Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Accidental Repercussions


June 30, 1992

Heat. Hot night on the ground. Sky day and ground night. Not normal. No nose tickling. No wetness. The ground is night. Brown of water ahead. Past the field of night and field of grass. Down the hill. Go there.

Forward.

Sky day and ground night. A sound and blurred movement. Louder. Danger. Retract!

Stay.

Stay.

No more sound. No vibrations. Cautiously extend. Light and heat. A low horizon.

Forward.

A new color on the ground. A line of cloud on the ground. Not better. Not home. Not food or drink. Food past the field of night.

Forward.

Another sound and movement. Louder. Faster. Danger. RetraPain! Pain in the the front. Retract! No smell. Heat all around and pain in the front. Extend and forward. Pain! Slower now. Dragging. Too hot. Too much pain. Stuck on the cloud.

Pain!

Backward. Slowly. Moving is pain. Stop.

September 10, 1992

One time over the summer I was riding home from the pool. I like going to the pool and my Mom takes me. We go together. There's a vending mashine there. My mom gives me quarters. Cherry Drops are my favorite. Our house is close. My Mom doesn't swim but lays in the sun. I swim and play with my friends. I throw rings and they dive to get them.

One day driving home with my mom I see a turtle. "Mom! A turtle!" I yelled. She stopped so I could go save him. I didn't want him to get runned over. I had no shoes on and the ground was hot and sharp with rocks. I ran back to where he was. He was real close to the white line on the road. He wasn't moving at all.

I was going to put him in the grass and aim him back from the road so he would be where he belongs but he was hurt already. I was to late. He'd been runned over already by somebody and his legs in the front was almost off. He was queit and hurt. Aminals don't cry like us. He looked at me with one eye. Maybe he liked me because he didn't pull his head in or go potty when I picked him up. Frogs do that. He was hurt bad and I was scared.

I ran him back to my Mom's car and was crying for him. I said to my Mom how he was hurt. She asked what was wrong and I showed her his smashed legs. She said lets take him to the vetranarnian. I said OK. We put him in a box and I watched him in there. I pet his shell. He was moving around slow and bleeding in the box a little. He was slower than a turtle normally is and turtles are one of the slowest aminals around besides sloths. His legs in the front didn't work right. They bended funny. I was real sad watching him. He couldn't go where he wanted.

When we got to the vets he wasn't moving much at all. A girl in white clothes took the box from me and told me I had done a good thing. She said heed be OK and not to wory. I said his legs was broke. She said maybe they could help. They could make him casts for him to heel. I cried some more when he was gone. My Mom cried to.

Then we went home. I was still wearing my trunks from swimming. I went to my room and changed and sat in my room by myself. I was so sad for him and for me to. I never broke a bone. A car broke some of my turtles. The phone rang and my Mom answered it. She told the phone OK thank you and hung up. She sat on my bed and I knew it was trouble. She told me the vetranarnian tried his best. He had to make my turtle asleep but said I did a good thing because the turtle wasn't hurting anymore. He's been sleeping ever since. It was the saddest day ever.

May 10, 2004

That reminds me of this one timeoh, gosh, it must be...more than ten years ago nowwhen Randal found this turtle on the side of the road. He was going into the second or third grade. It was summer and we'd spent the day at the pool I remember. I had been going through a tanning phaseI know, I know, don't startand I had to practically drag him to go with me. I used to bribe him with candy. It was the only way he'd go. It's terrible, but he wasn't a great swimmer okay. Poor kid, scared of the water. I couldn't blame him. He was always getting these horrible ear infections. He had bright orange ear plugs he had to wear, you know, to keep the water out. He picked the color himself but that was little consolation. I think he was self-conscious even then. The other kids didn't make it easy on him, you know what I'm saying? But he wouldn't listen to me. I told him to ignore the other kids and that everybody's got problems and how some people's are more visible, but it didn't matter to him. I never seemed to have the right words. Such a sensitive child, much more sensitive than he is now.

Well but back to what I was saying, he found this turtle on the side of the road. He always kept his eyes peeled for animals wherever we went. He absolutely loved animals, was fascinated by them. He was always catching frogs and what-have-you. Looking for birds nests or tracks in the mud. He would pick up worms off the sidewalk after a rain and put them back in the grass. At one time we had three coffee cans on a shelf in the garage with slugs he'd find in the garden. He'd put them and a couple of fist fulls of grass in the tins like they'd eat that. He'd check on them first thing after school and dump more grass on them. He made me promise to give them a drink while he was gone. But, anyhow, we're on our way home and he screams, "A turtle! A turtle!" out of the blue and it scares me half to death. So I pull over on the shoulder and, you know, indulge him. He could be so persistent. He'd be preoccupied the rest of the day wondering about the turtle if I'd kept on going. 

