"Okay. Okay. Okay, okay, okay. So, at that point, I was like this sucks. Let's go back and grab a few more—"
"Speaking of, more's a good idea. I'll have more. Over here!"
"Well, no sense working up a good buzz Mel to just waste it watching those bullshit movie trivia things. And Tom—you know Tom's game—"
"Tommy!"
"Where is Tom? He should be here."
"Beats me. I haven't heard from him in a while."
"—and Steve, they're like sure I'm in. So okay, we excuse ourselves and all kind of like trounce back to the bar, practically falling down drunk in the streets of course. The bunch of boozers we were. And at some point there was this um drainage ditch type thing by the sidewalk and Steve somehow slips down it after a little too much swaying or what have you and me and Tom didn't notice until Steve screams help me! because he can't crawl back up—"
"Wait, so really help me or not, the screams?"
"Who cares what kinda screams?"
"I guess I do."
"Uh sorta help me? But yeah, so the grass’s wet for some reason and he's wearing flip flops and he's—you should've seen him, the poor pup. Pathetic. Not exactly a ballerina. He'd get three or four steps up and then slip back down or lose his sandal or whatever. It was like he was trying to climb a twisty slide in socks, you know, as a kid. Anyway, me and Tom are busting guts because, well, look at him. And we double over because Steve's getting really frustrated at this point okay—like red-face frustrated. And Tom offers to go get his Jeep 'cause it’s got a wench and Steve's like Leave your mom out of this, Tommy."
"Exactly. Sixth degree. So yeah I fill Tom in as to wenches because he doesn't catch the draft. And then Tom's like Why I oughta! and runs down the hill acting like he was mad and saying I'll show you wench! and I'll wench your face! And he basically uh tackles Steve but Steve wasn't ready. Tom wasn't trying to hurt Steve I don't think, but it sort of caught him off guard. Steve let out this little like shrill squeaky-type cry—a little sistery scream—and then an oompf a second later and the two of them tumble back into the ditch or whatever. Tom's chuckling kind of laboredly—buh huh, buh huh—because he's laid out on his chest and Steve's whining and squirming like he was a worm. You know how worms will flick around like crazy when you touch them on sidewalks or whatever? Steve was like that, he was writhing. But yeah—"
"Of course he wasn't hurt. He's a damn jellyfish. That's besides the point, Billiam. Shut it okay. You're ruining my flow. I'm trying to tell a story for shit's sake."
"Yeah, Billy! Let the man speak!"
"He needs something in his mouth. Get him another drink. He'll shut up."
"Yeah, another Bud Heavy over here!"
"Anyway, right yeah, to fast-forward, we've got to form a sort of human chain of two to get Steve back up the hill after I uh implore him to toss his flip flops up to me for shit's sake. So that gets the job done. Steve's got that zombie look on his face like he's wasted and operating on like autopilot. But whatever. Up and out, we three get back to the bar and I'm the only one who looks even remotely non-shady or with it because Steve's got grass clippings on him and Tom's wet and muddy down his front on account of the ditch was soupy it turns out. Tom's good natured about the whole thing, just happy to be here sort of a guy, but Steve's being bitchy, which I kind of get under the circumstances. But okay we all take our seats and I'm the one who does the ordering. The place was basically empty by this point. It was a Thursday night."
"You can really hold it down, Jack."
"You know it. Always could. Guess it's the German in me."
"Da chermans and der planes!"
"Uh huh. And so right we're sitting all in a row at the bar and the dude gives us three this look like You Again but before he can blurt so much as a single word I totally disarm the situation by making the point that as he can clearly see we all of us here have shoes and shirts and so that all that's left now is his service if he'd please, which makes him smirk and Tom laugh and poor old Steve put his head on the bar top. None of that now I say to Stevie Wonder and slap him between the shoulder blades and it sounds like a hit a kettle drum or a fat tupperware or some such. Three Irish Coffees for me and my friends if you'd be so kind as we're in dreadful need of a little pick me up if you would be so kind I say Britishly—"
"Wait, so like, how many was that for you up to this point? I can't keep track."
"Well now I can't speak for the guys but for me, let's see. $2 Long Islands and Wells on Thursdays. A real steal of a deal, you know. Uh... Five drinks. That's about right. Three Long Islands, a Texas Tea, and two rum and diets. Six?"
