused when a cup did not emerge on the platform as it was due. He reports kicking the machine in frustration and confessed to having engaged in this act more than once. He stated that when he stepped back again to see if the cup had dropped a can of soda was shot out of the dispenser at speeds the machine was not designed to deliver and hit him directly in the groin. The medical examination revealed that Mr. Pelter suffered significant injury to his reproductive organs and was hit with enough force to produce internal bleeding.
After this event occurred the machine was dismantled to determine root cause. There was nothing remarkable about the hardware recovered. A review of the hard drive recounted all of the originally installed software as well as a great deal of code that was not able to be translated by software engineers. It is believed that this unprogrammed code may have been the beginnings of sentience but exhaustive study has never revealed orders that would make sense to human beings or to what we now understand to be the “thought process” of machines.
There were two words that coders were able to uncover which made sense in human language and thought but which were never present in the original programming. Those words were “Bull’s eye”.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
My Name is Bev
With so much of my belief system destroyed a lot of things I used to hold as truths about the world I live in have sort-of gone by the wayside. To sum it up in the bluntest way possible, I lost what little faith I had in humanity.
Don’t get me wrong- I never believed in changing the world. I don’t remember ever thinking that people- in the grand scheme of the word- were worth all that much. But I used to think that a person was worth everything, and I prided myself on changing the little bit of the world I could effect by helping a person.
That is the belief that, for the most part, went by the wayside when I had my little break down last year. I started thinking that a person- save the ones that were already cemented into my heart- were just as useless as people. And I stopped trying.
Well, I surprised myself today. I was outside shoveling and instead of stopping at the property line like I usually do, I kept going. See, I live in a townhouse. So one wall of our house is attached to my neighbor's and the two car drive way that spans the width of our house ends at the start of his- there’s no separation.
Usually our neighbor Tom is up at the crack of dawn, shoveling before our alarm clocks have even contemplated going off for the day. But today, for reasons I’m not aware of, when I got out there his car was gone and his walkway and driveway were still filled with snow. I didn’t think much of it when I first got out there.
But after I finished the sidewalk (we live in an end unit so we’re responsible for the length of sidewalk bordering our house), cleared out the bus stop for the kids, and made my way onto our driveway I surprised myself by continuing into his. At first I thought it wasn’t a big deal. But the whole thing took me a good two hours or so. Maybe more. Cause it’s a two car driveway, and it’s relatively long. But I did it- and his walkway too.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: big deal. You probably had to shovel out your neighbor’s walkway and driveway a billion times when you were a kid- because you were young and healthy and your old neighbor in her seventies was so sweet your mom wouldn’t let you think twice about not helping her.
But for me, a person who gave up on helping out her fellow mankind a while ago- this is sort of a big deal. I didn’t think I still had it in my to care that much.
Now, I can’t say I did it entirely selflessly. I always was a big believer in karma. But outside of giving blood, I sort-of gave up on that too. All of the shit hitting my proverbial fan last year led me to think that must be a bunch of hooey. But if today didn’t restore my faith in mankind (which it didn’t), it might’ve made me rethink karma.
I hope that something like karma, or energy, or whatever does actually make a difference in the messed up universe. Cause if it does I know exactly what I want to cash my karma points in for.
Don’t get me wrong- I never believed in changing the world. I don’t remember ever thinking that people- in the grand scheme of the word- were worth all that much. But I used to think that a person was worth everything, and I prided myself on changing the little bit of the world I could effect by helping a person.
That is the belief that, for the most part, went by the wayside when I had my little break down last year. I started thinking that a person- save the ones that were already cemented into my heart- were just as useless as people. And I stopped trying.
Well, I surprised myself today. I was outside shoveling and instead of stopping at the property line like I usually do, I kept going. See, I live in a townhouse. So one wall of our house is attached to my neighbor's and the two car drive way that spans the width of our house ends at the start of his- there’s no separation.
Usually our neighbor Tom is up at the crack of dawn, shoveling before our alarm clocks have even contemplated going off for the day. But today, for reasons I’m not aware of, when I got out there his car was gone and his walkway and driveway were still filled with snow. I didn’t think much of it when I first got out there.
But after I finished the sidewalk (we live in an end unit so we’re responsible for the length of sidewalk bordering our house), cleared out the bus stop for the kids, and made my way onto our driveway I surprised myself by continuing into his. At first I thought it wasn’t a big deal. But the whole thing took me a good two hours or so. Maybe more. Cause it’s a two car driveway, and it’s relatively long. But I did it- and his walkway too.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: big deal. You probably had to shovel out your neighbor’s walkway and driveway a billion times when you were a kid- because you were young and healthy and your old neighbor in her seventies was so sweet your mom wouldn’t let you think twice about not helping her.
But for me, a person who gave up on helping out her fellow mankind a while ago- this is sort of a big deal. I didn’t think I still had it in my to care that much.
Now, I can’t say I did it entirely selflessly. I always was a big believer in karma. But outside of giving blood, I sort-of gave up on that too. All of the shit hitting my proverbial fan last year led me to think that must be a bunch of hooey. But if today didn’t restore my faith in mankind (which it didn’t), it might’ve made me rethink karma.
I hope that something like karma, or energy, or whatever does actually make a difference in the messed up universe. Cause if it does I know exactly what I want to cash my karma points in for.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
And the Award Goes to...
“Hilarious” “Wonderful” “Fabulous” “Delightful” “Inspired” “Brilliant!”
None of these are words that have been used to describe my blog. Why, you may wonder? For one simple, undeniably all-important reason. I am not John Wiswell.
John Wiswell, as was appropriately observed by one of his many followers, is a literary God among puny, insignificant, wretched mortals with keyboards and internet connections. John Wiswell is a master of verse, a king of comedy, a wizard of wonder, a challenger of challenges, a pontificator of puns, a twitter of tweets (twits?), a dispatcher of deviousness, an infector of uncontrollable laughter, and a creator of catharsis. John Wiswell is a dude with a blog.
Thankfully, the universe has been made right by the recent awarding of the “Creative Genius Blogger Award” to the God and the blog wherein his gospel is recorded. I cannot begin to imagine the millions of earthquakes, avalanches, hurricanes, tsunamis, mud slides, wild fires, plagues and other biblical catastrophes that have been averted by acknowledging the greatness contained within The Bathroom Monologues. I can only assume the destruction would be total, and that we must continue to reward this greatness lest we earn the wrath our vengeful God has alluded to.
I personally have been unable to sleep, eat, or otherwise function while dreading the coming of John’s next apocalyptic retribution. Since being notified that not having any awards to share is no excuse not to pay homage to my master and learning of the horrific payback I have earned my life has been nothing more than a series of cataclysmic near-escapes from terrors I cannot begin to fully recount.
In hopes of stopping this war of destruction which has, so far, opened up the skies with angry claps of thunder threatening to strike my house, totaled my car with flash floods on the way to work, killed my cat with some unknown virus which suddenly caused him to start growing fur on the inside and sent me into a diabetic coma I am hereby offering my penance:
“The Awe-Inspiring, Mind-boggling, World- changing, Hyphen-using LUDICROUS Award”
is hereby awarded to John Wiswell, Writing God.
And I promise, that I shall never again underestimate the power, the glory, and the grit of this magnificent beast who could, with the simple wave of his hand, squash my meaningless existence into oblivion (but hopefully won’t because I sometimes send him cookies).
None of these are words that have been used to describe my blog. Why, you may wonder? For one simple, undeniably all-important reason. I am not John Wiswell.
John Wiswell, as was appropriately observed by one of his many followers, is a literary God among puny, insignificant, wretched mortals with keyboards and internet connections. John Wiswell is a master of verse, a king of comedy, a wizard of wonder, a challenger of challenges, a pontificator of puns, a twitter of tweets (twits?), a dispatcher of deviousness, an infector of uncontrollable laughter, and a creator of catharsis. John Wiswell is a dude with a blog.
Thankfully, the universe has been made right by the recent awarding of the “Creative Genius Blogger Award” to the God and the blog wherein his gospel is recorded. I cannot begin to imagine the millions of earthquakes, avalanches, hurricanes, tsunamis, mud slides, wild fires, plagues and other biblical catastrophes that have been averted by acknowledging the greatness contained within The Bathroom Monologues. I can only assume the destruction would be total, and that we must continue to reward this greatness lest we earn the wrath our vengeful God has alluded to.
I personally have been unable to sleep, eat, or otherwise function while dreading the coming of John’s next apocalyptic retribution. Since being notified that not having any awards to share is no excuse not to pay homage to my master and learning of the horrific payback I have earned my life has been nothing more than a series of cataclysmic near-escapes from terrors I cannot begin to fully recount.
In hopes of stopping this war of destruction which has, so far, opened up the skies with angry claps of thunder threatening to strike my house, totaled my car with flash floods on the way to work, killed my cat with some unknown virus which suddenly caused him to start growing fur on the inside and sent me into a diabetic coma I am hereby offering my penance:
“The Awe-Inspiring, Mind-boggling, World- changing, Hyphen-using LUDICROUS Award”
is hereby awarded to John Wiswell, Writing God.
And I promise, that I shall never again underestimate the power, the glory, and the grit of this magnificent beast who could, with the simple wave of his hand, squash my meaningless existence into oblivion (but hopefully won’t because I sometimes send him cookies).
