Monday, July 31, 2006
Making Change
Vanda came in the store and like, she told me my tits were too small. Well, it’s not like she actually said that. She’s not the kind that will give you the ammo to shoot back with. She just says, “Well, you’re better off without Dan Faley anyway. The only thing he cares about is big chests.” Like, excuse me? First of all, that is so not true about him. Secondly, even if it was, which it isn’t, what makes Vanda think I’m not good enough? Like she’s got so much to boast about; hardly. But I don’t I know who I’m more mad at now, Danny or Vanda. Vanda got me so worked up I made the wrong change at least twice. Those were the times I heard about because I shortchanged someone. I don’t know how many times I gave someone too much change. You almost never hear about that. It makes you realize the whole world is made of two kinds of people. Scumbags who keep the change, and idiots who give it back. But I guess that’s not about them, really, it’s about me. I’m way too cynical. Why can’t I just see the good in someone giving the change back? Why do I have to think they’re fools to do that, especially when I don’t have a kind word for the people who don’t? I’m messed up. Anyway, it’s Vanda’s fault. And I am better off without Danny. He wasn’t all about tits. No, he was all about… well, maybe I shouldn’t say, but put it this way: the guys on his team better not drop the soap in the shower.
In Hopes of the Resurrection
Seven years old and nearly naked, I’m standing there in the sand, fidgety. My bathing suit is still wet, my hair damp, but otherwise we’ve been standing around long enough to be dry. It’s hot. I’m uncomfortable. I’m bored. I’m a little scared; this is all so unusual. Five or six dozen others, of all ages, are milling around on the beach, feeling just the same as me. Some woman is quietly arguing with a policeman, and though he’s apologetic, he refuses to let her pass.
A boy has drowned. Well, he’s missing. I recognize his name. He’s not a friend, but I know him, or at least of him. He’s a year older than me, and at this age, that’s a huge and nearly unbridgeable gulf. I look out over the water of the tiny lake; my eyes are stabbed by the hot sun dancing on its surface, below which some boy lies at the bottom, where no boy is meant to be. People are gathered around his sobbing mother. Little boats move back and forth; policemen in wetsuits tip over the sides and come up, shaking their heads. The lake is at the edge of a rotary, where traffic has been slowed to a honking, snarling crawl even at midday, thanks the rubberneckers who always have to gawk at such tragedies, drawn around them like flies on a turd. We don’t have any choice in our world coming to a stop. They do.
I don’t know why the police won’t let us go. I suppose they need to maintain order. The last thing they need is for parents and kids to get separated and complicate things. And so we gather around, one to another, waiting to see what will come up out of the water.
After nearly an hour of this, it ends, abruptly, and not in the way anyone expected. A young girl comes bawling into the crowd, calling for the boy’s mother. She is a neighbour. The drowned boy is, in fact, waiting with her mother. Apparently he had gotten bored, went home without telling anyone, and was discovered asleep in the basement. And now in the midst of the frantic shrieks of motherly joy at answered prayers, there are sighs of relief, mutters about stupidity, nervous chuckles. The police cordon lifts. A few children plunge back into the water, but for most people, the bloom is seriously off the afternoon, and we drift home. That boy might not be dead, but I have a feeling shortly he’s going to wish he were.
A thousand miles and a decade and a half pass behind me, and the news comes of a high school buddy who had been struck in the head while sail boarding, and vanished unconscious beneath the waves. There was no comedy of errors this time to comfort a grieving mother. And though the two events had nothing to do with one another, they impressed upon me the fact that death is not cheated. Ever. You might cleverly dodge an appointment here and there, but not the bill.
A boy has drowned. Well, he’s missing. I recognize his name. He’s not a friend, but I know him, or at least of him. He’s a year older than me, and at this age, that’s a huge and nearly unbridgeable gulf. I look out over the water of the tiny lake; my eyes are stabbed by the hot sun dancing on its surface, below which some boy lies at the bottom, where no boy is meant to be. People are gathered around his sobbing mother. Little boats move back and forth; policemen in wetsuits tip over the sides and come up, shaking their heads. The lake is at the edge of a rotary, where traffic has been slowed to a honking, snarling crawl even at midday, thanks the rubberneckers who always have to gawk at such tragedies, drawn around them like flies on a turd. We don’t have any choice in our world coming to a stop. They do.
I don’t know why the police won’t let us go. I suppose they need to maintain order. The last thing they need is for parents and kids to get separated and complicate things. And so we gather around, one to another, waiting to see what will come up out of the water.