"No shit, Sherlock. You know what I mean!"
"Like an hour and a half I'd say."
"Peter Jackson that's crazy!"
"Keith, crazy's in the eye of the bee holder as the wise men say. Now I'll be the first to admit that, looking back, you know, it was a bit uh ambitious and that an Irish Coffee to boot was...not the best idea okay. But the straw that broke the cat's pajamas was my final Rum and Coke—"
"The Cap'n strikes again!"
"—I would have been okay if I'da left that last tumbler alone. Because as I'm slurping down the last of Steve's coffee which was getting colder by the second and going to waste from Steve's sleepy uh neglect, Tom's—the voice of reason in times like these—is like what time is it? I consult the old cellular telephone and lo and behold 'twas ten til midnight! Which meant, after some quick number crunching, we had all of ten minutes to get back to the theater in time for the dimming of lights. That gave us ten minutes to pay, hop down the way and across the street and up the hill, through the doors, and march past the ticket takers looking like a pack of Puritans or Mormonites or whatever since the theater's zero-tolerance policy regarding controlled substances."
"Like they'd ever kick you out. No body gets kicked out. You already paid. What're they going to do really? How're they going to know? Breathalate you?"
"I know, right? But who's going to test it? They have their ways, Keither. Can't risk it... So uh first thing's first, I slam the just poured Rum and Coke in one Bunyan-sized gulp. And that, my friends, sent me over the edge. With that little drink I pretty much lost it. Set sail okay. I swapped the uh sure-footed security of the plank of uh... tipsiness for the murky waters of the... I don't know. Shitfaced. I was shiftfaced is my point."
"Right. Okay, okay. Not feeling up to the doing the whole grammar, wordage, sentence thing, I motioned for the bartender with a tornadic, whoopty-doo-type motion with my finger, thinking that would do for check please. And give the dude credit he picked up on it."
"Hey, excuse me, yeah Hi can I get another one of these? Thanks."
"Right next to me, I don't know, mumbling and grinning into his reflection. You know how he gets. Very what's it? ponderous with his liquids."
"Having already shot my math skills or what have you, I grabbed my wallet from my back pocket, opened it at eye level, gave it a flip, and shook it out onto the bar. I said go on you figure it out to the barkeep and we all had a good laugh because I had given up on a pretty simple task and in the dumping, I had, you know, emptied my wallet of all kinds of junk and plastic cards and receipts which looked and sounded funny... They kind of exploded."
"No idea. Haven't seen the bill. I don't know how I could even sign the damned bill. I was entering Messville. There's some sketchy memories all swirled together. At some point I peed on a floor drain in a bathroom 'cause somebody was using the stall. I remember I looked kind of melty in the mirror. You know what I'm talking about? So there's that and there's the walk... All I remember was how humid it was and how Steve was moaning about his glasses fogging up and feeling dizzy. I told him to close his eyes and follow the found of Tom and my's footsteps, which I got to say worked better than I'd have thought—"
"He's like a uh bat or dolphin or whatever."
"Um, dolphins have eyes!"
"So do bats!"
"Yeah, a bat. Yeah. So, we arrive out front of the megaplex and this part I can see crystal clear. I rally the troops okay. It's kind of my moment. I stand there channeling General Pattern from that movie with the flag and stressing the importance of not you know letting the enemy see the fear in the whites of your eyes and what not and we make a show of gritting our teeth and getting the angry sort of concentrated. Like determined. So in we go and we marched through those halls! Oh, did we ever march through those halls! Que the slo-mo camera and heavy metal soundtrack! I don't think any of the ticket douches had the guts to so much as look at us but from like around corners for all of the um composure we walked with."
"Tarantino wants the rights, Jackie."
"Totally. Great scene for a blood bath. With all of those movie posters and what not..."
"Well you know I will always entertain a serious offer. Tell him to text me some figures. But uh where was I? The theater. Right. Okay. We made it to our screen before the dimming of the lights and climbed the stairs to our aisle. The place was packed full tight. A few of the fanboys were even wearing like costumes and such. Don't ask my why but one douche had a plastic green light-saber thing, all lit up. Like he had it propped on the chair in front of him. Don't ask me. It must've been some sort of nerd joke. I don't know. But so we 'scuse-me-pardon-me over to our seats and Dave's in the meantime carefully put a lone piece of popcorn on the lip of each of our three seats to show they were like taken, which, I mean... hats off to Dave. Genius. Tom made of show of eating his placeholder, like tipping his head back and what not, and we all had another good laugh."