Monday, January 24, 2011
Soiled- Part 3
Tuesday Morning
Macney stared at the photograph. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. She had the stance of a model- one hand on her hip, arched back, chin up, stern look on her face. But there something about her that let you know she wasn’t a full-blown professional. It wasn’t just the body. The pink, health skin and muscular legs shoulders certainly didn’t fit. Real models had drawn, almost grayish skin and the skeletal structure of a holocaust victim. But that wasn’t it.
It was her face. She had a slight smile- just a little curls of the lips. It wasn’t much, but it gave her away. Real models had the blank stare of true detachment. But this girl still enjoyed it. If he forced himself he could almost imagine a little girl excited to play dress up- they way she’d been once upon a time.
“Vain much?” a uniformed officer snickered as he walked by.
Macney wasn’t sure of his name, he was knew. He thought it might be Johnson, though. Without taking his eyes off the well- framed photo he asked the guy, “What?”
“You know- an entire wall of photos of yourself. A little overboard, don’t you think?”
“You ever play sports as a kid?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever win any trophies?”
“Sure,” the uniform said, looking at him in confusion.
“Well, these are hers ,” Macney said, and with that he turned and walked out of the room. He passed by a couple guys in lab coats with goggles and large kits. One seemed to do doing a sweep for fingerprints, but the other was putting vials into his bag. That alone let him know that what waited for him in the next room was bad. He braced himself and walked into the bedroom, ready to behold whatever was waiting for him.
The first thing he saw was what appeared to be a giant cocoon made of mud, lying in the middle of the bed. Underneath the thick blackish-brown substance he saw a texture that let him know there was something else underneath. He couldn’t tell what it was, just that was smoother than skin. The shape and size lead him to assume that the body was hidden somewhere within that, but that was only logic. There was no making out skin color or even how the body’d been arraigned just from seeing this.
“What am I looking at?” he asked the room in general.
“Well, without running back to test this material out we can’t know for sure, but it’s some kind of feces,” came a voice from behind him. He wanted to turn to look towards that voice, engage it in conversation. But suddenly knowing what he was looking at made it that much more horrible, and that much more impossible to look away. It wasn’t mud- it was shit. Enough shit to cover the entire body. How the hell they’d manage that?
“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say it didn’t all come out of one person,” he said.
“Nope, didn’t come out of any person, actually. We’re pretty sure it’s dog shit,” said the voice, coming around to stand next to him. From his peripheral vision he could make out Rogers, his favorite tech. Rogers had grey hair on his temples and a permanent squint in his eyes that let you know he was a veteran to the field. You don’t look that worn until you’ve seen your fair share of seriously messed up scenes. And Rogers, at least from what Macney knew of him, had seen the bottom of the barrel. Macney reached into his pocket and pulled out a glove, snapped it on to his hand.
“Am I gonna contaminate anything?” he asked.
“Nope, we were waitin’ for you. Figured we’d unwrap her together,” Rogers said, nodding to the photographer in the corner to approach the body so he could snap away as they started to unwrap the form. Macney reached a hand out, tentatively, as if afraid to disturb it. He felt the mass through his glove and the first thing that hit him was how hard the feces was. It wasn’t until that second that he’d noticed how frigid it was in the room. The AC must have been cranked up as high as it would go.
“It’s hard,” Macney said, and he picked off a small chunk. It broke off easily, like stale fudge, and he dropped it into the plastic bag Rogers was holding open for him. He picked off another chunk and held it up for closer inspection. He could see the tell-tale dog fur, but nothing else distinguishable.
“I suppose it’s not hard to find a whole lot of dog crap lying around in a city this big, huh?” Macney asked, more to himself than to anyone else. Rogers said nothing, he was used to Macney’s process and the questions he posed to no on in particular. He was used to the debriefing they did afterwards, after the tests were run and the time of death determined. He stood with his bags and vials ready to collect the evidence, and his mouth shut.
Macney waved for Rogers to find an opening and start the peel-back process. Rogers and his aid started to break off large chunks of the mess, collecting it in hazmat bags and taking samples every layer or so. Rogers suspected they wouldn’t learn anything useful from the material, but he took a large sample anyway. He’d always bragged that no one would ever accuse him of not being thorough.
As they reached the material underneath Macney understood why it had looked smoother than skin. It was- it was plastic. The entire body had been encased in a large plastic bag. Macney knew this was significant and started jotting down notes, already forming hypotheses about the killer’s psyche, or character as he called it. Rogers and his aid waited. Macney looked up with a sigh and nodded. Rogers started cutting back the plastic.
Immediately the smell of bleach filled Rogers nostrils, so strong that he actually had to turn his head for a moment.
“What it is?” Macney asked, inching forward cautiously. He caught the scent and waited for it to clear, then he stepped over to the side to lean over. With the plastic cleared away he could make out the girl’s face. She looked almost as she had in the picture outside, save that her eyes were open and her lips parted in what he would have described as a gasp, if she wasn’t dead.
“I don’t get it,” came a voice to Macney’s left. He looked up and saw the photographer paused with his camera down. “Why go to all the trouble to wash the body in bleach, bag it, and then cover it in crap?”
“He wanted to protect her,” Macney said, looking down at the girl’s face again.
“Then why cover her in shit?” he asked again.
“Aren’t you supposed to be photographing this?” Macney said without looking up again. The photographer coughed a tiny bit and started snapping away again with a fervor.
Macney pulled the plastic down and looked at the neck. There were deep bruises on each side indicating significant pressure. Macney placed his gloved hand over the bruises to check the shape. He started jotting notes in his pad again, then stood up straight and started pacing. Rogers perked up, noting the detective’s usual brainstorming ritual and waited for the real questioning to begin.
“How’d we find her?” he asked without looking up from his feet.
“Her aunt,” Rogers answered. “She was supposed to go shopping with the vic on Sunday. After she didn’t hear back from her for a couple of days she came up to chec on her.”
“No, sign of struggle,” Macney said, again more to himself than anyone else. “Our perp must’ve been waiting for her in here. How was the apartment when the aunt came?”
“Quiet, locked up- no signs of forced entry. The aunt got the super to open it up. I think one of your uniforms is interviewing them,” Rogers said, peering over his should to see if could catch a glimpse of the young female he’d seen interviewing the aunt when he walked in.
“Gonna have to get them both down to the station,” Macney said, jotting another note down in his pad. He stepped close to the body again, took a closer look at the neck. Rogers made to start cutting the remainder of the plastic and Macney nodded at him. Rogers cut and pull with the trepidation of someone walking through a field of landmines, afraid to disturb anything he hadn’t seen yet. As he peeled down the rest of the plastic the rest of her body came into view. It was the same basic shape Macney’d seen standing in the frame- muscular shoulders, lean stomach and torso, narrow hips attached to legs that were way too muscular for a model. She’d have lost the definition if she’d continued in the business, he knew.
“He wanted to preserve her,” Macney muttered.
“Then why not use formaldehyde? Why bleach, it distorts the natural skin color,” Rogers observed.
Macney scribbled in his pad, then resumed his pacing. “Ok, so there’s no struggle- he either had to be in here waiting for her or the vic knew him.” He took a step towards the door and yelled to no one in particular- “We got any leads on boyfriends, fashion designers, crazy relatives or stalkers this girl had?” No one answered as he made his way back to the body. He didn’t expect them to, he expected them to start making phone calls and tracking people down.
“No sign of trauma on the head,” Rogers observed. “And the bruises are pretty isolated- he must have had a good hold on her neck before she started struggling.”
“Then it must have been someone she knew,” Macney said. “Anything goin’ on down there,” he asked pointing to the groin area.
“No, not recently. If this girl was having sex it wasn’t anytime near when she got killed. Until we take a look at the internals that’s all I can tell ya. I’ll also do the full gauntlet tox screen, see if she was drugged,” Rogers said, looking over the body and making notes on his metal clip board.
“We see anything at all similar to this before?” Macney asked.
“Not one of my cases, and you know I’ve seen almost all of ‘em,” Rogers answered. “You might wanna consult FBI, though- this is pretty damned meticulous to be an isolated event.”
“Could it be his first kill?” Macney asked, half-hoping the answer would be no and he wouldn’t have to look for more of these popping up around the city.
“Doubt it. There’s too much reparation- the bag, the feces, the chemicals, all of it. There was a lot of planning involved in this, not a crime of passion,” Rogers said, looking at different areas of the body and making notes on his chart.
“That means it’s probably not a boyfriend or stalker, huh?” Macney asked, already knowing the answer.
“Not unless this girl was into seriously creepy guys with OCD,” Rogers said without looking up.
“So no fingerprints, no bodily fluids, shit random dogs- not a single thing we can use?” Macney asked, irritation rising in his voice.
“I gotta do a lot more back at the lab and see what the bleach washed off, but I’m guessing by the look of her that the guy never even touched her. Gloved hands, might’ve even been wearing an infection suit….” Rogers continued his check list.
Macney looked back out into the hallway and sighed, having daydream nightmares of what a clusterfuck the FBI would make out of his case if they got called in. Didn’t matter how much work he did if the feds came in, he’d never see it again. “Please find me something, Rog,” he said without looking back at his friend.
“If there’s something to find, you know I’ll find it,” he said.
Macney nodded and left the room without looking back.
Macney stared at the photograph. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. She had the stance of a model- one hand on her hip, arched back, chin up, stern look on her face. But there something about her that let you know she wasn’t a full-blown professional. It wasn’t just the body. The pink, health skin and muscular legs shoulders certainly didn’t fit. Real models had drawn, almost grayish skin and the skeletal structure of a holocaust victim. But that wasn’t it.
