Ernie tried to remember who had given him the key. It was the only thing he held in his hand. He was now trapped inside a strange room and was hoping to find a way out, through one of the six doors. The room was wholly whitewashed including the six doors. The handles were curved and should pull down with the key. He stood in the middle with three doors on either side of the room he was trapped in. It was rectangular with a painting hanging on either narrow side.
The paintings were both the same. They were small-framed watercolors of the ocean with a sailboat making its way towards shore. The doors were lined on the other walls and numbered one through six. He stood in a daze trying to remember the events that led him to his trapping in this strange room. He walked towards door five and put his ear against it.
He heard a motor running on the other side. He shook the handle and found it was locked. He was afraid to try the key but had very little excuse not to. He pulled the key out of his pocket and pressed it into the keyhole. It fit perfectly and he turned the knob. The door swung open and he looked inside.
There was a small room with a large fan pushing air towards him. The air was cold and his hair began to flail around his ears. He looked through the dark room, using the light from the main hall. He searched for an exit but found nothing. The door stayed open and he fought through the wind into the room. The bricks surrounding the fan were old and the mortar was beginning to chip off the walls.
There was very little else in the room. He found two wires, a red one and a green one and picked them up. They were rather short, maybe five inches. He put them in his pocket. He searched the room for anything else and found nothing but the fan and motor. He tried to switch the fan off but could not find a way to do this. The motor was loud and the wind from the fan was unnerving. He decided to try his luck with another door.
He shut the door with some force, leaning against it from the main hallway. The door finally shut and he tried to open it again. The handle was stuck. It had locked itself once again automatically. He could still hear the roar of the fan but found it was not so bothersome with the door shut.
He stood confused for a moment. He tried to retrace his actions before waking up in this strange hallway. He remembered waking up that morning late for work. He had no time to eat his usual breakfast. He wished he had eaten the cereal and grapefruit at this point. He was hungry and now trapped in a strange puzzle. He rubbed his stomach and decided the best thing to do would be to not think about his hunger.
That morning he rushed down the street and missed his bus. He decided to call a taxi to make it to work. He worked in a cubicle, typing numbers into a computer eight hours a day for a five-figure salary. He remembered the cab ride was a heart-pounding race through the cities rush hour traffic. He arrived about four blocks from his office and decided to walk the rest of the way. His thoughts became cluttered quickly after this.
He stood in the hallway looking at the other five doors. The key that someone had given him was in his hand. He held the key, which was tied to a six-inch piece of white string. He let the key fall and caught it with the string. He swung the string around his hand and let it fall toward the ground. He held the key with his right hand and walked towards the door numbered three.
The third door was the only door with a painted number on it, the rest had metal numbers screwed on them with three screws. It was painted rather colorfully on a small piece of wood attached to the door with a simple nail. He pushed the key inside the door and opened it. The room was quite a bit bigger than the room behind the door numbered five. He found a small doorstop on the ground and pressed it beneath the door in the hallway.
There was a white light switch in this room and he clicked it on. The walls were unfinished with apparent framing around the sides of the room. Behind the wall frames were the same sort of red bricks he found in the room with the large fan. Hanging off the framing in the room were a variety of red and green puppets. They were various kinds of soft plush animals that could be manipulated to act rather funnily.
This moment terrified Ernie for a moment. He waited before he looked at the puppets further. There were eight on either side of the room. They hung from the framing with their hands or by fishing line. In the center of the room at the back he saw a regular human looking ventriloquist dummy. It sat motionless on a chest. The chest was wooden with metal trimmings that seemed to be bronze. There was a screwdriver on the chest as well.
Not regularly being a man of much adventure, Ernie was quite worried about his new place in the world. He walked into the strange, puppet filled room and moved the ventriloquist dummy to the side of the chest and placed it on the ground. He tried to open the chest and it seemed locked. He pulled the key out of his pocket and tried to open the chest with his only key. It opened and he lifted the lid.
Inside the chest he found two cassette tapes. They were numbered one and two, but otherwise the chest was empty. He looked about the room and noticed the fourth puppet on his left was holding a small tape deck. The fourth puppet on his right was holding a pair of batteries. Ernie felt very scared and took the batteries from the puppet on his right and placed them in the tape deck from his left. He took the screwdriver and tapes and pulled himself into the hallway and shut door number three.
He looked about the hallway and noticed he now had a small wooden bench beneath one of the paintings at the end of the hallway. He looked towards it and began to walk slowly over to the painting. He set up the tape deck and pressed the first tape into it. The tape played a quick punk anthem and then switched to a recent pop-music hit song by a woman dancer. He kept listening and found the entire tape was simply music. He enjoyed the variety and selection of the tape. It was short so rather quickly it needed turned. The other side held a variety of music as well.
Ernie now possessed a screwdriver and two wires as well as his key. The music was an entertaining background noise but offered no help in how to leave the hallway. He looked at the painting at the end above the recently placed bench and it seemed the old sailboat was further out into the ocean. The sailboat was the same size, but some islands had moved further into the distance.
He lifted the painting and found nothing behind it. He dropped it with a thud and noticed the waves had become rather larger. The boat was now fighting to stay afloat. He watched in strange fascination as the boat struggled with these waves he seemed to have created. The boat quickly righted and continued sailing. The ocean quelled and the scene became peaceful once again. The tape with music quickly ran out.
He looked at the tape deck and reached towards the bench. He sat on the wooden surface and pulled the first tape out. The cassette came out with a fight and the black tape from inside it was pulled out of the casing. He attempted to fix it with his screwdriver but the tape was thrown violently out of the casing and spread along his lap and the bench.
He placed the other tape inside the cassette player and the first tape vanished. It seemed as if it melted into the floor. The casing was still sitting on the bench but the black tape was being pulled into the floor. It vanished rather quickly and Ernie placed the tape deck on the bench and decided to listen to this tape more carefully. The first, he thought, must have been a distraction. The second one may have more information.
The tape began to play and the first side had very little information Ernie could understand. It began with the definition of history, found from a dictionary; “History,” it said, “–noun, 1. The branch of knowledge dealing with past events. 2. A continuous, systematic narrative of past events as relating to a particular people, country, period, person, etc., usually written as a chronological account; chronicle: a history of France; a medical history of the patient. 3. The record of past events and times, esp. in connection with the human race. 4. A drama representing historical events: Shakespeare's comedies, histories, and tragedies.”
The tape was silent after this. About three minutes later the tape spoke again. It became a soft voice stating the simple phrase “Grandfather, diplomat, post office, time.” This phrase repeated itself a number of times getting louder. The soft voice became old and gritty. The gravelly voice became louder and stated the same thing continuously. It began to fade and fell silent rather quickly. It was followed by an old orchestra’s song from the renaissance played only on three violins.
The tape ran out and Ernie sat silently. He tried to remember how he had found himself in this situation. He looked at the floor and noticed it was no longer plainly decorated. He could not remember what it was before, but it was now green marble tiles. He looked at the far wall and the boat in the painting was reaching a port. He looked at his key and tried to remember who gave it to him.
He remembered getting out of the cab and seeing a food stand opening. He asked the man for some breakfast but the man claimed he could not feed him yet as he was not ready. Ernie strolled hungry down the block passing a very regular city day. The cars and taxis honked their horns and stalled each other’s movement. The street was crowded and the sidewalks seemed to be congested as well. He made his way to the next block and found another food stand just opening.
He asked for something and was again refused. The old fat woman wearing a flowered dress spoke loudly. She swung her purse at him and hit him in the shoulder. He stood in disbelief, he recalled. He asked once more for food and she yelled at him to keep moving. He felt he should as well. He walked down the street and tripped over a brick on the sidewalk. He regained his composure and stood on the corner waiting for his light to change. He soon snapped back into the hallway he found himself now.
Ernie decided the only thing action he could take would be to open another door. He opened the door numbered two. The number was written as it is spelled using letters. The number fell to the ground as he placed the key inside the hole. It shattered on the ground and vanished into the marble tile floor. He watched as the two tiles it touched became black and white. The rest of the tiles soon followed suit, becoming alternating black and white. This happened rather quickly as Ernie opened the door numbered two.
The door led into a small closet. The closet had many racks rising high above Ernie’s reach. On two sides of the closet the racks all had leather sandals. The sandals looked as if they were new, even unfinished. Many of the sandals were missing their latchets. He found these straps and the pieces meant to secure them on the third side of the closet. This was the wall to his left as he stood in the doorway.
He took a pair of sandals in his hand and they grew to his size of feet. He grabbed the leather straps and the fastening pieces and placed them on the leather sandals. He took his screwdriver and secured the strap onto the unfinished shoe. After tightening the first latch he noticed the rest of the sandals became latched as well. He brought his new shoes into the hallway and sat on the wooden bench. He looked across the way and saw a small round window where the painting once was.
He knew now what the game was. He just needed to perform the tasks as he was asked. He opened the door labeled five once again and attached the wires to the engine with his screwdriver. This shorted the fuse on the fan and the fan sputtered and stopped. The breaker had been blown by his actions. He walked into the hallway to see the change in the strange room. On the bench stood a small gnome.
Ernie was a bit taken aback by his small new partner. The gnome reached behind him and pulled two puppets out from behind his tiny back. The puppets were about the same size as him, one was green and one was red. The gnome began to act out a scene from the movie Citizen Kane. “It was something,” the gnome stated once he had finished, “That was meant to entertain you, sir.” Ernie looked at the small gnome in disbelief. He spoke softly, “How do I get back to the normal world?”
The gnome looked at Ernie and laughed asking, “Why in the name of life would you want to go back to that world?” Ernie smiled, “It was just so normal. Everything was the same as it always was.” The gnome cracked up, “Ernie, pal, I’m here to let you out. But we chose you because you never have seen the true world. You laugh at the TV but never at good jokes. You never see the irony in life. You never take your life by the short strings, right?” The gnome then switched the hands the puppets were on quickly.
The green puppet began to talk in a high-strung voice, “Pal, you need to find the right way out. Shutting off the wind isn’t it. The moving of the boat, finally on shore I guess we’ve made it out through the ocean.” The red puppet chimed in, “You’re so over-dramatic. You never let us speak through the heart. We’ve made it to port now Ernie, now we need off of our ship. How do we do that?”
Ernie looked at his key on a string. He spoke to the gnome, “By unlocking more doors?” The red puppet spoke up, “I asked to that, not the gnome!” Ernie laughed and took the key in his hand. “Maybe door number four?” The gnome shouted out, “Dear God, no! You are very lucky you never opened door number four. That could have taken away everything you ever held dear, sir.” The red puppet said to the green one, “Yeah that could have been a good show.”
Ernie asked the red puppet, “What’s behind number four?” The red puppet smiled and said, “That’s where the lovely maiden resides. She’s old and fat and stinks. She is not dressed and wants to kiss. She smokes three packs a day in that room and she cannot find the handle to leave the room. She decorated her only home in hair and spit. It is not a nice scene inside that room.”
Ernie looked at the puppets. He felt thankful he was in some company now. The gnome looked at the fourth door and said to Ernie, “You know, he’s telling the truth. That room is not for the weak of heart. There would have been little you could have done had you opened that door. I think you’ve been making the right decisions thus far.” Ernie nodded, “I was simply going with my instinct.” The gnome smiled, “That’s the right way to do anything, ain’t it.”
“What is my action from here?” Ernie asked. The gnome looked at the green puppet. The puppet moved his eyes and looked at door number one, “Well, number one is the way you came. Would you like to go back?” He then laughed. Ernie ran towards the first door and the red puppet chimed in, “That’s a lie Ernie.” Ernie stopped. “It’s a good way to get to the ocean, though.” Ernie turned the key in the door and noticed the room was nearly the size of the main hallway.
He looked at the ground and found another doorstop. He placed it in front of the door and stepped though the landing. He fell two steps down and noticed a vacuum. The red machine had a note attached to it. He read the small torn piece of lined white paper and it said, “Clean the sand.” He placed the piece in his pocket and sand began to fall from the ceiling. The floor was filled with sand and the vacuum began to hum. The sand was sucked through the hose and filled the machine rather quickly.
Ernie drug the sand filled vacuum into the main hallway and it sputtered and spat sand out the hose. The vacuum tipped on its side and the sand fell on the tiles. Ernie tried to vacuum the sand and found the noise reverberated through the hallway very loudly. It shook his head and he shut the machine off quickly. He looked at the sand and it spelled “the number six.” He closed the first door and looked at the red puppet. The gnome sat laughing and said, “Try number six, friend.”
Ernie shut the door. It closed with a thud. He looked at the gnome, who was putting the puppets into a large duffle back. The vacuum began to shake again; the noise was much too loud to take. It shook the room, his head, the bench and the painting. The window at the far end of the room began to crack. The marble floor began to shake. Ernie kicked the vacuum and it shut off. He took the screwdriver to the motor and immobilized the machine. The gnome looked at him, “You do have a way, don’t you, pal.”
The vacuum shook in the hallway still, but the motor was humming a high squeal instead of the room-shattering wail it sang before. He took the key and opened the room numbered one again. He threw the vacuum deep into the sand that was now rather deep and shaped like dunes. The vacuum sucked the sand and spat it out the other end but now sucked softly and sounded much nicer. Ernie shut the door and felt it was locked once again. The gnome looked at him, “This is a good idea for both of us.”
Ernie noticed the painting behind the bench was much bigger and painted with a lot more talent that the original painting. He pointed this out to the gnome who stated, “You should be used to this stuff by now, kid. Life is like this I suppose. Now try the one numbering six, you are nearly finding your way out here kid.” Ernie looked at the gnome. “Am I just entertaining you? Or am I in a coma? What is this?” The gnome looked at him and said, “I can’t explain, I started here like you. Now I can get out. Moving around. Its like a game, I suppose.”
Ernie asked the gnome, “You were like me once too?” The gnome nodded, “Yes, I once got trapped in this same hallway. I had to see the world differently. You aren’t dead. You aren’t in a coma. You just hadn’t seen what life is. Magic is real, I believe that is still the message.” Ernie could not see the magic in his situation. He mentioned this to the gnome. The gnome replied, “Nah, not this situation, it’s just meant to confuse you so the maker can laugh. It’s her idea of a good time.”
Ernie took the key and opened the door numbered six. The door swung open and a bright light shone through. Ernie cried to the gnome, “You said I wasn’t dead!” The gnome rushed over and shut off the lamp. “Just one of them bright lights, right. Now climb the ladder and you can get to work. You were looking for breakfast, right?” The gnome handed Ernie a bagel with egg and meat on it. There was a nice layer of freshly slice cheese and pepper, just like he liked it. Ernie held on to the bagel and climber the short ladder. At the top he pushed a hatch and began to pull himself through. Light was shining and he heard a number of horns honking.
A car came to a skidding stop and way wailing at him, the driver yelled, “What are you a freaking nut! Get out of the way! What the hell you doing coming out of there at seven in the morning!” Ernie was looking both directions and found he was standing in the middle of the road. The man continued to yell, “I could have killed you! You freaking bum! Get off the road, you maniac!” The cars were backed up and honking at him and he sat with a breakfast bagel in hand. He quickly dashed towards the sidewalk. The old woman was finished setting up her stand.
He bit his breakfast and she smiled at him. “That will be four seventy-five, sir. Do you want a coffee for another two bucks?” Ernie looked at the lady and looked at his suit. It was spotless and pressed. He took another bite of the bagel. “Sir, four seventy-five for the bagel.” Ernie stood saying nothing. He stared at the lady for a moment and asked her for the coffee as well. He handed her a ten-dollar bill and asked for no change. She gave him the coffee and he dressed it as his usual. He continued his walk to work in a daze.
3.2.09
Viewpoint of a Short-CIrcuited Iron
“Iron!” The cats growled. They were hungry, mangy and matted. They fought amongst themselves as I sat resting against a brick with the bottom half of a broom and two thirds of a rake. “I have no food,” I said, “I don’t look for it like you.” The tomcat cursed at me, “No, Iron, tell our kittens your story, would you please?” I looked at the tomcat, a cat that would rarely speak nicely to anyone. “Well, you did ask like that,” I said. With this, I began with a shout.
“Criminal!” She screamed towards the closed door. She seemed to over-react, I thought. I was dropped on the cloth-covered table and she stomped towards the only entryway. I sat and glanced out the window seeing a picturesque winter evening. The snow fell lightly towards the white world. There was a layer of frost from the fog that morning and the window was beginning to trace tiny fractals of ice up the panes. She opened the door and stood looking at a large man with a beard.
She looked him up and down and he asked, “Why the scream, dear?” She smiled and touched his arm, “The damned iron just short circuited.” He laughed, smiling at the reaction of his loving wife and asked, “But your OK, no shock?” She looked him straight in the eye. “I may need a new one, I suppose. Throw it in the trash with the rest, the truck comes tomorrow.” He walked into the room and lifted me up by my old black handle. He brought me downstairs and through their house to the garage. He lifted the lid of the trash bin and set me on top.