After nearly an hour of this, it ends, abruptly, and not in the way anyone expected. A young girl comes bawling into the crowd, calling for the boy’s mother. She is a neighbour. The drowned boy is, in fact, waiting with her mother. Apparently he had gotten bored, went home without telling anyone, and was discovered asleep in the basement. And now in the midst of the frantic shrieks of motherly joy at answered prayers, there are sighs of relief, mutters about stupidity, nervous chuckles. The police cordon lifts. A few children plunge back into the water, but for most people, the bloom is seriously off the afternoon, and we drift home. That boy might not be dead, but I have a feeling shortly he’s going to wish he were.
A thousand miles and a decade and a half pass behind me, and the news comes of a high school buddy who had been struck in the head while sail boarding, and vanished unconscious beneath the waves. There was no comedy of errors this time to comfort a grieving mother. And though the two events had nothing to do with one another, they impressed upon me the fact that death is not cheated. Ever. You might cleverly dodge an appointment here and there, but not the bill.
The Dead Drop In
“So why’d you do it?” he asks me. “I think I have a right to know.” Guy sounds like he’s talking from the bottom of a submarine. I can barely understand him.
I’m over the shock of seeing Gary by now. Well, no, I’m not. But I’ve settled down. It’s been three years. He must have been looking for me all that time. There’s no more lying, no more fighting, no more sense in running away. He’s got me dead to rights. So we sit there at the table and I try to remember what the hell was in my mind that night.
“I thought if you vanished, the business would improve. It would be essentially mine to run the way it should have been run. And I managed it, Gary. Things are booming.” It’s funny. I’m feeling less guilt for having murdered him than embarrassment for telling him what he was: a shitheaded partner who was flushing my financial future down the toilet along with his own.
“So you get the business, and I get a shallow grave.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see any other way… I tried to make it quick,” I offer, sleezily. I feel the immediate need to change the subject. “Are you going to testify?” I ask. We’re in one of the jurisdictions that allows for that now. I guess the thinking is, no one knows better than the dead that judgment is near, so a ghost is going to be eager to show up in front of God in a clean sheet without the stains of recent perjury on it.
“I don’t have time,” he says. I don’t ask him how he knows this; I suspect he doesn’t know how himself. He just knows it. “I want to see Alice and the kids before I go. I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. It’s going to traumatize them a bit. But I’ve been talking to others and in the long run, it helps the survivors move on. That’s what I’ll be doing.” By now we can hear the sirens in the distance. He rises from the chair, and for a moment I wonder what it feels like to sit when you’re dead. What’s anything feel like when you’re dead? Gary says, “And anyway, I think I can count on you to give a full accounting of yourself on your own.”
I nod. I don’t know why, but having been confronted by the man I murdered and confessed to him, I can’t imagine not owning up to others far less involved. I hear the cars pull up, and doors slamming. They’re banging at my door now. “Yin? Vince Yin? We have reports of a murder. We are coming in. Our weapons will be drawn!” And I’m wondering what the hell Gary told them to get them this worked up.
I rise, my hands raised. “The door is open,” I call. They kick it in and aim their pistols at me. The police are greeted with the sight of a ghost, translucent hand raised in accusation.
“There’s your man,” Gary says, and disappears.
I’m over the shock of seeing Gary by now. Well, no, I’m not. But I’ve settled down. It’s been three years. He must have been looking for me all that time. There’s no more lying, no more fighting, no more sense in running away. He’s got me dead to rights. So we sit there at the table and I try to remember what the hell was in my mind that night.
“I thought if you vanished, the business would improve. It would be essentially mine to run the way it should have been run. And I managed it, Gary. Things are booming.” It’s funny. I’m feeling less guilt for having murdered him than embarrassment for telling him what he was: a shitheaded partner who was flushing my financial future down the toilet along with his own.
“So you get the business, and I get a shallow grave.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see any other way… I tried to make it quick,” I offer, sleezily. I feel the immediate need to change the subject. “Are you going to testify?” I ask. We’re in one of the jurisdictions that allows for that now. I guess the thinking is, no one knows better than the dead that judgment is near, so a ghost is going to be eager to show up in front of God in a clean sheet without the stains of recent perjury on it.
“I don’t have time,” he says. I don’t ask him how he knows this; I suspect he doesn’t know how himself. He just knows it. “I want to see Alice and the kids before I go. I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. It’s going to traumatize them a bit. But I’ve been talking to others and in the long run, it helps the survivors move on. That’s what I’ll be doing.” By now we can hear the sirens in the distance. He rises from the chair, and for a moment I wonder what it feels like to sit when you’re dead. What’s anything feel like when you’re dead? Gary says, “And anyway, I think I can count on you to give a full accounting of yourself on your own.”
I nod. I don’t know why, but having been confronted by the man I murdered and confessed to him, I can’t imagine not owning up to others far less involved. I hear the cars pull up, and doors slamming. They’re banging at my door now. “Yin? Vince Yin? We have reports of a murder. We are coming in. Our weapons will be drawn!” And I’m wondering what the hell Gary told them to get them this worked up.