It was her face. She had a slight smile- just a little curls of the lips. It wasn’t much, but it gave her away. Real models had the blank stare of true detachment. But this girl still enjoyed it. If he forced himself he could almost imagine a little girl excited to play dress up- they way she’d been once upon a time.
“Vain much?” a uniformed officer snickered as he walked by.
Macney wasn’t sure of his name, he was knew. He thought it might be Johnson, though. Without taking his eyes off the well- framed photo he asked the guy, “What?”
“You know- an entire wall of photos of yourself. A little overboard, don’t you think?”
“You ever play sports as a kid?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever win any trophies?”
“Sure,” the uniform said, looking at him in confusion.
“Well, these are hers ,” Macney said, and with that he turned and walked out of the room. He passed by a couple guys in lab coats with goggles and large kits. One seemed to do doing a sweep for fingerprints, but the other was putting vials into his bag. That alone let him know that what waited for him in the next room was bad. He braced himself and walked into the bedroom, ready to behold whatever was waiting for him.
The first thing he saw was what appeared to be a giant cocoon made of mud, lying in the middle of the bed. Underneath the thick blackish-brown substance he saw a texture that let him know there was something else underneath. He couldn’t tell what it was, just that was smoother than skin. The shape and size lead him to assume that the body was hidden somewhere within that, but that was only logic. There was no making out skin color or even how the body’d been arraigned just from seeing this.
“What am I looking at?” he asked the room in general.
“Well, without running back to test this material out we can’t know for sure, but it’s some kind of feces,” came a voice from behind him. He wanted to turn to look towards that voice, engage it in conversation. But suddenly knowing what he was looking at made it that much more horrible, and that much more impossible to look away. It wasn’t mud- it was shit. Enough shit to cover the entire body. How the hell they’d manage that?
“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say it didn’t all come out of one person,” he said.
“Nope, didn’t come out of any person, actually. We’re pretty sure it’s dog shit,” said the voice, coming around to stand next to him. From his peripheral vision he could make out Rogers, his favorite tech. Rogers had grey hair on his temples and a permanent squint in his eyes that let you know he was a veteran to the field. You don’t look that worn until you’ve seen your fair share of seriously messed up scenes. And Rogers, at least from what Macney knew of him, had seen the bottom of the barrel. Macney reached into his pocket and pulled out a glove, snapped it on to his hand.
“Am I gonna contaminate anything?” he asked.
“Nope, we were waitin’ for you. Figured we’d unwrap her together,” Rogers said, nodding to the photographer in the corner to approach the body so he could snap away as they started to unwrap the form. Macney reached a hand out, tentatively, as if afraid to disturb it. He felt the mass through his glove and the first thing that hit him was how hard the feces was. It wasn’t until that second that he’d noticed how frigid it was in the room. The AC must have been cranked up as high as it would go.
“It’s hard,” Macney said, and he picked off a small chunk. It broke off easily, like stale fudge, and he dropped it into the plastic bag Rogers was holding open for him. He picked off another chunk and held it up for closer inspection. He could see the tell-tale dog fur, but nothing else distinguishable.
“I suppose it’s not hard to find a whole lot of dog crap lying around in a city this big, huh?” Macney asked, more to himself than to anyone else. Rogers said nothing, he was used to Macney’s process and the questions he posed to no on in particular. He was used to the debriefing they did afterwards, after the tests were run and the time of death determined. He stood with his bags and vials ready to collect the evidence, and his mouth shut.
Macney waved for Rogers to find an opening and start the peel-back process. Rogers and his aid started to break off large chunks of the mess, collecting it in hazmat bags and taking samples every layer or so. Rogers suspected they wouldn’t learn anything useful from the material, but he took a large sample anyway. He’d always bragged that no one would ever accuse him of not being thorough.
As they reached the material underneath Macney understood why it had looked smoother than skin. It was- it was plastic. The entire body had been encased in a large plastic bag. Macney knew this was significant and started jotting down notes, already forming hypotheses about the killer’s psyche, or character as he called it. Rogers and his aid waited. Macney looked up with a sigh and nodded. Rogers started cutting back the plastic.
Immediately the smell of bleach filled Rogers nostrils, so strong that he actually had to turn his head for a moment.
“What it is?” Macney asked, inching forward cautiously. He caught the scent and waited for it to clear, then he stepped over to the side to lean over. With the plastic cleared away he could make out the girl’s face. She looked almost as she had in the picture outside, save that her eyes were open and her lips parted in what he would have described as a gasp, if she wasn’t dead.
“I don’t get it,” came a voice to Macney’s left. He looked up and saw the photographer paused with his camera down. “Why go to all the trouble to wash the body in bleach, bag it, and then cover it in crap?”
“He wanted to protect her,” Macney said, looking down at the girl’s face again.
“Then why cover her in shit?” he asked again.
“Aren’t you supposed to be photographing this?” Macney said without looking up again. The photographer coughed a tiny bit and started snapping away again with a fervor.
Macney pulled the plastic down and looked at the neck. There were deep bruises on each side indicating significant pressure. Macney placed his gloved hand over the bruises to check the shape. He started jotting notes in his pad again, then stood up straight and started pacing. Rogers perked up, noting the detective’s usual brainstorming ritual and waited for the real questioning to begin.
“How’d we find her?” he asked without looking up from his feet.
“Her aunt,” Rogers answered. “She was supposed to go shopping with the vic on Sunday. After she didn’t hear back from her for a couple of days she came up to chec on her.”
“No, sign of struggle,” Macney said, again more to himself than anyone else. “Our perp must’ve been waiting for her in here. How was the apartment when the aunt came?”
“Quiet, locked up- no signs of forced entry. The aunt got the super to open it up. I think one of your uniforms is interviewing them,” Rogers said, peering over his should to see if could catch a glimpse of the young female he’d seen interviewing the aunt when he walked in.
“Gonna have to get them both down to the station,” Macney said, jotting another note down in his pad. He stepped close to the body again, took a closer look at the neck. Rogers made to start cutting the remainder of the plastic and Macney nodded at him. Rogers cut and pull with the trepidation of someone walking through a field of landmines, afraid to disturb anything he hadn’t seen yet. As he peeled down the rest of the plastic the rest of her body came into view. It was the same basic shape Macney’d seen standing in the frame- muscular shoulders, lean stomach and torso, narrow hips attached to legs that were way too muscular for a model. She’d have lost the definition if she’d continued in the business, he knew.
“He wanted to preserve her,” Macney muttered.
“Then why not use formaldehyde? Why bleach, it distorts the natural skin color,” Rogers observed.
Macney scribbled in his pad, then resumed his pacing. “Ok, so there’s no struggle- he either had to be in here waiting for her or the vic knew him.” He took a step towards the door and yelled to no one in particular- “We got any leads on boyfriends, fashion designers, crazy relatives or stalkers this girl had?” No one answered as he made his way back to the body. He didn’t expect them to, he expected them to start making phone calls and tracking people down.
“No sign of trauma on the head,” Rogers observed. “And the bruises are pretty isolated- he must have had a good hold on her neck before she started struggling.”
“Then it must have been someone she knew,” Macney said. “Anything goin’ on down there,” he asked pointing to the groin area.
“No, not recently. If this girl was having sex it wasn’t anytime near when she got killed. Until we take a look at the internals that’s all I can tell ya. I’ll also do the full gauntlet tox screen, see if she was drugged,” Rogers said, looking over the body and making notes on his metal clip board.
“We see anything at all similar to this before?” Macney asked.
“Not one of my cases, and you know I’ve seen almost all of ‘em,” Rogers answered. “You might wanna consult FBI, though- this is pretty damned meticulous to be an isolated event.”
“Could it be his first kill?” Macney asked, half-hoping the answer would be no and he wouldn’t have to look for more of these popping up around the city.
“Doubt it. There’s too much reparation- the bag, the feces, the chemicals, all of it. There was a lot of planning involved in this, not a crime of passion,” Rogers said, looking at different areas of the body and making notes on his chart.
“That means it’s probably not a boyfriend or stalker, huh?” Macney asked, already knowing the answer.
“Not unless this girl was into seriously creepy guys with OCD,” Rogers said without looking up.
“So no fingerprints, no bodily fluids, shit random dogs- not a single thing we can use?” Macney asked, irritation rising in his voice.
“I gotta do a lot more back at the lab and see what the bleach washed off, but I’m guessing by the look of her that the guy never even touched her. Gloved hands, might’ve even been wearing an infection suit….” Rogers continued his check list.
Macney looked back out into the hallway and sighed, having daydream nightmares of what a clusterfuck the FBI would make out of his case if they got called in. Didn’t matter how much work he did if the feds came in, he’d never see it again. “Please find me something, Rog,” he said without looking back at his friend.
“If there’s something to find, you know I’ll find it,” he said.
Macney nodded and left the room without looking back.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Delirium
He was in a white room. He noticed it was dirty- dust and cobwebs in the corners, or at least the one in view. Could he move? He didn’t know. There was something in one of his eyes, sticky- he couldn’t get his eyelids to separate all the way. It blocked his view but he didn’t know what it was. Where was the cat?