Anywho, he hops out of the carit's not a busy road, don't worryand I'm checking my face in the mirror and my arms out to see if they're any darkerhah! Two minutes later he comes back, beet red and bawling, with this mess of a creature in his hands. He holds it out to me like 'You do something with this'. It took me a second to even recognize it as a turtle. But so there it is and Randal's practically shaking. What could I do? I mean this comes out of absolutely nowhere! My first thought was all of the dirt and filth and disease and I start to tell him to put it down but he was crying so hard he couldn't like process it. So I put the car in park and I'm thinking a million miles a minute. I didn't know what to do, you know what I'm saying? He was such a fragile child, always crying and very sensitive like I said. I was at a loss. His heart's broke and then my heart's broke because his is and I had to do something to make it better. Well so I knew he wasn't going to leave the thing alone. He wouldn't talk for a week if I made him drop it. It felt like it took me an hour but I finally said to him we'll take the turtle to our vet. I mean what else can you do with an injured turtle? It's not like we could bury it. But Dr. Shawati was the best. A kindly old Indianlike Indian from India. A real sweetheart. I figured he'd know what to do.

So thank God I keep a box for groceries and what not in the trunk because otherwise Randal wanted to hold the thing in his lap! Imagine! The little thing was in shock. It looked terrible. I still don't know how it was possible, it even being alive. It looked like it'd been hit with a big...hammer or something, but just the first inch of it's body. The shell was fine. Not a scratch on it. It's like the poor thing put his toes over the line and got smacked, you know what I mean? It wasn't bleeding much thank goodness, mostly internal bleeding I guess. I don't know. It looked like a bad rug burn on its skin, really. Is it skin on reptiles? Scales?

Long story short, we dropped it off at the vet's and went home. I think the thing was already dead by the time we got there but it's hard to tell with reptiles. As soon as we got in the door, Dr. Shawati's office called to tell me it had to be put down. The young woman receptionist was very sweet and said there was nothing they could have done. She was trying to let me down easy and I'm thinking like, its not the turtle I'm concerned about. It's my son. They didn't bill me a penny for any of it, though. So there I was faced with the prospect of telling Randal about what happened and death and the whole thing. We'd never lost a pet at that point and he still had all of his grandparents. Once we were in a store with a stuffed grizzly and I had to reassure him for it seemed like a half an hour that it was only a big teddy bear and never had been alive. Needless to say no Bambi in our house. The snails would die I think but we "released" them all the same and he never seemed to notice. I guess there were dead bugs, but bugs never seem to count. TV never seems so real, either. 

Randal was looking at me because he could tell who I'd been talking to. He's always been smart like that. Kids are smarter than we are. It's scary. I told him the doctor tried his best but couldn't put the turtle back together again. He looked up at me with this look of such...concern on his face. I said the turtle was put to sleep now. To sleep, I know, it's awful but I just couldn't say the word dead in front of him. He asked if the turtle was okay. Obviously he didn't understand what sleep meant when he asked that. I backpedaled. I said sure he was. Okay in a way. It was feeling no pain anymore, which was true. He broke out sobbing and when I asked him what was wrong he said turtles are supposed to be awake in the daytime. He was very into possums and bats at the time, the nocturnal creatures. I never understood where he got that from. But what're you supposed to say? I mean wow. I was already toasted from laying out all day. We both needed a nap. I didn't say a thing. I felt so ill equipped. He was onto something, you know. I just hugged him until he stopped crying. He didn't bring it up again so neither did I. 

I think it really changed him. He was still into animals and such but not the same. Distant I'd say. I guess that's how we grow up, but it was awful to watch your own son go through it. I was torn up because I knew if I'd explain any more he'd only get more upset. He knew something was very wrong. I'm sorry to say that I just waited it out. What can you say to a kid to make them feel better about death? They're so smart, very intuitive. They know all about innocence and what fault is. Randal was so hung up on how the turtle hadn't done anything wrong and how he was too late. What could I say, really? So, I just put it off and put it off and well... you know. We tell them honesty is the best policy and sometimes I wonder if maybe I should have just told him and dealt with it then and there. That's life though. Hindsight's 20-20.