I rise, my hands raised. “The door is open,” I call. They kick it in and aim their pistols at me. The police are greeted with the sight of a ghost, translucent hand raised in accusation.
“There’s your man,” Gary says, and disappears.
End of Act One
Sunday morning. I think. Yeah, Sunday. I don’t even bother calling her name. I just wander through the house taking a quick inventory of the rooms. They are as empty as they were last night. And the night before.
I feel a little shaky, but I'm not hung over. That's good; when I find a half empty can of beer in the fridge, I finished it off. Flat, but I don't like to waste beer, and it gets me started on the day's drinking.
Sunday morning. As I stand there in the kitchen, bollocks naked as they'd say in England, I remember that at this time on a Sunday morning 12 years ago, I'd ordinarily have been dressed in my best clothes; she and I on our way to church. I can’t believe there was ever a time when that seemed normal. As it was, I haven't bathed shaved since Friday.
New beer. I crack it open. The head overflows; I slurp it up as it runs down the back of my hand. I lift it to my lips and pour it back, barely tasting it. Already I can sense the buzz from the first can making its debut on the dark stage just behind my eyebrows.
The doorbell rings. On Sunday morning? Fuck ‘em. I raise the beer again. The ringing becomes knocking. Loud, insistent knocking. I ignore it. I just want them all to go away. The knocking does, finally, stop. And of course, it’s right at that moment that the icicle stabs my heart: what if something’s wrong? What if I haven’t heard from her because something’s happened? I look around frantically and finally grab a dishtowel and hold it like a loincloth. “Wait!” I shout, and vault towards the living room.
I’m headed off by the sound of a familiar voice in the back yard. “Adam? Adam! It’s Bryce.” I stop in the doorway of the living room and peer back into the kitchen. Bryce McGregor.
Good old Bryce. I pad back into the kitchen; he’s on the patio and standing by the door. I open it and let him in. He comes in and spies me there in my birthday suit, at first surprised, and then not in the least surprised; he even nods softly. Sure. Does he know? Well, anyway, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before; we play squash together at lunch sometimes. “How you holding up?” he says. Yeah. He knows.
“Is anything wrong?” I ask.
He looks bemused, as if, y’know, what a question, and then the import of my question suddenly hits him. “Oh, shit, Adam, I’m sorry! No, everything’s fine! Uh, well… Linda’s well, I mean. Nothing… Jesus, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“She hasn’t called,” I say. He nods. Apparently, he knows that, too. Oh. So that’s what this is about.
“She, ah… she came by yesterday. Talked to me and Jim. Um… she told us what happened Thursday night. She asked me to come over this morning.”
“She’s still there?”
“No. No, she left last night to stay with a friend.”
“Who?”
“A woman. A friend.” It’s all he’ll say. “Adam, look… she asked me to come over because we’re friends. Y’know, and… because I’m a lawyer.”
I swallow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Adam, um… she’s filing papers. She wants…” He sighs. “She wants a divorce. And this time, she means it.”
I’m suddenly full of rage. My skin glistens with beery sweat. I’m standing naked in my kitchen and a man is telling me my life is over. “Are you representing her?”
“No. There’s no way I could do that. I want you to know, she asked. I said I couldn’t. I’m not coming between you. I… I did refer her to a friend of mine, though. Someone fair and professional. I promise you.”
“Uh huh. Do you have someone fair and professional for me?”
He blanches; his mouth pinches a bit. No doubt about it, I’ve just clenched that Asshole of the Year trophy. “Yeah, I can… I can find you someone.”
“I’m sorry. Really… I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. You’re a good friend to…” Suddenly I’m in a chair and I’m sobbing my guts out and I don’t even know how I got there. He’s sitting beside me with his hand on my shoulder. I used to be scared to death of gay men. Now his sympathy is the only lee in all this storm. I don’t know how long we just sit like that. But all I can feel around me is it all folding up. The house we spent all summer looking for. The up-and-coming couples whose friendships we cemented because we were just like them. The children we tried so long to have, who never were born and now never possibly could be. All the things I thought I’d be and have and do for the next forty or fifty years of my life are pouring out of me in tears that will simply evaporate. It’s the end of the first act of my life; all those scenes behind me now. And I can’t imagine the play has a happy ending anymore.
I feel a little shaky, but I'm not hung over. That's good; when I find a half empty can of beer in the fridge, I finished it off. Flat, but I don't like to waste beer, and it gets me started on the day's drinking.
Sunday morning. As I stand there in the kitchen, bollocks naked as they'd say in England, I remember that at this time on a Sunday morning 12 years ago, I'd ordinarily have been dressed in my best clothes; she and I on our way to church. I can’t believe there was ever a time when that seemed normal. As it was, I haven't bathed shaved since Friday.