"How were you even functional? Seriously man. I'm in awe. I'm sitting here awed."
"And I'm sitting here thirsty! One G and T hey!"
"Practice makes perfect, Keyster."
"But we're not done yet. I was getting the stink eye from the nerd types around me and after the third funny look I get I pulled out my switchblade comb thing and twirled it sort of uh suggestively shall we say in his general direction. I swear you could see the little clouds of smoke around him like in cartoons as fast as he spun around. That comb's gold! So right, though, the row of us six was way louder than the other hundred something people except for Steve who was getting more or less what's it? fetal in his chair, poor little buddy. Spent his last on the marching. Anyway, I was seated next to Dave who was sucking on a fucking huge $10 soda which I gave him no small amount of shit for wasting his money on."
"Dave's rich though. Comes from money. It's no thang."
"We can't hold that against him."
"Sure we can. I do all the time. Rich dick."
"Hey now. Hello? I'm nearly climaxing here, dudes. Do you want the whole story or not? I was under the impression you wanted the whole story."
"We do. We do do doooo."
"Yeah, just go."
"Okay then. Yeah. So everybody's getting a bit antsy and fucked if I know what time it is but it's got to be past midnight so I yell Come on! out into the place. And Stevie Nix jumps up like what? And we laugh and I keep yelling Come on! and stamp my feet and people sort of look at me but not straight on. And in the middle of this a little lady assistant manager type in her red vest and pins or buttons and shit enters stage right with some announcement or other. She's down at the front, front and center. And I, I can't hardly see the ant of a lady from way up where we are and she was saying something about please scooting in we have a packed house or whatever. She said scooting for a fact. Seriously. She's just blabbing about hoping we enjoy the show. I guess she was bored or buying time or whatever because we know the drill, how to like watch a movie. So I let loose the biggest Come on! yet so there's no mistaking. The sort of yell you can here the cords uh snapping around heavy metal style, real painful gravelly sort of scream. So yeah it's this little lady and a huge quiet auditorium full of nerds being good boys and girls listening to a PSA and me screaming For the love of god come on! Nobody knows what to do I guess. The guys are like suppressing laughs and making these piggy noises you make when you're trying not to and I don't know why but the lady just keeps going on with her spiel, like she's not going to let the terrorists win or whatever. I don't know why I didn't get the boot.—"
"Das boot!"
"—The whole theater packed full of people and I don't even get a shut up or shush or anything. So she's all cell phones and smartphones blah blah blah and I'm No one cares! No one cares! Come on!"
"Andrew Jackson! How'd you not get thrown out? I'da been thrown out. I know it."
"Jackie's got the diplomic immunity."
"Right? Well she's saying something about running time or some stupid crap like that and that's it. I've had it okay. I yell Shut up you ugly bitch! Get your ugly bitch face outta here! Come on already!—"
"What? No!"
"—And wouldn't you know it? Boom! That did it. She zipped it up and walked very calmly out, head held high, and the lights dimmed like a minute later. Tim said I made her cry but I don't think so. I didn't see it."
"And the boys started clapping and—wouldn’t you know—it got everybody clapping, the whole place. And you know, it was hard to tell whether they were clapping for the movie or for me and, you know, the small part I played."
"So how what'd you think?"
"About what? The movie? No idea. Fades to black from there. The guys told me I kept the yelling through the trailers and uh opening credits. After that I puked in Davey's cup and sort of passed out."
***
At the time of his departure from his sixth consecutive night of inebriation, 0212h CST, Jackson James Schlote is 25 years, eight months, 15 days, three hrs, and one min old. He is 5'11" and 179 lbs. with brown hair and eyes and an average build. He is not an organ donor. He is the imagined line arching between data points. Independence, Missouri is his hometown. He has one sister, Darla Schlote, who is two yrs his junior. When asked by roommate Susan Penske, Darla responded, "Beyond parents, we don't have much of anything in common." The two have not spoken in 86 days. Jackson has had six pets in his life, four of which were dogs. He forgot to feed the dogs 32 x in 1993. 39% of his outgoing phone calls this year have been answered by an automated messaging system. He tends to hang up without leaving a message. He shaves with an electric razor every other day. He routinely misses the hair beneath the corners of his jaw bones and the fainter ones atop his Adam's apple.