I sat in that bin all night in the dark. I sat and thought of better days, when I had worked perfectly. Why couldn’t they repair me? No use, I thought. It was simply time to replace me. I’m sure if you asked them they could list reasons why a new iron would be a much better way to spend their money. I’m sure the price of a repair on a seven-year-old iron like myself is not equal to my worth. Money better spent on one of the new irons, with all the unnecessary dials and that.
The bin was pulled out to the end of the driveway on a busy street the next morning. The vehicles moved past the house carefully as it was very cold and the road had a layer of ice on it. Quite quickly after I had arrived at the street a large truck came and stopped next to the corner. I heard the bins next to me emptied into the side of the truck. The man then grabbed my bin. He pulled the lid off and poured the contents into truck. I sat surrounded by wrappers with an old coffeepot to my left.
The coffeepot looked at me. I looked at the coffeepot. After a few exchanged glances and a moment of silence the coffeepot smiled and extended his handle. “Jake’s my name,” he said in a friendly manner. I looked at him and realized I didn’t have a name. I couldn’t think of a response for Jake. I knew I had to respond with something. “Is it your time too?” I asked, somewhat knowing the answer.
Jake laughed. “I suppose it may be. My people left the burner on over a weekend and I plum cracked myself up the backside. I can’t tell you were my other half is. I’m trying not to think about that. Why you in here?” I told Jake, “I’m not fully sure. I was working fine one minute and the next there was a large spark of light, some fuzzy noises and I just quit. I’m not a doctor, I’m an iron.” Jake smiled, “Seems like a short-circuit. It’s a waste to throw a perfectly good appliance out like this.”
“I wish I could have argued,” I said. I felt hopeless and I’m sure Jake had picked up on that. “I got a plan, stranger. It’ll get us out of this place. You’ve heard of where we are headed, right. It is where the crows rule. They are worse than the humans. Crows and big mean old ranked metal irons, cast-iron coffeepots, all that. When appliances get there, well, sir, there ain’t no coming back.” I nodded, “I’ve heard of that place too, I was afraid we were headed there.” “Yes, sir. It is where we are going, but I have a plan.”
He pulled out a wrapper with a map sketched on it. “All we need to do, and I’m saying all we need to do, is get out of this truck.” I looked at him and asked, “How do we do that?” He laughed and started climbing, reaching towards the light with his handle. I sat for a second and began to pull myself towards Jake. We climbed and climbed, missing four stops. At the fifth stop we were near the top. I started to jump and Jake grabbed me, “No, you can’t jump while we are stopped! They’ll just throw us back in, I’ve seen it before, son.”
The truck began to move, so I jumped off the side. My power cable was ripped from my body. A sharp pain tore through my side. I looked up and saw it hanging off the side of the truck. Jake came tumbling soon after. The hatch was lifting but we made it past the side. I hit the ground with a thud. I stood up and dusted myself off and looked around. Jake fell slightly to my left and hit the ground and simply shattered. It may have been the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen near this alley. His glass was in pieces and only his handle and brim remained. He waved at me, “At least I tried to live…” He said, and faded off.
I was on the street, so I climbed to the sidewalk. I jutted through unnoticing passersby. Dancing through their legs I reach the side of a building. I pulled up tight to the building knowing that I had to run or be found. I ran down the block and found a nice alley. It was this alley, to be sure and that is why I have never left. I walked slowly down the middle, glancing with horror and deep thankfulness at the garbage bins to either side. I tried to yell to those inside, “Jump out! When you are there, jump out!” They would understand soon enough.
I kept walking and looking above me, the building drove high into the sky. It was like nothing I had ever seen. Snow covered the ground and began to fall from the sky. I pulled my tired body into a corner and sat silently for a while. The snow began to cover my metal surface and the plastic became very cold. I shivered and reached for a small wrapper to cover myself up with. I had been sitting in this position for a very long time when I heard a rat coming at me from my left.
The rat tapped me on the shoulder and startled me. I swung at him and he jumped back. The rat paused and snarled. He looked me dead in the eyes and said “Look, pal you need to listen to me quick-like. This is my area, back up little broken kid.” I looked him in the eye and said, “I want no trouble, I just jumped for my life from a truck and I’m just looking for a place to sit for a minute.” The rat stated flatly, “This isn’t it, keep moving.” I rose and pulled the wrapper off me. I moved down the alley and the rat laughed.
I moved further down the cold alley, passing more garbage bins and eventually finding a nice cinderblock. I climbed atop it and sat down once again. I needed to make a plan. I had nowhere to go and it was the dead of winter, I was cold and would die if it were possible. I had heard of hypothermia and was afraid I would catch my death of a cold. This thought was stifled by the realization that I had no real body. I felt a bit safer in my condition.
I sat atop that cinderblock all night, keeping vigilant watch for the rats and things that would cause me trouble. I had nothing of value and was truly useless, as my cord had been ripped off in the garbage truck. It was painful but I was glad it would not hinder my journey. The next morning two rats being chased out of a doorway by a small Chinese man woke me from my slumber. I was covered with a thin layer of snow and a wrapper I used to stay warm. The Chinese man glanced at me and walked towards the cider block. He brushed the snow off me and picked me up.
He examined me for a while and noted I was of no use, not because he knew I had short-circuited but because he noticed I had no power cord. He placed me back on the cinder block and left me there. I brushed the rest of the snow off the top of the surface as soon as he turned his back. He walked inside the doorway and shut the door with a thud. I climbed off the cinder block and began to briskly move back towards the other end of the alley.
I hadn’t made it far when I was approached by one of the rats that were shooed out of the Chinese man’s doorway. The rat came to me and I was noticeable scared. He looked at me and said, “Hey man, don’t worry. We’re all in this together, right.” I said to him, “Look man, I’ll keep moving if this is your territory.” “No man, look, it’s like I said before. Here, have some bread.” I took the small piece from the rat and tried to find a way to eat it. I couldn’t find the hole that he had to chew with.
He looked at me and said, “Oh, you aren’t a being like us, are you? One of them inanimate objects, hey? I know just the place you’ve got to go. Give me that bread back.” I handed him the piece of bread and he motioned for me to move down the alley with him. “I have your back, kid. Remember to be careful. This is the gritty street, down on this level. I wish one day to be one of them big things, you know that sort. We all live off their leavings. Like that guy chasing me out of his building. One of them.” I laughed, “Yeah, I know the type.”
We walked quite a while making very little conversation and he ate both pieces of his bread. I looked around and saw the alley did not change at all. Another dumpster was usually followed by a few cinder blocks. Once in a while there was on old plastic chair. The rat stopped by one of these chairs and reached in to a large metal pot and grabbed a handful of cigarette butts. He lit these with a large orange lighter he had hidden behind the landing near the chair. “Ever try these, man?” He asked as he smoked the butt. I said to him, “I don’t have a hole to do that either, I don’t think. You’re using the same one.”
The rat smoked his cigarette and laughed to himself. “I love this stuff, makes me feel like a big man. They say it stunts your growth though. I say it adds to the growth of you personality. Your voice changes, becomes older sounding. Like a cool, refreshing hit of this stuff. I don’t know what it is, but the French have a word for that.” He put the end of the cigarette out in the snow and we marched on again.
After a few more bricks and cinder blocks we arrived at a large hole in the wall. There was a board over it, but a gap in the board was just large enough for a broken old iron like myself to fit through. It was dark inside and kind of murky. The damp was nice; it was much warmer than being cold and wet in the snow. We traveled briskly down the tight corridor. The rat would turn every few steps to see if I was still behind him. He glanced and acted surprised nearly every time I was still behind him.
He stopped and moved a board to the side. There was a light behind it. “Here it is, partner.” The rat told me, “End of my line.” I was not sure where he had brought me but thanked him for it. He replied “A good deed a day seems to help keep me fed.” I thanked him again and he scurried down the path the way we came. I glanced into the light and saw little. I moved the board and slid through.
A calculator greeted me. He was missing three buttons on the number pad and the screen had been scratched rather badly. He bumped into me and apologized. “Who is this here?” he asked. I spoke softly, “I’m just an old beaten iron, trying to find a new lease on life.” He moved towards a desk lamp, grabbed his body and asked, “Who is that?” The lamp looked at me and said to the calculator, “I ain’t ever seen this cat. Who are you?” I was ready for some questioning so replied softly again, “I’m just an old beaten iron.” The lamp looked at me and said, “Look, Ernie here, with the numbers, he’s good at math but rather blind. Me, David, I hold the light, still. I’m just always on. You can’t try to turn my light off. Its been done. My bulb is burnt, but I feel it. I’m sure you do too. You, Iron, you must have something right.”
“I don’t know,” I said to the lamp, “I jumped from a truck, they sent me away because I was broken.” “Just like the rest of us, nearly all of us anyway,” the lamp said. The calculator said to me quickly, “Look you got something in you. You are here now. That means you have a certain joy of life. A thirst for adventure, right?”
I looked at the broken old tools in the room. There were many, including an old chess set they seemed to be fighting amongst themselves, a small TV that was missing both dials and was telling a group of dishes a story and a bottom of a rake that was found rather recently with his friend a bent up old metal dustpan. “Well,” I told the calculator, “I think I may have found the place I was looking for.” The lamp joyously bounced up and down, “That’s the spirit! Welcome to our home.”
I stayed at their shelter for the winter and made many friends there with rather similar stories. Many of the beat-up appliances were just trying to avoid the dump like myself. I shared the story of Jake the coffeepot with the friends I made and they claimed not many glass-based products make it out in the gritty world there is. They were not surprised he broke on impact with the cement. It seemed a common tale around these parts. The products were all making use of their existences after they were discarded, and they were all very happy to not be fighting the fight at the junkyards we had heard about through myths. It seemed everyone here was in this act together and at some point we would all have to move on.
In the spring, when the snow melted we all moved briefly outside. This move was brought to an abrupt end when fellows from inside, some bigger items, were thrown back into dumpsters one night. We became scared and now, as we all finally know better we only come outside during the day. This world is an uncertain one, we never know who may be thrown back in a dumpster and brought to the wrecking yard.
This warning is not so much for you, children. We are not the same beings. The worst you can fear is a fight with other cats or maybe staying off the road. The humans care for what they call “living things.” If the humans find you, they take you and feed you. They cuddle and try and help you. In our world they try to destroy us. Sending us to a lot outside humanity where we are pushed and buried amongst each other. I have heard tales of irons and such coming back from there. It is a horrid existence still. Feel lucky you are a cat. You can run and jump and play. Your shape does not hinder you. You are free to do much more than us. You all are lucky to be cats. Myself, I am an iron.
“Criminal!” She screamed towards the closed door. She seemed to over-react, I thought. I was dropped on the cloth-covered table and she stomped towards the only entryway. I sat and glanced out the window seeing a picturesque winter evening. The snow fell lightly towards the white world. There was a layer of frost from the fog that morning and the window was beginning to trace tiny fractals of ice up the panes. She opened the door and stood looking at a large man with a beard.
She looked him up and down and he asked, “Why the scream, dear?” She smiled and touched his arm, “The damned iron just short circuited.” He laughed, smiling at the reaction of his loving wife and asked, “But your OK, no shock?” She looked him straight in the eye. “I may need a new one, I suppose. Throw it in the trash with the rest, the truck comes tomorrow.” He walked into the room and lifted me up by my old black handle. He brought me downstairs and through their house to the garage. He lifted the lid of the trash bin and set me on top.
I sat in that bin all night in the dark. I sat and thought of better days, when I had worked perfectly. Why couldn’t they repair me? No use, I thought. It was simply time to replace me. I’m sure if you asked them they could list reasons why a new iron would be a much better way to spend their money. I’m sure the price of a repair on a seven-year-old iron like myself is not equal to my worth. Money better spent on one of the new irons, with all the unnecessary dials and that.
The bin was pulled out to the end of the driveway on a busy street the next morning. The vehicles moved past the house carefully as it was very cold and the road had a layer of ice on it. Quite quickly after I had arrived at the street a large truck came and stopped next to the corner. I heard the bins next to me emptied into the side of the truck. The man then grabbed my bin. He pulled the lid off and poured the contents into truck. I sat surrounded by wrappers with an old coffeepot to my left.
The coffeepot looked at me. I looked at the coffeepot. After a few exchanged glances and a moment of silence the coffeepot smiled and extended his handle. “Jake’s my name,” he said in a friendly manner. I looked at him and realized I didn’t have a name. I couldn’t think of a response for Jake. I knew I had to respond with something. “Is it your time too?” I asked, somewhat knowing the answer.
Jake laughed. “I suppose it may be. My people left the burner on over a weekend and I plum cracked myself up the backside. I can’t tell you were my other half is. I’m trying not to think about that. Why you in here?” I told Jake, “I’m not fully sure. I was working fine one minute and the next there was a large spark of light, some fuzzy noises and I just quit. I’m not a doctor, I’m an iron.” Jake smiled, “Seems like a short-circuit. It’s a waste to throw a perfectly good appliance out like this.”
“I wish I could have argued,” I said. I felt hopeless and I’m sure Jake had picked up on that. “I got a plan, stranger. It’ll get us out of this place. You’ve heard of where we are headed, right. It is where the crows rule. They are worse than the humans. Crows and big mean old ranked metal irons, cast-iron coffeepots, all that. When appliances get there, well, sir, there ain’t no coming back.” I nodded, “I’ve heard of that place too, I was afraid we were headed there.” “Yes, sir. It is where we are going, but I have a plan.”
He pulled out a wrapper with a map sketched on it. “All we need to do, and I’m saying all we need to do, is get out of this truck.” I looked at him and asked, “How do we do that?” He laughed and started climbing, reaching towards the light with his handle. I sat for a second and began to pull myself towards Jake. We climbed and climbed, missing four stops. At the fifth stop we were near the top. I started to jump and Jake grabbed me, “No, you can’t jump while we are stopped! They’ll just throw us back in, I’ve seen it before, son.”
The truck began to move, so I jumped off the side. My power cable was ripped from my body. A sharp pain tore through my side. I looked up and saw it hanging off the side of the truck. Jake came tumbling soon after. The hatch was lifting but we made it past the side. I hit the ground with a thud. I stood up and dusted myself off and looked around. Jake fell slightly to my left and hit the ground and simply shattered. It may have been the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen near this alley. His glass was in pieces and only his handle and brim remained. He waved at me, “At least I tried to live…” He said, and faded off.
I was on the street, so I climbed to the sidewalk. I jutted through unnoticing passersby. Dancing through their legs I reach the side of a building. I pulled up tight to the building knowing that I had to run or be found. I ran down the block and found a nice alley. It was this alley, to be sure and that is why I have never left. I walked slowly down the middle, glancing with horror and deep thankfulness at the garbage bins to either side. I tried to yell to those inside, “Jump out! When you are there, jump out!” They would understand soon enough.
I kept walking and looking above me, the building drove high into the sky. It was like nothing I had ever seen. Snow covered the ground and began to fall from the sky. I pulled my tired body into a corner and sat silently for a while. The snow began to cover my metal surface and the plastic became very cold. I shivered and reached for a small wrapper to cover myself up with. I had been sitting in this position for a very long time when I heard a rat coming at me from my left.
The rat tapped me on the shoulder and startled me. I swung at him and he jumped back. The rat paused and snarled. He looked me dead in the eyes and said “Look, pal you need to listen to me quick-like. This is my area, back up little broken kid.” I looked him in the eye and said, “I want no trouble, I just jumped for my life from a truck and I’m just looking for a place to sit for a minute.” The rat stated flatly, “This isn’t it, keep moving.” I rose and pulled the wrapper off me. I moved down the alley and the rat laughed.
I moved further down the cold alley, passing more garbage bins and eventually finding a nice cinderblock. I climbed atop it and sat down once again. I needed to make a plan. I had nowhere to go and it was the dead of winter, I was cold and would die if it were possible. I had heard of hypothermia and was afraid I would catch my death of a cold. This thought was stifled by the realization that I had no real body. I felt a bit safer in my condition.
I sat atop that cinderblock all night, keeping vigilant watch for the rats and things that would cause me trouble. I had nothing of value and was truly useless, as my cord had been ripped off in the garbage truck. It was painful but I was glad it would not hinder my journey. The next morning two rats being chased out of a doorway by a small Chinese man woke me from my slumber. I was covered with a thin layer of snow and a wrapper I used to stay warm. The Chinese man glanced at me and walked towards the cider block. He brushed the snow off me and picked me up.
He examined me for a while and noted I was of no use, not because he knew I had short-circuited but because he noticed I had no power cord. He placed me back on the cinder block and left me there. I brushed the rest of the snow off the top of the surface as soon as he turned his back. He walked inside the doorway and shut the door with a thud. I climbed off the cinder block and began to briskly move back towards the other end of the alley.
I hadn’t made it far when I was approached by one of the rats that were shooed out of the Chinese man’s doorway. The rat came to me and I was noticeable scared. He looked at me and said, “Hey man, don’t worry. We’re all in this together, right.” I said to him, “Look man, I’ll keep moving if this is your territory.” “No man, look, it’s like I said before. Here, have some bread.” I took the small piece from the rat and tried to find a way to eat it. I couldn’t find the hole that he had to chew with.