Or maybe it was a person. He couldn’t place the sound. It didn’t sound human, but it wasn’t a clear meow, either. It was like a muffled growl or something . Just then he heard the growl change into what must have been words. He couldn’t make them out, but there were real words. Mumbling from somewhere. Where? He finally managed to turn his head and pain shot through him as the dark, sticky goo holding his eye half-closed split. His whole face felt like it was on fire. But not really. Almost like he’d been hit really hard, like a stinging burning. Where was he?
He managed to lift his head and look around. All he saw, everywhere, was garbage. An empty plastic laundry detergent bottle. An empty paper cup with a straw sticking out of it. Newspapers, magazines, fast food paper bags and cardboard boxes. He tried to think but it seemed to make his head hurt worse. It was then that screaming began.
Shrill, ear-piercing screams with intermittent whimpers. He looked all around trying to figure out where it was coming from. It sounded so close, but there was no one there. Just a sea of garbage. Where was he? Had he been kidnapped? Did some thug knock him out and drag him to this… crack house? It seemed like the kind-of place where people would smoke crack or something. He’d seen one busted on the news once and it’d looked like this.
He thought, tried to remember where he’d been last, how he could’ve ended up kidnapped and dragged here. But there was no memory, nothing. Just random clips like some fast forward music video- he couldn’t make sense of the images flashing behind his eyes. The screams grew louder and he tried to block out the sound by cupping his hands over his ears. He pressed in with his palms. And he could still hear the screaming, but it was a bit quieter with his hands there. Where was it coming from?
It only then occurred to him to be scared. It hit him so suddenly he couldn’t understand why it hadn’t been there as soon as he opened his eyes. A room he didn’t know, disembodied screams, disappearing legs- fear should have been the first thing to hit him, but it wasn’t. And even then, when he recognized how valid the emotion was, it went away. Like he wanted to hold onto it because it seemed so logical, but he felt too confused to keep grasp of it. He tried, but it slipped away like the stinging in his eye. When had he opened them?
He felt himself moving forward, less because he meant to and more because he just was. Like floating, an unconscious reflex propelled him out of the garbage-filled room and into an equally frightening hallway. But here he could make out a ripped carpet that might have been tan at one point but seemed more gray. Tan? Why would he think that? Had he been here before? But the screaming distracted him again.
He moved forward again in that same, involuntary way and he saw movement to his right. It made him jump and he hit the wall behind him. Looking straight ahead he could make out some sort of shape, but he didn’t know what it was. Was that the screaming person? He reached out to touch the far wall and was relieved to find it was real. Why hadn’t he thought it would be? He saw the hand that touched the wall. Was it his?
It was bloody- thick, black liquid under the fingernails and claw marks on the skin. Had he been in a fight? He must have tried to fight off his attacker- that made sense. He felt an instant rejection of the theory, like his mind wouldn’t accept his own logic. Why couldn’t he think straight? The screaming- if the screaming would stop, he could think again. But where was it coming from?
Then another sound. A knocking. Someone had to answer the door. Where was the door? He felt himself moving again, back down the hallway. It opened to his right to a door. The door moved as the banging grew louder. He reached out to open it and the bloody hand surprised him again.
“Ben, Ben are you in there? It’s Mary- from Sister St. Catherine’s? Ben, please open the door!”
He knew the voice was coming from the other side of the door. He saw the bloody hand grasp the doorknob and turn. There was a woman there with long dark hair and glasses. He knew her somehow, but he didn’t know how.
“Oh, Ben,” she said in shock, a look of horror on her face. “Ben can you come with me?”
He felt himself moving forward again, toward the woman. He didn’t want to. But he saw the woman coax him forward, concern on her face. He kept moving, feeling like he had to. He stepped out onto a landing with a metal rail, like outside of some hotel.
Just then gloved hands grabbed him on either side.
“Oh my god- did he do that to his face?” came a male voice.
“Yeah, he’s a scratcher, be careful!” Mary said. “We gotta get him to the hospital. Oh, Ben, how could do this to yourself?”
He wanted to struggle but the hands held him, wrestled him to the ground.
“It’s ok, buddy- just stop fightin, we’re gonna get you to a better place,” said the man holding him down.
He didn’t believe it.
Or maybe it was a person. He couldn’t place the sound. It didn’t sound human, but it wasn’t a clear meow, either. It was like a muffled growl or something . Just then he heard the growl change into what must have been words. He couldn’t make them out, but there were real words. Mumbling from somewhere. Where? He finally managed to turn his head and pain shot through him as the dark, sticky goo holding his eye half-closed split. His whole face felt like it was on fire. But not really. Almost like he’d been hit really hard, like a stinging burning. Where was he?
He managed to lift his head and look around. All he saw, everywhere, was garbage. An empty plastic laundry detergent bottle. An empty paper cup with a straw sticking out of it. Newspapers, magazines, fast food paper bags and cardboard boxes. He tried to think but it seemed to make his head hurt worse. It was then that screaming began.
Shrill, ear-piercing screams with intermittent whimpers. He looked all around trying to figure out where it was coming from. It sounded so close, but there was no one there. Just a sea of garbage. Where was he? Had he been kidnapped? Did some thug knock him out and drag him to this… crack house? It seemed like the kind-of place where people would smoke crack or something. He’d seen one busted on the news once and it’d looked like this.
He thought, tried to remember where he’d been last, how he could’ve ended up kidnapped and dragged here. But there was no memory, nothing. Just random clips like some fast forward music video- he couldn’t make sense of the images flashing behind his eyes. The screams grew louder and he tried to block out the sound by cupping his hands over his ears. He pressed in with his palms. And he could still hear the screaming, but it was a bit quieter with his hands there. Where was it coming from?
It only then occurred to him to be scared. It hit him so suddenly he couldn’t understand why it hadn’t been there as soon as he opened his eyes. A room he didn’t know, disembodied screams, disappearing legs- fear should have been the first thing to hit him, but it wasn’t. And even then, when he recognized how valid the emotion was, it went away. Like he wanted to hold onto it because it seemed so logical, but he felt too confused to keep grasp of it. He tried, but it slipped away like the stinging in his eye. When had he opened them?
He felt himself moving forward, less because he meant to and more because he just was. Like floating, an unconscious reflex propelled him out of the garbage-filled room and into an equally frightening hallway. But here he could make out a ripped carpet that might have been tan at one point but seemed more gray. Tan? Why would he think that? Had he been here before? But the screaming distracted him again.
He moved forward again in that same, involuntary way and he saw movement to his right. It made him jump and he hit the wall behind him. Looking straight ahead he could make out some sort of shape, but he didn’t know what it was. Was that the screaming person? He reached out to touch the far wall and was relieved to find it was real. Why hadn’t he thought it would be? He saw the hand that touched the wall. Was it his?
It was bloody- thick, black liquid under the fingernails and claw marks on the skin. Had he been in a fight? He must have tried to fight off his attacker- that made sense. He felt an instant rejection of the theory, like his mind wouldn’t accept his own logic. Why couldn’t he think straight? The screaming- if the screaming would stop, he could think again. But where was it coming from?
Then another sound. A knocking. Someone had to answer the door. Where was the door? He felt himself moving again, back down the hallway. It opened to his right to a door. The door moved as the banging grew louder. He reached out to open it and the bloody hand surprised him again.
“Ben, Ben are you in there? It’s Mary- from Sister St. Catherine’s? Ben, please open the door!”
He knew the voice was coming from the other side of the door. He saw the bloody hand grasp the doorknob and turn. There was a woman there with long dark hair and glasses. He knew her somehow, but he didn’t know how.
“Oh, Ben,” she said in shock, a look of horror on her face. “Ben can you come with me?”
He felt himself moving forward again, toward the woman. He didn’t want to. But he saw the woman coax him forward, concern on her face. He kept moving, feeling like he had to. He stepped out onto a landing with a metal rail, like outside of some hotel.
Just then gloved hands grabbed him on either side.
“Oh my god- did he do that to his face?” came a male voice.
“Yeah, he’s a scratcher, be careful!” Mary said. “We gotta get him to the hospital. Oh, Ben, how could do this to yourself?”
He wanted to struggle but the hands held him, wrestled him to the ground.
“It’s ok, buddy- just stop fightin, we’re gonna get you to a better place,” said the man holding him down.
He didn’t believe it.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The System is Down
They say that when you’re stuck you should try to make a change. When you can’t make a change they say complaining doesn’t help. Several months of me complaining has more than proven this statement. They say you should just try to make one positive step each and everyday day. On most days, I do ok with this. I don’t bitch non-stop about my job because I know that won’t help, I just focus on sending in one more job application, one more resumé, one more cover letter. But some days, after that’s done, you still find yourself feeling crappy about the whole thing.
I’m not asking for much, I don’t think. I’m not asking for a job that will reveal my life’s purpose. I’m not asking for a job that will create meaning for my life. Hell, I’m not even asking for a job I like. I’m fine with work being something you get paid for because no one’s lucky enough to get paid for doing what they love. (Yeah, I’ve heard the stories too but if I allowed myself to believe them I’d have unrealistic expectations.)
No, I’m just asking for something that I don’t hate as much as this. For something that pays for all the stress and aggravation I currently get nothing for. Or something with less stress and aggravation that pays the same crappy salary. Or something that would justify the $300 plus I have to pay towards my damned student loan every month. Something that is more than just putting out fires and explaining to managers higher up why everything is constantly messed up. Something in which there’s some movement, however little, towards improving the amazingly messed system. Or at least something that, if it is crappy all day long, I can at least leave behind me when I finally get out of the office.