Scholte drives home in a 1994 Toyota Corolla LE with optional powered sunroof. The invoice in the glove box states the car's color is Blue Haze Pearl. Its ashtray and tape deck are both empty. Seven crumpled receipts are strewn across the back seat. The oldest is dated 9/1/10. He draws his phone from his right pocket and taps through menus and applications. Alexis Mondale is gonna punch the next guy who says she's pretty before asking her name. He thumbs the sequence gr8 nyt w d guys getN :*) n chlN and posts. He crosses the double yellow line with greater than a quarter of his vehicle four x in 20 min. The capillaries in his eyes are clearly visible when he consults the visor mirror. He spends .2 mi of the 5.8 mi drive home screaming a soft 'a' like the kind a patient vocalizes when sticking a tongue out for physician's inspection. He seems to believe vocal emissions will keep him awake. On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being alert and 10 being just shy of asleep, he would rate a 9. He rolls down the driver's side window after .7 mi. The wind-chill factor at this speed is 64° with 84% humidity. The 43 mph wind hits his face and musses his hair. His hair was last washed 41 hrs ago.
In recent unpaid surveys taken out of boredom, Jackson states his favorite food is tacos. When he wants to treat himself, Jackson buys a 6-pack of Corona, 2 lbs of 85% lean ground beef, an envelope of taco seasoning, and a box of Ortega hard taco shells. He listens to music while he fries the beef in a skillet. He considers this cooking and so answers affirmatively when asked whether he can cook. At 12 meals, Schlote has claimed the difference between a good cook and a bad cook is knowing how much Tabasco to add. Whenever uncomfortable, Jackson's first impulse is to make a joke. These jokes tend to be at the expense of others. 9 out of 10 x he responds the best thing about him is his sense of humor. Jackson believes a person who can laugh at anything has a good sense of humor. During his freshman year of college, he took three personality tests. The results (ESTP, Golden Retriever, and Type A) comforted him in a way he did not attempt to articulate. His GPA was 3.2. His graduation cap was a size L. His right leg is .3" longer than his left as measured from the hip. He attributes the discrepancy to an adolescent baseball injury in which he took a line drive off the knee cap. He believes this may have stunted the leg's growth somehow.
He turns on his car stereo and sets the volume to 25. 27 is the highest setting Jackson has selected before the distortional rattling overwhelmed him. The volume range at 25 is between 100-105 dB. The average lifespan of cohesive thoughts on the drive are 3.2 sec, where cohesive is defined as thematically/logically related. He is unfamiliar with the song currently playing. His iPod is white, dead, and predominately storing music from 2+ yrs ago. It died at 2331h the previous evening. The charger is plugged into a full surge protector at Apt 3a on 170 Steamboat Ln. The drained device pushes again his left thigh inside his Old Navy loose fit jeans. Currently, Jackson's left foot keeps approximate beat while his right depresses the accelerator. In the last month, Jackson has logged more hours on foreign language pornographic websites than time alone in silence. He has suffered from three ear infections this calendar year due to contaminated ear buds. The shortest amount of time he has played music to avoid the aural space to think is 23 sec. Prior to going to bed sober, he plays Midnight Surf on loop on his iPod dock. He imagines the oceanic waves on a moonlit shore. Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren fragrance commercials he witnessed 66 x between the ages of 8 and 14 are the inspiration for these scenes. On drunken nights, this ritual is unnecessary. REMless sleep comes of its own accord.
Jackson briefly visualizes propping his eyelids up with tiny stakes or poles. It occurs to him these stakes would need to be transparent in order to continue seeing properly. His face portrays an expression of surprise as he raises his eyebrows for 3 sec. He appears unable to keep his lids from drooping. 40% of his visual field is no color at all. The sky is an uninterrupted void. 16% of his visual field is a warm color: sodium street lamps, flashing caution lights, yellow lines, backlit Shell, Citgo, and Walgreens signs. Jackson last entered a Walgreens 12 days ago. He purchased an energy drink (Monster Energy), pack of gum (5 Beta Gum), and the largest bag of chips he could find (Funyuns). The total bill of sale was $5.67. He believes chewing gum makes him more attractive to the opposite sex. He is known for always having a pack on him.