October  1, 2009

"Hello?"

"Yes."

"Are you there?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Sorry. I thought we got disconnected. You didn't say anything."

"What's there to say?"

"I don't know. Something. Anything. You knew the boy, not me."

"Not well. I knew him back in middle school."

"I just think it's tragic is all. So young."

"It's always tragic."

"Imagine what he could have done for the world! He was in his second year of med school. To think he was taking out the trash. The police said the driver wasn't speeding. Timothy just hit his head funny on the curb and that was that."

"Okay."

"What's wrong with you, Randal? One of your classmates died and I can't get you to so much as admit it's sad."

"It's sad."

"Oh, well jeez, that wasn't very convincing."

"I said what you wanted me to. Sometimes it feels like you let me sink when I'm drowning and dunk me when I'm floating."

"That's certainly not my intention. I only want for you to be happy."

"I'm happy when I can be... I'm going to go."

"What? Why? We haven't talked in a month."

"Then why are we talking about strangers?"

"I beg your pardon, Randal. I thought you'd like to know about Timothy."

"It was ten years

"I know. We've established that."

"Anyway, he was a dick to me. What do I care?"

[...]

"It's the way of the world, mom."

"What?"

"People get squished. Everything does. It can't be helped."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nevermind."

[...]

"So what's new with you, Randal?"

"Nothing."

"Aren't you going to ask me what's new with me?"

"What new with you?"

"A new Italian place opened up down the road. Perdoni's or Perdioni's or some such. Maybe I can get Debbie to try it with me. I haven't had good lasagna in ages. But she's been so busy with little Lisa. Just running her ragged."

"That's sounds nice."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine."

"You're awful quiet."

"I've got nothing to say."

"Hm."

[...]

"It makes you count your blessings, what happened to Timothy."

"I guess."

"Life is so precious."

[...]

"What about death, then, mom?"

"What about it?"

"What is it if life is so precious? How does it fit in?"

"Hm. Well. I haven't given it a lot of thought. Um...It's a necessary evil I suppose. I mean it comes to all of us sooner or later. It always catches me off guard. I forget about it for a while and then boom! It hits me."

"I've thought a lot about it."

"Well then maybe you should tell me what you think instead of asking me all the questions."

"I think it's cruel. It's the worst part of being alive or being human I guess, knowing it's going to be yanked from you but not seeing it coming like specifically. Not yanked like by a person, but you know."

"You can't stop it."

"No, you can't."

"But you know, I mean, we have hope at least."

"You do."

"We do."

[...]

"Listen to us! How'd we get on this awful topic?"

"You keep bringing it up. You've mentioned Tim three times now."

"Well. I didn't want to upset you, but I didn't think you'd heard."

"I'm not upset."

"Of course you aren't."

"Of course?"

"I only mean that you tend be a little... underwhelmed, generally, in response to whatever."

"Oh."

"Don't you agree?"

"Um. I'd say I'm not underwhelmed but overwhelmed, like over overwhelmed. Chronically."

"Hm."

"I really do need to get going. I haven't eaten yet."

"You're not upset, are you?"

"No."

"Okay well that's good. It was good catching up. When're you coming home next?"

[...]

"Hello? Randal?"

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Outside In


"Okay. Okay. Okay, okay, okay. So, at that point, I was like this sucks. Let's go back and grab a few more—"

"No! Not more! More?"

"Speaking of, more's a good idea. I'll have more. Over here!"

"Make that two!"

"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."

"Bahahaha."

"Burn!"

"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—"

"Was he hurt?"

"What the hell, Bilbo?!"

"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!"

"All right. All right."

"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."

"Cherman!"

"Yah, der chermans!"

"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?"

"In what?"

"Um, glasses?"

"No shit, Sherlock. You know what I mean!"

"Like an hour and a half I'd say."

"Baaaah!"

"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."

"Heil Herr Jack!"

"Ahhhh, Jack!"

"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."

"Where was Tom?"

"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."

"Oh."

"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."

"Cuh-lassic!"

"Did he rip you off?"

"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."

"Mm."

"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."

"Heil heil heil!"

"Sieg Sieg Sieg!"

"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."

"Wow."

"Bravo."