He looked at me and said, “Oh, you aren’t a being like us, are you? One of them inanimate objects, hey? I know just the place you’ve got to go. Give me that bread back.” I handed him the piece of bread and he motioned for me to move down the alley with him. “I have your back, kid. Remember to be careful. This is the gritty street, down on this level. I wish one day to be one of them big things, you know that sort. We all live off their leavings. Like that guy chasing me out of his building. One of them.” I laughed, “Yeah, I know the type.”
We walked quite a while making very little conversation and he ate both pieces of his bread. I looked around and saw the alley did not change at all. Another dumpster was usually followed by a few cinder blocks. Once in a while there was on old plastic chair. The rat stopped by one of these chairs and reached in to a large metal pot and grabbed a handful of cigarette butts. He lit these with a large orange lighter he had hidden behind the landing near the chair. “Ever try these, man?” He asked as he smoked the butt. I said to him, “I don’t have a hole to do that either, I don’t think. You’re using the same one.”
The rat smoked his cigarette and laughed to himself. “I love this stuff, makes me feel like a big man. They say it stunts your growth though. I say it adds to the growth of you personality. Your voice changes, becomes older sounding. Like a cool, refreshing hit of this stuff. I don’t know what it is, but the French have a word for that.” He put the end of the cigarette out in the snow and we marched on again.
After a few more bricks and cinder blocks we arrived at a large hole in the wall. There was a board over it, but a gap in the board was just large enough for a broken old iron like myself to fit through. It was dark inside and kind of murky. The damp was nice; it was much warmer than being cold and wet in the snow. We traveled briskly down the tight corridor. The rat would turn every few steps to see if I was still behind him. He glanced and acted surprised nearly every time I was still behind him.
He stopped and moved a board to the side. There was a light behind it. “Here it is, partner.” The rat told me, “End of my line.” I was not sure where he had brought me but thanked him for it. He replied “A good deed a day seems to help keep me fed.” I thanked him again and he scurried down the path the way we came. I glanced into the light and saw little. I moved the board and slid through.
A calculator greeted me. He was missing three buttons on the number pad and the screen had been scratched rather badly. He bumped into me and apologized. “Who is this here?” he asked. I spoke softly, “I’m just an old beaten iron, trying to find a new lease on life.” He moved towards a desk lamp, grabbed his body and asked, “Who is that?” The lamp looked at me and said to the calculator, “I ain’t ever seen this cat. Who are you?” I was ready for some questioning so replied softly again, “I’m just an old beaten iron.” The lamp looked at me and said, “Look, Ernie here, with the numbers, he’s good at math but rather blind. Me, David, I hold the light, still. I’m just always on. You can’t try to turn my light off. Its been done. My bulb is burnt, but I feel it. I’m sure you do too. You, Iron, you must have something right.”
“I don’t know,” I said to the lamp, “I jumped from a truck, they sent me away because I was broken.” “Just like the rest of us, nearly all of us anyway,” the lamp said. The calculator said to me quickly, “Look you got something in you. You are here now. That means you have a certain joy of life. A thirst for adventure, right?”
I looked at the broken old tools in the room. There were many, including an old chess set they seemed to be fighting amongst themselves, a small TV that was missing both dials and was telling a group of dishes a story and a bottom of a rake that was found rather recently with his friend a bent up old metal dustpan. “Well,” I told the calculator, “I think I may have found the place I was looking for.” The lamp joyously bounced up and down, “That’s the spirit! Welcome to our home.”
I stayed at their shelter for the winter and made many friends there with rather similar stories. Many of the beat-up appliances were just trying to avoid the dump like myself. I shared the story of Jake the coffeepot with the friends I made and they claimed not many glass-based products make it out in the gritty world there is. They were not surprised he broke on impact with the cement. It seemed a common tale around these parts. The products were all making use of their existences after they were discarded, and they were all very happy to not be fighting the fight at the junkyards we had heard about through myths. It seemed everyone here was in this act together and at some point we would all have to move on.
In the spring, when the snow melted we all moved briefly outside. This move was brought to an abrupt end when fellows from inside, some bigger items, were thrown back into dumpsters one night. We became scared and now, as we all finally know better we only come outside during the day. This world is an uncertain one, we never know who may be thrown back in a dumpster and brought to the wrecking yard.
This warning is not so much for you, children. We are not the same beings. The worst you can fear is a fight with other cats or maybe staying off the road. The humans care for what they call “living things.” If the humans find you, they take you and feed you. They cuddle and try and help you. In our world they try to destroy us. Sending us to a lot outside humanity where we are pushed and buried amongst each other. I have heard tales of irons and such coming back from there. It is a horrid existence still. Feel lucky you are a cat. You can run and jump and play. Your shape does not hinder you. You are free to do much more than us. You all are lucky to be cats. Myself, I am an iron.
10.1.09
Men Who Simply Like Bags
The issue of the overuse of plastic bags is one found in the mainstream media. Articles can be found in many mainstream papers, including the Calgary Herald. This is also a topic of discussion on the television news broadcasts.
Art is something made to share an interest with an audience. In thinking about the corporate CEO’s form of art it becomes abundantly clear these men would like to share their love of bags with us. There is no other reason they should have been spread across the globe in the fashion they have been. Nearly every piece of mass-produced food is wrapped in one of their indestructible bags. It is clear their art is to share their love and interest in bags with the commoners of this world.
It is a reasonable statement from the consumer that we have seen enough of these men’s fantastic and indestructible bags. It is clear the problem lies with the producers of these bags. The corporate men who have made the decision to spread these bags across the globe are those who need to be listened to. They have shared their love of bags with the common citizen for the last quarter century. One only has to visit the local landfill to see just how much these men like bags. We must share with them that we understand their statement. It is the only way this will end.
It is time to realize their love and move forward with them. Please do not misinterpret my message. I do like bags. I think they are all right. I do not, however, like bags quite as much these men do. I feel they are wonderful way to transport goods from one place to another. I do not, however, feel the need to feel my way through three or four bags to get to the proverbial Pizza Pocket.
It is time for us to tell corporate America that we do understand. We realize they truly love bags and would like to share their love with us. We realize that the ultimate goal is to spread their love across the globe. We must tell them we realize this before they will quit making these unnecessary mass-produced bags. If we group together as the common consumer and explain that we understand their art form they may let us move forward to a world with fewer plastic bags available in it.
I suggest a letter writing campaign to the owners and CEOs of these companies. We could start with a simple thank you for the food. We would then move into a clearly written suggestion that we understand their art. We understand they have just been trying to share their love of bags with us. We can write them personally and thank them for increasing everyone’s interest in bags and bringing the topic to the hearts and minds of the common man. With the realization their goals have been met, we may be able to convince these men to produce fewer bags for our handling.
Art is something made to share an interest with an audience. In thinking about the corporate CEO’s form of art it becomes abundantly clear these men would like to share their love of bags with us. There is no other reason they should have been spread across the globe in the fashion they have been. Nearly every piece of mass-produced food is wrapped in one of their indestructible bags. It is clear their art is to share their love and interest in bags with the commoners of this world.
It is a reasonable statement from the consumer that we have seen enough of these men’s fantastic and indestructible bags. It is clear the problem lies with the producers of these bags. The corporate men who have made the decision to spread these bags across the globe are those who need to be listened to. They have shared their love of bags with the common citizen for the last quarter century. One only has to visit the local landfill to see just how much these men like bags. We must share with them that we understand their statement. It is the only way this will end.
It is time to realize their love and move forward with them. Please do not misinterpret my message. I do like bags. I think they are all right. I do not, however, like bags quite as much these men do. I feel they are wonderful way to transport goods from one place to another. I do not, however, feel the need to feel my way through three or four bags to get to the proverbial Pizza Pocket.
It is time for us to tell corporate America that we do understand. We realize they truly love bags and would like to share their love with us. We realize that the ultimate goal is to spread their love across the globe. We must tell them we realize this before they will quit making these unnecessary mass-produced bags. If we group together as the common consumer and explain that we understand their art form they may let us move forward to a world with fewer plastic bags available in it.
I suggest a letter writing campaign to the owners and CEOs of these companies. We could start with a simple thank you for the food. We would then move into a clearly written suggestion that we understand their art. We understand they have just been trying to share their love of bags with us. We can write them personally and thank them for increasing everyone’s interest in bags and bringing the topic to the hearts and minds of the common man. With the realization their goals have been met, we may be able to convince these men to produce fewer bags for our handling.
2.1.09
New Years Haiku
Old man found outside
He spoke only in haiku
Soft it left his lips
A man trapped inside
A haiku with needed rights
He spoke then he ran
Stepping up the stairs
A single set of shoes slip
Silently outside
Hard concrete chasing
The light had brought him down, sir
A breathe of the air
I chased him outside
Followed the cracks in the snow
But lost interest soon
I could not find him
Hiding away a rhyme scheme
And last they were pure
I could not find him
He spoke only in haiku
He remained silent
Helpless wanderlust
That last single set of shoes
Were lost somewhere else
When we did find him
He spoke only in haiku
So remained silent
He spoke only in haiku
Soft it left his lips
A man trapped inside
A haiku with needed rights
He spoke then he ran
Stepping up the stairs
A single set of shoes slip
Silently outside
Hard concrete chasing
The light had brought him down, sir
A breathe of the air
I chased him outside
Followed the cracks in the snow
But lost interest soon
I could not find him
Hiding away a rhyme scheme
And last they were pure
I could not find him
He spoke only in haiku
He remained silent
Helpless wanderlust
That last single set of shoes
Were lost somewhere else
When we did find him
He spoke only in haiku
So remained silent
28.12.08
fiddle
Some times life is slowly ticking forward
Broke like the hands on an old pocket watch
Left for eons to the man three generations down
These times life is borrowed and licked towards
Smoke like the man with an old frequent lock
Best to be left to the makers simply drawn sounds
We write when we laugh to the time locked forward
Smoke like the band that left us here in a knot
With three thousand miles we have lost a friend
Drastic dreams that are crafted like a notion of sorrow
The pages turn as we run with a sacred book caught
In the life before we drop it passing a corner round
Wondering hermits finding the last of the torn pages
Wanderlust for the rest to pick up the pieces
The breast plate a metallic shade for us as sounds
Lessons taking from what a grand magnet decides
The term stolen and to the want not to have some
The pages with everything seem lost between the trees
I have already sent the letter, sir
I cannot change the whims of the worlds
I truly wish I could learn to speak for them
I cannot change the whims of the worlds
Broke like the hands on an old pocket watch
Left for eons to the man three generations down
These times life is borrowed and licked towards
Smoke like the man with an old frequent lock
Best to be left to the makers simply drawn sounds
We write when we laugh to the time locked forward
Smoke like the band that left us here in a knot
With three thousand miles we have lost a friend
Drastic dreams that are crafted like a notion of sorrow
The pages turn as we run with a sacred book caught
In the life before we drop it passing a corner round
Wondering hermits finding the last of the torn pages
Wanderlust for the rest to pick up the pieces
The breast plate a metallic shade for us as sounds
Lessons taking from what a grand magnet decides
The term stolen and to the want not to have some
The pages with everything seem lost between the trees
I have already sent the letter, sir
I cannot change the whims of the worlds
I truly wish I could learn to speak for them
I cannot change the whims of the worlds
23.12.08
Simple poem. Back to writing
Night to fly through us
Life is what we can
Type to try useless
Playing in a band
In every statement of fact
We find two statements of farce
In one to find reading helpful
We act in statements of life
So lined up at a coffee shop
And able to pray useless
The rivers have left us
Liable to be undressed
Life is what we can
Type to try useless
Playing in a band
In every statement of fact
We find two statements of farce
In one to find reading helpful
We act in statements of life
So lined up at a coffee shop
And able to pray useless
The rivers have left us
Liable to be undressed
22.12.08
The Title of This Article Should Be Taken out of Context.
When one is writing they should find their inspiration in the surroundings. To write satire one often finds themselves re-reading and changing their template many times. When finding such inspiration from your surroundings the writer is able to make a figurative mirror to read into their own psyche. This results in people reading many different things into the writings of a satirist.
Writing about the act of writing is an exercise this writer uses to leave a state of ones writers block. This seemingly comes from the human mind being distracted. It is usually a bunch of muddled thoughts covering up the ones that feel they can produce art naturally.
The primary goal of advertising is to convince a viewer to buy a product. If one would like to feed their dog Purina brand dog food they are told their animal will be a smarter, happier and healthier dog. This is the idea behind any advertisement. When advertising cocaine, the television suggests that it is a wonderful way for one to become smart, witty and very rich. This is a suggestion that many young men and women who think venturing towards a humble trade such as cocaine use.
Due to the advertisement of the sincere grand lifestyle that comes with cocaine use a young writer is sometimes suggested to turn to drugs to find their inspiration. Many famous speakers have boasted about this form of inspiration. When one finds that these chemicals are nothing but blinding and a mask for ones own internal issues, they usually speak out against them.
When one is writing satire the meaning of the written text is normally found under the surface words. This is the art in writing. One should not write like a robot, but find the inspiration using the five senses. The words will come from the air around you. It is like when one plays music in a jamming fashion. The plan for a song is a simple few chords and words, but it is open to improvisation. This is like when one is fighting writers block. If the writer finds a few simple words to start they can soon turn these words into a nice succinct article, or at the very least the beginnings of one. This can turn into a very different piece of writing very quickly.
Writing about the act of writing is an exercise this writer uses to leave a state of ones writers block. This seemingly comes from the human mind being distracted. It is usually a bunch of muddled thoughts covering up the ones that feel they can produce art naturally.
The primary goal of advertising is to convince a viewer to buy a product. If one would like to feed their dog Purina brand dog food they are told their animal will be a smarter, happier and healthier dog. This is the idea behind any advertisement. When advertising cocaine, the television suggests that it is a wonderful way for one to become smart, witty and very rich. This is a suggestion that many young men and women who think venturing towards a humble trade such as cocaine use.
Due to the advertisement of the sincere grand lifestyle that comes with cocaine use a young writer is sometimes suggested to turn to drugs to find their inspiration. Many famous speakers have boasted about this form of inspiration. When one finds that these chemicals are nothing but blinding and a mask for ones own internal issues, they usually speak out against them.
When one is writing satire the meaning of the written text is normally found under the surface words. This is the art in writing. One should not write like a robot, but find the inspiration using the five senses. The words will come from the air around you. It is like when one plays music in a jamming fashion. The plan for a song is a simple few chords and words, but it is open to improvisation. This is like when one is fighting writers block. If the writer finds a few simple words to start they can soon turn these words into a nice succinct article, or at the very least the beginnings of one. This can turn into a very different piece of writing very quickly.
21.12.08
A Little Mad Boy
I called it afternoon
I dropped down to the basket
Asked her to confuse me
Spoke like a sliding ape
The little mad boy mumbles at me
Nobody else can see him
But he is right beside me
His hair is greasy and long
He buried an American flag
Crossed his arms and wiped them off
I called it afternoon
But it was mid morning
I stammered while I was corrected
It was the tone of the voice
That tore me
The little mad boy jumps to his feet
He puts on his hat and belittles my space
He twists his cane bat and drips from the chin
He holds me in chain and slides me all in
He takes a rhyme scheme and trusts I don’t live
The devil himself
That is who he is
He told me it was morning
The little mad boy
Swore I never seen a vice
Laughing he clasps his hands twice
Here to set things right
I felt the same
So we got up to leave
Coffee and cigarettes were nice
Random Poetry
But I lost the rhyme scheme
Dragons told us of leftovers
But we refused to believe them
But I did lose the rhyme scheme
It fell out on the trail back there
The bag with everything is between the trees
We walked down the trail
Trying to find our little lake
But I did lose the rhyme scheme
I can't find it, 'twas our fate
We are lost without structure
Lost with impending hate
I cannot find the rhyme scheme
But there are others to be found
Found inside the dress to hem
I cannot find the rhyme scheme
It has been lost for quite a while
The bag with everything was lost
Between the trees
Dragons told us of leftovers
But we refused to believe them
But I did lose the rhyme scheme
It fell out on the trail back there
The bag with everything is between the trees
We walked down the trail
Trying to find our little lake
But I did lose the rhyme scheme
I can't find it, 'twas our fate
We are lost without structure
Lost with impending hate
I cannot find the rhyme scheme
But there are others to be found
Found inside the dress to hem
I cannot find the rhyme scheme
It has been lost for quite a while
The bag with everything was lost
Between the trees
4.5.08
A Troubled Man
A troubled man walked into my diner last Monday. He had a black baseball cap pulled tight on his head and he was hiding his face. His sweater was also black, with a logo I was unfamiliar with on the front. It looked like a dragon with flames behind it. He sat at the bar and ordered a cup of coffee. I handed it to him and asked for one dollar. He handed me the loony and opened a cream container.
He slumped down and pulled the hood of his sweater over his head. The man he sat beside stood and turned towards the door. He waved goodbye and left. I waved back at him because he is a regular. I had never seen the troubled man before. He had a rough goatee, thin and black. He had a feeble mustache above his lip and dark brown eyes. He rapped at the counter with his knuckles aimlessly. He seemed upset.