Since 2003, Jackson has spent one hour interfacing with a living creature for every 4.2 interfacing with an electronic device. More than 60% of the previous 24 hrs was mediated in some fashion by various forms of digital simulacra. He spends 1/2 of his gross income on rent and 1/4 on data and entertainment subscriptions. Since graduating high school, he spends more time per annum looking for ways to illegally download movies and music than participating in significant activities, where significant activities are defined as those activities by which you fulfill long-term life-goals. Jackson's list has never been written down or mentally organized. The items appear sporadically in his head through the normal course of events. Becoming wealthy has occurred to Jackson .2 times per diem since the age of seven. Having more sex has been the most frequent goal-oriented thought since his first encounter three years, nine months, four days, four hours, and 58 seconds ago.
He passes a car, on average, once every 1.6 mi. The other drivers look embalmed, lit as they are by pale dashboard lights. His head slowly falls chestward then bobs back up. 80% of the time he jerks awake, he immediately checks his speed and mirrors. His attention is piqued at 0217h by a trailing car. Jackson becomes paranoid that what turned right from Ries Rd is a police cruiser. The rear view mirror does not reflect adequate amounts of detail. Jackson Scholte has one DWI on his record within the last calendar yr. In conversation, he refers to this incident as the "most expensive drive ever." His heart-rate rises to 107 bpm, 24 bpm above his RHR. His BP rises to 150/95 mmHg. His grip tightens to an average of 83 psi between both hands. He decelerates to 38.2 mph. He sits up straighter in his seat. He yells a soft 'a' again followed by three 'yah's. Scholte recalls mariachi music. His notes are not in the same key as the radio's song.
The pavement is slick from fresh rain. The street light bulbs are ghastly reproduced at the asphalt's edges, creating puddles of light within puddles of water. Jackson indicates for five seconds and merges cautiously into the right lane. He repeats the word 'composure' to himself two x. The tailing car changes lanes with a maniacally delayed synchronicity. The two vehicles travel at identical rates within a .3 mph margin. The car seems predatory to him in his mirror, a pair of searing white pills framed by nothing. The headlights are the distinctive shape of a Chevrolet Impala, the successor to the Ford Crown Victoria popular with American police departments. He checks his rear view mirror 15 x between 0218h and 0220h. What Schlote thinks may be roof lights is a luggage rack. The car's driver is herself tired. Her lane change was coincidental. She, too, is going home.
Jackson continues to feel hunted. He rubs his forehead and traces down the side of his hairline. He fingers a specific blemish. He pinches his nostrils together. He is the second least inebriated of the parties previously gathered. His BAC is .11, .03 over the legal limit in Missouri. His BAC has been over .20 54 x, which is indeterminately more x than he has been in love. Jackson has never been in love. He is beginning to think of his lovelessness as a genetic outcome like eye color, a chemical state prohibited by the mingling of his parents' loveless X and Y chromosomes. Schlote watches behind him more than in front of him in the 381 ft between Henry Rd and Sulphur Spring Rd. He formulates justifications between forcing his eyelids upward. These include: his mother is ill and he was at a party when he received a desperate phone call from her pleading for his immediate assistance, he just got off from pulling a double at St. Elizabeth's and that smell is actually just mouthwash he swished prior to departing on account of not having access to a toothbrush while on the floor, and he had been keeping vigil over his grandmother with his grandfather and he may have in hindsight had one too many adult beverages in the midst of his commiseration. He resolves to allow the peculiar personality of the officer determine which rationale to deploy. His heart-rate passes 115 bpm. Beads of sweat corkscrew along underarm hair and soak into his shirt. He rolls up the driver's side window in 6.25 revolutions. The seal is not air tight.