"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.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Infested


The house can be so quiet, honey. Deathly quiet. When the fans aren't going and the birds aren't chirping and I'm fed up with the TV and you're away, it gets downright spooky. The sort of silent where your ears get hungry and you start to hear little nothings, a water droplet plunk or bugs gnawing on the walls. Sort of like a clicking. Do you know what I mean? But it's so faint you have to like strain to hear it. You actually crane your neck to try to make out the sound, what it is and where it's coming from. At least I do. And after you do, you have to really consider whether what you thought you heard was any louder. You can easily talk yourself out of the sensation. As if a sound so faint isn't real but is like the background fuzziness of hearing or like the tones you sometimes hear. Or I hear at least. Has this ever happened to you? It's strange, how going to such lengths makes you more and less convinced you hear anything at all. How, on the one hand, you can't make up noises that're continuous over entire minutes but then how, on the other hand, the noise makes no sense. Not that noises can make sense of course. I mean the physical possibility of the noises themselves makes no sense. Because where could the water be coming from anyway? When it happened last, I was sitting in the living room and there aren't any pipes nearby. It hadn't rained in a few days. And what is there for a bug to gnaw on? The walls are masonry. They can't chew through brick I don't think. Why would they want to? It's just baked clay.

For all of my searching, I still think I hear some crunchy, slap-type noises sometimes. Maybe scraping is the word for it. It's real. I'm sorry to say but that's my honest conclusion, sweetie. I've had all the time in the world to think it over. I feel half-crazy for telling you about it. I can only imagine what you're thinking. What do you think? You're well read. You've had psychology in college. Or was it high school? At any rate, could some part of my brain--a different part than the one that asks questions--invent it? Can my own brain like short cut my ears and pipe in its own fabricated info? It makes my head spin just thinking about it! I think by the persistence of the noise, by its refusal to go away even when I leave the room and come back ten minutes later, that something bigger's going on. Like something outside of my little brain out in the real world, you know? Because Lord knows I want it to stop.

It's funny how memory works. Days are just trigger pulls I think. Everywhere I go my memory is spurred. I hear this sound and remember how I heard a similar sound sitting on a bench in the woods maybe gosh fifteen years ago now. Your father's better with his chronology. I swear the man has a timeline in his skull! So I was taking a breather in a park--Hurst Park off Locust Street--all by myself. I was practically panting (I had gone on this running kick to try to shed a few pounds, which, as you can see, only worked so long as I was doing it. Metabolisms slow, honey. Yours will too I'm sorry to say.) After I caught my breath I must have like let my head droop back and started to sigh or something. The weather on that particular day was splendid. It must have been spring because I clearly remember the temperature was perfect. The sort of day you don't feel on your skin unless there's a breeze. The leaves were far enough along to actually rustle whenever the wind picked up. Because I remember there was rustling and then silence and then like a soft noise. It sounded distant because it was so quiet. My first guess was that it was a squirrel but I couldn't see any squirrels around scurrying and I never heard a bird make such a noise. Birds are so finicky they wouldn't hop around so close by. It sounded more like a dog chewing on a--you know, the toys we get for Bopper?--rawhides. But there were multiple dogs because no one thing could do that much chewing is the only way I can put it. Multiple chewing things. I frightened a bit at first because I couldn't locate the sound. I definitely heard it though, distinctly but faintly. I closed my eyes and tried to map it out. What do they call it with bats? Echo-something. I like rolled my head around. I must have looked insane, I know. I have no idea how the process works, but it sort of helped. I think that's how the blind get by so well. So yes, once the blood stopped rushing through my ears, I determined the sound was coming from beneath me. But between my feet was just this asphalt trail and patches of grass, weeds, and old leaves. There maybe was a wrapper or something. But I'm just rambling.

No one was around to ask about whether or not they heard anything too. That's the natural impulse, to have yourself verified. Corroborated. But the park was usually deserted. Suburban parks are underutilized. It's tragic, really. I always say to anyone who'll listen use them because you're already paying for parks with the sales tax and real estate taxes, but I guess what do I know? The outdoors isn't everyone's cup of tea. But so I remember wanting to leave because of this unknown sound and wanting to stay for the same reason. Like, if I didn't find the source, it would haunt me. Maybe not haunt. But irk. It would have irked me to not know what was making the noise because I couldn't disprove my mind was playing tricks on me. It's true what they say about how you're afraid of what you don't know. In this case, what I didn't know could be caused by a brain on the fritz. My friend Susanne--you know Susanne--she had this ringing in her ears some years ago. Tinny-something her doctor called it. I don't know. Miners and military men usually developed it. Well, she'd never been so much as near a mine and back when she and I were young (back when we used to write on scrolls!) women couldn't enlist if they wanted to. Which just thank your lucky stars that era's behind us. She heard that darned buzzing all the time for months on end. She said it nearly drove her nuts. What if I was hallucinating? Was beeping going to be next? It was very disconcerting to say the least.