I really don’t believe my expectations are too grand to met. I’ve lowered them so much from the way I used to think that most people agree it’s not unreasonable to want that. But that doesn’t mean I get what I want. And after 8 months of just one more resumé it’s hard not to get dragged down. I’m not complaining, though. I know that doesn’t help. But they say that the universe can’t give you what you need unless you put it out there. So I‘m putting out there my belief that there has to be something better than this.
I’m not asking for much, I don’t think. I’m not asking for a job that will reveal my life’s purpose. I’m not asking for a job that will create meaning for my life. Hell, I’m not even asking for a job I like. I’m fine with work being something you get paid for because no one’s lucky enough to get paid for doing what they love. (Yeah, I’ve heard the stories too but if I allowed myself to believe them I’d have unrealistic expectations.)
No, I’m just asking for something that I don’t hate as much as this. For something that pays for all the stress and aggravation I currently get nothing for. Or something with less stress and aggravation that pays the same crappy salary. Or something that would justify the $300 plus I have to pay towards my damned student loan every month. Something that is more than just putting out fires and explaining to managers higher up why everything is constantly messed up. Something in which there’s some movement, however little, towards improving the amazingly messed system. Or at least something that, if it is crappy all day long, I can at least leave behind me when I finally get out of the office.
I really don’t believe my expectations are too grand to met. I’ve lowered them so much from the way I used to think that most people agree it’s not unreasonable to want that. But that doesn’t mean I get what I want. And after 8 months of just one more resumé it’s hard not to get dragged down. I’m not complaining, though. I know that doesn’t help. But they say that the universe can’t give you what you need unless you put it out there. So I‘m putting out there my belief that there has to be something better than this.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Sunday Morning
The light streamed in through the window and Jack fought with the blinds, trying to lower them to block it out. After several minutes of increasing frustration with the cord that refused to move no matter how hard he pulled on it he gave up and put his head in arms on the table in front of him. He heard a noise that sounded like the blinds lowering and looked up to see Ed gently lowering the blinds until they rested on the window sill.
“How’d you do that?” he asked his friend with an expression conveying awe.
“You gotta pull it an angle- something I would have told you if you weren’t so busy grunting at the thing,” Ed grinned at him.
A dump truck drove by and honked its horn, as if the noise it made just from bulldozing down the street wasn’t enough. Jack groaned and put his head back down.
“Can you block out the noise, too?” he asked without looking up.
“Uh, nope- but you can try stuffing some of these in your ears,” he said, handing his friend a stack of napkins.
Jack looked up to see the paper being offered to him and rolled his eyes. “Isn’t it about time we grow out of this?” he asked his friend.
“Grow out of what?” Ed asked him.
“This- this diner a day lifestyle of ours-“ Jack answered, referencing towards the cheap linoleum covered table in front of them.
“Uh, I wouldn’t call it that,” Ed said looking around for a waitress. “If anything it’s too much partying we do, not too much coffee at diners the morning afterwards.”
“Well, whatever it is- aren’t you getting tired of it?” Jack asked, putting his head back down.
“Is this a serious conversation?” Ed asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Huh?” came a muffled sound from where Jack’s head lay buried beneath his elbow.
“I mean, are you seriously asking me this right now?” Ed asked again.
“Uh… yeah- I guess I am. Why?” Jack asked looking up at him with a confused expression.
“Because you know better than to start serious conversations with me before I’ve had my first cup of coffee,” Ed reprimanded him.
Jack looked at him with a slight smile as if to say that was a fair point.
“Ah, here we go- and how are you doing this lovely morning?” he asked the waitress that approached their table, pad and pen at the ready.
“Um, not as chipper as you but, ok I guess,” she answered.
“Good, good,” Ed said, giving her his most charming smile. “Well, I’ll tell you what-I’m gonna make your life easy for you. I’m gonna ask you to start us off with a good, strong pot of coffee and keep it coming while we think of something tasty to order, how’s that sound?”
“Fair enough,” she said, retreating.
The two men sat in silence while waiting for their coffee to return. Ed looked around at the other patrons, listening to the clattering forks and knives as people ate their meals and hummed to himself. Jack remained with his head down in his arms without moving. Ed would have thought his friend asleep if not for the lack of snoring. The waitress returned with a full pot of coffee and poured the two cups out.
“You want me to just leave this here for you boys?” she asked holding up the pot.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” Ed said, smiling at her again.
She put the pot down with a brief “I’ll come back in a couple minutes.”
Ed went about shaking several sugar packets while Jack lifted his head and reached for the cream. After they’d both prepared their brew and taken their first sip Jack sat back as if contented for the moment and Ed looked up from his cup.
“So,” Ed asked, putting his cup down and scooting back on his seat to look at his friend. “What were you blabbing about before?”
“I was asking about this,” Jack said, looking down at his cup as he continued to stir the brown liquid it contained.
“About… coffee? Well, you see back in the beginnings of American history the colonists first started acquiring coffee from the Caribbean island of Martinique and they found that the drink was a good alternative to the tea that the British were taxing so they-“ Ed rattled.
“No, no- not coffee,” Jack interrupted him. “This. Fighting back a hangover from another night of club hopping which was as unproductive as the last twenty and yet, will be the same activity we continue next weekend,” Jack explained.
“Ah, that,” Ed said. He paused for a moment and took another sip before asking “And what was the question again?”
“Ug,” Jack sighed angrily. “This lifestyle- aren’t we getting too old for it?”
“Speak for yourself, man- I’m as a spry as a young pup!” Ed argued with a grin.
“That’s not what I mean, I mean- aren’t we supposed to grow up or something?”
“Grow up?” Ed asked suspiciously.
“Like, stop being starving artists and hooking up with co-eds on ecstasy and get real jobs and real girl friends and start being responsible or something?”
Ed put down his coffee as if trying to demonstrate what calm looked like to his poor, addled friend. “First off,” he said, “we are not starving artists. Starving artists don’t eat breakfast at diners.”
“You know what I mean,” Jack said angrily, finishing off his cup and grabbing the pot to pour another one.
“Jackson, my friend- calm down! Where is all of this coming from, anyway?” Ed said with a sarcastic tone.
“Don’t call me Jackson! And it’s coming from- I don’t know. I’m just getting tired of it, aren’t you?”
Ed opened his mouth to answer but then saw the waitress coming back. “You guys decide what you want?” she asked them, holding pen over pad.
“Yeah, I‘ll take four eggs over easy, home fries and sausage,” Jack said, folding up his menu and handing it back to her.
“You want toast?” she asked without looking up from her pad.
“Yeah, white,” Jack answered.
She finished writing, took his menu and tucked it under her arm and then turned to the other side of the table.
Ed was leaning over to get a better look at what Jack knew full well were her boobs but Ed was pretending to be her nametag. “Pam?” he asked as he looked up at her with bright eyes and that same cheerful smile.
“Yeah, that’s me,” she answered, obviously not amused.
“What would you recommend, Pam?” Ed asked, flashing a toothy smile.
“Uh…” she hesitated. “I like the omelets,” she answered.
“Perfect!” Ed exclaimed, “I’ll have the farmer’s omelet with egg whites, and instead of the home fries could I possibly get a half of grapefruit instead?”
“Oh- uh, sure,” she said, busily scribbling down what was obviously not the usual request.
“Some of us don’t want to die of a heart attack at age 40,” he said, nodding to his friend across the table. If he’d been looking that way he would have seen Jack glare at him but as was he had his sight locked on Pam.
“Right,” she said, taking his menu and smiling.
“Ah, I knew I could get a smile out of you if I tried,” Ed said. She giggled at him and Ed made it a point to hold her gaze longer than the social norm called for.
“Are you… ok?” she asked confusedly.
“Oh yeah, -uh, I mean- yes. Yes. I was just distracted. Your- uh… your smile was well worth the wait.” He stumbled; giving the air of someone caught staring at their teacher in English class.
“Oh, um- thank you. Thanks! I’ll, uh- I’ll go put your orders right in for you!” she said with a smile and turned away to retreat back to the kitchen.
Ed bent over to get a good look at her butt as she moved away from him. Jack decided he couldn’t stand it anymore and reached out to give his friend a hard punch on the arm.
“Ow!” Ed said pulling back his arm and rubbing it as if seriously injured, “what the hell was that for?”
“For that,” Jack said exacerbated. “That act you have to pull on every fucking waitress we see!”
“I don’t pull it on every waitress,” Ed said, looking again towards the kitchen. “Just the cute ones.” He waved as he caught the waitress’s eye.
“Oh yeah?” Jack said. And then he had an idea. “Well, I bet you breakfast you can’t land her!”
“Oh, really?” Ed said raising an eyebrow at him. “You’re on!”
“And you’re not allowed to reference your Agnes Lynn Stewart Poetry Prize!” Jack jumped, pointing an accusatory finger at Ed.
“First of all,” Ed said pushing his friend’s finger down, “It’s the Agnes Lynch Starrett Poetry Prize, and secondly you didn’t say that before I agreed. A gentleman always sets the terms of a wager clearly at the beginning of the proposition.”
“Yeah, well a real gentleman doesn’t agree before he knows the terms,” Jack said, doing his best faux english accent right back at Ed. “Besides, those are the terms- take ‘em or leave ‘em!”
“Hmm…” Ed said pulling on his imaginary beard. “You drive a hard baragain. But, I am a man of my word and I accepted- so I shall not rescind the contract,” he answered, reaching out a hand.
Jack took the hand that was offered and gave it a hard shake. “Now, back to what I was saying,” he said.