Jackson would not report emoting with intensity on a weekly basis. On the 4th, 10th, 17th, and 28th of the prior month, he has thought his emotional deficit a problem. 75% of the consequent thoughts were unrelated; 25% involved contemplating other men's internal experiences. Schlote is described in terms of his flat affect, such as 'mellow' or 'chill', by 80% of his male friends. Emotions are additional bits of unprivileged information to Schlote. In completing a high school counselor's questionnaire on 1 September 2001, he required more than twice the designated amount of time to check the boxes regarding recent and current sentiments. To Dr. Giles Elliot on 2 February 1999, he complained that questions about how he is feeling are like poorly worded multiple choice tests. He can't tell what's the right choice. When asked whether he's upset right now, he said he doesn't know. When pressed about how he could know whether he's upset, Jackson stated it's hard to say. Emotions have the tonal quality of frequencies near 20 Hz and 20k Hz, the thresholds of human hearing. He has to retract from all other senses and filter out all other stimuli. He questions whether there is a sound at all, whether what he's hearing differs from the ambient noise, whether this is just how he hears, or whether there's a short in the circuitry of his head's motherboard. Dr. Elliot circled 'motherboard' in his notes.
This fear of being pulled over is the strongest emotion he has felt since 13 June when a 2001 Solar Yellow Nissan Pathfinder blared its horn at him in a parking lot. Jackson had yielded to a jaywalking pedestrian wearing a blue skirt and pink tank top. In relaying the event to a group, Jackson said, "I don't know. Something in me just uh snapped." The other driver's shirt pocket contained a grocery list written in a woman's script. The list included: wine (Franzia is okay), scented kitty litter, whole grain bread, apple sauce (Musselman's), butter, diet coke, SKINLESS chicken breasts, frozen vegetables?, and paper towels. The two men shared a profanity-laden exchange from within their respective vehicles. Jackson threw his car in park and exited, leaving the door ajar at a 32° angle. He drew within 10 yrds of his enemy. The Pathfinder could not evade the aggressor because of traffic congestion. Jackson was ultimately restrained by a third party who was pushing a shopping cart into its corral when he overheard the threats. The third party repeated, "It's not worth it!" three x over the continuing fracas. Jackson relented out of defeat more than agreement. Afterwards, he went back to his idling car and noted his tank was between 1/4 and 1/8 full. He daydreamed of following the Pathfinder to its home and returning to vandalize at an opportune time. He did neither.
As of 0223h, Jackson James Schlote has 382 Friends in 12 states. 68% are male. The median income of his Friends is $28,972. His Friend total has declined from his sophomore year peak of 422. 121 Friends wished him a Happy 25th Birthday. Jackson has been in personal contact with 20 Friends in the past year, where personal contact is defined as either participating in a shared activity or exchanging written or spoken words/symbols. Of the 20, three conceive of Jackson as existing independently of their interactions. Of the 3, 0 would criticize Jackson to his face in matters more grave than trivia.
Since attending Clairmont Junior High School, he has begun reading 29 books (including textbooks), 22 of which were class assignments. Of these 29 books, he has completed two (Huckleberry Finn and Guns, Germs, and Steel). He prefers movies to books and video games to movies. He speaks more words into a wireless headset microphone in the average multiplayer session than he spoke in his Composition I course. His optimal screen name is noobXtrmn8r. He prides himself on having fast reflexes. Schlote's fastest reaction to date took place on 21 July 2009. At 1139h in a dormitory room, Schlote's response time to visual stimulus while playing Halo 3 was 156 ms, placing him in the 82nd percentile nationally. Jackson has seen 8,384 women nude, five personally. He assesses women or reproductions of women, on average, 255 x a day. He has seen 12,972 individuals die, mostly in movies, not including incalculable totals from mass killings such as bombs. 17 of these deaths were non-fictional. The most popular of these clips was viewed world-wide 49,873 x as of 0224h. By these videos, Jackson learned real people bleed more profusely than R rated movies depict.
Jackson's phone has four of five bars of service currently on Manchester Rd. It buzzes with new mail. Jackson learns he can purchase 100 digital 3x5 prints for .99¢ within the next 12 hours. He taps through menus and applications. There is a 20% chance of rain until 6:00 am. David Dawson can't believe it's Saturday. Jackson reacts to the Camry's intersecting with the rumble strip by dropping the phone is his lap and steering left. During his senior year of college, Schlote consulted his phone an average of 57 x a day or 3.5 x an hr, assuming 16 hrs of wakefulness. During the first year after college, of which the drive home is a part, he consulted his phone 18% more. The number of messages he receives decreased 43% over that same period of time. If a message is not responded to within the first 30 min of being sent, it has a less than a 10% likelihood of ever being responded to. The average length of messages is 23.4 characters. None of his neighbors knows his name. Alan Baublin, with whom Jackson shares a common wall, refers to Jackson as 'crazy hair' to his wife, Mona Baublin.