I didn’t want to impose on his personal life. I had never seen him before. I didn’t ask what his troubles were. Between the beat of his knuckles on the counter he would whistle a tune I had never heard. Then he would smile to himself and close his eyes. He sat at the counter for about twenty minutes, nursing his cup of coffee. He stood abruptly and walked out the door. I thought nothing of it at the time.
At the end of that day I was left alone, cleaning. I had closed the diner about a half hour before and hadn’t seen a customer near the place since. The lights were off in the front, but the neon sign continued to flicker. I was startled up from my mopping with a knock at the door. There was nobody behind the glass. I looked out the window for the creator of the knock, but only saw a man with a briefcase stomping passed in the opposite direction.
I finished the mopping without incident and pulled the bucket to the back of the place. I poured the water into the industrial sink and rinsed the sink out. I put the bucket back on the ground and wheeled it towards the closet. The closet door was open, although I was sure I had closed it. I must have closed it. I mopped the other end of the hall. I stuck the bucket back into the closet and shut the door with a thud.
I walked through the kitchen slowly and felt a pain in my mouth. It started as a dull ache, but I quickly noticed my mouth filling up with blood. The pain came strongly and in waves. I ran to the sink and spat blood twice. I hurried to the bathroom to look in the mirror. I had broken my tooth in half, somehow. My left front tooth was split up the middle. I watched in horror as blood fell from my mouth.
Before long, and as quickly as it had happened, my tooth stopped bleeding. I stood in the bathroom, staring in the mirror. Blood was all over the sink, all over my shirt and all over the floor. I wiped at the blood with paper towels, cleaning most of it up. The pain in my mouth had left me, I felt fine again. I finished cleaning the bathroom with a bottle of disinfectant before looking in the mirror again. My tooth was still split, but now amazingly painless.
After I had the place clean again I walked into the main dining area of the diner. I again heard a knock at the door, but the second time I assumed it was my tooth. This was all in my head, of course. I glanced at the door and saw a shadow of a man on the pane of glass. The shadow stood tall, coming from a light across the street. Where there should have been a man lay nothing. I was a bit unnerved by this but decided to think nothing of it. I checked to make sure the door was locked before walking to the back rooms in order to escape. Everything was as it should be in the front.
I walked through the doorframe separating the front and back of the diner and saw the troubled man from that morning. He was hunched over a shotgun, stumbling towards me and muttering in low voices something unintelligible. I jumped with shock and ran towards the front door. The man stumbled behind me, following me into the next room. He vanished once I passed through the doorframe.
I entered the front room and the tables had been flipped on their tops. They were sitting in their regular spots, upside-down. My tablecloths were blue or white. They were tied together, strung around the room. They were hanging like curtains along the inside of the restaurant. A yellow light was coming from the jukebox on the east side of the room. It started to play an old Dixie tune, something I hadn’t heard on the jukebox before. The man was standing outside the windows, holding his shotgun.
I heard a blast and the front window shattered. The glass fell to the ground with a crash, breaking into a million pieces. I turned around and when I looked back the man in the black baseball cap was stepping through the window. The gunshot seemed to stop at the window, never hitting anything inside the shop. The man pumped his gun, laughing manically as he stepped towards me.
I thought to myself, “This is it,” as the man from this morning slowly walked towards me. He was muttering and laughing. I began to shake. He then turned to me and said, “We wouldn’t want anyone to see this.” I stammered and told him, “Take the money in the drawer, man. I have kids at home.” I pleaded with him for my life and he stepped ever closer, holding that loaded shotgun under his arm.
He stopped and looked at me. He moved his left hand in front of the barrel of the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The gun recoiled towards him and he caught the bullets with the palm his hand. Dropping the gunshot on the ground in front of me he said, “I love that smell of sulfur. Don’t you?” I was too terrified to speak. I backed into the kitchen, aimed on finding a knife. He didn’t follow me.
I grabbed a knife and ran for the back door. I pushed it but it would not open. It had been barricaded from the outside. The dumpster had been pulled in front of the door. I turned and saw the young man. He was not carrying a gun. He was near the oven, and I saw him turn the oven on. He was muttering to himself. I saw him grab a steak knife that was sitting with the cutlery.
He spoke to me, but I could not hear him. He spoke again, muttering louder, but I could not understand him. He pounded the cutting table with his fist and opened his hand. He looked at me and held the knife straight up in the air. I was shaking in fear and told him something to the effect of, “The cops are on their way.” He laughed at me, pointing the knife at me. He said something and pointed the knife towards the ground. He then stabbed through his left hand, which was flat on the table.
He moved his right hand away from the handle of the knife. He then looked me in the eye and pulled his left hand away from the table, showing no sign of being cut. With a smile he said to me, “Life is eternal, they say.” He walked into the front of the restaurant. I walked past the cutting table and looked at the knife stuck in the metal sheet. There was no blood to be seen.
I walked into the dining room slowly, looking for the young man. I found his gun sitting on the bar. I didn’t see him, but I grabbed the gun. I was holding it under my arm and pacing around the room, looking for him. The tablecloths had fallen to the floor and were in three separate piles. The tables we back on their feet, with the chairs turned on top of them. The window was no longer shattered, but the neon signs were off.
The sign on the door was turned to open. The door was unlocked. I opened it and looked outside. The street was eerily quiet. There was not a soul out there. I stood in the doorframe and held the front door open. I was holding the gun under my arm and noticed lights coming around the corner towards me. It appeared to be a taxi. I hid the gun as the car slid by, then walked into the restaurant again.
I tapped the window and it was as strong as ever. I flicked the neon lights back on and began to search the premises for the troubled man. Carrying the gun, I searched every corner of my diner and did not see him. I locked the doors and cleaned up what was left from the confrontation. I hid the gun in my office in the back and walked to the front to leave.
I walked passed the bar, and noticed a half a cup of coffee on the bar. The dish it sat on was not one of my plates. The cup was the regular kind, white and with a handle. I was tired and scared and walked by pretending not to notice. Unlocking the front door I slid outside into the calm summer night. I locked the door quickly and moved down the street, shaking.
I turned and saw the lights on in the restaurant. I kept walking. I walked home, tired after a long day. I did not get a wink of sleep that night. The next morning I showed up at the diner and the cup of coffee was still in the spot I had left it, emptied overnight. I put it in the back and went to my office. The shotgun was still in the spot I had left it. The bullets had been emptied, and there was a shotgun blast hole in the wall. The young mans body was lying in my office. That is when I called the police.
He slumped down and pulled the hood of his sweater over his head. The man he sat beside stood and turned towards the door. He waved goodbye and left. I waved back at him because he is a regular. I had never seen the troubled man before. He had a rough goatee, thin and black. He had a feeble mustache above his lip and dark brown eyes. He rapped at the counter with his knuckles aimlessly. He seemed upset.
I didn’t want to impose on his personal life. I had never seen him before. I didn’t ask what his troubles were. Between the beat of his knuckles on the counter he would whistle a tune I had never heard. Then he would smile to himself and close his eyes. He sat at the counter for about twenty minutes, nursing his cup of coffee. He stood abruptly and walked out the door. I thought nothing of it at the time.
At the end of that day I was left alone, cleaning. I had closed the diner about a half hour before and hadn’t seen a customer near the place since. The lights were off in the front, but the neon sign continued to flicker. I was startled up from my mopping with a knock at the door. There was nobody behind the glass. I looked out the window for the creator of the knock, but only saw a man with a briefcase stomping passed in the opposite direction.
I finished the mopping without incident and pulled the bucket to the back of the place. I poured the water into the industrial sink and rinsed the sink out. I put the bucket back on the ground and wheeled it towards the closet. The closet door was open, although I was sure I had closed it. I must have closed it. I mopped the other end of the hall. I stuck the bucket back into the closet and shut the door with a thud.
I walked through the kitchen slowly and felt a pain in my mouth. It started as a dull ache, but I quickly noticed my mouth filling up with blood. The pain came strongly and in waves. I ran to the sink and spat blood twice. I hurried to the bathroom to look in the mirror. I had broken my tooth in half, somehow. My left front tooth was split up the middle. I watched in horror as blood fell from my mouth.
Before long, and as quickly as it had happened, my tooth stopped bleeding. I stood in the bathroom, staring in the mirror. Blood was all over the sink, all over my shirt and all over the floor. I wiped at the blood with paper towels, cleaning most of it up. The pain in my mouth had left me, I felt fine again. I finished cleaning the bathroom with a bottle of disinfectant before looking in the mirror again. My tooth was still split, but now amazingly painless.
After I had the place clean again I walked into the main dining area of the diner. I again heard a knock at the door, but the second time I assumed it was my tooth. This was all in my head, of course. I glanced at the door and saw a shadow of a man on the pane of glass. The shadow stood tall, coming from a light across the street. Where there should have been a man lay nothing. I was a bit unnerved by this but decided to think nothing of it. I checked to make sure the door was locked before walking to the back rooms in order to escape. Everything was as it should be in the front.
I walked through the doorframe separating the front and back of the diner and saw the troubled man from that morning. He was hunched over a shotgun, stumbling towards me and muttering in low voices something unintelligible. I jumped with shock and ran towards the front door. The man stumbled behind me, following me into the next room. He vanished once I passed through the doorframe.
I entered the front room and the tables had been flipped on their tops. They were sitting in their regular spots, upside-down. My tablecloths were blue or white. They were tied together, strung around the room. They were hanging like curtains along the inside of the restaurant. A yellow light was coming from the jukebox on the east side of the room. It started to play an old Dixie tune, something I hadn’t heard on the jukebox before. The man was standing outside the windows, holding his shotgun.
I heard a blast and the front window shattered. The glass fell to the ground with a crash, breaking into a million pieces. I turned around and when I looked back the man in the black baseball cap was stepping through the window. The gunshot seemed to stop at the window, never hitting anything inside the shop. The man pumped his gun, laughing manically as he stepped towards me.
I thought to myself, “This is it,” as the man from this morning slowly walked towards me. He was muttering and laughing. I began to shake. He then turned to me and said, “We wouldn’t want anyone to see this.” I stammered and told him, “Take the money in the drawer, man. I have kids at home.” I pleaded with him for my life and he stepped ever closer, holding that loaded shotgun under his arm.
He stopped and looked at me. He moved his left hand in front of the barrel of the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The gun recoiled towards him and he caught the bullets with the palm his hand. Dropping the gunshot on the ground in front of me he said, “I love that smell of sulfur. Don’t you?” I was too terrified to speak. I backed into the kitchen, aimed on finding a knife. He didn’t follow me.
I grabbed a knife and ran for the back door. I pushed it but it would not open. It had been barricaded from the outside. The dumpster had been pulled in front of the door. I turned and saw the young man. He was not carrying a gun. He was near the oven, and I saw him turn the oven on. He was muttering to himself. I saw him grab a steak knife that was sitting with the cutlery.
He spoke to me, but I could not hear him. He spoke again, muttering louder, but I could not understand him. He pounded the cutting table with his fist and opened his hand. He looked at me and held the knife straight up in the air. I was shaking in fear and told him something to the effect of, “The cops are on their way.” He laughed at me, pointing the knife at me. He said something and pointed the knife towards the ground. He then stabbed through his left hand, which was flat on the table.
He moved his right hand away from the handle of the knife. He then looked me in the eye and pulled his left hand away from the table, showing no sign of being cut. With a smile he said to me, “Life is eternal, they say.” He walked into the front of the restaurant. I walked past the cutting table and looked at the knife stuck in the metal sheet. There was no blood to be seen.
I walked into the dining room slowly, looking for the young man. I found his gun sitting on the bar. I didn’t see him, but I grabbed the gun. I was holding it under my arm and pacing around the room, looking for him. The tablecloths had fallen to the floor and were in three separate piles. The tables we back on their feet, with the chairs turned on top of them. The window was no longer shattered, but the neon signs were off.
The sign on the door was turned to open. The door was unlocked. I opened it and looked outside. The street was eerily quiet. There was not a soul out there. I stood in the doorframe and held the front door open. I was holding the gun under my arm and noticed lights coming around the corner towards me. It appeared to be a taxi. I hid the gun as the car slid by, then walked into the restaurant again.
I tapped the window and it was as strong as ever. I flicked the neon lights back on and began to search the premises for the troubled man. Carrying the gun, I searched every corner of my diner and did not see him. I locked the doors and cleaned up what was left from the confrontation. I hid the gun in my office in the back and walked to the front to leave.
I walked passed the bar, and noticed a half a cup of coffee on the bar. The dish it sat on was not one of my plates. The cup was the regular kind, white and with a handle. I was tired and scared and walked by pretending not to notice. Unlocking the front door I slid outside into the calm summer night. I locked the door quickly and moved down the street, shaking.
I turned and saw the lights on in the restaurant. I kept walking. I walked home, tired after a long day. I did not get a wink of sleep that night. The next morning I showed up at the diner and the cup of coffee was still in the spot I had left it, emptied overnight. I put it in the back and went to my office. The shotgun was still in the spot I had left it. The bullets had been emptied, and there was a shotgun blast hole in the wall. The young mans body was lying in my office. That is when I called the police.
27.4.08
The small child stood in a daze, watching me drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. He remarked that his mother did not approve of smoking and that he thought it made me smell like a soiled mattress. I told him that I was not his mother so we wouldn’t have a problem. He stood with a limp arm holding a toy dump tuck and another arm holding a juice box. It looked as if I told him the tooth fairy didn’t exist. I don’t think he had ever heard a reply quite like that.
“No, your not Mom,” he said, “Where is she? When is she coming back?” The sun was just falling behind the large fence in the back yard. I finished my cigarette and looked at him. “Your mother went to the mall with her sister, remember? She will be back soon. Until then we can find something to do.” The child laughed. It looked like he felt independent and old. I leaned against the railing and smiled.
“Well what do you want to do?” I asked the little man. I raised my cup to my lips and realized I was drinking the last of my coffee. I placed the cup down and the ring of grounds settled into a new moon shape. I played with my cigarette butt and said, “I have to go inside now, you coming?” The child jumped towards the door and opened it. We walked up the one step and into the apartment. I put the cigarette butt in the garbage and the child said, “That’s where it belongs to be.”
I remembered doing the same thing as a small child. I was an outspoken non-smoker as a child. My mother had asked me to think like that. Now, I barely remember not being a smoker. I am beginning to feel the harmful affects of my addiction. I hope the same fate doesn’t reach this child. Perhaps he will be brighter than I was. I should have listened to the folk who refused to buy them for me. Rules are there for a reason. I should know that by now.
It is evening now. Still I am staying alive with coffee and cigarettes. I place my empty cup on the counter and exhale. “Is that all you can breathe?” The child shouts. I am taken aback a little before saying, “I never inhaled.” He laughs and shouts, “Lets have a breathing contest. Whoever breathes biggest wins, smoker versus non-smoker.” I laugh and say, “Ok, but I have bigger lungs.”
We breathe deeply for a few seconds, and then the child laughs and says, “I win. I breathed deeper.” I agree, and look for more coffee in the pot, there is none. I click the pot of the burner and debate making more coffee. It is evening now, the child’s mother will be home soon and she’ll have no need for it. Perhaps, I think, we can stay up late drinking coffee and being adults. It was a nice thought.
The child brings his truck to me. It is one of the yellow metal dump trucks we used to have in my sandbox. It is large, but not rusted like ours were. He places it in my hand and says, “This is you.” He then runs and grabs a red sports car. It was oversized, one of the kind you see on stands in the library of an auto mechanic. The stand is gone and the wheels spin freely, so we are about to race.
I ask the child, “Where is the course?” He says, “All the way around the outside of the room, then up on the couch and back through the coffee table. Then we do it once more.” And with that, the child is running, racing around the sides of the room with a car in hand. I chase after him and drive my dump truck barely able to catch him. He reaches through the legs of the coffee table in a professional manner and starts his second lap. I reach the table and get stuck. My large stature is in no way helping the cause. He reaches the outside wall and flies up the now banked corner.
I realize I am outmatched but continue to chase him in vain. He reaches the couch and his car jumps across to the coffee table. He waits for me to catch up, with a look of glee in his eye. As I am about to reach the couch he throws the car between the legs of the coffee table and bursts into laughter. The red sports car his the glass door between the kitchen and patio with a crack. I jump, but we were lucky, no damage.
The child walks over and grabs his car from the floor. I am breathing heavily and the child looks at me and laughs like a hyena. “See, you shouldn’t smoke. You can’t even drive a car without breathing heavily.” I catch my breath and say, “You make sure to remember that you told me that, and never start smoking. I only smoke because I started smoking and now I can’t stop. It’s a strange addiction.”
The child looks at me and asks, “What does addiction mean?” I explain to him it is when you don’t want to do something but you have to. It is because your body needs the chemical you are addicted to, you have grown attached to having it around. Because of this your body chemistry changes and you become dependant of the chemical. The child remains confused and says, “I’ll never have addiction.”
I tell him he should remember he told me that as well. “Do yourself a favor,” I say, “and never have an addiction.” I end the thought with the phrase, “Vices.” The child questions what the word vice means. “Vice,” I tell him, “Is when you know something is bad for you but you do it anyways, because you enjoy it. Like eating candy.” The child smiles and says, “Oh, I like vices.”