“What was that again? About you wishing you could grow up and finally become a real boy?” Ed asked with a grin.
“Ok, that anaology makes no sense whatsoever- read some children’s literature before you make references to it,” Jack said with annoyance. “Besides, that’s not what I was saying. I was saying that we need to grow up. Stop fucking around with all this.”
“Seriously- where is all this coming from? Last night when I came to pick you up you’re all blah and won’t tell me why, then when I get a few drinks in you you’re all “my life sucks, no one wants me, wah, wah, wah”,” Ed said in his best baby voice, throwing his hands up to mock his friend further.
“Don’t make the baby voice or I swear to Christ I will shove this fork into your eye!” Jack exclaimed, brandishing the fork for effect.
“Woah- woah- hold on there, partner. We’re all friends here-no need to get violent,” Ed said making a push up motion with his hands in defense.
“I just,” Jack said, looking forlorn again,” I just feel like…”
“Like what?” Ed asked him, concerned for the first time in the conversation.
“Like real life has to begin sometime, you know?” Jack said. “Like there’s gotta be some point where we stop, look at life for what it is, and accept it.”
“Accept what, exactly?” Ed asked, confused.
“That this isn’t real life. That we have to grow up, get real jobs, and stop living with our grand dreams of being published and having our work assigned in progressive liberal arts colleges and all that bullshit,” Jack spat.
“Wow. Dude- lighten up- you’re not even thirty yet!” Ed said.
“No, and thank god- cause I always thought that by the time I hit thirty I’d have a real job, a real apartment if not a house to live in, and a wife or at least a fiancé to share it with!”
“Ok, first of all- life milestones don’t happen the way they do in the hallmark commercials, so get that out of your head right now!” Ed argued.
“I know,” Jack moaned.
“Don’t interrupt me-“ Ed snapped. “And secondly, you already have a real job and a real apartment.”
“Bicycle courier is not ‘a real job’ and a 400 square foot room in an apartment I share with you on the wrong side of the river is not ‘a real apartment’,” Jack said making quotation marks with his fingers.
“Says who?” Ed asked.
“Says everybody,” Jack said with a grimace.
“And everybody is…?” Ed continued.
“Just- everybody, you know! My parents, the world, the-“
“You’re gonna base your life assessment on Jack and Judy?” Ed interrupted.
“I know my parent’s names, dude,” Jack sighed.
“Yes, but you’ve obviously forgotten their place at the head of a generation so backwards that they took child-rearing advice from a guy whose own son offed himself,” Ed argued.
“Not true- that is totally not true, it was his grandson and he had schizophrenia,” Jack interrupted.
“Whatever, the dude was still crazy and your parents, like may parents, like everybody’s else’s parents totally bought into it, thus feeding us unrealistic expectations that we could be anything we wanted to be, thus setting us up for failure when our first novels didn’t win the Pulitzer,” Ed rattled.
“Yeah, well…” Jack trailed off, not really knowing how to rebut that.
“Ooo- ssshh, ssh!” Ed snapped at him and then immediately turned toward the window and leaned his head back as if listening for something.
“There you are,” Pam the waitress said as she set the first of two heavy plates down on the table. “You get the over easy and you get the egg white omelet,” she said, setting Ed’s plate down in front of him. “Will there be anything else?” she asked as she looked up at Ed with a smile which immediately wilted upon seeing him not paying attention.
“I hear the birds outside our window and roll over to see if you are awake. But you’re not there,” Ed said in a dreamy voice. “Then I remember- you’re not there. You left me alone with a photo album full of you because you didn’t want to be reminded of me. I think sometimes I’ll burn those photos, those dreams that never came true. It would be satisfying to watch them go up in smoke, like the feelings you had for me. But then I think you might want them someday, so I’d better not. I roll over and try to go back to sleep but the birds keep chirping, reminding me that you’re gone.” Ed finished in almost a whisper, then turned to look at the waitress with a tear in the corner of his eye.
“Oh my god- are you ok?” she asked, putting a concerned hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine- I just… I think of that sometimes when I hear the birds outside,” Ed said.
“I don’t hear any birds,” Jack muttered, taking a mouthful of egg.
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Pam said, not hearing Jack. “Who wrote that?”
“Oh, I did,” Ed said, wiping away the not-quite tear from his eye.
“Oh my god- you wrote that? Really? That’s so beautiful!” She said, putting a hand to her chest as if overcome by the poem’s beauty.
Jack rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, but Ed ignored him.
“Thank you,” Ed whispered. “I just- uh-hem. I think of it sometimes. I’m so sorry- that must be so weird for you. You come with a delicious breakfast and your patron is crying,” he said, straightening his plate as if embarrassed.
“Oh, no! Please don’t- I liked hearing it, even if it did make you sad,” Pam said, giving his shoulder a little squeeze.
“Thank you,” Ed said, looking up at her with puppy dog eyes.
Jack cleared his throat again, taking a sip of coffee.
“Oh, oh- I’m sorry, you probably want to eat your breakfast in peace. Just- just let me know if you need anything else,” Pam said, backing away sheepishly.
Ed smiled at her again, the same sad expression on his face. She smiled back and turned towards the kitchen again. Ed watched her walk away and Jack hit him again.
“Ow! Why the hell do you keep doing that?” Ed asked.
“What’d I just say? No mentioning the damned poetry!” Jack sputtered.
“But I-“ Ed started.
“No, no- you want to pay for breakfast, that’s fine with me, dude!” Jack said, taking another mouthful of egg.
“Eh-hem! Can I talk now?” Ed asked.
Jack just glared at him as he chewed.
“What you said was no mentioning the award- you didn’t say anything about reciting a poem,” Ed said with a satisfied expression.
“No way- no freakin way! You knew what I meant!” Jack yelled.
“Sshh- sshh!” Ed shushed him fearfully as he looked toward the kitchen to see if she’d heard. After a brief moment during which nothing happened he let out a breath and went about cutting up his omelet. “You know well enough to clarify all expectations before shaking on it.”
Jack banged the table in exacerbation but Ed went on with his breakfast as if nothing had happened. After no reaction from Ed he went back to eating his breakfast, angrily shoveling mouthfuls of egg onto his tongue.
“You’re such a baby, maybe you should grow up,” Ed said, still looking down at his breakfast.
Jack made a fist over his fork and then threw it at Ed’s head as hard as he could. Ed looked up just in time to dodge and watched as the fork went flying over his shoulder and landed on the floor several feet away with a clatter. He shot an angry look back at Jack.
“Oh-um- Pam?” Jack asked, waving to the back. The waitress saw him and came jogging over.
“I am so sorry- I must be the biggest klutz in the world, I swept my fork right onto the floor and then- as if that wasn’t bad enough- I kicked it when I went to pick it up,” Jack said referencing to the fork across the way. “Could you be an angel and get me a new one- there’ll be a huge tip in for you!”
“Oh, no, no” Pam said, bending down to get the fork and coming back to the table with a new napkin full of silverware. “Really, it happens all the time.”
“Oh, thank you so, so much!” Jack said in his most sincere tone. “And- if you could grab the check for us when you get a chance, that’d be great.”
“Oh, you don’t need anymore coffee?” she asked, looking at the nearly empty pot.
“Oh, no- one pot’s enough,” Ed said. He flashed her his most brilliant smile and hers quivered a tiny bit around the edges as she looked at him. “Thank you,” he said in a sickeningly sweet voice. Well, at least it sounded sick to Jack.
“You are such an asshole!” Ed snapped at his friend as soon as Pam had made it to the kitchen. Jack just smiled as he chewed his home fries. Ed glared at him for a moment more and then went back to eating his breakfast.
A minute later the waitress came back with her pad from which she ripped the top sheet of paper. She looked at Ed with a smile as she slid it to his side of the table and walked away before he picked it up. Ed reached down to pick up the check but Jack slapped his hand over it and snatched it out of his reach.
“Hey!“ Ed sputtered with a mouthful of grapefruit.
Jack just grinned at him and then looked down at the check. In a split second his expression went from bemused to enraged as he crumpled up the paper and threw it at Ed’s head. Ed didn’t duck this time and caught it as it bounced off his forehead into his lap. He unfolded the paper and smiled as he saw the word “Tori” written on the bottom of the check with a big smiley face a seven digit phone number.
“You are such a dick!” Jack said as he pushed up from the table and started walking to the counter at front.
“Don’t forget, you promised to give her a big tip!” Ed called after him.
Jack held up his middle finger over his shoulder as he walked away and Ed giggled at him.
“How’d you do that?” he asked his friend with an expression conveying awe.
“You gotta pull it an angle- something I would have told you if you weren’t so busy grunting at the thing,” Ed grinned at him.
A dump truck drove by and honked its horn, as if the noise it made just from bulldozing down the street wasn’t enough. Jack groaned and put his head back down.
“Can you block out the noise, too?” he asked without looking up.
“Uh, nope- but you can try stuffing some of these in your ears,” he said, handing his friend a stack of napkins.
Jack looked up to see the paper being offered to him and rolled his eyes. “Isn’t it about time we grow out of this?” he asked his friend.
“Grow out of what?” Ed asked him.
“This- this diner a day lifestyle of ours-“ Jack answered, referencing towards the cheap linoleum covered table in front of them.
“Uh, I wouldn’t call it that,” Ed said looking around for a waitress. “If anything it’s too much partying we do, not too much coffee at diners the morning afterwards.”