New beer. I crack it open. The head overflows; I slurp it up as it runs down the back of my hand. I lift it to my lips and pour it back, barely tasting it. Already I can sense the buzz from the first can making its debut on the dark stage just behind my eyebrows.
The doorbell rings. On Sunday morning? Fuck ‘em. I raise the beer again. The ringing becomes knocking. Loud, insistent knocking. I ignore it. I just want them all to go away. The knocking does, finally, stop. And of course, it’s right at that moment that the icicle stabs my heart: what if something’s wrong? What if I haven’t heard from her because something’s happened? I look around frantically and finally grab a dishtowel and hold it like a loincloth. “Wait!” I shout, and vault towards the living room.
I’m headed off by the sound of a familiar voice in the back yard. “Adam? Adam! It’s Bryce.” I stop in the doorway of the living room and peer back into the kitchen. Bryce McGregor.
Good old Bryce. I pad back into the kitchen; he’s on the patio and standing by the door. I open it and let him in. He comes in and spies me there in my birthday suit, at first surprised, and then not in the least surprised; he even nods softly. Sure. Does he know? Well, anyway, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before; we play squash together at lunch sometimes. “How you holding up?” he says. Yeah. He knows.
“Is anything wrong?” I ask.
He looks bemused, as if, y’know, what a question, and then the import of my question suddenly hits him. “Oh, shit, Adam, I’m sorry! No, everything’s fine! Uh, well… Linda’s well, I mean. Nothing… Jesus, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“She hasn’t called,” I say. He nods. Apparently, he knows that, too. Oh. So that’s what this is about.
“She, ah… she came by yesterday. Talked to me and Jim. Um… she told us what happened Thursday night. She asked me to come over this morning.”
“She’s still there?”
“No. No, she left last night to stay with a friend.”
“Who?”
“A woman. A friend.” It’s all he’ll say. “Adam, look… she asked me to come over because we’re friends. Y’know, and… because I’m a lawyer.”
I swallow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Adam, um… she’s filing papers. She wants…” He sighs. “She wants a divorce. And this time, she means it.”
I’m suddenly full of rage. My skin glistens with beery sweat. I’m standing naked in my kitchen and a man is telling me my life is over. “Are you representing her?”
“No. There’s no way I could do that. I want you to know, she asked. I said I couldn’t. I’m not coming between you. I… I did refer her to a friend of mine, though. Someone fair and professional. I promise you.”
“Uh huh. Do you have someone fair and professional for me?”
He blanches; his mouth pinches a bit. No doubt about it, I’ve just clenched that Asshole of the Year trophy. “Yeah, I can… I can find you someone.”
“I’m sorry. Really… I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. You’re a good friend to…” Suddenly I’m in a chair and I’m sobbing my guts out and I don’t even know how I got there. He’s sitting beside me with his hand on my shoulder. I used to be scared to death of gay men. Now his sympathy is the only lee in all this storm. I don’t know how long we just sit like that. But all I can feel around me is it all folding up. The house we spent all summer looking for. The up-and-coming couples whose friendships we cemented because we were just like them. The children we tried so long to have, who never were born and now never possibly could be. All the things I thought I’d be and have and do for the next forty or fifty years of my life are pouring out of me in tears that will simply evaporate. It’s the end of the first act of my life; all those scenes behind me now. And I can’t imagine the play has a happy ending anymore.
The Vacation
We trampled Mike so he couldn’t find us. The forest was a wild verdant place but when Mike couldn’t restrain us, it was our city again. He was sore; we could hear him cursing us far behind us, but we ran laughing into the outstretched arms of our mother as she folded us into the enveloping protection of her green bosom, crossing back into the place where he was the outsider, the clumsy, wary intruder. Would we let him trick us back? Perhaps, when we were cold, or bored, or hungry. Back to the warmth and talking boxes, the smells that make bellies wild, and always always always the blaze of light that fights and claws in frantic terror at the darkness so that its masters don’t have to. But for now, it’s laughter and defiance, freedom and the vanishing.
Now It Can Be Told
Gordon steps up to the microphone. Before him are the relatives of his best friend, nearly all of them either visiting from Scotland, or like the groom himself, immigrants from Scotland. As he prepares to address the wedding party, he holds up a voice recorder. He clicks it on. The voice of Ewan McGregor can be heard.
"It shite bein’ Scottish! We’re the lowest of the low!"
Gordon clicks off the voice recorder. He speaks.
"I know many here tonight feel that way. But I'm here to tell you it is not true. It's not shite bein’ Scottish. At least not on this side of the Atlantic. We run everything; we own everything. We named everything. And pretty much everyone who comes here does whatever we say. And why? Because we all left Scotland. So by no means is it shite being Scottish. What’s shite… is being Scottish… in Scotland. Thank you very much."
Gordon begins to step away from the microphone. In the stunned, puzzled, disbelieving silence, he pauses, and returns. "Oh, and congratulations and a happy long life to the newlyweds!"