Then it hit me. The bench's texture registered in my head: wood. Of course! I put my ear nearer the back and the scratching got louder. Not continuous sound but sporadic. I needed to get to the bottom of the noise, even if it came from a nasty little thing like a termite. I've seen termites before. Grandpa had a problem with them on his farm. The damage they can do! He built his own barns, you know, with his country friends. Just imagine raising a barn! Thank goodness we don't have to churn butter because I tell you we'd just dip bread in cream if it were left to me. My point is, though, termites are dreadful. Icky segmented ant-like things. You can sort of see through them. They give me the willies. Even if it meant finding termites, I was going to risk it. That's reasonable I think. Peace of mind means a lot more when you get older as you'll discover someday in the very distant future, darling.

The face of the bench showed no signs of infestation. There was a memorial plaque and bird scat but that was it as far as interest goes. I checked the sides of the back planks. Nothing. But then I saw the shadowy rough ovals on the side of the seat planks. They burrowed in the sides! Just imagine those filthy things were chewing within an inch of my bottom! Can you imagine? I leaned in and strained to see inside the ovals, but obviously light was lacking. So, I got down to check the bench's underside. I braced myself against the seat. What a scene, I know! Looking back, I could have been certified. But so underneath on the second and third plank there were these exposed canals. The shapes were generally tubular, much too large to be termite paths. It looked like Morse code. You don't know about Morse code, do you? Do that teach that still? Probably not--it was dreadfully dull. When I traced these out, scraping along the ground, I came to a fuzzy shape in the track. My first impulse was to poke it with a finger but decided to put my ear nearer to it instead. There was the muted crunching. What a relief! It turned out to be from a carpenter bee. I only saw the one but his friends were probably hidden. Why they're called carpenter bees is a mystery to me. They don't build anything. They only chew stuff up.

So, I'm not crazy is the point. I mean, the sound can be legitimate. Not that we have a carpenter bee problem. It's just that that's what it sounds like in this empty house when your father's gone. A person can only watch so much cable is the thing. Not that it sounds better when he's around. Then it's just pin-drop silence mixed with grunts. You know how he is. So what I mean to say by all of this is come home soon so we can fill this house with laughs again. We can bake cookies. Doesn't that sound nice? Thanksgiving is right around the corner.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Rain Delay: IV of IV


David’s chin descends towards his chest until he jolts awake. His face quickly cycles through serenity, fear, and vacancy. Chilled by the frosty air still whispering through the closed vent, he quivers. He runs his hands up and down his upper arms. His triceps are textured like a Butterball. The sky is clearing. Slick surfaces radiate the noon glare. John reaches forward and twists the knob on the radio for noise. His gut presses lightly against the wheel and David imagines adjusting the mirror causes a honk. A worn Van Halen's 1984 cassette juts out of the stereo’s mouth like a stuck-out tongue.  Both men hear a commercial for MaxBurn Energy Supplement, but the content only registers with David. He considers the product and its outlandish claims. He pictures insecurity and laziness as bottomless wells of profitability and the derricks of capitalism slurping it up. He scoffs at the debasement of free markets and scoffs at the few drivers he imagines swerving around American lanes trying to scribble down the 1-800 number. 

John is nearly finished with his magazine. He’s in the black and white section. One of the pages is dog-eared. He wonders what it was he was interested in. It must have been the wheels. 18” Alloy Wheels – 2 for 1. $425 + S&H. John’s 1970 Dart needs wheels. It at least needs a crank shaft, passenger door, an intake manifold, both quarter panels, and paint, too. Not like any of it matters. Olivia needs braces. Her teeth look good enough, but John’s a monster for even asking the question. Why Curt can’t pay for the braces, he’ll never know. Curt’s got the money. Does Staci have a clue how much licensed plumbers make? $17.00 an hour his ass. DFS is a joke. He bets Curt gives them old pay stubs. John thinks all government employees are slugs or worse.

John swigs from his gigantic blue cup. 64% of maintenance employees drink from insulated cups with capacities of 54 liquid ounces or greater. After two years of dishwasher cleaning not prescribed by the mug's underside, John’s container states ‘riple ig ULP’. The cup’s warped seal leaks with every sip. Ritualistically, John always places two fingers of his free hand beneath his lip to catch the inevitable dribbles. He wipes the liquid on his pants leg.