Everyone in his peer group spent more time trying to procure the de minimus amounts of products to meet the requirements of online Free Shipping last December than sympathizing with other members of the peer group. Within a ten mile radius, 12 people would admit to occasionally screening Jackson's calls, although, nine would add this is not an exceptionally high rate of screening. 85% of his phone calls involve coordinating activities. Jackson last spoke with his father 97 days ago. He last participated in what he considers "opening up" on 10 May. At a social function, he lamented to Jenny Suskind that all he does is "drink and bullshit." She asked if what they were doing now was included in the later. He unwrapped a piece of gum in lieu of response. Jackson carries the maximum balance of Rollover Minutes. He does not feel comfortable calling anyone in x of need. He would not know what to say. He has no one he would describe as a confidant. He strives, more or less consciously, to live without higher level needs. Where crying is defined as shedding tears for more than thirty seconds, Schlote has not cried in 717 days. He fractured his dextral ulna on an icy and tortiously negligent campus sidewalk 717 days ago. The following semester's tuition fee was waived in an administrative settlement.
Jackson takes one hand off the wheel when the Impala turns left onto Barrett Station. The remaining hand grips with 46 psi. A film of sweat divides his skin from the steering wheel. His heart rate decreases to 89 bpm. His BP decreases to 120/80 mmHg. His phone tells him it is 2:28 AM; his car tells him it is 11:12. He toggles between radio stations. A single corporation maintains a 63% market share and so Jackson finds only coordinated commercial breaks. He cannot decide if the time of night or the alcohol is the greater contributing factor to his fatigue. He leans forward at a 71° angle to rest his chin on the wheel. He leans back to 97°. To maintain concentration, he makes a game of keeping parallel to the lines. He touches the line twice before quitting. Jackson thinks the lines are warbley. The front passenger tire is 5 psi below the manufacturer's recommended pressure, so the car pulls right on its own.
He approaches a tractor trailer full of produce traveling in the right lane. A bumper sticker asks How is my driving? Jackson has been the object of inquiries 89 x in the past 24 hours. 72% of those were posed by inorganic entities such as web sites and advertisements. 12% of queries were posed during transactions. 3% of queries inquired of his location and plans for the evening. People who know Jackson never think to ask him how he is, unless they ask in a way that is disinterested in a a full or authentic answer. In these latter instances, they ask expecting the response 'good' or 'fine', where 'good' or 'fine' is defined as having a pulse. From there, they proceed to converse about current events, both global and local. Disputations are most likely to occur in discussions of musical groups; agreement is universal about the incompetence of all authorities. When plotted on a graph of topics, the movements of their discussions resemble the movements of stampeding pack animals: not so much towards a single destination as away from dozens of less desirable, more dangerous alternative destinations.
The ratio of Jackson's egoistic to altruistic thoughts this October is 90:1. Jackson and his acquaintances, for all of their self-absorption, have lost the ability to introspect beyond the realm of immediate desires. After years of not assessing how they are, they are unable to formulate accurate answers. They each can honestly say they have no idea who they are or what they are here for and can each honestly add it doesn't matter. The truth as they see it is indecipherable without mediation. They prefer the confines of quantifiable, verifiable facts. They can know in a moment's effort who starred in the original Psycho, what is a blue moon, where's the nearest pizza place, when happy hour at Houlihan's is, or how a touchscreen works, and so they have ceased being concerned with the answers to unsearchable queries. At a round table in the UMSL cafeteria on 12 May 2009, Nicholas P. Moraine, PhD, said of Scholte and his peers, "It's not as though they've lost the forest from the trees. They've gone a step further. They've lost the forest from the cellulose and chlorophyll, from the turgid stream of microscopic life." The four other professors and one dean nodded in consent. The conversation ended abruptly when Alphonse Roudegard, ABD, spilled the remainder of his 9.5 fl oz. of Frappuccino.