"It shite bein’ Scottish! We’re the lowest of the low!"
Gordon clicks off the voice recorder. He speaks.
"I know many here tonight feel that way. But I'm here to tell you it is not true. It's not shite bein’ Scottish. At least not on this side of the Atlantic. We run everything; we own everything. We named everything. And pretty much everyone who comes here does whatever we say. And why? Because we all left Scotland. So by no means is it shite being Scottish. What’s shite… is being Scottish… in Scotland. Thank you very much."
Gordon begins to step away from the microphone. In the stunned, puzzled, disbelieving silence, he pauses, and returns. "Oh, and congratulations and a happy long life to the newlyweds!"
Friday, July 28, 2006
Witch Pocket
Alone with him in the dark bus shelter, I thought I’d try to make friends. I reached into my vest’s pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. Drawing one off for myself with my teeth, the way John Wayne might have culled a smoke from the pack, I held the package out to the man. Dark, lean, young, he just continued to glare.
I jerked the pack at him, eyebrow raised. “Go on.”
He shook his head. “Don’t like gum. Kill for a beer, though.”
“No need to go to those lengths,” I said. I reached into the vest pocket and drew out an ice-cold bottle of beer.
He blinked and his jaw dropped. When I held it out to him, he eyed it skeptically, as if expecting that when he tried to open it, coiled snakes would pop out or something. But when he twisted the cap off and brought it to his lips, he found it was just exactly what he’d asked for. He downed half the bottle in one shot, then belched and poked the neck at me. “How’d you do that?”
“I have a witch pocket in this vest.”
“…What’s that?”
“It’s a pocket that creates whatever I want. I just think of it, and whatever I wish for appears in it.”
He laughed. Then he looked at the beer and considered it. “Don’t suppose you could pull a twenty out of it, could you?”
I shrugged. No skin off my nose. I reached in, and pulled out a crisp $20 bill and handed it to him.
He gazed at it in the dim light. “Is it real?”
“Does it matter? Who knows? Who cares? As long as someone gives you twenty bucks worth of stuff for it, it’s as real as it has to be.”
He smiled, nodding at me. “Good point.” He looked my vest up and down in a way that made me wish I hadn’t been so eager to win his amity. “Hey, how much you want for that thing?”
“It isn’t for sale. But if you’d care for me to produce a few—“
“Listen. I want to have that vest. That… witch pocket, whatever. Once in a lifetime gimmick, and I ain’t leaving without it. And you ain’t leaving with it. So make up your mind to it.”
I sighed. I nodded. Glumly, I shouldered out of the vest, and I held it out for him. He snatched it. “Okay, vest,” he said, “I want a brick of gold bullion!” And with that, he stabbed his hand down into the pocket. I watched him reach around inside it, his face showing flashes of amazement at the depth of the pocket, and puzzlement as he groped around. And then… he gasped in pain, his face confused. Then, suddenly, terror, and he screamed. The sounds of snarling and bone snapping inside the pocket sickened me, and I shrank back as the man’s arm was hauled deeper and deeper into the pocket, his own blood spraying out of it and onto his chest and throat and screaming face…
When his shoulder met the pocket, there was a brief respite. In a face white with blood loss were set his eyes, saucer-wide with horror, searching my face for some kind of explanation. The pause lasted just long enough for me to provide one: “I said whatever I wish for, jerkwad.” Then, with a final scream and a spray of blood, he disappeared into the pocket.
I put my vest back on and awaited the bus in peaceful solitude, chewing my gum.
I jerked the pack at him, eyebrow raised. “Go on.”
He shook his head. “Don’t like gum. Kill for a beer, though.”
“No need to go to those lengths,” I said. I reached into the vest pocket and drew out an ice-cold bottle of beer.
He blinked and his jaw dropped. When I held it out to him, he eyed it skeptically, as if expecting that when he tried to open it, coiled snakes would pop out or something. But when he twisted the cap off and brought it to his lips, he found it was just exactly what he’d asked for. He downed half the bottle in one shot, then belched and poked the neck at me. “How’d you do that?”
“I have a witch pocket in this vest.”
“…What’s that?”
“It’s a pocket that creates whatever I want. I just think of it, and whatever I wish for appears in it.”
He laughed. Then he looked at the beer and considered it. “Don’t suppose you could pull a twenty out of it, could you?”
I shrugged. No skin off my nose. I reached in, and pulled out a crisp $20 bill and handed it to him.
He gazed at it in the dim light. “Is it real?”
“Does it matter? Who knows? Who cares? As long as someone gives you twenty bucks worth of stuff for it, it’s as real as it has to be.”
He smiled, nodding at me. “Good point.” He looked my vest up and down in a way that made me wish I hadn’t been so eager to win his amity. “Hey, how much you want for that thing?”