I stutter and say, “No, no, vices are usually addictions.” The child says, “Actually I have an addiction. My vice is candy. I’m addicted to it. And sometimes I need to have candy or I’ll die. Seriously.” I laugh and retrace my steps, explaining candy may not be a vice. I mention that vices are sort of like candy, in a way. I have always been and strong advocate for stimulants of all kinds. Maybe someday he’ll be a coffee and cigarettes kind of guy. They are always the best people.
I am swimming in this thought and he asks, “So cigarettes are like candy?” I fight the urge to chuckle and say, “No, cigarettes are a vice. Candy is just sugar.” He seems to understand, “But cigarettes make you feel like you ate candy? I like that feeling.” “No,” I reply. “That’s more like coffee. Cigarettes are like sucking on a tailpipe.” He laughs and asks, “Why do you do that then?”
I don’t know how to reply. I have no reason to smoke that I would want to tell a vulnerable child. I think I should be honest. I smoke because I enjoy every one I have. I smoke because I thought it looked cool in grade school. I smoke because my friends did, but they have come and gone and what I have left is a full ashtray. I smoke because I am unstable, because I need a crutch. I smoke because I cannot go a day without them. But I can’t tell a child that, I’m supposed to be a role model.
The reply I give him is stammered, “Because I’m addicted to it.” I begin to tell him about all the horrible things cigarettes do and he says, “I know, Mom told me that.” I then explain that cigarettes are not like candy because candy is rarely connected to any of results of lifelong cigarette addiction. He looks at me and says, “I don’t like vices.” I tell him I don’t like my vices either.
I ask him if he wants to go outside for a smoke, like an adult. This is partially because I think its funny asking a six year old to smoke with me and partially because all the talk of cigarettes made me think of having another. No more coffee with this one, I’ve decided. It is probably for the best. The sun has gone down and his mother will be home soon. Maybe she would like some coffee, I thought.
I cough and the child says, “Don’t smoke.” I am halfway out the door with a cigarette in my hand. I look at him. He looks as if he has been hurt. “You just finished telling me how those cause cancer and strokes.” I pull him outside and light the cigarette. I think about my vice. He is still talking, telling me all the things I told him about the horrors of tobacco use. I puff on the cigarette and exhale the white smoke.
“Is it true you cough up boogers if you smoke?” The child asks me. I clear my throat and state as clear as the day, “Its grosser than that.” The child squirms and asks me to clarify. “They are like big, gray boogers.” He laughs. “Except they are wet and sticky. They fly out of your mouth and cover your hands.” He screams in disgust and asks, “Why do you smoke then?” I don’t know how to answer his question.
I take a drag from the cigarette and say, “Ok, you are a smart kid, right?” He says quickly that he is. I explain the chemical I am addicted to in the smoke is called nicotine. I tell him that my brain cannot bridge a gap in my daily life without nicotine, now that I have tried it. I explain that when I was only a few years older than him I tried smoking and thought it would make me cool. I explain that once I had made a conscious decision to begin smoking I lost the ability to not smoke.
He pretends to understand me but I knew he couldn’t. I dock the cigarette at the halfway mark and tell him I shouldn’t be smoking around him. What would his mother say? He claims she wouldn’t mind and she would be happy that he is learning new things. He tells me they told him that once in school so it must be true. I open the pack and find I only have one and a half cigarettes left.
The child walks into the apartment and shuts the door behind him. I try to open it and find he has locked it. I hear him say there are no smokers allowed inside the house. I knock on the door and ask him nicely to open it. He laughs and runs across the room. He jumps on the couch and starts bouncing, laughing. I knock on the glass and he jumps from one cushion to the next. He falls on the armrest and rolls onto the floor. I knock on the glass one more time.
I am helpless and out of ideas. There is no other way I can get in to the room. I struggle for a moment but am saved quickly as his mother and aunt walk into the room. She laughs and shouts his name, unlocking the door and letting me in. She is laughing and asks me, “How long have you been out there?” I smile and tell her it was just briefly. She scolds the child and sends him to bed, telling me it has passed his bedtime.
She tucks him in and comes back from the hall. I am sitting with her sister talking about our mutual friends. She sits next to me and laughs. “Kids,” she says. I tell her she has a smart kid, a good conversationalist. She smiles and says, “Isn’t he just a big bundle of love?”
I look at her and ask, “He doesn’t know you smoke?” She laughs. “I have a half a smoke here,” I say, “Lets go for one.”
“No, your not Mom,” he said, “Where is she? When is she coming back?” The sun was just falling behind the large fence in the back yard. I finished my cigarette and looked at him. “Your mother went to the mall with her sister, remember? She will be back soon. Until then we can find something to do.” The child laughed. It looked like he felt independent and old. I leaned against the railing and smiled.
“Well what do you want to do?” I asked the little man. I raised my cup to my lips and realized I was drinking the last of my coffee. I placed the cup down and the ring of grounds settled into a new moon shape. I played with my cigarette butt and said, “I have to go inside now, you coming?” The child jumped towards the door and opened it. We walked up the one step and into the apartment. I put the cigarette butt in the garbage and the child said, “That’s where it belongs to be.”
I remembered doing the same thing as a small child. I was an outspoken non-smoker as a child. My mother had asked me to think like that. Now, I barely remember not being a smoker. I am beginning to feel the harmful affects of my addiction. I hope the same fate doesn’t reach this child. Perhaps he will be brighter than I was. I should have listened to the folk who refused to buy them for me. Rules are there for a reason. I should know that by now.
It is evening now. Still I am staying alive with coffee and cigarettes. I place my empty cup on the counter and exhale. “Is that all you can breathe?” The child shouts. I am taken aback a little before saying, “I never inhaled.” He laughs and shouts, “Lets have a breathing contest. Whoever breathes biggest wins, smoker versus non-smoker.” I laugh and say, “Ok, but I have bigger lungs.”
We breathe deeply for a few seconds, and then the child laughs and says, “I win. I breathed deeper.” I agree, and look for more coffee in the pot, there is none. I click the pot of the burner and debate making more coffee. It is evening now, the child’s mother will be home soon and she’ll have no need for it. Perhaps, I think, we can stay up late drinking coffee and being adults. It was a nice thought.
The child brings his truck to me. It is one of the yellow metal dump trucks we used to have in my sandbox. It is large, but not rusted like ours were. He places it in my hand and says, “This is you.” He then runs and grabs a red sports car. It was oversized, one of the kind you see on stands in the library of an auto mechanic. The stand is gone and the wheels spin freely, so we are about to race.
I ask the child, “Where is the course?” He says, “All the way around the outside of the room, then up on the couch and back through the coffee table. Then we do it once more.” And with that, the child is running, racing around the sides of the room with a car in hand. I chase after him and drive my dump truck barely able to catch him. He reaches through the legs of the coffee table in a professional manner and starts his second lap. I reach the table and get stuck. My large stature is in no way helping the cause. He reaches the outside wall and flies up the now banked corner.
I realize I am outmatched but continue to chase him in vain. He reaches the couch and his car jumps across to the coffee table. He waits for me to catch up, with a look of glee in his eye. As I am about to reach the couch he throws the car between the legs of the coffee table and bursts into laughter. The red sports car his the glass door between the kitchen and patio with a crack. I jump, but we were lucky, no damage.
The child walks over and grabs his car from the floor. I am breathing heavily and the child looks at me and laughs like a hyena. “See, you shouldn’t smoke. You can’t even drive a car without breathing heavily.” I catch my breath and say, “You make sure to remember that you told me that, and never start smoking. I only smoke because I started smoking and now I can’t stop. It’s a strange addiction.”
The child looks at me and asks, “What does addiction mean?” I explain to him it is when you don’t want to do something but you have to. It is because your body needs the chemical you are addicted to, you have grown attached to having it around. Because of this your body chemistry changes and you become dependant of the chemical. The child remains confused and says, “I’ll never have addiction.”
I tell him he should remember he told me that as well. “Do yourself a favor,” I say, “and never have an addiction.” I end the thought with the phrase, “Vices.” The child questions what the word vice means. “Vice,” I tell him, “Is when you know something is bad for you but you do it anyways, because you enjoy it. Like eating candy.” The child smiles and says, “Oh, I like vices.”
I stutter and say, “No, no, vices are usually addictions.” The child says, “Actually I have an addiction. My vice is candy. I’m addicted to it. And sometimes I need to have candy or I’ll die. Seriously.” I laugh and retrace my steps, explaining candy may not be a vice. I mention that vices are sort of like candy, in a way. I have always been and strong advocate for stimulants of all kinds. Maybe someday he’ll be a coffee and cigarettes kind of guy. They are always the best people.
I am swimming in this thought and he asks, “So cigarettes are like candy?” I fight the urge to chuckle and say, “No, cigarettes are a vice. Candy is just sugar.” He seems to understand, “But cigarettes make you feel like you ate candy? I like that feeling.” “No,” I reply. “That’s more like coffee. Cigarettes are like sucking on a tailpipe.” He laughs and asks, “Why do you do that then?”
I don’t know how to reply. I have no reason to smoke that I would want to tell a vulnerable child. I think I should be honest. I smoke because I enjoy every one I have. I smoke because I thought it looked cool in grade school. I smoke because my friends did, but they have come and gone and what I have left is a full ashtray. I smoke because I am unstable, because I need a crutch. I smoke because I cannot go a day without them. But I can’t tell a child that, I’m supposed to be a role model.
The reply I give him is stammered, “Because I’m addicted to it.” I begin to tell him about all the horrible things cigarettes do and he says, “I know, Mom told me that.” I then explain that cigarettes are not like candy because candy is rarely connected to any of results of lifelong cigarette addiction. He looks at me and says, “I don’t like vices.” I tell him I don’t like my vices either.
I ask him if he wants to go outside for a smoke, like an adult. This is partially because I think its funny asking a six year old to smoke with me and partially because all the talk of cigarettes made me think of having another. No more coffee with this one, I’ve decided. It is probably for the best. The sun has gone down and his mother will be home soon. Maybe she would like some coffee, I thought.
I cough and the child says, “Don’t smoke.” I am halfway out the door with a cigarette in my hand. I look at him. He looks as if he has been hurt. “You just finished telling me how those cause cancer and strokes.” I pull him outside and light the cigarette. I think about my vice. He is still talking, telling me all the things I told him about the horrors of tobacco use. I puff on the cigarette and exhale the white smoke.
“Is it true you cough up boogers if you smoke?” The child asks me. I clear my throat and state as clear as the day, “Its grosser than that.” The child squirms and asks me to clarify. “They are like big, gray boogers.” He laughs. “Except they are wet and sticky. They fly out of your mouth and cover your hands.” He screams in disgust and asks, “Why do you smoke then?” I don’t know how to answer his question.
I take a drag from the cigarette and say, “Ok, you are a smart kid, right?” He says quickly that he is. I explain the chemical I am addicted to in the smoke is called nicotine. I tell him that my brain cannot bridge a gap in my daily life without nicotine, now that I have tried it. I explain that when I was only a few years older than him I tried smoking and thought it would make me cool. I explain that once I had made a conscious decision to begin smoking I lost the ability to not smoke.
He pretends to understand me but I knew he couldn’t. I dock the cigarette at the halfway mark and tell him I shouldn’t be smoking around him. What would his mother say? He claims she wouldn’t mind and she would be happy that he is learning new things. He tells me they told him that once in school so it must be true. I open the pack and find I only have one and a half cigarettes left.
The child walks into the apartment and shuts the door behind him. I try to open it and find he has locked it. I hear him say there are no smokers allowed inside the house. I knock on the door and ask him nicely to open it. He laughs and runs across the room. He jumps on the couch and starts bouncing, laughing. I knock on the glass and he jumps from one cushion to the next. He falls on the armrest and rolls onto the floor. I knock on the glass one more time.
I am helpless and out of ideas. There is no other way I can get in to the room. I struggle for a moment but am saved quickly as his mother and aunt walk into the room. She laughs and shouts his name, unlocking the door and letting me in. She is laughing and asks me, “How long have you been out there?” I smile and tell her it was just briefly. She scolds the child and sends him to bed, telling me it has passed his bedtime.
She tucks him in and comes back from the hall. I am sitting with her sister talking about our mutual friends. She sits next to me and laughs. “Kids,” she says. I tell her she has a smart kid, a good conversationalist. She smiles and says, “Isn’t he just a big bundle of love?”
I look at her and ask, “He doesn’t know you smoke?” She laughs. “I have a half a smoke here,” I say, “Lets go for one.”
29.6.07
An image of relations to a level in which I do not want to behave or believe that a woman such as that would exist. We have convinced ourselves that we do not exist.
Triggers
Triggers on the back of works of technological art, that help a child learn touchy hand-eye coordination are drastically changing the working world. The newspaper told this to me one time, explaining how the use a video game are creating a breed of incredibly talented and efficient surgeons. This was good press for the video game industry who very soon after came out with a version of the board game “Operation.” It comes in a red package with a clown white man with a messy Afro lying on a panel of cold steel. The video game was actually that of a Zombie killing dentist who needed to make his way across Gotham City to save the life of his child.
Silhouette
Temporary employment in the ethereal world, for a half step up or down for the Tao of Willie Nelson is my succubus. In a bleak lit hotel room a man steps next to a falling girl the children of weeping parents strung over the black light of a dominatrix peephole. In habit the nun weeps in heaven and understood the only hotel room the vice had wrote was that of a smoking gun and failure. The young hurt tired and lame in wheelchairs standing tall for the peace of a Muslim named Jew. Casually he stumbles with the filter as he puts his hold on one more cigarette. A Cuban cigar when 40 million people banned them, and the unholy dreadlock bandage that has bonded us. Words are a brilliant reciprocal that we, humanity were asked to use quite some time ago.
Morbius.
Hitler, Bush and more Bush were standing in platform heels on the silhouette of the stockades on first day of Ramadan. The number 6 was higher than four stiletto heels of their individual primeval delusion. The irony was that they cussed a succubus, the partial platform of Red, White and Blue. Although, the Blacks know the blues and the White never had it.
The new formula:
1. Two peaces a day
2. Grey matter
3. Love, love, love
4. Save yourselves
5. Read books
6. Think for yourselves
Jerry Garcia this told me one time, in a dream that I had.
I tried writing words that leave over the rest they left me out.
Homo Sapiens
Homo Sapiens
Homo Sapiens
I know nothing of satanic worship, or even what it means. Perhaps it is a quest for fire or the apathy of slavery as a cigarette but yes, it is vice we convince ourselves is necessary for our survival in a horrible brutal and twisted world. But my friend, you must learn that we all carry our personal demons and delusions with us. Everyone has every day issues and life in not easy. So if we sit tight, perhaps maybe everything will turn out for the best.
Dreamtime
Lucidity
REM
Sleep
Rampant phone calls
Questions
Where do we go?
You are someone right?
Am I imagining this, I had that mint julep at Smithy’s?
Who are you?
“Stranger,” she smiles, “Dire need of self realization.” “I forgot,” I space, “It must be somewhere out in the ether. I’m pretty sure you have everything you could possibly exist about and more in your pocket too, before this.” Devon smiled from the corner as the past persuasions slipped between the lines.
And you know what, I believed her.
Triggers
Triggers on the back of works of technological art, that help a child learn touchy hand-eye coordination are drastically changing the working world. The newspaper told this to me one time, explaining how the use a video game are creating a breed of incredibly talented and efficient surgeons. This was good press for the video game industry who very soon after came out with a version of the board game “Operation.” It comes in a red package with a clown white man with a messy Afro lying on a panel of cold steel. The video game was actually that of a Zombie killing dentist who needed to make his way across Gotham City to save the life of his child.
Silhouette
Temporary employment in the ethereal world, for a half step up or down for the Tao of Willie Nelson is my succubus. In a bleak lit hotel room a man steps next to a falling girl the children of weeping parents strung over the black light of a dominatrix peephole. In habit the nun weeps in heaven and understood the only hotel room the vice had wrote was that of a smoking gun and failure. The young hurt tired and lame in wheelchairs standing tall for the peace of a Muslim named Jew. Casually he stumbles with the filter as he puts his hold on one more cigarette. A Cuban cigar when 40 million people banned them, and the unholy dreadlock bandage that has bonded us. Words are a brilliant reciprocal that we, humanity were asked to use quite some time ago.
Morbius.
Hitler, Bush and more Bush were standing in platform heels on the silhouette of the stockades on first day of Ramadan. The number 6 was higher than four stiletto heels of their individual primeval delusion. The irony was that they cussed a succubus, the partial platform of Red, White and Blue. Although, the Blacks know the blues and the White never had it.
The new formula:
1. Two peaces a day
2. Grey matter
3. Love, love, love
4. Save yourselves
5. Read books
6. Think for yourselves
Jerry Garcia this told me one time, in a dream that I had.
I tried writing words that leave over the rest they left me out.