“Well, whatever it is- aren’t you getting tired of it?” Jack asked, putting his head back down.
“Is this a serious conversation?” Ed asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Huh?” came a muffled sound from where Jack’s head lay buried beneath his elbow.
“I mean, are you seriously asking me this right now?” Ed asked again.
“Uh… yeah- I guess I am. Why?” Jack asked looking up at him with a confused expression.
“Because you know better than to start serious conversations with me before I’ve had my first cup of coffee,” Ed reprimanded him.
Jack looked at him with a slight smile as if to say that was a fair point.
“Ah, here we go- and how are you doing this lovely morning?” he asked the waitress that approached their table, pad and pen at the ready.
“Um, not as chipper as you but, ok I guess,” she answered.
“Good, good,” Ed said, giving her his most charming smile. “Well, I’ll tell you what-I’m gonna make your life easy for you. I’m gonna ask you to start us off with a good, strong pot of coffee and keep it coming while we think of something tasty to order, how’s that sound?”
“Fair enough,” she said, retreating.
The two men sat in silence while waiting for their coffee to return. Ed looked around at the other patrons, listening to the clattering forks and knives as people ate their meals and hummed to himself. Jack remained with his head down in his arms without moving. Ed would have thought his friend asleep if not for the lack of snoring. The waitress returned with a full pot of coffee and poured the two cups out.
“You want me to just leave this here for you boys?” she asked holding up the pot.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” Ed said, smiling at her again.
She put the pot down with a brief “I’ll come back in a couple minutes.”
Ed went about shaking several sugar packets while Jack lifted his head and reached for the cream. After they’d both prepared their brew and taken their first sip Jack sat back as if contented for the moment and Ed looked up from his cup.
“So,” Ed asked, putting his cup down and scooting back on his seat to look at his friend. “What were you blabbing about before?”
“I was asking about this,” Jack said, looking down at his cup as he continued to stir the brown liquid it contained.
“About… coffee? Well, you see back in the beginnings of American history the colonists first started acquiring coffee from the Caribbean island of Martinique and they found that the drink was a good alternative to the tea that the British were taxing so they-“ Ed rattled.
“No, no- not coffee,” Jack interrupted him. “This. Fighting back a hangover from another night of club hopping which was as unproductive as the last twenty and yet, will be the same activity we continue next weekend,” Jack explained.
“Ah, that,” Ed said. He paused for a moment and took another sip before asking “And what was the question again?”
“Ug,” Jack sighed angrily. “This lifestyle- aren’t we getting too old for it?”
“Speak for yourself, man- I’m as a spry as a young pup!” Ed argued with a grin.
“That’s not what I mean, I mean- aren’t we supposed to grow up or something?”
“Grow up?” Ed asked suspiciously.
“Like, stop being starving artists and hooking up with co-eds on ecstasy and get real jobs and real girl friends and start being responsible or something?”
Ed put down his coffee as if trying to demonstrate what calm looked like to his poor, addled friend. “First off,” he said, “we are not starving artists. Starving artists don’t eat breakfast at diners.”
“You know what I mean,” Jack said angrily, finishing off his cup and grabbing the pot to pour another one.
“Jackson, my friend- calm down! Where is all of this coming from, anyway?” Ed said with a sarcastic tone.
“Don’t call me Jackson! And it’s coming from- I don’t know. I’m just getting tired of it, aren’t you?”
Ed opened his mouth to answer but then saw the waitress coming back. “You guys decide what you want?” she asked them, holding pen over pad.
“Yeah, I‘ll take four eggs over easy, home fries and sausage,” Jack said, folding up his menu and handing it back to her.
“You want toast?” she asked without looking up from her pad.
“Yeah, white,” Jack answered.
She finished writing, took his menu and tucked it under her arm and then turned to the other side of the table.
Ed was leaning over to get a better look at what Jack knew full well were her boobs but Ed was pretending to be her nametag. “Pam?” he asked as he looked up at her with bright eyes and that same cheerful smile.
“Yeah, that’s me,” she answered, obviously not amused.
“What would you recommend, Pam?” Ed asked, flashing a toothy smile.
“Uh…” she hesitated. “I like the omelets,” she answered.
“Perfect!” Ed exclaimed, “I’ll have the farmer’s omelet with egg whites, and instead of the home fries could I possibly get a half of grapefruit instead?”
“Oh- uh, sure,” she said, busily scribbling down what was obviously not the usual request.
“Some of us don’t want to die of a heart attack at age 40,” he said, nodding to his friend across the table. If he’d been looking that way he would have seen Jack glare at him but as was he had his sight locked on Pam.
“Right,” she said, taking his menu and smiling.
“Ah, I knew I could get a smile out of you if I tried,” Ed said. She giggled at him and Ed made it a point to hold her gaze longer than the social norm called for.
“Are you… ok?” she asked confusedly.
“Oh yeah, -uh, I mean- yes. Yes. I was just distracted. Your- uh… your smile was well worth the wait.” He stumbled; giving the air of someone caught staring at their teacher in English class.
“Oh, um- thank you. Thanks! I’ll, uh- I’ll go put your orders right in for you!” she said with a smile and turned away to retreat back to the kitchen.
Ed bent over to get a good look at her butt as she moved away from him. Jack decided he couldn’t stand it anymore and reached out to give his friend a hard punch on the arm.
“Ow!” Ed said pulling back his arm and rubbing it as if seriously injured, “what the hell was that for?”
“For that,” Jack said exacerbated. “That act you have to pull on every fucking waitress we see!”
“I don’t pull it on every waitress,” Ed said, looking again towards the kitchen. “Just the cute ones.” He waved as he caught the waitress’s eye.
“Oh yeah?” Jack said. And then he had an idea. “Well, I bet you breakfast you can’t land her!”
“Oh, really?” Ed said raising an eyebrow at him. “You’re on!”
“And you’re not allowed to reference your Agnes Lynn Stewart Poetry Prize!” Jack jumped, pointing an accusatory finger at Ed.
“First of all,” Ed said pushing his friend’s finger down, “It’s the Agnes Lynch Starrett Poetry Prize, and secondly you didn’t say that before I agreed. A gentleman always sets the terms of a wager clearly at the beginning of the proposition.”
“Yeah, well a real gentleman doesn’t agree before he knows the terms,” Jack said, doing his best faux english accent right back at Ed. “Besides, those are the terms- take ‘em or leave ‘em!”
“Hmm…” Ed said pulling on his imaginary beard. “You drive a hard baragain. But, I am a man of my word and I accepted- so I shall not rescind the contract,” he answered, reaching out a hand.
Jack took the hand that was offered and gave it a hard shake. “Now, back to what I was saying,” he said.
“What was that again? About you wishing you could grow up and finally become a real boy?” Ed asked with a grin.
“Ok, that anaology makes no sense whatsoever- read some children’s literature before you make references to it,” Jack said with annoyance. “Besides, that’s not what I was saying. I was saying that we need to grow up. Stop fucking around with all this.”
“Seriously- where is all this coming from? Last night when I came to pick you up you’re all blah and won’t tell me why, then when I get a few drinks in you you’re all “my life sucks, no one wants me, wah, wah, wah”,” Ed said in his best baby voice, throwing his hands up to mock his friend further.
“Don’t make the baby voice or I swear to Christ I will shove this fork into your eye!” Jack exclaimed, brandishing the fork for effect.
“Woah- woah- hold on there, partner. We’re all friends here-no need to get violent,” Ed said making a push up motion with his hands in defense.
“I just,” Jack said, looking forlorn again,” I just feel like…”
“Like what?” Ed asked him, concerned for the first time in the conversation.
“Like real life has to begin sometime, you know?” Jack said. “Like there’s gotta be some point where we stop, look at life for what it is, and accept it.”
“Accept what, exactly?” Ed asked, confused.
“That this isn’t real life. That we have to grow up, get real jobs, and stop living with our grand dreams of being published and having our work assigned in progressive liberal arts colleges and all that bullshit,” Jack spat.
“Wow. Dude- lighten up- you’re not even thirty yet!” Ed said.
“No, and thank god- cause I always thought that by the time I hit thirty I’d have a real job, a real apartment if not a house to live in, and a wife or at least a fiancé to share it with!”
“Ok, first of all- life milestones don’t happen the way they do in the hallmark commercials, so get that out of your head right now!” Ed argued.
“I know,” Jack moaned.
“Don’t interrupt me-“ Ed snapped. “And secondly, you already have a real job and a real apartment.”
“Bicycle courier is not ‘a real job’ and a 400 square foot room in an apartment I share with you on the wrong side of the river is not ‘a real apartment’,” Jack said making quotation marks with his fingers.
“Says who?” Ed asked.
“Says everybody,” Jack said with a grimace.
“And everybody is…?” Ed continued.
“Just- everybody, you know! My parents, the world, the-“
“You’re gonna base your life assessment on Jack and Judy?” Ed interrupted.
“I know my parent’s names, dude,” Jack sighed.
“Yes, but you’ve obviously forgotten their place at the head of a generation so backwards that they took child-rearing advice from a guy whose own son offed himself,” Ed argued.
“Not true- that is totally not true, it was his grandson and he had schizophrenia,” Jack interrupted.
“Whatever, the dude was still crazy and your parents, like may parents, like everybody’s else’s parents totally bought into it, thus feeding us unrealistic expectations that we could be anything we wanted to be, thus setting us up for failure when our first novels didn’t win the Pulitzer,” Ed rattled.