“It isn’t for sale. But if you’d care for me to produce a few—“
“Listen. I want to have that vest. That… witch pocket, whatever. Once in a lifetime gimmick, and I ain’t leaving without it. And you ain’t leaving with it. So make up your mind to it.”
I sighed. I nodded. Glumly, I shouldered out of the vest, and I held it out for him. He snatched it. “Okay, vest,” he said, “I want a brick of gold bullion!” And with that, he stabbed his hand down into the pocket. I watched him reach around inside it, his face showing flashes of amazement at the depth of the pocket, and puzzlement as he groped around. And then… he gasped in pain, his face confused. Then, suddenly, terror, and he screamed. The sounds of snarling and bone snapping inside the pocket sickened me, and I shrank back as the man’s arm was hauled deeper and deeper into the pocket, his own blood spraying out of it and onto his chest and throat and screaming face…
When his shoulder met the pocket, there was a brief respite. In a face white with blood loss were set his eyes, saucer-wide with horror, searching my face for some kind of explanation. The pause lasted just long enough for me to provide one: “I said whatever I wish for, jerkwad.” Then, with a final scream and a spray of blood, he disappeared into the pocket.
I put my vest back on and awaited the bus in peaceful solitude, chewing my gum.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
The Six Million Dollar Moggie
Tommy's come over and we're watchin' telly like. Auld TV. Namely The Six Million Dollar Man. Oscar Goldman is gie'n Steve Austin the lowdown, as they say.
"It's a nice joab, tha, eh?" says Tommy.
"Wha is?"
"They wan thet Oscar Goldman's goat; tell me ah'm rang."
"Aye, doss joab, tha."
Eh puts oan his best American accent, which degrades as he gaes, and eh says, "Here you go, Steve, off on another mission. I'll just be sittin' here wi' mae feet up, wankin' tae the Miss America show; gie us a call when yeer doan, sunshine." We hae a guid laugh at tha.
Ah say, "They shood a named him Offski Goldman n aw, oon account ay the cunt’s nivir there whan ye need him."
Tommy ponders. "Goldman. Is tha a wee Jew name, d'ya think?"
"Dunno. Dinnae think ay it before. Ah spoze it it might be, noo ah think oan it."
"Hi, imagine the tae ay them, him and Henry Kissinger baeth, doon oan thir knees in they Oval Oaffis, prayin' wi Richard fuckin’ Nixon."
"Oan their knees, mebbe, but nae prayin'. How'd ya think eh goat that joab in they fearst place?" We baeth git a laugh oota tha.
Tommy says, "D'ya think eh ivir sends im on Jew missions, like?"
"Wha d'ya mean?"
Bad American accent time agin. "Here, Steve, fuck off n save Israel. Yon Arabs is a it agin."
We hae anuther laugh and ah say, "Aye, The Six Million Dollar Man: The Loast Episodes."
"Hi, wot abit The Sex Million Dollar Man, than?" he says.
"Wha?"
"Y'ken, like, they gie him a mechanical willie? Imagine tha, eh? Picture 'im rabbitin' awee a Lindsay Wagner, like..." And Tommy thrusts oot his hips and gaes like, "Na-na-na-na-na-naaa! Hop oan, missus! Zero tae sixty in five seconds flat!"
"Aye, ah've heerd tha abit you!"
"Piss oaf."
Oor focus retuns tae the telly. We watch in silence fir a few moments. Ah say, "Rudy Wells is def'nitly Jewish, though."
"Aye."
I say, "Speakin' a bionic willie, ah reckon they come close tae havin' tae gie im wan."
"Aye?"
"Well, they accident ripped his right leg oaf, like. Tae inches tae the left and they'da bin gie'n the boy bionic nuts at they very least, ken?"
Tommy roars. "Bionic nuts! Gie us a break!"
Ah say, "Tha be great, though. Some wee dafty gies ya they boot a the fitba, and winds up breakn his own fit, like."
"Aye, tha'd be nice."
"Mah moggie's go them," ah say.
"Wha, bionical testicles? Are ye havin' they piss?"
"Nae, I'll be havin' the scotch n soda, mesel, bit please yersel. Seriously, though, eh daes. Well, they're nae bionic, ah mean, they dinnae do onnythin. Tha's jist they point. They're placeholders, like, fae they wans they took aff'im. So eh disnae miss them sae much."
"Oh, aye," says Tommy, wistful like. Than eh says, "The Six Million Dollar Moggie!"
We baeth bust oot. Ah say, "Right, Tiddles, awee ya gae, oof tae save the wearld wi yeer plastic testes!"
N tha's hoo eh goat his name, like.
"It's a nice joab, tha, eh?" says Tommy.
"Wha is?"
"They wan thet Oscar Goldman's goat; tell me ah'm rang."
"Aye, doss joab, tha."