Homo Sapiens
Homo Sapiens
Homo Sapiens
I know nothing of satanic worship, or even what it means. Perhaps it is a quest for fire or the apathy of slavery as a cigarette but yes, it is vice we convince ourselves is necessary for our survival in a horrible brutal and twisted world. But my friend, you must learn that we all carry our personal demons and delusions with us. Everyone has every day issues and life in not easy. So if we sit tight, perhaps maybe everything will turn out for the best.
Dreamtime
Lucidity
REM
Sleep
Rampant phone calls
Questions
Where do we go?
You are someone right?
Am I imagining this, I had that mint julep at Smithy’s?
Who are you?
“Stranger,” she smiles, “Dire need of self realization.” “I forgot,” I space, “It must be somewhere out in the ether. I’m pretty sure you have everything you could possibly exist about and more in your pocket too, before this.” Devon smiled from the corner as the past persuasions slipped between the lines.
And you know what, I believed her.
24.6.07
this I believe
This is what I believe:
For Preston Manning
By Jon Pelletier
I believe in magic, not so much in rabbit out of hat illusions but in various isms, which allow me to be characterized and labeled in specific ways according to my personality. I believe that we should do precisely what we are told at any given time because those who seek power always know best. I believe that prohibition of firearms would cause 4 Billion people to attack my country and that we must be afraid of a terrorist attack at any time. At any time, a terrorist or intruder could enter my home and rape me, kill my wife and steal my children. I believe that fear is a tool for control. It allows me to control myself.
I believe that drugs make black people as crazy as they make white people and that in comparison, various races would probably have the same amount of fuck-ups lying on the street making money. These are the men we should be afraid of. I fear men with guns. I believe they carry the weapon in order to feel more confident and appear stronger. I believe small men drive clean big trucks. Big trucks with guns on them are the three-way orgy for manipulative in the closet, child molesting senior citizens like the American government. I believe that evil men become more and more delusional the more horrible things they do. It is my own philosophy that we should all try and make the world a better place. By bettering our own world we make ourselves happier.
For Preston Manning
By Jon Pelletier
I believe in magic, not so much in rabbit out of hat illusions but in various isms, which allow me to be characterized and labeled in specific ways according to my personality. I believe that we should do precisely what we are told at any given time because those who seek power always know best. I believe that prohibition of firearms would cause 4 Billion people to attack my country and that we must be afraid of a terrorist attack at any time. At any time, a terrorist or intruder could enter my home and rape me, kill my wife and steal my children. I believe that fear is a tool for control. It allows me to control myself.
I believe that drugs make black people as crazy as they make white people and that in comparison, various races would probably have the same amount of fuck-ups lying on the street making money. These are the men we should be afraid of. I fear men with guns. I believe they carry the weapon in order to feel more confident and appear stronger. I believe small men drive clean big trucks. Big trucks with guns on them are the three-way orgy for manipulative in the closet, child molesting senior citizens like the American government. I believe that evil men become more and more delusional the more horrible things they do. It is my own philosophy that we should all try and make the world a better place. By bettering our own world we make ourselves happier.
19.5.07
level sprite, the water spirit.
There were three days until the meeting at the moor and he had just arrived in England. His heart was still in Venice, melting over a large chair in a rose-colored teahouse but he must breathe this air for the moment. He held a small pouch of sand, brown leather with red string wrapping the open end tight. A bundle of sage was in his left hand, accompanied by a fine bottle of red wine.
Level sprite, a water spirit, came to the dock and whispered in his ear “Sir, we must talk about these papers.” The only boat he could see was the barge just unloaded from the planks he was standing on. It was maroon in color, help together by a pattern of sheet metal. The paint was beginning to fall from the front, onto the dock and the ocean below.
With such urgency in her voice he knew he had to listen. He bowed and lowered his ear to the small beam of light. “They have been drawn up quickly, there is a lack of consideration for another tribe,” she said in a tender, soft voice. He breathed in the dust surrounding her body and laid his bottle of wine out before her. “We must trust our neighbors to the north,” she added, “And they must be able to trust us.”
He took his hand and placed it on top of the radio on his chest. He turned the dial to the off position and rose to his feet. He smiled at the small being and took the papers in his hand. “I shall return, with one key in mind. I believe you. I need more time, I suppose. You have so much wisdom.” He bowed and backed away until she vanished beneath the wooden pathway. The ocean air moistened his brow and he looked back towards the bay.
Level sprite, a water spirit, came to the dock and whispered in his ear “Sir, we must talk about these papers.” The only boat he could see was the barge just unloaded from the planks he was standing on. It was maroon in color, help together by a pattern of sheet metal. The paint was beginning to fall from the front, onto the dock and the ocean below.
With such urgency in her voice he knew he had to listen. He bowed and lowered his ear to the small beam of light. “They have been drawn up quickly, there is a lack of consideration for another tribe,” she said in a tender, soft voice. He breathed in the dust surrounding her body and laid his bottle of wine out before her. “We must trust our neighbors to the north,” she added, “And they must be able to trust us.”
He took his hand and placed it on top of the radio on his chest. He turned the dial to the off position and rose to his feet. He smiled at the small being and took the papers in his hand. “I shall return, with one key in mind. I believe you. I need more time, I suppose. You have so much wisdom.” He bowed and backed away until she vanished beneath the wooden pathway. The ocean air moistened his brow and he looked back towards the bay.
29.4.07
The Intellectual Scourge of Earth.
......
“indeed, we both continue to present this image, though useage of our superb nomenclature. Pehaps we'll have intreging conversation on nothing,”
-Jackson Parker (MSN racket)
000000
The reason I am writing this article is to help us become more aware of the world we live in. It has come to many people’s attention that the Internet community, Facebook, has been selling all our information to third party recipients. The people running the site were able to make a large amount of money by tricking people into voluntarily handing over information as personal as friendships to corporate giants.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is a simple exercise in rewording a well-established book that is defeating our human minds. That is to say, we are wasting our time reading intellectual garbage that is impossible to dissect and even more difficult to translate into understandable terms. We all have read these documents, whether it is some terms of use agreement hiding a third party informational sales agreement or simply an inbred Bourgeoisie hiding his lack of motivation and skills behind troubling words. This form of writing has been around for as long as literature itself. For as long as there have been class structures to maintain, self-righteous, overeducated professors have been reiterating common themes and ideas in difficult to understand ways.
So, I was thinking aloud and stomping about my flat, debating the merits of the nature of my existence. I tend to understand this sort of writing by filtering out the useless, pointless and redundant phrases. This makes me an intellectual sophisticate in training, I assume, but I will not go down without a fight. I’ve tried to ignore my self righteous garble about the erroneous use of enormous words and find myself mixing another cup of black coffee. An album I do not enjoy was spinning around the turntable, but as Fleetwood Mac runs quickly out of steam I decide to finally write this piece.
Intellectualism is the curse of the upper echelons of urban society. Education is a wonderful thing; it allows one to regurgitate cumbersome variations of simplified, basic philosophical ideas. It is the idea I acquired from Noam Chomsky on a blissful summer day at a music festival. Paraphrased, Chomsky wrote that one does not need to know anything or break new ground to be a highly respected intellectual thinker. Academic writing is simply an exercise in redundancy, an assignment in which you find who the audience is and state their opinions in a difficult to read manor. We have all seen documents that prove this form of writing is transparent.
It is those writers who attempt to be respected through this uninspired work that should be addressed with this simple theory: If you are writing by using words only useful for confusing the reader, you have nothing to say. You are trying to weasel your way into respectability by alluding to your wisdom and educational track-marks by using phrases and thoughts that you do not understand. If you understood what it is that you were attempting to write you could do so in plain English, without the extensive thesaurus hopping.
I have found a simple formula to find if an article, book or essay is useless. If I cannot understand it I attempt to translate the words into readable English. This is done with the use of a brain or a thesaurus. Words such as “Erroneous” can be translated simply as “Wrong.” This use of language is an easy way to confuse a simpler reader enough to scare him from the passage and place the writer on a pedestal above his assumed grasp of literature. It is a simple way to sound smart, when nothing is being said. Many have read this as the language of the learned, but it is the polar opposite.
This mockery of insecure socialite rhetoric serves very little purpose besides allowing the few able literate fellows another topic to argue. The reason for pursuing a topic as broad as this is to pull away those who are misfortunate enough to believe that redundant overuse of superfluous adjectives is another word for being smart. It is a mockery of language to use these phrases and draw from unnecessary philosophical questions in relation to simple, every day ideas.
This is a common trend when the writer is generally unaware of what the writing assignment is or is genuinely apathetic about the quality of the piece. This is the work of a writer who knows very little besides previously declared ideas and is working at filling space on a page, not a breakthrough in thought provoking material. Even though this style of writing is frowned upon and we are taught to avoid it at all costs it is far too simple to slip through the school system with obscure ramblings unchecked.
One can say more in simple terms than in obscure phrases and therefore we should be aware of these devices. Confusing terms are often intentionally placed in documents for less than noble reasons, whether it is to sound wiser or to confuse a reader into signing his bank information over to a wolf-like businessman.
......
“indeed, we both continue to present this image, though useage of our superb nomenclature. Pehaps we'll have intreging conversation on nothing,”
-Jackson Parker (MSN racket)
000000
The reason I am writing this article is to help us become more aware of the world we live in. It has come to many people’s attention that the Internet community, Facebook, has been selling all our information to third party recipients. The people running the site were able to make a large amount of money by tricking people into voluntarily handing over information as personal as friendships to corporate giants.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is a simple exercise in rewording a well-established book that is defeating our human minds. That is to say, we are wasting our time reading intellectual garbage that is impossible to dissect and even more difficult to translate into understandable terms. We all have read these documents, whether it is some terms of use agreement hiding a third party informational sales agreement or simply an inbred Bourgeoisie hiding his lack of motivation and skills behind troubling words. This form of writing has been around for as long as literature itself. For as long as there have been class structures to maintain, self-righteous, overeducated professors have been reiterating common themes and ideas in difficult to understand ways.
So, I was thinking aloud and stomping about my flat, debating the merits of the nature of my existence. I tend to understand this sort of writing by filtering out the useless, pointless and redundant phrases. This makes me an intellectual sophisticate in training, I assume, but I will not go down without a fight. I’ve tried to ignore my self righteous garble about the erroneous use of enormous words and find myself mixing another cup of black coffee. An album I do not enjoy was spinning around the turntable, but as Fleetwood Mac runs quickly out of steam I decide to finally write this piece.
Intellectualism is the curse of the upper echelons of urban society. Education is a wonderful thing; it allows one to regurgitate cumbersome variations of simplified, basic philosophical ideas. It is the idea I acquired from Noam Chomsky on a blissful summer day at a music festival. Paraphrased, Chomsky wrote that one does not need to know anything or break new ground to be a highly respected intellectual thinker. Academic writing is simply an exercise in redundancy, an assignment in which you find who the audience is and state their opinions in a difficult to read manor. We have all seen documents that prove this form of writing is transparent.
It is those writers who attempt to be respected through this uninspired work that should be addressed with this simple theory: If you are writing by using words only useful for confusing the reader, you have nothing to say. You are trying to weasel your way into respectability by alluding to your wisdom and educational track-marks by using phrases and thoughts that you do not understand. If you understood what it is that you were attempting to write you could do so in plain English, without the extensive thesaurus hopping.
I have found a simple formula to find if an article, book or essay is useless. If I cannot understand it I attempt to translate the words into readable English. This is done with the use of a brain or a thesaurus. Words such as “Erroneous” can be translated simply as “Wrong.” This use of language is an easy way to confuse a simpler reader enough to scare him from the passage and place the writer on a pedestal above his assumed grasp of literature. It is a simple way to sound smart, when nothing is being said. Many have read this as the language of the learned, but it is the polar opposite.
This mockery of insecure socialite rhetoric serves very little purpose besides allowing the few able literate fellows another topic to argue. The reason for pursuing a topic as broad as this is to pull away those who are misfortunate enough to believe that redundant overuse of superfluous adjectives is another word for being smart. It is a mockery of language to use these phrases and draw from unnecessary philosophical questions in relation to simple, every day ideas.
This is a common trend when the writer is generally unaware of what the writing assignment is or is genuinely apathetic about the quality of the piece. This is the work of a writer who knows very little besides previously declared ideas and is working at filling space on a page, not a breakthrough in thought provoking material. Even though this style of writing is frowned upon and we are taught to avoid it at all costs it is far too simple to slip through the school system with obscure ramblings unchecked.
One can say more in simple terms than in obscure phrases and therefore we should be aware of these devices. Confusing terms are often intentionally placed in documents for less than noble reasons, whether it is to sound wiser or to confuse a reader into signing his bank information over to a wolf-like businessman.
26.4.07
a month old article that was hacked to bits for the school paper...
We were drinking red wine at a small yellow restaurant and discussing the finer points of art and literature, or perhaps an odor, until we walked in a stupor down the road to the finest bar in town. A central location and lakeshore hotel kept the clients high grade. The music hutch was two blocks from the bar on the water, but they seemed worlds apart. There was a lot of money in the latter, and a lot of cocaine.
It would be safe to assume the drugs tonight had been provided by a group of three Red and Whites. I remember the three of them as loud, powerful and hate filled. The drinks were flowing and there was a pile of cash on the table. I remember a small man of large stature with beady eyes and a broken nose becoming very upset as three women left his table. The leader of their pack swung down upon my friend and I and offered her a drink. She politely declined, on account of my reservations about their personalities, which led to an angry burst from the man’s nose as he stormed away.
A few minutes later I was relieving myself in the men’s room the beady-eyed man stormed in on me, smiled and punched me. This leads to a small confrontation of words, in which I somehow managed to outwit the monster. He raises his fist again and smiled as I washed my hands in the sink. He mumbled something about how I was about to “get it” and storms out before I do. I follow behind him and join my friend, who is chatting up some real estate agent.
The large man stomps over and sternly invites me to join his table, and I obliged. My new best friend sat me down and showed a large stack of money he was very proud of to have. The bouncer is near by as his friend shouted, about the money, his car, his gang banging lifestyle and how “he don’t need to drug a hoe’s drink,” due to the money. My pal from the restroom has a white rock on his left nose hair, but I didn’t mention it. He finishes his part of the conversation with a fist swinging towards my head, which I narrowly escaped.
I begin to speak and one of the men tries to call the bouncer over, but he stands in one place. The man on the far left appears sad in the deep of his blue eyes, but holds the money tight and interrupts me. He asks if that’s my girlfriend, and I answer no, and the large man asks “The why did you send back our drink?” I did not know the correct answer to this question. He again mentions the thirty thousand dollars on the table and his yellow Corvette.
I apologized for disrespected their way of life, and excuse myself for a cigarette. I am on the patio and it is mid winter, the waves are crashing but the heaters are on and a small man, like a young boy walks up to me and we begin talking. He explains he has my back, which eventually spins into “They are not allowed to be here.”
This was my first taste of organized crime. I knew it existed, I knew there were bad people in my neighborhood, but I did not know the extent of the crime. It seems years of preaching non-violence and D.A.R.E. kid campaigns have created an underbelly of twenty something’s that are elevated in the drug trafficking world. A contempt for others and racism only paralleled by their own hard drug use.
I remember when crystal meth took over this town. I remember the zombies, lost in their own delusions and the 30 year old drug dealers they looked up to. These speed addicts eventually become dealers and the money, prestige and power turn young boys in drug-addicted buffoons, with minds as narrow as their eyes. I suppose you would always be happy if you continued to do the things you enjoy. This theory makes sense logically, but I saw a very different story coming from the shallow blue eyes of the youngest of the three.
It is said that humans only hate others if they threaten them. I think this may go back to our primal territorial instincts and it is apparent nearly everywhere. I was sitting in a smoking room at a different club on a very different night, when a friend and I were served free drinks, I suppose because the bartender thought we were someone else. Offended by our presence and the women who were impressed by us, a twenty-one year old skinhead was set off, screaming and knocking tables over asking if we had a problem “here.” His territory was apparently the smoke room in this particular dive and he did not need two hippies stealing “his” women. I was told the next day the man had taken out whatever drug-filled rage was building inside him on a native man at about four in the morning, sending the man to the hospital.
This is the type of man who becomes a successful drug-dealer. It is a business built on intimidation and the suffering of others. These are the men that fill our high schools with wannabe gangsters and fill East Vancouver lunatic drug fiends. The person, who starts buying cocaine in eleventh grade to be the king of the smoke pit is the same man stumbling down the street at noon, pale, cut, bruised, hurt and only a fraction of who he could have been. The men who thrive on this pain are sitting in the best hotel in town on a pile of cash with the bouncers at their command.
On Sunday night my neighbor was kidnapped. A skinny white man, who stayed in the shadows, drove his obtrusive black truck behind my building and calmly took both people who lived there away. He had the help of a sedan who stayed in the lot across the alley. Whatever transpired, new people have replaced my neighbors. I have seen one wheeling around in my neighbors’ wheelchair as I pulled into my parking spot, but they quickly ran inside. It has been three days as I write this. I knew my neighbor had, at the very least, a drug problem, but I was unaware of the extent.