Annoyed with his own inactivity, David turns to John. “It stopped raining an hour ago. Let’s go.”

John shakes his head slightly. “Nah. Too wet.”

“No, it’s not. We’ll be fine.”

“What’s your hurry?”

“I’m drifting in and out of consciousness. If I don’t get my blood pumping, I’ll fall asleep again.”

“Where’s your book?”

“I finished it earlier.”

“Here.” John opens the center console and retrieves February’s Road and Track.

“No thanks.”

“Not into cars?”

“I’m into them insofar as I need them to travel from point A to point B.”

“Mm.”

“May I go change filters without you?”

“Nope you mayn’t. It’s slick up there. You’re liable to fall. I can’t have that on my watch. We don’t want a worker’s comp claim, do we?”

“I can’t take this any longer.”

“Sure you can. Just follow my lead. See here? See how I’ve got my seat leaned back like so? This makes a body comfortable so’s you can relax. You may want to write that down.”

David’s face twitches with aggravation. “Do you ever feel guilty wasting the District’s money?”

“What a minute now.” The magazine flops limply onto John’s stomach. “Who said anything about wasting?”

“I did. We haven’t been productive for ten minutes today. It’s 12:15. All you did was unhook your ladder from the roof and decide it was going to rain.”

“First off, we need to be safe. Do you think the District wants us getting hit by lightening? It’s dark to the west. Maybe there’s another batch coming behind. Second, down time’s built in. They don’t pay us top dollar here. A little loafing comes with the territory. If you work too much, they think something’s wrong, like you can’t get your stuff done quick enough. So I only do what I need to do to keep the building happy and I don’t leave tickets open for more than thirty days. After thirty days, they pop on Glen’s report.”

“There wasn’t any lightening this morning. It was just rain.”

“There was a chance. I hear 15% chance.”

“Slight chance.”

“How old are you? 18?”

“20.”

“20. That makes it worse not better. 20 years old and you can’t bear to do something for yourself.” John shifts his weight to assume a confrontational posture. “Always doing something for others, doing what’s expected of you.”

“I don’t see how altruism and expectations are—”

“I’m not the hardest worker in the world, but I’m not the dumbest either. I’ve been around, Dave, and I’m smart enough to have caught on to the game being played here.” John lifts his cap and rubs his scalp with his free hand. These higher-ups who pat you on the back for a job well done, they’re just pumping you full of air. They just want something more from you, want you to keep on making them feel good about how they manage, how they’ve got an eye for talent—how they can make 10 guys do the work of 15—or maybe just how they made the right decision going into the trades because look at them now, bossing others around and getting listened to. They just wanna take from you, Dave—”

“Are you familiar with the notion of a contract, John? A binding agreement between two parties…”

“And you’re so spineless you’ll bend over backwards to give it to them. All for lousy food pellets. All for a compliment or what? A good grade. Wise up. They’re paying us the same whether our noses are brown or not. Employee of the month doesn’t come with a bonus. It’s a photocopy, kid.”

“Getting out of this van and fulfilling my end of the terms set in our handbook is something I want to do for myself because I value integrity. Because I have enough self-respect to fulfill my duties.”

“Self-respect? It’s not self-respect if you get it from others. ”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The hell I don’t. I know exactly what I’m talking about. And I know you, too, better than you think I do. You’re not comfortable in your own skin. That’s why you can’t sit still.”

“I study for hours. I sat still next to you since 7:45.”

“And you hate every minute of it. Unless you’re sleeping.”

“Being stationary is not a virtue.”

“Well shit. Neither is hyperactivity. Lemme tell you something, Dave. You’re dumber than you look if I can say that. I mean it. Do you really think I’m talking about sitting still? It’s a damn metaphor. If a guy can’t keep his own company without some sort of distraction, he hates himself.”

“Ah. So then what’s that magazine? What’s this sound coming out of the speakers? What’re these wrappers on the ground? The tools of love?”

“You know this isn’t stirring me to do much more than thump you.”

The shade of David’s blushed cheeks nearly matches John’s broad nose. The two break eye contact. John raises the magazine from his lap. David bends down to retie his boot. A modulated voice recapitulates the day’s top stories. Nine are dead, thirty seven injured after a crane collapsed in Seattle.

David reaches for the door handle. John extracts his next cigarette.