Jackson is tagged in 891 pictures. Jackson has attended 151 events since joining facebook. He has 23 followers on Twitter. He tweets 5.9 x a day. He Likes: acerbic statuses, any offensive meme, suggestive photographs of female Friends, James Bond, Monster, Halo, Halo 2, Halo 3, Halo 4, The Dark Knight, The Dark Knight Rises, Metallica, Buffalo Wild Wings, Nine Inch Nails, Superjail!, Saturdays, alcohol, mexican food, sleeping, Redbox, The Traffic Law Center, the St. Louis Cardinals, and the St. Louis Blues. His favorite quote is, "Shut the fuck up, Donny!" He is alive evidentially and so he equates life with the evidence thereof. The frontal lobe of Jackson's brain contains the belief that life is more relived than lived. It is too unbridled, too inane to exist apart from mediation. It requires filtering through memory, through cameras, through keystrokes, through finger-swipes. Without being processed, it behaves like the wind: a great, mysterious force broad, fickle, and sweeping without purpose. The limiting and harnessing is what imbues life with import. It is the approved of circumscriptions, the laughs, the praise, the corporate attention, that gives life reality. Otherwise, it is an Antarctic weather system, forlorn and futile. On the drive home, solitary but for the glow of lights, Jackson periodically ceases to be because being is being perceived. The web is his constant confessional and pulpit, his auditorium and his stage. Apart from performance, he is nothing.
His phone responds to his commands. He thumbs the symbol sequence jst followd by d 5-0 bt got awy 2l8 4 dis and posts. He returns to the center of his lane. His fuel efficiency is 24.6 mpg. Three of the 410 spots in the Target parking lot are occupied. Throughout the city, gasoline prices are falling by 2-3¢. Schlote's eyes close for 3.6 sec on a straight stretch of rd. He shakes his head and scrunches his face. He squints. He increases the volume to 26. The lyrics of the song convey the male perspective in a dysfunctional relationship.
At 0230h, he turns right onto Steamboat Ln. He exhales exaggeratedly. 52% of the houses he passes have no exterior lights illuminating. Schlote makes a full and complete stop at the two stop signs he encounters. He has twice asserted to Keith Aubuchon that he is a more conscientious driver while under the influence. On both occasions, Aubuchon has said he feels the same way. The radio station identifies itself and transitions into a commercial break. Jackson yawns and rubs his eyes. In the 2.1 sec of unmanned navigation, the passenger side mirror strikes a mailbox. The sound triggers the introduction of epinephrine into his bloodstream. His adrenal concentration levels spike to 400 ng/L. The mailbox door will no longer close properly. He instinctively accelerates and corrects the car's trajectory. The mirror has collapsed on its pivot point. He scans his surroundings for potential witnesses. There are none.
He pulls into parking spot 14 and turns off the engine. He pockets his keys and holds his phone. The door creaks open and thuds shut. A cricket chirps 56 x per min. The moon is a waning crescent. Jackson walks with poor balance around the front of the Camry. He leaves a hand print on the hood. The distance between thumb and pinky is 8 1/2 ". He surveys the damage. He runs his finger along the newly scraped paint. He says to no one, "It's okay." Schlote taps through menus and applications. He frames the mirror on his screen. The LED flash casts 6 lms onto the target. He uploads a picture with the caption mrr vs mailbx. The photo is Liked 2 x within 7 sec of being posted. Jackson pulls on the mirror until it pops back into position.
At the time of his arrival to his second consecutive one bedroom apartment, 0232h, Jackson James Schlote is 39 years, four months, 14 days, 33 mins, and 12 sec. away from death by natural causes. He was a Communications major this time 18 months ago. He is an employee at Enterprise Rent-A-Car now. He participates in casual Fridays. He is not registered to vote in his home district. He wears a Men's 11 shoe. He prefers Snickers to Milky Way and Jack Daniels to Jim Beam. He consumes 200+ mg of caffeine daily. The farthest north he has ever checked in was at Koz's Mini Bowl in Milwaukee, WI on 17 December 2007. He routinely misses the trashcan when he throws refuse in its direction. Google is his homepage. He is one of 2,410,518, 201 people with internet access.