These things happen every day, and we can blame anything we want to. Their parents were not around. The TV and video games teach children this behavior is great. I enjoy blaming the “gangsta rap” music, the 50 Cent’s of the world, exposing how excellent the gangbanging, drug dealing, bitch slapping life is for everyone involved. But I know that Nancy may have lost her fingers, if not her life. She has a family. She had people who cared about her. She had peaceful eyes. But I suppose none of that matters if she owes you a few dollars. All this type of thinking is so primal, so thoughtless and so disturbing.
Dealers do hard drugs such as cocaine, ecstasy and speed. The world is their oyster, the speech impediments are real and the nights never end. It is a way of life, something I will never understand. The dive bars and abandoned factories used by these men have a certain stigma attached to them, through movies such as “Analyze This.” I believe this is why the underworld always intrigued me. I used to want to live in abandoned factories on large pillows with grassy fields outside. I’ve always wanted to be a hobo, riding the train cars through the mountains and over borders. The real world has turned my view upon this seedy underworld somewhat grimmer.
Families in our town get torn apart for a game of power and influence. It is similar to the board game Risk. Another man dies of gunfire in this town, the body is never found and the family does not hear for months. When money and drugs come together, death becomes involved. It is a blessing on the surface and that is how one is dragged in to the world. It is an attempt to be tough and respected, to have power over millions and women at hand, just because you have the needs for their night.
There is a bigger issue here than the personal need to self-indulge. Those who use are searching for something unattainable. I have worked at a large rave for the past two summers, and see about 10 000 seekers, dealers and very few decent, reasonable people. The grown men and women at this event eat and drink as much as they possibly can and dance all week. The peaceful ones stare blankly at black light stencils of religion and let their eyes play tricks on them. It is a wonderful time every year, with the right soul. But a failed seeker is the one that looks to PCP or MDMA for enlightenment. Not even Hunter S. Thompson felt the door to enlightenment could be found in drug use. An addict, he wrote extensively about the failed generation that was the sixties. To paraphrase him, one cannot sit around and just talk about change, in order to change the world one must act, and the only thing drug use truly does is make one inert. I digress.
The dealer is the man who sells heroin. This is the man bringing the ten-inch hunting knife and seven-inch diving knife “camping” at a music festival. This is the man doing large lines off toilets at 50. He is the man selling a starving father crack-cocaine. The youth get tied up in the image and the bad attitude to steal from the world. The flower turns into just a lower back tattoo or a green pill. I doubt these people are happy. Does the man smile righteously as he pulls away in his minivan?
I understand that there will always be crime. As long as heroin is illegal and junkies are willing to pay top dollar for their apathy, there will be increasing numbers of vigilante businessmen who sell the drugs to their welcoming users. I do feel that the police may waste far too much time arresting Rastafari for growing personal pot, and letting the true criminals free on bail. There should be nobody above the law and no man should have the right to destroy families, minds and respectable people.
I have seen the effects of drug addiction in my short life. I have many former friends who have been wrapped up in the high life of crime. I have a very good friend who has battled with crack-cocaine for 2 years, going to Narcotics Anonymous weekly and only finding that it was a great place to get his next hook-up. I have sat in a room with another man who was unable to buy crack and who punched me in the face, head butted me, attempted to stab me and finally held the small knife to my throat. By kicking the wall I was able to wake our mutual friend’s roommate who helped me escape.
Drug addiction leads to mental collapse. The delusions of power I experienced at the Barking Parrot that strange Tuesday night are a common thread throughout all heavy drug use. This is something I’ve always thought interesting, but have never been able to submit myself into being a part of. It is a thread of dreaming lucidly, never sleeping in order to achieve steady waking REM states. These lead to horrible delusions, which are acted upon. Megalomania and delusions of grandeur are common. Yet these men are above the law of whatever scale they exist at. Whether it is the bouncer slipped a gram of coke as an entrance fee or the politician paid off due to the current depression and war in the country growing the raw product, these men have complete power and control over a situation. It is what the men lust for. It is what the women lust after. If you had the opportunity do make yourself that man, would you?
Take a long deep breathe and look at the small guy in the room, jibteking in a corner while his ex-wife is screaming obscenities about how he should be killed and their daughter is in a crack head’s care. I never have, and never will feel the need to be responsible for this. The men are responsible for these scenes and that is a horrid shame. The money is made on making people feel miserable, whatever the cost. I know this article will most likely not change people’s minds about this issue. People will always want to do this; the fantasy of wearing the most expensive suit in a palace with a thousand friends and women will always be there. The mentalities of human beings will never change, but things will always be better than before.
It would be safe to assume the drugs tonight had been provided by a group of three Red and Whites. I remember the three of them as loud, powerful and hate filled. The drinks were flowing and there was a pile of cash on the table. I remember a small man of large stature with beady eyes and a broken nose becoming very upset as three women left his table. The leader of their pack swung down upon my friend and I and offered her a drink. She politely declined, on account of my reservations about their personalities, which led to an angry burst from the man’s nose as he stormed away.
A few minutes later I was relieving myself in the men’s room the beady-eyed man stormed in on me, smiled and punched me. This leads to a small confrontation of words, in which I somehow managed to outwit the monster. He raises his fist again and smiled as I washed my hands in the sink. He mumbled something about how I was about to “get it” and storms out before I do. I follow behind him and join my friend, who is chatting up some real estate agent.
The large man stomps over and sternly invites me to join his table, and I obliged. My new best friend sat me down and showed a large stack of money he was very proud of to have. The bouncer is near by as his friend shouted, about the money, his car, his gang banging lifestyle and how “he don’t need to drug a hoe’s drink,” due to the money. My pal from the restroom has a white rock on his left nose hair, but I didn’t mention it. He finishes his part of the conversation with a fist swinging towards my head, which I narrowly escaped.
I begin to speak and one of the men tries to call the bouncer over, but he stands in one place. The man on the far left appears sad in the deep of his blue eyes, but holds the money tight and interrupts me. He asks if that’s my girlfriend, and I answer no, and the large man asks “The why did you send back our drink?” I did not know the correct answer to this question. He again mentions the thirty thousand dollars on the table and his yellow Corvette.
I apologized for disrespected their way of life, and excuse myself for a cigarette. I am on the patio and it is mid winter, the waves are crashing but the heaters are on and a small man, like a young boy walks up to me and we begin talking. He explains he has my back, which eventually spins into “They are not allowed to be here.”
This was my first taste of organized crime. I knew it existed, I knew there were bad people in my neighborhood, but I did not know the extent of the crime. It seems years of preaching non-violence and D.A.R.E. kid campaigns have created an underbelly of twenty something’s that are elevated in the drug trafficking world. A contempt for others and racism only paralleled by their own hard drug use.
I remember when crystal meth took over this town. I remember the zombies, lost in their own delusions and the 30 year old drug dealers they looked up to. These speed addicts eventually become dealers and the money, prestige and power turn young boys in drug-addicted buffoons, with minds as narrow as their eyes. I suppose you would always be happy if you continued to do the things you enjoy. This theory makes sense logically, but I saw a very different story coming from the shallow blue eyes of the youngest of the three.
It is said that humans only hate others if they threaten them. I think this may go back to our primal territorial instincts and it is apparent nearly everywhere. I was sitting in a smoking room at a different club on a very different night, when a friend and I were served free drinks, I suppose because the bartender thought we were someone else. Offended by our presence and the women who were impressed by us, a twenty-one year old skinhead was set off, screaming and knocking tables over asking if we had a problem “here.” His territory was apparently the smoke room in this particular dive and he did not need two hippies stealing “his” women. I was told the next day the man had taken out whatever drug-filled rage was building inside him on a native man at about four in the morning, sending the man to the hospital.
This is the type of man who becomes a successful drug-dealer. It is a business built on intimidation and the suffering of others. These are the men that fill our high schools with wannabe gangsters and fill East Vancouver lunatic drug fiends. The person, who starts buying cocaine in eleventh grade to be the king of the smoke pit is the same man stumbling down the street at noon, pale, cut, bruised, hurt and only a fraction of who he could have been. The men who thrive on this pain are sitting in the best hotel in town on a pile of cash with the bouncers at their command.
On Sunday night my neighbor was kidnapped. A skinny white man, who stayed in the shadows, drove his obtrusive black truck behind my building and calmly took both people who lived there away. He had the help of a sedan who stayed in the lot across the alley. Whatever transpired, new people have replaced my neighbors. I have seen one wheeling around in my neighbors’ wheelchair as I pulled into my parking spot, but they quickly ran inside. It has been three days as I write this. I knew my neighbor had, at the very least, a drug problem, but I was unaware of the extent.
These things happen every day, and we can blame anything we want to. Their parents were not around. The TV and video games teach children this behavior is great. I enjoy blaming the “gangsta rap” music, the 50 Cent’s of the world, exposing how excellent the gangbanging, drug dealing, bitch slapping life is for everyone involved. But I know that Nancy may have lost her fingers, if not her life. She has a family. She had people who cared about her. She had peaceful eyes. But I suppose none of that matters if she owes you a few dollars. All this type of thinking is so primal, so thoughtless and so disturbing.
Dealers do hard drugs such as cocaine, ecstasy and speed. The world is their oyster, the speech impediments are real and the nights never end. It is a way of life, something I will never understand. The dive bars and abandoned factories used by these men have a certain stigma attached to them, through movies such as “Analyze This.” I believe this is why the underworld always intrigued me. I used to want to live in abandoned factories on large pillows with grassy fields outside. I’ve always wanted to be a hobo, riding the train cars through the mountains and over borders. The real world has turned my view upon this seedy underworld somewhat grimmer.
Families in our town get torn apart for a game of power and influence. It is similar to the board game Risk. Another man dies of gunfire in this town, the body is never found and the family does not hear for months. When money and drugs come together, death becomes involved. It is a blessing on the surface and that is how one is dragged in to the world. It is an attempt to be tough and respected, to have power over millions and women at hand, just because you have the needs for their night.
There is a bigger issue here than the personal need to self-indulge. Those who use are searching for something unattainable. I have worked at a large rave for the past two summers, and see about 10 000 seekers, dealers and very few decent, reasonable people. The grown men and women at this event eat and drink as much as they possibly can and dance all week. The peaceful ones stare blankly at black light stencils of religion and let their eyes play tricks on them. It is a wonderful time every year, with the right soul. But a failed seeker is the one that looks to PCP or MDMA for enlightenment. Not even Hunter S. Thompson felt the door to enlightenment could be found in drug use. An addict, he wrote extensively about the failed generation that was the sixties. To paraphrase him, one cannot sit around and just talk about change, in order to change the world one must act, and the only thing drug use truly does is make one inert. I digress.
The dealer is the man who sells heroin. This is the man bringing the ten-inch hunting knife and seven-inch diving knife “camping” at a music festival. This is the man doing large lines off toilets at 50. He is the man selling a starving father crack-cocaine. The youth get tied up in the image and the bad attitude to steal from the world. The flower turns into just a lower back tattoo or a green pill. I doubt these people are happy. Does the man smile righteously as he pulls away in his minivan?
I understand that there will always be crime. As long as heroin is illegal and junkies are willing to pay top dollar for their apathy, there will be increasing numbers of vigilante businessmen who sell the drugs to their welcoming users. I do feel that the police may waste far too much time arresting Rastafari for growing personal pot, and letting the true criminals free on bail. There should be nobody above the law and no man should have the right to destroy families, minds and respectable people.
I have seen the effects of drug addiction in my short life. I have many former friends who have been wrapped up in the high life of crime. I have a very good friend who has battled with crack-cocaine for 2 years, going to Narcotics Anonymous weekly and only finding that it was a great place to get his next hook-up. I have sat in a room with another man who was unable to buy crack and who punched me in the face, head butted me, attempted to stab me and finally held the small knife to my throat. By kicking the wall I was able to wake our mutual friend’s roommate who helped me escape.
Drug addiction leads to mental collapse. The delusions of power I experienced at the Barking Parrot that strange Tuesday night are a common thread throughout all heavy drug use. This is something I’ve always thought interesting, but have never been able to submit myself into being a part of. It is a thread of dreaming lucidly, never sleeping in order to achieve steady waking REM states. These lead to horrible delusions, which are acted upon. Megalomania and delusions of grandeur are common. Yet these men are above the law of whatever scale they exist at. Whether it is the bouncer slipped a gram of coke as an entrance fee or the politician paid off due to the current depression and war in the country growing the raw product, these men have complete power and control over a situation. It is what the men lust for. It is what the women lust after. If you had the opportunity do make yourself that man, would you?
Take a long deep breathe and look at the small guy in the room, jibteking in a corner while his ex-wife is screaming obscenities about how he should be killed and their daughter is in a crack head’s care. I never have, and never will feel the need to be responsible for this. The men are responsible for these scenes and that is a horrid shame. The money is made on making people feel miserable, whatever the cost. I know this article will most likely not change people’s minds about this issue. People will always want to do this; the fantasy of wearing the most expensive suit in a palace with a thousand friends and women will always be there. The mentalities of human beings will never change, but things will always be better than before.
23.4.07
funny joke
This use of language is an easy way to confuse a simpler reader enough to scare him from the passage and place the writer on a pedestal above his assumed grasp of literature. It is a simple way to sound smart, when nothing is really being said.
this is a blog and I failed at my attempt to write in serial, I went on a trip to Vancouver, and interesting on at that. Modest Mouse was a wonderful show, a space age jam that was second to none. I laughed as I heard people walked out because of the changes from the recorded versions of songs. I touted myself as Captain Sobriety the entire concert, declining all but one sip of wine. This may have been a foreshadowing to the rest of the week.
On Tuesday I found myself wandering around Commercial Drive in Vancouver and came across a wonderful little hole in the wall with incredible sausage meals for 5 dollars. The beer was a reasonably priced local Brewery, Granville Island Pale Ale and I found myself in graceful company. I wandered away to find jazz and wound up in the Libra Room listening to a jazz pianist accompanied by some great horn players. The music stopped. After enjoying their final song I was informed by the last few notes I was in the wrong bar. This fear was stamped and delivered by the two men gazing forlorn into my eyes. I left this bar.
I wandered aimlessly back to Falconetti's on 2nd and Commercial and listened to the Morgan Child Trio, who were accompanied by some young cat on Clarinet. This jazz was something truly west coast. The steady rhythms pulsed around the narrow bar effecting each of us separately. My friends arrived and I was infatuated by the saxophone, conducting below the table like a madman drinking alone. I had a smoke with a nice man from Turks, and rolled back in to Falconetti's. The drums powerful emotion dropped my eyes below my head and I drank happily with some new friends.
Toots and the Maytals was incredible. I drank far too much. I harassed bums and offered them help changing. I stumbled in circles to the Roots jam in a drunken smash, barely able to keep my drink afloat. I spilled a tables worth of somewhat free drinks over myself and the ground. The mayhem and sin and the clash against love created a foul dynamic with smiles all around. Its crescendo was the moment I found myself gushing to the lead guitarist "You hit them notes that don't even exist man.. The ones you stumble away from!" and turned away, took two steps and hit the bare dance floor. A friend reached to pick me up and a hopped to my feet.
I had a good time in Vancouver,
Good fun had by most.
this is a blog and I failed at my attempt to write in serial, I went on a trip to Vancouver, and interesting on at that. Modest Mouse was a wonderful show, a space age jam that was second to none. I laughed as I heard people walked out because of the changes from the recorded versions of songs. I touted myself as Captain Sobriety the entire concert, declining all but one sip of wine. This may have been a foreshadowing to the rest of the week.
On Tuesday I found myself wandering around Commercial Drive in Vancouver and came across a wonderful little hole in the wall with incredible sausage meals for 5 dollars. The beer was a reasonably priced local Brewery, Granville Island Pale Ale and I found myself in graceful company. I wandered away to find jazz and wound up in the Libra Room listening to a jazz pianist accompanied by some great horn players. The music stopped. After enjoying their final song I was informed by the last few notes I was in the wrong bar. This fear was stamped and delivered by the two men gazing forlorn into my eyes. I left this bar.
I wandered aimlessly back to Falconetti's on 2nd and Commercial and listened to the Morgan Child Trio, who were accompanied by some young cat on Clarinet. This jazz was something truly west coast. The steady rhythms pulsed around the narrow bar effecting each of us separately. My friends arrived and I was infatuated by the saxophone, conducting below the table like a madman drinking alone. I had a smoke with a nice man from Turks, and rolled back in to Falconetti's. The drums powerful emotion dropped my eyes below my head and I drank happily with some new friends.
Toots and the Maytals was incredible. I drank far too much. I harassed bums and offered them help changing. I stumbled in circles to the Roots jam in a drunken smash, barely able to keep my drink afloat. I spilled a tables worth of somewhat free drinks over myself and the ground. The mayhem and sin and the clash against love created a foul dynamic with smiles all around. Its crescendo was the moment I found myself gushing to the lead guitarist "You hit them notes that don't even exist man.. The ones you stumble away from!" and turned away, took two steps and hit the bare dance floor. A friend reached to pick me up and a hopped to my feet.
I had a good time in Vancouver,
Good fun had by most.