Eh puts oan his best American accent, which degrades as he gaes, and eh says, "Here you go, Steve, off on another mission. I'll just be sittin' here wi' mae feet up, wankin' tae the Miss America show; gie us a call when yeer doan, sunshine." We hae a guid laugh at tha.
Ah say, "They shood a named him Offski Goldman n aw, oon account ay the cunt’s nivir there whan ye need him."
Tommy ponders. "Goldman. Is tha a wee Jew name, d'ya think?"
"Dunno. Dinnae think ay it before. Ah spoze it it might be, noo ah think oan it."
"Hi, imagine the tae ay them, him and Henry Kissinger baeth, doon oan thir knees in they Oval Oaffis, prayin' wi Richard fuckin’ Nixon."
"Oan their knees, mebbe, but nae prayin'. How'd ya think eh goat that joab in they fearst place?" We baeth git a laugh oota tha.
Tommy says, "D'ya think eh ivir sends im on Jew missions, like?"
"Wha d'ya mean?"
Bad American accent time agin. "Here, Steve, fuck off n save Israel. Yon Arabs is a it agin."
We hae anuther laugh and ah say, "Aye, The Six Million Dollar Man: The Loast Episodes."
"Hi, wot abit The Sex Million Dollar Man, than?" he says.
"Wha?"
"Y'ken, like, they gie him a mechanical willie? Imagine tha, eh? Picture 'im rabbitin' awee a Lindsay Wagner, like..." And Tommy thrusts oot his hips and gaes like, "Na-na-na-na-na-naaa! Hop oan, missus! Zero tae sixty in five seconds flat!"
"Aye, ah've heerd tha abit you!"
"Piss oaf."
Oor focus retuns tae the telly. We watch in silence fir a few moments. Ah say, "Rudy Wells is def'nitly Jewish, though."
"Aye."
I say, "Speakin' a bionic willie, ah reckon they come close tae havin' tae gie im wan."
"Aye?"
"Well, they accident ripped his right leg oaf, like. Tae inches tae the left and they'da bin gie'n the boy bionic nuts at they very least, ken?"
Tommy roars. "Bionic nuts! Gie us a break!"
Ah say, "Tha be great, though. Some wee dafty gies ya they boot a the fitba, and winds up breakn his own fit, like."
"Aye, tha'd be nice."
"Mah moggie's go them," ah say.
"Wha, bionical testicles? Are ye havin' they piss?"
"Nae, I'll be havin' the scotch n soda, mesel, bit please yersel. Seriously, though, eh daes. Well, they're nae bionic, ah mean, they dinnae do onnythin. Tha's jist they point. They're placeholders, like, fae they wans they took aff'im. So eh disnae miss them sae much."
"Oh, aye," says Tommy, wistful like. Than eh says, "The Six Million Dollar Moggie!"
We baeth bust oot. Ah say, "Right, Tiddles, awee ya gae, oof tae save the wearld wi yeer plastic testes!"
N tha's hoo eh goat his name, like.
The Performance of a Lifetime
Down six feet they’ll show the movie
you should have paid attention to the first time
starring you
in the performance of a lifetime
You won’t have long to wait
for the reviews
you should have paid attention to the first time
starring you
in the performance of a lifetime
You won’t have long to wait
for the reviews
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Strong Till Autumn
I reach out a finger
and trace the spine
that gives us apple jelly
The wind shakes the tree
as though it means to strangle it
All those little green youngsters holding tight
The weather bipolar...
One day joyful, caressing;
the next a batch of murderous rage exploding
unfolding in all directions
The tree endures, withstanding
Guarding its precious charges
Ah, but the leaves, the leaves...
One day he will be back for them
They will not be so lucky
and trace the spine
that gives us apple jelly
The wind shakes the tree
as though it means to strangle it
All those little green youngsters holding tight
The weather bipolar...
One day joyful, caressing;
the next a batch of murderous rage exploding
unfolding in all directions
The tree endures, withstanding
Guarding its precious charges
Ah, but the leaves, the leaves...
One day he will be back for them
They will not be so lucky
And So to Work
I had a can of frosting for lunch. It's not the most rewarding thing I've ever done, but it's up there. Good mouthfeel. The rush, almost like a drug when it really gets rolling; heart beating faster, mind abuzz, my palms sweaty. Today chocolate; tomorrow, vanilla.
Mr. O-Face hoves into view. I chuck the can in the trash, lick the plastic knife clean and toss it inside as well. Last thing I need is to provide him jabberfodder. Obviously "O-Face" is not his real name. But the guy worships at the Church of Office Space. Thinks it's the most awesome thing he's ever seen that wasn't based on tits or guns or both. At his urging, I saw it. Didn't think much of it. He told me I was the fat four-eyed guy. I told him he was "O-Face". You know, the irritating prick who won't shut up about his dick and what it's been up to; that it's the head that does most of his thinking and get most of the work done. Not that I said that, but he got the message and shut up. At least for a moment. But every so often during the average day, he drifts by. And here he comes. But I just ate a can of frosting. He should keep moving.