“Yeah, well…” Jack trailed off, not really knowing how to rebut that.
“Ooo- ssshh, ssh!” Ed snapped at him and then immediately turned toward the window and leaned his head back as if listening for something.
“There you are,” Pam the waitress said as she set the first of two heavy plates down on the table. “You get the over easy and you get the egg white omelet,” she said, setting Ed’s plate down in front of him. “Will there be anything else?” she asked as she looked up at Ed with a smile which immediately wilted upon seeing him not paying attention.
“I hear the birds outside our window and roll over to see if you are awake. But you’re not there,” Ed said in a dreamy voice. “Then I remember- you’re not there. You left me alone with a photo album full of you because you didn’t want to be reminded of me. I think sometimes I’ll burn those photos, those dreams that never came true. It would be satisfying to watch them go up in smoke, like the feelings you had for me. But then I think you might want them someday, so I’d better not. I roll over and try to go back to sleep but the birds keep chirping, reminding me that you’re gone.” Ed finished in almost a whisper, then turned to look at the waitress with a tear in the corner of his eye.
“Oh my god- are you ok?” she asked, putting a concerned hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine- I just… I think of that sometimes when I hear the birds outside,” Ed said.
“I don’t hear any birds,” Jack muttered, taking a mouthful of egg.
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Pam said, not hearing Jack. “Who wrote that?”
“Oh, I did,” Ed said, wiping away the not-quite tear from his eye.
“Oh my god- you wrote that? Really? That’s so beautiful!” She said, putting a hand to her chest as if overcome by the poem’s beauty.
Jack rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, but Ed ignored him.
“Thank you,” Ed whispered. “I just- uh-hem. I think of it sometimes. I’m so sorry- that must be so weird for you. You come with a delicious breakfast and your patron is crying,” he said, straightening his plate as if embarrassed.
“Oh, no! Please don’t- I liked hearing it, even if it did make you sad,” Pam said, giving his shoulder a little squeeze.
“Thank you,” Ed said, looking up at her with puppy dog eyes.
Jack cleared his throat again, taking a sip of coffee.
“Oh, oh- I’m sorry, you probably want to eat your breakfast in peace. Just- just let me know if you need anything else,” Pam said, backing away sheepishly.
Ed smiled at her again, the same sad expression on his face. She smiled back and turned towards the kitchen again. Ed watched her walk away and Jack hit him again.
“Ow! Why the hell do you keep doing that?” Ed asked.
“What’d I just say? No mentioning the damned poetry!” Jack sputtered.
“But I-“ Ed started.
“No, no- you want to pay for breakfast, that’s fine with me, dude!” Jack said, taking another mouthful of egg.
“Eh-hem! Can I talk now?” Ed asked.
Jack just glared at him as he chewed.
“What you said was no mentioning the award- you didn’t say anything about reciting a poem,” Ed said with a satisfied expression.
“No way- no freakin way! You knew what I meant!” Jack yelled.
“Sshh- sshh!” Ed shushed him fearfully as he looked toward the kitchen to see if she’d heard. After a brief moment during which nothing happened he let out a breath and went about cutting up his omelet. “You know well enough to clarify all expectations before shaking on it.”
Jack banged the table in exacerbation but Ed went on with his breakfast as if nothing had happened. After no reaction from Ed he went back to eating his breakfast, angrily shoveling mouthfuls of egg onto his tongue.
“You’re such a baby, maybe you should grow up,” Ed said, still looking down at his breakfast.
Jack made a fist over his fork and then threw it at Ed’s head as hard as he could. Ed looked up just in time to dodge and watched as the fork went flying over his shoulder and landed on the floor several feet away with a clatter. He shot an angry look back at Jack.
“Oh-um- Pam?” Jack asked, waving to the back. The waitress saw him and came jogging over.
“I am so sorry- I must be the biggest klutz in the world, I swept my fork right onto the floor and then- as if that wasn’t bad enough- I kicked it when I went to pick it up,” Jack said referencing to the fork across the way. “Could you be an angel and get me a new one- there’ll be a huge tip in for you!”
“Oh, no, no” Pam said, bending down to get the fork and coming back to the table with a new napkin full of silverware. “Really, it happens all the time.”
“Oh, thank you so, so much!” Jack said in his most sincere tone. “And- if you could grab the check for us when you get a chance, that’d be great.”
“Oh, you don’t need anymore coffee?” she asked, looking at the nearly empty pot.
“Oh, no- one pot’s enough,” Ed said. He flashed her his most brilliant smile and hers quivered a tiny bit around the edges as she looked at him. “Thank you,” he said in a sickeningly sweet voice. Well, at least it sounded sick to Jack.
“You are such an asshole!” Ed snapped at his friend as soon as Pam had made it to the kitchen. Jack just smiled as he chewed his home fries. Ed glared at him for a moment more and then went back to eating his breakfast.
A minute later the waitress came back with her pad from which she ripped the top sheet of paper. She looked at Ed with a smile as she slid it to his side of the table and walked away before he picked it up. Ed reached down to pick up the check but Jack slapped his hand over it and snatched it out of his reach.
“Hey!“ Ed sputtered with a mouthful of grapefruit.
Jack just grinned at him and then looked down at the check. In a split second his expression went from bemused to enraged as he crumpled up the paper and threw it at Ed’s head. Ed didn’t duck this time and caught it as it bounced off his forehead into his lap. He unfolded the paper and smiled as he saw the word “Tori” written on the bottom of the check with a big smiley face a seven digit phone number.
“You are such a dick!” Jack said as he pushed up from the table and started walking to the counter at front.
“Don’t forget, you promised to give her a big tip!” Ed called after him.
Jack held up his middle finger over his shoulder as he walked away and Ed giggled at him.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Sacrilege
Here it comes again. The rage. I can feel it pulsing in my brain. Fed by all my judgments of the evils of the world, the stupid people who day after day do more damage than can ever be repaired, ruining lives, spreading the plague of hatred to those souls who were previously untouched and innocent. They never stay that way for long. I know I have to purge myself before I lose control. Destruction can be controlled if you choose your target early and eliminate it before the urge takes over your higher functioning. So that’s what I have to do. Destroy. Not the most PC method of self-control, but effective.
It doesn’t matter what, it doesn’t matter how, it just matters that it’s something which was created and that I am the one who destroys it. Call it my artistic expression of the life cycle machine. Although perhaps art is the wrong term. Art was made to be noticed, to be appreciated. I pray that what I do is not discovered. I have a hard enough time justifying it to myself, I don’t want an audience asking questions.
Call it an addiction, if you must call it something. My obsession-driven actions. My inescapable prison. My personal little hell. We’ve all got our demons. This is mine.
I’ve been trying to keep a low profile lately. Ever since I demolished that modern art sculpture in the park it’s been important to stay under the radar. I hate the justice system too much to become a part of it. So I need something small. Something unnoticeable. Something that only I would know the significance of.
I’ve been walking the streets of the city for hours now trying to find it. My legs are starting to burn, my feet ache, the sweat on my brow has since gone cold in the frigid November winds that pour down the streets. I stop at the street corner watching the cars pass. Cabs and commuters cutting each other off and cursing. Honking their horns as if that sound isn’t so natural to everyone in the city that they don’t hear it anymore. As if it would make a difference.
And all this time I’ve seen more and more to fuel my rage. It tends to work like that. The angrier you are the angrier you become. Like fire begets fire. I need something to burn.
And then I look up and like magic the answer appears: a church. A cathedral, more specifically. Filled with more religious propaganda than I can shake a stick at. And I run across the street to fill my need, my cravings, and almost get hit by yet another overzealous cab driver.
I burst through the front doors and remember that it’s a public place- there may be people here. So I cautiously open the inner doors to the cathedral and am relieved to see that there’s no mass going on. I scan the aisles and there they are: hymnals and bibles laid out for easy access. I set myself down and grab a bible, bowing my head as if to pray while I leaf through it. Pages have been dog-eared. Extra pamphlets and sermons tucked away inside. This is no new book. This book has been loved. Perfect.
Discreetly as I can I tuck it into my coat pocket. A quick bow to the front altars and I’m ready to go. Back out into the cold November wind, onto the busy New York streets, into the fray, so to speak. My feet find new purpose with the bible tucked safely into my pocket. Would that I were closer to the piers. But a side alley would do quite nicely.
And on 45th and 2nd there’s a nice little back alley next to a Chinese restaurant. The smell of fried dumplings fills my nostrils as I crouch to the ground and lay the bible on the concrete. The leather-bound bible looks so significant. Having been wielded by so many religious zealots over the years as the words of God I feel an immense satisfaction knowing that it can be destroyed. It can be taken away from the world. Granted one single bible won’t make that huge of a difference but at least that pew will be one book short next service. The thought makes me smile.
I strike a match and hold it to the inner pages. The leather will be harder to burn but the paper pages should take up quite nicely. And they do. And I sit and watch them burn. And then the leather cover starts to bubble and sizzle like real leather wouldn’t. I should have known the catholic church would be too cheap to order real leather binding. And my satisfaction grows with the flame.
As I watch the fire grow I can feel my rage begin to float away with the ashes. All the hatred, all the loathing, all the violent urges leaving me. With the knowledge that I am taking something of value from the world. That I am being so brash as to steal straight from the house of God. If I didn’t know better I’d expect to be smited. I look up at the sky and wait. And as always, nothing happens. And I can’t help but laugh.
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