11.4.07
The Miles to Go
This here a quick post of that story i am attempting to write in serial.
Part Two: Bagel Shop Barter Faire
The taxi pulled around the corner, nearly knocking the paper-boy over. He jumped out of the way, and the driver had missed by inches. He yelled, “You fucking paki-pig terrorist son-of-a-bitch!” The cab stopped. The boy’s eyes opened wide, but he felt safe when a large white man got out of the car. His name was David Franklyn. He wore a black suit, with a white shirt. His tie was blue.
David walked up to the boy and said, “Eh, don’t worry kid, I didn’t tip him. I saw that too.” He threw the boy a quarter. The boy just looked at him, the quarter landing on the ground and rolling to the gutter. David walked into the bagel shop and sat at the bar.
The shop was like any other in this neighborhood. David was immediately given a coffee, and he watched the cream swirl in his cup as he threw the plastic cup to the side. “Bagel” he said. The young man behind the counter, tired and overworked, tossed a sesame bagel on a white plate and asked, “Butter?” David smiled, “Not today. I feel like staying healthy.” He handed the young man a five note, and had another in his hand. “Give this to the paper boy, and keep the change.”
The young man walked out to the street. David’s eyes went back to his coffee cup, which was half full now. As the young man returned to his post behind the bar, David smiled through half his mouth and asked, “Say, kid. You know that janitor, Earl Stevlin?” “No, that’s not familiar.” The young man replied quickly. “Why’s that?” “Oh, he’s just an old friend, I heard he lived next door.”
Franklyn sat down to write. He opened his pad and took out his pen and watched the bugs flap around outside his window. He lit a cigarette and the smoke fell to the ceiling. He smiled and sipped for he was tired yet content. He stared blankly at his paper trying to reason with it.
The day was damp. The lights from down the road fell loosely around a painting on the wall. Mother Mary was holding Jesus, and tears of joy ran down her face. She looked at him and smiled. The rusty chains on the swing near the porch squeaked. He thought the street seemed loud. He squeezed his hands and threw his pen towards the coffee table.
Part Two: Bagel Shop Barter Faire
The taxi pulled around the corner, nearly knocking the paper-boy over. He jumped out of the way, and the driver had missed by inches. He yelled, “You fucking paki-pig terrorist son-of-a-bitch!” The cab stopped. The boy’s eyes opened wide, but he felt safe when a large white man got out of the car. His name was David Franklyn. He wore a black suit, with a white shirt. His tie was blue.
David walked up to the boy and said, “Eh, don’t worry kid, I didn’t tip him. I saw that too.” He threw the boy a quarter. The boy just looked at him, the quarter landing on the ground and rolling to the gutter. David walked into the bagel shop and sat at the bar.
The shop was like any other in this neighborhood. David was immediately given a coffee, and he watched the cream swirl in his cup as he threw the plastic cup to the side. “Bagel” he said. The young man behind the counter, tired and overworked, tossed a sesame bagel on a white plate and asked, “Butter?” David smiled, “Not today. I feel like staying healthy.” He handed the young man a five note, and had another in his hand. “Give this to the paper boy, and keep the change.”
The young man walked out to the street. David’s eyes went back to his coffee cup, which was half full now. As the young man returned to his post behind the bar, David smiled through half his mouth and asked, “Say, kid. You know that janitor, Earl Stevlin?” “No, that’s not familiar.” The young man replied quickly. “Why’s that?” “Oh, he’s just an old friend, I heard he lived next door.”
Franklyn sat down to write. He opened his pad and took out his pen and watched the bugs flap around outside his window. He lit a cigarette and the smoke fell to the ceiling. He smiled and sipped for he was tired yet content. He stared blankly at his paper trying to reason with it.
The day was damp. The lights from down the road fell loosely around a painting on the wall. Mother Mary was holding Jesus, and tears of joy ran down her face. She looked at him and smiled. The rusty chains on the swing near the porch squeaked. He thought the street seemed loud. He squeezed his hands and threw his pen towards the coffee table.
4.4.07
The Miles to Go
I was trying to figure out how to post this, whether to finish it and post it last section to first, or to post in in serial headed in the wrong direction.
I decided to post it in serial, every Wednesday. Sounds like a fun project, and I have too much time on my hands anyways. I find myself on a regular basis sitting at my computer at 2 in the morning, not sure what to do and rambling into the illiterate computer. He doesn't understand me but he sits diligently in his place, just as I left him, happy to take any and all input I find the inspiration to write.
Anywho, here is part one.
----------------------------------------
The Miles to Go
by Jon Pelletier
Part one: Morning Sun
He woke at 7 am that day, to the cold air flowing through the cracks in his window. His hair hung low around a tattered collar. He rolled over and sat on the side of the bed. He looked to his left and noticed the feet of a small woman, red toenails against the spilled wine on the sheets. He looked to his right, and a half bottle of Stilvanna vodka lay in the mirror. He picked it up and took a heavy pull. He coughed and reached for his cigarettes.
He stood up and looked outside. The sun was just barely over the horizon. The clothesline swung loose at one end. Free two stories down from him and scraping a window across the street. He thought he could hear it, but it may have been his tick. The girl rolled over, “How about a cigarette, dear.” She emphasized the “dear” in such a way that he just grunted. “The clothesline is loose.” He said, smiling, and tapping his finger on the window.
He felt like getting high. He hadn’t been high in ages, but today he needed something to settle his nerves. The grey sky looked down on him as he looked at the grey city below. Three cars drove in one direction, stopping at the light on the corner. A young man jumped out of the first one.
The young woman jumped out of bed. “What’s wrong?” she whispered in his right ear. He turned around, muttering. She looked at him, and stepped out of the room saying “Don’t worry, I’ll put the coffee on.”
In his reach, while sitting at the table, he had a teaspoon. It was about four and half inches long, with a shiny silver bowl, and a carving in the head of it. A sparrow. The man had always liked sparrows. So small. Had not seen them recently though, perhaps they were going south for the winter. He sipped his coffee. He turned on the radio, but soon turned it off after all he could hear was static. His eyes browsed around his dirty kitchen. The sink full, grime on the cupboards, which he had never noticed before. He looked at the pile of newspapers on the table. He picked up the top one and opened to the crossword. He then closed it when it reminded him of the morning he tried to solve it.
He had been up all night. He wanted to sleep but could barely close his eyes, so he walked down to the ground floor and to the twenty-four hour bagel shop. He wasn’t hungry, so he grabbed the paper and ran back to his home. Sitting there four hours, he mused, and only found 7 words.
He sipped his coffee, sitting for a moment and achieving a peace. He then lit a cigarette. The young woman sat across for him, her red hair in a mess around her face. “What you thinking’ about?” she chirped. “You have to go, you get out of here. I’ll deal with this.” He was tired and dirty and anxious to get her out of his apartment. He tried to stifle the thought of his daughter while looking at this girl. She walked into the other room.
He got up and opened the fridge. He gave up after noticing three balloons floating by his window. He walked over and opened it. It creaked but gave way. He stuck his head out and looked left. He then jutted his head back to send his eyes straight up in the air. He couldn’t find the balloons.
When he turned on the shower it sputtered and then shot. It’ll be a minute, he thought. He went to the kitchen and turned off the light. When the steam started pouring into the room he sat and sipped his coffee. He got up and walked to the next room, shuffling out of his clothes, he went in to the shower headfirst. The soap fell off the side and he cussed.
He walked outside, the boy on the corner tried to peddle him another newspaper. He replied with a gruff no. He then checked his eye colour in the window of the next shop. An older lady saw this and smiled and the man looked down towards the cement. Counting the lines in the sidewalk, he clipped a parking meter. He ducked quickly into an office building.
Three seven six.
A monolith of a structure, he thought, 48 floors. He cleaned it all with one mop. He was proud of that.
He had originally gotten the job at seventeen years old. He had to pay his rent, eventually the child support was the only reason he kept it. He told himself that anyway. It helped him feel satisfied with the sandwich he had at noon. It helped him enjoy the cup of coffee he had at two. He enjoys the walk home; more so on the days where the wind threw him around and the frost burned his cheeks. He looked out the window and smiled for a second, but at the first glance he noticed in his direction he went back to sweeping the floor.
The young woman walked by 376 quickly, down to the corner and she turned left. She walked two blocks towards the bay and sat on the corner. She fixed her lipstick in her reflection on the window. She crossed the street and found her number. Five forty two. She looked at the menacing staircase triumphantly. She smiled as she opened the door and walked inside. Two minutes later she came to her floor.
She opened her door with a creak. She was tired, but only collapsed on the couch. She pulled off her skirt and stockings and began to unbutton her shirt. She got up abruptly and fixed her hair. She lit a cigarette, her lips puckered against the filter. She watched the smoke roll out of her mouth and against the broken window.
I decided to post it in serial, every Wednesday. Sounds like a fun project, and I have too much time on my hands anyways. I find myself on a regular basis sitting at my computer at 2 in the morning, not sure what to do and rambling into the illiterate computer. He doesn't understand me but he sits diligently in his place, just as I left him, happy to take any and all input I find the inspiration to write.
Anywho, here is part one.
----------------------------------------
The Miles to Go
by Jon Pelletier
Part one: Morning Sun
He woke at 7 am that day, to the cold air flowing through the cracks in his window. His hair hung low around a tattered collar. He rolled over and sat on the side of the bed. He looked to his left and noticed the feet of a small woman, red toenails against the spilled wine on the sheets. He looked to his right, and a half bottle of Stilvanna vodka lay in the mirror. He picked it up and took a heavy pull. He coughed and reached for his cigarettes.
He stood up and looked outside. The sun was just barely over the horizon. The clothesline swung loose at one end. Free two stories down from him and scraping a window across the street. He thought he could hear it, but it may have been his tick. The girl rolled over, “How about a cigarette, dear.” She emphasized the “dear” in such a way that he just grunted. “The clothesline is loose.” He said, smiling, and tapping his finger on the window.
He felt like getting high. He hadn’t been high in ages, but today he needed something to settle his nerves. The grey sky looked down on him as he looked at the grey city below. Three cars drove in one direction, stopping at the light on the corner. A young man jumped out of the first one.
The young woman jumped out of bed. “What’s wrong?” she whispered in his right ear. He turned around, muttering. She looked at him, and stepped out of the room saying “Don’t worry, I’ll put the coffee on.”
In his reach, while sitting at the table, he had a teaspoon. It was about four and half inches long, with a shiny silver bowl, and a carving in the head of it. A sparrow. The man had always liked sparrows. So small. Had not seen them recently though, perhaps they were going south for the winter. He sipped his coffee. He turned on the radio, but soon turned it off after all he could hear was static. His eyes browsed around his dirty kitchen. The sink full, grime on the cupboards, which he had never noticed before. He looked at the pile of newspapers on the table. He picked up the top one and opened to the crossword. He then closed it when it reminded him of the morning he tried to solve it.
He had been up all night. He wanted to sleep but could barely close his eyes, so he walked down to the ground floor and to the twenty-four hour bagel shop. He wasn’t hungry, so he grabbed the paper and ran back to his home. Sitting there four hours, he mused, and only found 7 words.
He sipped his coffee, sitting for a moment and achieving a peace. He then lit a cigarette. The young woman sat across for him, her red hair in a mess around her face. “What you thinking’ about?” she chirped. “You have to go, you get out of here. I’ll deal with this.” He was tired and dirty and anxious to get her out of his apartment. He tried to stifle the thought of his daughter while looking at this girl. She walked into the other room.
He got up and opened the fridge. He gave up after noticing three balloons floating by his window. He walked over and opened it. It creaked but gave way. He stuck his head out and looked left. He then jutted his head back to send his eyes straight up in the air. He couldn’t find the balloons.
When he turned on the shower it sputtered and then shot. It’ll be a minute, he thought. He went to the kitchen and turned off the light. When the steam started pouring into the room he sat and sipped his coffee. He got up and walked to the next room, shuffling out of his clothes, he went in to the shower headfirst. The soap fell off the side and he cussed.
He walked outside, the boy on the corner tried to peddle him another newspaper. He replied with a gruff no. He then checked his eye colour in the window of the next shop. An older lady saw this and smiled and the man looked down towards the cement. Counting the lines in the sidewalk, he clipped a parking meter. He ducked quickly into an office building.
Three seven six.
A monolith of a structure, he thought, 48 floors. He cleaned it all with one mop. He was proud of that.
He had originally gotten the job at seventeen years old. He had to pay his rent, eventually the child support was the only reason he kept it. He told himself that anyway. It helped him feel satisfied with the sandwich he had at noon. It helped him enjoy the cup of coffee he had at two. He enjoys the walk home; more so on the days where the wind threw him around and the frost burned his cheeks. He looked out the window and smiled for a second, but at the first glance he noticed in his direction he went back to sweeping the floor.
The young woman walked by 376 quickly, down to the corner and she turned left. She walked two blocks towards the bay and sat on the corner. She fixed her lipstick in her reflection on the window. She crossed the street and found her number. Five forty two. She looked at the menacing staircase triumphantly. She smiled as she opened the door and walked inside. Two minutes later she came to her floor.
She opened her door with a creak. She was tired, but only collapsed on the couch. She pulled off her skirt and stockings and began to unbutton her shirt. She got up abruptly and fixed her hair. She lit a cigarette, her lips puckered against the filter. She watched the smoke roll out of her mouth and against the broken window.
Tired, thoned and weak
My heart turns one meter of silver to an ounce of gold, and earth still revolves around the sun.
Poetic Nothingness.
My luck lately has been spectacular, but I am still bouncing between failing and passing my grades in college. I hope I do. I hope I pass all of them, learn some time management skills and am able to continue to better myself, because I have the opportunity to.
I heard one time, John F. Kennedy was misquoted in the way he spoke German with a Boston accent. Instead of the German form of "I am a Berliner," he told the crowd "I am a pickle."
I've attempted to swallow the brown pill, allow myself to sit and be complacent. I wrote a story about a man unable to get published, running around, typing of himself mocking himself. It was filled to the brim with absolutely nothing, some horrid writing and an art house feel. I describe it as a satire three times, once claiming it is a satire about writing a satire. I find it to be a random mess of words, segments from my life at that point. I find it to be a stab at nearly every self righteous intellectual. Them types, who spend their mind making a twisted, intellectual myspace, learning wise words from fellows and reusing the same garbage over and over. I enjoy watching them try and impress people, its like a twisted car wreck. I was very proud of my story, and I hope it wins the contest.
Blogging.
Another example of my luck is the number thirteen. From thirteens asking me to escape from "Ye Old Pit of Crime," Calgary to the numbers of pages in essays I've written for school. I failed horribly in both occasions, but made very nice art. The essay was my best work I feel. I had two extra days to do it after I thought it was done and I figured it was good enough, so I left two brilliant editorial mistakes, my mothers typed "(Really?)" and "(Maybe you should explain this better?)" right on the first page. There was one more on the second. I felt like a dumbass and now I must get a good grade on the final, in order to pass.
I found myself with a 26 song double album about a month and a half ago, and was dizzy for two weeks until I recorded two new songs.
This Friday the Thirteenth the Harlem Gospel Choir is making a stop in Penticton. I bought a ticket. I had to, it will be brilliant. All I hope is I hand in the report I am asked to do on it and pass my classes for the next few days.
Poetic Nothingness.
My luck lately has been spectacular, but I am still bouncing between failing and passing my grades in college. I hope I do. I hope I pass all of them, learn some time management skills and am able to continue to better myself, because I have the opportunity to.
I heard one time, John F. Kennedy was misquoted in the way he spoke German with a Boston accent. Instead of the German form of "I am a Berliner," he told the crowd "I am a pickle."
I've attempted to swallow the brown pill, allow myself to sit and be complacent. I wrote a story about a man unable to get published, running around, typing of himself mocking himself. It was filled to the brim with absolutely nothing, some horrid writing and an art house feel. I describe it as a satire three times, once claiming it is a satire about writing a satire. I find it to be a random mess of words, segments from my life at that point. I find it to be a stab at nearly every self righteous intellectual. Them types, who spend their mind making a twisted, intellectual myspace, learning wise words from fellows and reusing the same garbage over and over. I enjoy watching them try and impress people, its like a twisted car wreck. I was very proud of my story, and I hope it wins the contest.
Blogging.
Another example of my luck is the number thirteen. From thirteens asking me to escape from "Ye Old Pit of Crime," Calgary to the numbers of pages in essays I've written for school. I failed horribly in both occasions, but made very nice art. The essay was my best work I feel. I had two extra days to do it after I thought it was done and I figured it was good enough, so I left two brilliant editorial mistakes, my mothers typed "(Really?)" and "(Maybe you should explain this better?)" right on the first page. There was one more on the second. I felt like a dumbass and now I must get a good grade on the final, in order to pass.
I found myself with a 26 song double album about a month and a half ago, and was dizzy for two weeks until I recorded two new songs.
This Friday the Thirteenth the Harlem Gospel Choir is making a stop in Penticton. I bought a ticket. I had to, it will be brilliant. All I hope is I hand in the report I am asked to do on it and pass my classes for the next few days.
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