No such luck. He leans over me, one hand on my chair, one on my desk, face about a foot from mine like we've been buddies since kindergarten or something. The guy reeks of either cologne or soap he hasn't propertly washed off, and I've got all I can handle when he does this not to grab his nuts and pull them down between his knees, then let them snap back and spin like a set of cheap blinds. Christ, I wish he'd find somebody else to talk to.
His face jabs up beside mine, his eyes on my screen. "So what are you up to? Jesus, dude, do you ever work?" He says this to me while he's out pissing around the office, bothering people. Does the word ironic mean anything to this guy? I think about leaving work a little early and letting the air out of one of his tires. Or maybe all of them. He shoves a bag of pretzels at me. "Want one?"
"No thanks." I feel like I'm vibrating. Last thing I need's more carbs.
"So what's going on?"
I shrug. "Nothing much."
He hesitates, his eyes on my face, hopeful, like a kid who knows when he sees you you'll give him a dollar, so he's waiting, where's my dollar? He's bored and waiting for me to entertain him. Fuck you, Bozo, you're the clown. Tell me a joke. Pull down your pants. Make me laugh.
I just stare back at him.
He gets the vibe. "I better get back. I'll catch you later." And off he goes with his empty cup and a dry well of giggles. Mr. O-Face. Man, I feel sick. Like I wanna puke. Whether it's the sugar or O-Face, I'm not sure. Probably a measure of both. Instead, I drink half a litre of water, pull on my headphones, and listen to light jazz. I ride the rush. I'm typing away, but my mind's like an anvil and the vibraphone notes fall on it like hammerblows, solid and mighty. It's like a brain massage. I spend the afternoon wavering back and forth between wanting to puke and wanting to fly. One can of frosting and I'm Keith Richards. Only, you know, not as ugly. And certainly not as rich. And his kinda money blows past a whole lotta ugly. Okay, score one for you, Keith.
Man, I can't wait to get out on the highway.
Mr. O-Face hoves into view. I chuck the can in the trash, lick the plastic knife clean and toss it inside as well. Last thing I need is to provide him jabberfodder. Obviously "O-Face" is not his real name. But the guy worships at the Church of Office Space. Thinks it's the most awesome thing he's ever seen that wasn't based on tits or guns or both. At his urging, I saw it. Didn't think much of it. He told me I was the fat four-eyed guy. I told him he was "O-Face". You know, the irritating prick who won't shut up about his dick and what it's been up to; that it's the head that does most of his thinking and get most of the work done. Not that I said that, but he got the message and shut up. At least for a moment. But every so often during the average day, he drifts by. And here he comes. But I just ate a can of frosting. He should keep moving.
No such luck. He leans over me, one hand on my chair, one on my desk, face about a foot from mine like we've been buddies since kindergarten or something. The guy reeks of either cologne or soap he hasn't propertly washed off, and I've got all I can handle when he does this not to grab his nuts and pull them down between his knees, then let them snap back and spin like a set of cheap blinds. Christ, I wish he'd find somebody else to talk to.
His face jabs up beside mine, his eyes on my screen. "So what are you up to? Jesus, dude, do you ever work?" He says this to me while he's out pissing around the office, bothering people. Does the word ironic mean anything to this guy? I think about leaving work a little early and letting the air out of one of his tires. Or maybe all of them. He shoves a bag of pretzels at me. "Want one?"
"No thanks." I feel like I'm vibrating. Last thing I need's more carbs.
"So what's going on?"
I shrug. "Nothing much."
He hesitates, his eyes on my face, hopeful, like a kid who knows when he sees you you'll give him a dollar, so he's waiting, where's my dollar? He's bored and waiting for me to entertain him. Fuck you, Bozo, you're the clown. Tell me a joke. Pull down your pants. Make me laugh.
I just stare back at him.
He gets the vibe. "I better get back. I'll catch you later." And off he goes with his empty cup and a dry well of giggles. Mr. O-Face. Man, I feel sick. Like I wanna puke. Whether it's the sugar or O-Face, I'm not sure. Probably a measure of both. Instead, I drink half a litre of water, pull on my headphones, and listen to light jazz. I ride the rush. I'm typing away, but my mind's like an anvil and the vibraphone notes fall on it like hammerblows, solid and mighty. It's like a brain massage. I spend the afternoon wavering back and forth between wanting to puke and wanting to fly. One can of frosting and I'm Keith Richards. Only, you know, not as ugly. And certainly not as rich. And his kinda money blows past a whole lotta ugly. Okay, score one for you, Keith.
Man, I can't wait to get out on the highway.
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